[illustration: "you've made me some stories, mother!"] jewel's story book by clara louise burnham with illustrations new york grosset & dunlap publishers made in the united states of america copyright by clara louise burnham all rights reserved _published october, _ _to the children who love jewel_ contents i. over the 'phone ii. the broker's office iii. the home-coming iv. on the veranda v. the lifted veil vi. the die is cast vii. mrs. evringham's gifts viii. the quest flower ix. the quest flower (continued) x. the apple woman's story xi. the golden dog xii. the talking doll xiii. a heroic offer xiv. robinson crusoe xv. st. valentine xvi. a morning ride xvii. the birthday xviii. true delight jewel's story book chapter i over the 'phone mrs. forbes, mr. evringham's housekeeper, answered the telephone one afternoon. she was just starting to climb to the second story and did not wish to be hindered, so her "hello" had a somewhat impatient brevity. "mrs. forbes?" "oh," with a total change of voice and face, "is that you, mr. evringham?" "please send jewel to the 'phone." "yes, sir." she laid down the receiver, and moving to the foot of the stairs called loudly, "jewel!" "drat the little lamb!" groaned the housekeeper, "if i was only sure she was up there; i've got to go up anyway. _jewel!_" louder. "ye--es!" came faintly from above, then a door opened. "is somebody calling me?" mrs. forbes began to climb the stairs deliberately while she spoke with energy. "hurry down, jewel. mr. evringham wants you on the 'phone." "goody, goody!" cried the child, her feet pattering on the thick carpet as she flew down one flight and then passed the housekeeper on the next. "perhaps he is coming out early to ride." "nothing would surprise me less," remarked mrs. forbes dryly as she mounted. jewel flitted to the telephone and picked up the receiver. "hello, grandpa, are you coming out?" she asked. "no, i thought perhaps you would like to come in." "in where? into new york?" "yes." "what are we going to do?" eagerly. mr. evringham, sitting at the desk in his private office, his head resting on his hand, moved and smiled. his mind pictured the expression on the face addressing him quite as distinctly as if no miles divided them. "well, we'll have dinner, for one thing. where shall it be? at the waldorf?" jewel had never heard the word. "do they have nesselrode pudding?" she asked, with keen interest. mrs. forbes had taken her in town one day and given her some at a restaurant. "perhaps so. you see i've heard from the steamship company, and they think that the boat will get in this evening." "oh, grandpa! grandpa! _grandpa!_" "softly, softly. don't break the 'phone. i hear you through the window." "when shall i come? oh, oh, oh!" "wait, jewel. don't be excited. listen. tell zeke to bring you in to my office on the three o'clock train." "yes, grandpa. oh, please wait a minute. do you think it would be too extravagant for me to wear my silk dress?" "no, let's be reckless and go the whole figure." "all right," tremulously. "good-by." "oh, grandpa, wait. can i bring anna belle?" but only silence remained. jewel hung up the receiver with a hand that was unsteady, and then ran through the house and out of doors, leaving every door open behind her in a manner which would have brought reproof from mrs. forbes, who had begun to be argus-eyed for flies. racing out to the barn, she appeared to 'zekiel in the harness room like a small whirlwind. "get on your best things, zeke," she cried, hopping up and down; "my father and mother are coming." "is this an india rubber girl?" inquired the coachman, pausing to look at her with a smile. "what train?" "three o'clock. you're going with me to new york. grandpa says so; to his office, and the boat's coming to-night. get ready quick, zeke, please. i'm going to wear my silk dress." "hold on, kid," for she was flying off. "i'm to go in town with you, am i? are you sure? i don't want to fix up till i make solomon look like thirty cents and then find out there's some misdeal." "grandpa wants you to bring me to his office, that's what he said," returned the child earnestly. "let's start real _soon_!" like a sprite she was back at the house and running upstairs, calling for mrs. forbes. the housekeeper appeared at the door of the front room, empty now for two days of mrs. evringham's trunks, and jewel with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes told her great news. mrs. forbes was instantly sympathetic. "come right upstairs and let me help you get ready. dear me, to-night! i wonder if they'll want any supper when they get here." "i don't know. i don't know!" sang jewel to a tune of her own improvising, as she skipped ahead. "i don't believe they will," mused mrs. forbes. "those customs take so much time. it seems a very queer thing to me, jewel, mr. evringham letting you come in at all. why, you'll very likely not get home till midnight." "won't it be the most _fun_!" cried the child, dancing to her closet and getting her checked silk dress. "i guess your flannel sailor suit will be the best, jewel." "grandpa said i might wear my silk. you see i'm going to dinner with him, and that's just like going to a party, and i ought to be very particular, don't you think so?" "well, don't sit down on anything dirty at the wharf. i expect you will," returned mrs. forbes with a resigned sigh, as she proceeded to unfasten jewel's tight, thick little braids. "just think what a short time we'll have to miss cousin eloise," said the child. "day before yesterday she went away, and now to-morrow my mother'll braid my hair." she gave an ecstatic sigh. "if that's all you wanted your cousin eloise for--to braid your hair--i guess i could get to do it as well as she did." "oh, i loved cousin eloise for everything and i always shall love her," responded the child quickly. "i only meant i didn't have to trouble you long with my hair." "i think i do it pretty well." "yes, indeed you do--just as _tight_. do you remember how much it troubled you when i first came? and now it's so much different!" "yes, there are a whole lot of things that are much different," replied mrs. forbes. "how long do you suppose you'll be staying with us now, jewel?" the child's face grew sober. "i don't know, because i don't know how long father and mother can stay." "you'll think about this room where you've lived so many weeks, when you get back to chicago." "yes, i shall think about it lots of times," said the little girl. "i knew it would be a lovely visit at grandpa's, and it has been." she glanced up in the mirror toward the housekeeper's face and saw that the woman's lips were working suspiciously and her eyes brimming over. "you won't be lonely, will you, mrs. forbes?" she asked; "because grandpa says you want to live with zeke in the barn this summer while he shuts up the house and goes off on his vacation." "oh, yes; it's all right, jewel, only it just came over me that in a week, or perhaps sooner, you'll be gone." "it's real kind of you to be glad to have me stay," said the child. "i try not to think about going away, because it does make me feel sorry every time. you know the soot blows all around in chicago and we haven't any yard, and when i think about all the sky and trees here, and the ravine, beside grandpa and you and zeke and essex maid--why i have to just say 'i _won't_ be sorry,' and then think about father and mother and star and all the nice things! i think star will like the park pretty well." jewel looked into space thoughtfully, and then shook her head. "i'm sure the morning we go i shall have to say: 'green pastures are before me' over and over." "what do you mean, child?" "why, you know the psalm: 'he maketh me to lie down in green pastures. he leadeth me beside the still waters'?" "yes." "well, in our hymnal there's the line of a hymn: 'green pastures are before me,' and mother and i used to say that line every morning when we woke up, to remind us that love was going to lead us all day." "i'd like to see your mother," said mrs. forbes after a pause. "you will, to-night," cried jewel, suddenly joyous again. "oh, mrs. forbes, do you think i could take anna belle to new york?" "what did mr. evringham say?" "he went away before i had a chance to ask him." jewel looked wistfully toward the chair where the doll sat by the window, toeing in, her sweet gaze fixed on the wall-paper. "she would enjoy it so!" added the little girl. "oh, it's a tiresome trip for children, such late hours," returned mrs. forbes persuasively. "beside," with an inspiration, "you'd like your hands free to help your mother carry her bags, wouldn't you?" "that's so," responded jewel. "anna belle would always give up anything for her grandma!" and as the housekeeper finished tying the hair bows, the little girl skipped over to the chair and knelt before the doll, explaining the situation to her with a joyous incoherence mingled with hugs and kisses from which the even-tempered anna belle emerged apparently dazed but docile. "come here and get your shoes on, jewel." "my best ones," returned the child. "oh, yes, the best of everything," said mrs. forbes good-humoredly; and indeed, when jewel was arrayed, she viewed herself in the mirror with satisfaction. zeke presented himself soon, fine in a new summer suit and hat, and mrs. forbes watched the pair as they walked down the driveway. "now, i can't let the grass grow under my feet," she muttered. "i expected to have till to-morrow night to get all the things done that mr. evringham told me to, but i guess i can get through." jewel and zeke had ample time for the train. indeed, the little girl's patience was somewhat tried before the big headlight came in view. she could not do such injustice to her silk dress and daisy-wreathed leghorn hat as to hop and skip, so she stood demurely with zeke on the station platform, and as they waited he regarded her happy expectant face. "remember the day you got here, kid?" he asked. "yes. isn't it a long time since you came and met me with dick, and he just whirled us home!" "sure it is. and now you're glad to be leaving us." "i am not, zeke!" "well, you look in the glass and see for yourself." just then the train came along and zeke swung the child up to the high step. the fact that she found a seat by the window added a ray to her shining eyes. her companion took the place beside her. "yes," he went on, as the train started, "it's kind of hard on the rest of us to have you so tickled over the prospect." "i'm only happy over father and mother," returned jewel. "pretty nice folks, are they?" jewel shook her head significantly. "you just wait and see," she replied with zest. "which one do you look like?" "like father. mother's much prettier than father." "a beauty, is she?" "n--o, i don't believe so. she isn't so pretty as cousin eloise, but then she's pretty." "that's probably the reason your grandfather likes to see you around--because you look like his side of the house." "well," jewel sighed, "i hope grandpa likes my nose. i don't." zeke laughed. "he seems able to put up with it. i expect there's going to be ructions around here the next week." "what's ructions?" "well, some folks might call it error. i don't know. mr. evringham's going to be pretty busy with his own nose. it's going to be put out of joint to-night. the green-eyed monster's going to get on the rampage, or i miss my guess." jewel looked up doubtfully. zeke was a joker, of course, being a man, but what was he driving at now? "what green-eyed monster?" she asked. "oh, the one that lives in folks' hearts and lays low part of the time," replied zeke. "do you mean jealousy; envy, hatred, or malice?" asked jewel so glibly that her companion stared. "great scott! what do you know about that outfit?" he asked. the child nodded wisely. "i know people believe in them sometimes; but you needn't think grandpa does, because he doesn't." "mr. evringham's all right," agreed zeke, "but he isn't going to be the only pebble any longer. your father and mother will be the whole thing now." the child was thoughtful a moment, then she began earnestly: "oh, i'm sure grandpa knows how it is about loving. the more people you love, the more you can love. i can love father and mother more because i've learned to love grandpa, and he can love them more too, because he has learned to love me." "humph! we'll see," remarked the other, smiling. "is error talking to you, zeke? are you laying laws on grandpa?" "well, if i am, i'll stop it mighty quick. you don't catch me taking any such liberties. whoa!" drawing on imaginary reins as the engine slackened at a station. jewel laughed, and from that time until they reached new york they chatted about her pony star, and other less important horses, and of the child's anticipation of showing her mother the joys of bel-air park. chapter ii the broker's office it was the first time jewel had visited her grandfather's office and she was impressed anew with his importance as she entered the stone building and ascended in the elevator to mysterious heights. arrived in an electric-lighted anteroom, zeke's request to see mr. evringham was met by a sharp-eyed young man who denied it with a cold, inquiring stare. then the glance of this factotum fell to jewel's uplifted, rose-tinted face and her trustful gaze fixed on his own. zeke twirled his hat slowly between his hands. "you just step into mr. evringham's office," he said quietly, "and tell him the young lady he invited has arrived." jewel wondered how this person, who had the privilege of being near her grandfather all day, could look so forbidding; but in her happy excitement she could not refrain from smiling at him under the nodding hat brim. "i'm going to dinner with him," she said softly, "and i _think_ we're going to have nesselrode pudding." the young man's eyes stared and then began to twinkle. "oh," he returned, "in that case"--then he turned and left the visitors. when he entered the sanctum of his employer he was smiling. mr. evringham did not look up at once. when he did, it was with a brief, "well?" "a young lady insists upon seeing you, sir." "kindly stop grinning, masterson, and tell her she must state her business." "she has done so, sir," but masterson did not stop grinning. "she looks like a summer girl, and i guess she is one." mr. evringham frowned at this unprecedented levity. "what is her business, briefly?" he asked curtly. "to eat nesselrode pudding, sir." the broker started. "ah!" he exclaimed, and though he still frowned, he reflected his junior's smile. "is there some one with her?" "a young man." "send them in, please." masterson obeyed and managed to linger until his curiosity was both appeased and heightened by seeing jewel run across the turkish rug and completely submerge the stately gray head beneath the brim of her hat. "well, i'll--be--everlastingly"--thought masterson, as he softly passed out and closed the door behind him. "even achilles could get it in the heel, but i'll swear i didn't believe the old man had a joint in his armor." zeke stood twisting his hat, and when his employer was allowed to come to the surface, he spoke respectfully:-- "mother said i was to bring word if you would like a late supper, sir." "tell mrs. forbes that it will be only something light, if anything. she need not prepare." jewel danced to the door with her escort as he went. "good-by, zeke," she said gayly. "thank you for bringing me." "good-by, jewel," he returned in subdued accents, and stumbling on the threshold, passed out with a furtive wave of his hat. the child returned and jumped into a chair by the desk, reserved for the selected visitors who succeeded in invading this precinct. "i suppose you aren't quite through," she said, fixing her host with a blissful gaze as he worked among a scattered pile of papers. "very nearly," he returned. he saw that she was near to bubbling over with ideas ready to pour out to him. he knew, too, that she would wait his time. it entertained him to watch her furtively as she gave herself to inspecting the furnishings of the room and the pictures on the wall, then looked down at the patent leather tips of her best shoes as they swung to and fro. at last she began to look at him more and more wistfully, and to view the furnishings of the large desk. it had a broad shelf at the top. suddenly jewel caught sight of a picture standing there in a square frame, and an irrepressible "oh!" escaped from her lips. she pressed her hands together and mr. evringham saw a deeper rose in her cheeks. he followed her eyes, and silently taking the picture from the desk placed it in her lap. she clasped it eagerly. it was a fine photograph of essex maid, her grandfather's mare. in a minute he spoke:-- "now i think i'm about through, jewel," he said, leaning back in his chair. "oh, grandpa, do these cost very much?" "why? do you want to have star sit for his picture?" "yes, it _would_ be nice to have a picture of star, wouldn't it! i never thought of that. i mean to ask mother if i can." the broker winced. "what i was thinking of was, could i have a picture of essex maid to take with me to chicago?" mr. evringham nodded. "i will get you one." he kept on nodding slightly, and jewel noted the expression of his eyes. her bright look began to cloud as her grandfather continued to gaze at her. "you'd like to have a picture of star to keep, wouldn't you?" she asked softly, her head falling a little to one side in loving recognition of his sadness. "yes," he answered, rather gruffly, "and i've been thinking for some weeks that there was a picture lacking on my desk here." "star's?" asked jewel. "no. yours. are there any pictures of you?" "no, only when i was a baby. you ought to see me. i was as _fat_!" "we'll have some photographs of you." "oh," jewel spoke wistfully, "i wish i was pretty." "then you wouldn't be an evringham." "why not? you are," returned the child, so spontaneously that slow color mounted to the broker's face, and he smiled. "i look like my mother's family, they say. at any rate,"--after a pause and scrutiny of her,--"it's your face, it's my jewel's face, that suits me and that i want to keep. if i can find somebody who can do it and not change you into some one else, i am going to have a little picture painted; a miniature, that i can carry in my pocket when essex maid and i are left alone." the brusque pain in his tone filled jewel's eyes, and her little hands clasped tighter the frame she held in her lap. "then you will give me one of you, too, grandpa?" "oh, child," he returned, rather hoarsely, "it's too late to be painting my leather countenance." "no one could paint it just as i know it," said jewel softly. "i know all the ways you look, grandpa,--when you're joking or when you're sorry, or happy, and they're all in here," she pressed one hand to her breast in a simple fervor that, with her moist eyes, compelled mr. evringham to swallow several times; "but i'd like one in my hand to show to people when i tell them about you." the broker looked away and fussed with an envelope. "grandpa," continued the child after a pause, "i've been thinking that there's one secret we've got to keep from father and mother." mr. evringham looked back at her. this was the most cheering word he had heard for some time. "it wouldn't be loving to let them know how sorry it makes us to say good-by, would it? i get such lumps in my throat when i think about not riding with you or having breakfast together. i do work over it and think how happy it will be to have father and mother again, and how love gives us everything we ought to have and everything like that; but i _have_--cried--twice, thinking about it! even anna belle is mortified the way i act. i know you feel sorry, too, and we've got to demonstrate over it; but it'll come so soon, and i guess i didn't begin to work in time. anyway, i was wondering if we couldn't just have a secret and manage not to say good-by to each other." the corners of the child's mouth were twitching down now, and she took out a small handkerchief and wiped her eyes. mr. evringham blew his nose violently, and crossing the office turned the key in the door. "i think that would be an excellent plan, jewel," he returned, rather thickly, but with an endeavor to speak heartily. "of course your confounded--i mean to say your--your parents will naturally expect you to follow their plans and"--he paused. "and it would be so unloving to let them think that i was sorry after they let me have such a beautiful visit, and if we can _just_--manage not to say good-by, everything will be so much easier." the broker stood looking at her while the plaintive voice made music for him. "i'm going to try to manage just that thing if it's in the books," he said, after waiting a little, and jewel, looking up at him with an april smile, saw that his eyes were wet. "you're so good, grandpa," she returned tremulously; "and i won't even kiss essex maid's neck--not the last morning." he sat down with fallen gaze, and jewel caught her lip with her teeth as she looked at him. then suddenly the leghorn hat was on the floor, daisy side down, while she climbed into his lap and her soft cheek buried itself under mr. evringham's ear. "how m-many m-miles off is chicago?" stammered the child, trying to repress her sobs, all happy considerations suddenly lost in the realization of her grandfather's lonely lot. "a good many more than it ought to be. don't cry, jewel." the broker's heart swelled within him as he pressed her to his breast. her sorrow filled him with tender elation, and he winked hard. "there isn't--isn't any sorrow--in mind, grandpa. shouldn't you--you think i'd--remember it? divine love always--always takes care--of us--and just because--i don't see how he's going--going to this time--i'm crying! oh, it's so--so naughty!" mr. evringham swallowed fast. he never had wondered so much as he did this minute just how obstinate or how docile those inconvenient and superfluous individuals--jewel's parents--would prove. he cleared his throat. "come, come," he said, and he kissed the warm pink rose of the child's cheek. "don't spoil those bright eyes just when you're going to have your picture taken. we're going to have the jolliest time you ever heard of!" jewel's little handkerchief was wet and mr. evringham put his own into her hand and they went into the lavatory where she used the wet corner of a towel while he told her about the photographer who had taken essex maid's picture and should take star's. then the cherished leghorn hat was rescued from its ignominy and replaced carefully on its owner's head. "but i never thought you meant to have my picture taken this afternoon," said jewel, her lips still somewhat tremulous. "i didn't until a minute ago, but i think we can find somebody who won't mind doing it late in the day." "yours too, then, grandpa.--oh, _yes_," and at last a smile beamed like the sun out of an april sky, "right on the same card with me!" "oh, no, no, jewel; no, no!" "yes, _please_, grandpa," earnestly, "do let's have one nice nose in the picture!" she lifted eyes veiled again with a threatening mist. "and you'll put your arm around me--and then i'll look at it"--her lip twitched. "yes, oh, yes, i--i think so," hastily. "we'll see, and then, after that--how much nesselrode pudding do you think you can eat? i tell you, jewel, we're going to have the time of our lives!" mr. evringham struck his hands together with such lively anticipation that the child's spirits rose. "yes," she responded, "and then after dinner, _what_?" she gazed at him. the broker tapped his forehead as if knocking at the door of memory. "father and mother!" she cried out, laughing and beginning to hop discreetly. "you forgot, grandpa, you forgot. your own little boy coming home and you forgot!" "well, that's a fact, jewel; that i suppose i had better remember. he is my own boy--and i don't know but i owe him something after all." chapter iii home-coming again jewel and her grandfather stood on the wharf where the great boats, ploughing their way through the mighty seas, come finally, each into its own place, as meekly as the horse seeks his stable. the last time they stood here they were strangers watching the departure of those whom now they waited, hand in hand, to greet. "jewel, you made me eat too much dinner," remarked mr. evringham. "i feel as if my jacket was buttoned, in spite of the long drive we've taken since. i went to my tailor this morning, and what do you think he told me?" "what? that you needed some new clothes?" "oh, he always tells me that. he told me that i was growing fat! there, young lady, what do you think of that?" "i think you are, too, grandpa," returned the child, viewing him critically. "well, you take it coolly. supposing i should lose my waist, and all your fault!" jewel drew in her chin and smiled at him. "supposing i go waddling about! eh?" she laughed. "but how would it be my fault?" she asked. "didn't you ever hear the saying 'laugh and grow fat'? how many times have you made me laugh since we left the office?" jewel began to tug on his hand as she jumped up and down. "oh, grandpa, do you think our pictures will be good?" "i think yours will." "not yours?" the hopping ceased. "oh, yes, excellent, probably. i haven't had one taken in so many years, how can i tell? but here's one day that they can't get away from us, jewel. this eighth of june has been a good day, hasn't it--and mind, you're not to tell about the pictures until we see how they come out." "yes, haven't we had _fun_? the be-_eau_tiful hotel, and the drive in the park, and the ride in the boats and"-- "speaking of boats, there it is now. they're coming," remarked mr. evringham. "who?" "mr. and mrs. henry thayer evringham," returned the broker dryly. "steady, jewel, steady now. it will be quite a while before you see them." the late twilight had faded and the june night begun, the wharf was dimly lighted and there was the usual crowd of customs officers, porters, and men and women waiting to see friends. all moved and changed like figures in a kaleidoscope before jewel's unwinking gaze; but the long minutes dragged by until at last her father and mother appeared among the passengers who came in procession down the steep incline from the boat. mr. evringham drew back a step as father, mother, and child clung to each other, kissing and murmuring with soft exclamations. harry extricated himself first and shook hands with his father. "awfully good of you to get us the courtesy of the port," he said heartily. "don't mention it," returned the broker, and julia released jewel and turned upon mr. evringham her grateful face. "but so many things are good of you," she said feelingly, as she held out her hand. "it will take us a long time to give thanks." "not at all, i assure you," responded the broker coldly, but his heart was hot within him. "if they have the presumption to thank me for taking care of jewel!" he was thinking as he dropped his daughter-in-law's hand. "what a human iceberg!" she thought. "how has jewel been able to take it so cheerfully? ah, the blessed, loving heart of a child!" meanwhile mr. evringham turned to his son and continued: "the courtesy of the port does shorten things up a bit, and i have a man from the customs waiting." harry followed him to see about the luggage, and mrs. evringham and jewel sat down on a pile of boxes to wait. the mother's arm was around the little girl, and jewel had one of the gloved hands in both her own. "oh," she exclaimed, suddenly starting up, "mrs. forbes thought i'd better wear my sailor suit instead of this, and she told me not to sit down on anything dirty." she carefully turned up the skirt of her little frock and seated herself again on a very brief petticoat. mrs. evringham smiled. "mrs. forbes is careful of you, isn't she?" she asked. her heart was in a tumult of happiness and also of curiosity as to her child's experiences in the last two months. jewel's letters had conveyed that she was content, and joy in her pony had been freely expressed. the mother's mental picture of the stiff, cold individual to whose doubtful mercies she had confided her child at such short notice had been softened by the references to him in jewel's letters; and it was with a shock of disappointment that she found herself repulsed now by the same unyielding personality, the same cold-eyed, unsmiling, fastidiously dressed figure, whose image had lingered in her memory. a dozen eager questions rose to her lips, but she repressed them. "jewel must have had a glimpse of the real man," she thought. "i must not cloud her perception." it did not occur to her, however, that the child could even now feel less than awe of the stern guardian with whom she had succeeded in living at peace, and who had, from time to time, bestowed upon her gifts. one of these mrs. evringham noticed now. "oh, that's your pretty watch!" she said. "yes," returned the child, "this is little faithful. isn't he a darling?" the mother smiled as she lifted the silver cherub. "you've named him?" she returned. "why, it is a beauty, jewel. how kind of your grandfather!" "yes, indeed. it was so i wouldn't stay in the ravine too long." "how is anna belle?" "dear anna belle!" exclaimed the little girl wistfully. "what a good time she would have had if i could have brought her! but you see i needed both my hands to help carry bags; and she understood about it and sent her love. she'll be sitting up waiting for you." mrs. evringham cast a look toward harry and his father. "i'm not sure"--she began, "i hardly think we shall go to bel-air to-night. how would you like to stay in at the hotel with us, and then we could go out to the house to-morrow and pack your trunk?" jewel looked very sober at this. "why, it would be pretty hard to wait, mother," she replied. "hotels are splendid. grandpa and i had dinner at one. it's named the waldorf and it has woods in it just like outdoors; but i thought you'd be in a hurry to see star and the ravine of happiness and zeke." "well, we'll wait," returned mrs. evringham vaguely. she was more than doubtful of an invitation to bel-air park even for one night; but harry must arrange it. "we'll see what father says," she added. "what a pretty locket, my girlie!" as she spoke she lifted a gold heart that hung on a slender gold chain around jewel's neck. "yes. cousin eloise gave me that when she went away. she has had it ever since she was as little as i am, and she said she left her heart with me. i'm so sorry you won't see cousin eloise." "so she and her mother have gone away. were they sorry to go? did mr. evringham--perhaps--think"--the speaker paused. she remembered jewel's letter about the situation. "no, they weren't sorry. they've gone to the seashore; but cousin eloise and i love each other very much, and her room is so empty now that i've had to keep remembering that you were coming and everything was happy. i guess cousin eloise is the prettiest girl in the whole world; and since she stopped being sorry we've had the most _fun_." "i wish i could see her!" returned mrs. evringham heartily. she longed to thank eloise for supplying the sunshine of love to her child while the grandfather was providing for her material wants. she looked at jewel now, a picture of health and contentment, her bits of small finery in watch and locket standing as symbols of the care and affection she had received. "divine love has been so kind to us, dearie," she said softly, as she pressed the child closer to her. "he has brought father and mother back across the ocean and has given you such loving friends while we were gone." in a future day mrs. evringham was to learn something of the inner history of the progress of this little pilgrim during her first days at bel-air; but the shadows had so entirely faded from jewel's consciousness that she could not have told it herself--not even such portions of it as she had once realized. "yes, indeed, i love bel-air and all the people. even aunt madge kissed me when she went away and said 'good-by, you queer little thing!'" "what did she mean?" asked mrs. evringham. "i don't know. i didn't tell grandpa, because i thought he might not like people calling me queer, but i asked zeke." "he's mr. evringham's coachman, isn't he?" "yes, and he's the nicest man, but he only told me that aunt madge had wheels. i asked him what kind of wheels, and he said he guessed they were rubber-tired, because she was always rubbering and she made people tired. you know zeke is such a joker, so i haven't found out yet what aunt madge meant, and it isn't any matter because"--jewel reached up and hugged her mother, "you've come home." here the two men approached. "no more time for spooning," said harry cheerfully. "we're going now, little girls." after all, there was nothing for jewel to carry. her father and grandfather had the dress-suit case and bags. mrs. evringham looked inquiringly at her husband, but he was gayly talking with jewel as the four walked out to the street. mr. evringham led the way to a carriage that was standing there. "this is ours," he said, opening the door. harry put the bags up beside the driver while his wife entered the vehicle, still in doubt as to their destination. jewel jumped in beside her. "you'd better move over, dear," said her mother quietly. "let mr. evringham ride forward." she was not surprised that jewel was ignorant of carriage etiquette. it was seldom that either of them had seen the inside of one. the broker heard the suggestion. "_place aux dames_," he said, briefly, and moved the child back with one hand. then he entered, harry jumped in beside him, slammed the door, and they rolled away. "if anna belle was here the whole family would be together," said jewel joyously. "i don't care which one i sit by. i love everybody in this carriage!" "you do, eh, rascal?" returned her father, putting his hand over in her silken lap and giving her a little shake. "where is the great and good anna belle?" "waiting for us. just think of it, all this time! grandpa, are we going home with you?" "what do you mean?" inquired the broker, and the tone of the curt question chilled the spine of his daughter-in-law. "were you thinking of spending the night in the ferry-house, perhaps?" "why, no, only mother said"-- mrs. evringham pressed the child's arm. "that was nothing, jewel; i simply didn't know what the plan was," she put in hastily. "oh, of course," went on the little girl. "mother didn't know aunt madge and cousin eloise were gone, and she didn't believe there'd be room. she doesn't know how big the house is, does she, grandpa?" an irresistible yawn seized the child, and in the middle of it her father leaned forward and chucked her under the chin. her jaws came together with a snap. "there! you spoiled that nice one!" she exclaimed, jumping up and laughing as she flung herself upon her big playmate, and a small scuffle ensued in which the wide leghorn hat brim sawed against mr. evringham's shoulder and neck in a manner that caused mrs. evringham's heart to leap toward her throat. how _could_ harry be so thoughtless! a street lamp showed the grim lines of the broker's averted face as he gazed stonily out to the street. "come here, jewel; sit still," said the mother, striving to pull the little girl back into her seat. harry was laughing and holding his agile assailant off as best he might, and at his wife's voice aided her efforts with a gentle push. jewel sank back on the cushion. "oh, what bores he thinks us. i know he does!" reflected julia, capturing her child in one arm and holding her close. to her surprise and even dismay, jewel spoke cheerfully after another yawn:-- "grandpa, how far is it to the ferry? how long, i mean?" "about fifteen minutes." "well, that's a good while. my eyes do feel as if they had sticks in them. don't you wish we could cross in a swan boat, grandpa?" "humph!" he responded. mrs. evringham gave the child a little squeeze intended to be repressive. jewel wriggled around a minute trying to get a comfortable position. "tell father and mother about central park and the swan boats, grandpa," she continued. "you tell them to-morrow, when you're not so sleepy," he replied. jewel took off her large hat, and nestling her head on her mother's shoulder, put an arm around her. "mother, mother!" she sighed happily, "are you really home?" "really, really," replied mrs. evringham, with a responsive squeeze. mr. evringham sat erect in silence, still gazing out the window with a forbidding expression. there were buttons on her mother's gown that rubbed jewel's cheek. she tried to avoid them for a minute and then sat up. "father, will you change places with me?" she asked sleepily. "i want to sit by grandpa." mrs. evringham's eyes widened, and in spite of her earnest "dearie!" the transfer was made and jewel crept under mr. evringham's arm, which closed naturally around her. she leaned against him and shut her eyes. "you mustn't go to sleep," he said. "i guess i shall," returned the child softly. "no, no. you mustn't. think of the lights crossing the ferry. you'll lose a lot if you're asleep. they're fine to see. we can't carry you and the luggage, too. brace up, now--come, come! i shouldn't think you were any older than anna belle." jewel laughed sleepily, and the broker held her hand in his while he pushed her upright. mr. and mrs. evringham looked on, the latter marveling at the child's nonchalance. now, for the first time, the host became talkative. "how many days have you to give us, harry?" he asked. "a couple, perhaps," replied the young man. "two days, father!" exclaimed jewel, in dismay, wide awake in an instant. "oh, that's a stingy visit," remarked mr. evringham. "not half long enough," added jewel. "there's so much for you to see." "oh, we can see a lot in two days," returned harry. "think of the little girls in chicago, jewel. they won't forgive me if i don't bring you home pretty soon." he leaned forward and took his child's free hand. "how do you suppose father has got along without his little girl all these weeks, eh, baby?" "it _is_ a long time since you went away," she returned, "but i was right in your room every night, and daytimes i played in your ravine. bel-air park is the beautifulest place in the whole world. two days isn't any time to stay there, father." "h'm, i'm glad you've been so happy." sincere feeling vibrated in the speaker's voice. "we don't know how to thank your grandpa, do we?" a street lamp showed jewel, as she turned and smiled up into the impassive face mr. evringham turned upon her. "you can safely leave that to her," said the broker briefly, but he did not remove his eyes from the upturned ones. "it is beyond me," thought mrs. evringham; "but love is a miracle-worker." the glowing lights of the ferry passed, jewel did go to sleep in the train. her father, unaware that he was trespassing, took her in his arms, and, tired out with all the excitement of the day and the lateness of the hour, the child instantly became unconscious; but by the time they reached home, the bustle of arrival and her interest in showing her parents about, aided her in waking to the situation. mrs. forbes stood ready to welcome the party. ten years had passed since harry evringham had stood in the home of his boyhood, and the housekeeper thought she perceived that he was moved by a contrite memory; but he spoke with bluff heartiness as he shook hands with her; and mrs. forbes looked with eager curiosity into the sweet face of mrs. evringham, as the latter greeted her and said something grateful concerning the housekeeper's kindness to jewel. "it's very little you have to thank me for, ma'am," replied mrs. forbes, charmed at once by the soft gaze of the dark eyes. the little cavalcade moved upstairs to the handsome rooms so lately vacated. they were brilliant with light and fragrant with roses. "how beautiful!" exclaimed mrs. evringham, while jewel hopped up and down, as wide awake as any little girl in town, delighted with the gala appearance of everything. mr. evringham looked critically into the face of his daughter-in-law. here was the woman to whom he owed jewel, and all that she was and all that she had taught him. her face was what he might have expected. it looked very charming now as the pretty eyes met his. she was well-dressed, too, and mr. evringham liked that. "i hope you will be very much at home here, julia," he said; and though he did not smile, it was certain that, whether from a sense of duty or not, he had taken pains to make their welcome a pleasant one. jewel had, evidently, no slightest fear of his cold reserve. with the child's hand in hers, julia took courage to reply warmly: "thank you, father, it is a joy to be here." she had called him "father," this elegant stranger, and her heart beat a little faster, but her husband's arm went around her. "america's all right, eh, julia?" "come in cousin eloise's room," cried jewel. "that's all lighted, too. are they going to have them both, grandpa?" she danced ahead, through a spacious white-tiled bathroom and into the adjoining apartment. there an unexpected sight met the child's eyes. in the rosy depths of a large chintz chair sat anna belle, loyally keeping her eyes open in spite of the hour. jewel rushed toward her. there were plenty of flowers scattered about in this room, also, and the child suddenly caught sight of her own toilet articles on the dresser. "my things are down here in cousin eloise's room, grandpa!" she cried, so surprised that she delayed picking up her doll. "why, why!" said mr. evringham, throwing open the door of the large closet and then opening a bureau drawer. within both receptacles were jewel's belongings, neatly arranged. "this is odd!" he added. "grandpa, grandpa!" cried the child, rushing at him and clasping her arms around his waist. "you're going to let me sleep down here by father and mother!" mr. evringham regarded her unsmilingly. jewel's parents both looked on, more than half expecting a snub to meet the energetic onslaught. "you won't object, will you?" he asked. jewel pulled him down and whispered something in his ear. the curious on-lookers saw the sweeping mustache curve in a smile as he straightened up again. as a matter of fact they were both curious to know what she had said to him. "you're whispering in company, jewel," remarked her father. "oh, please excuse me!" said the child. "i forgot to remember. here's anna belle, father." "my, my, my!" ejaculated harry evringham, coming forward. "how that child has grown!" chapter iv on the veranda what a luxurious, happy, sleepy time jewel had that night in the pretty rose-bower where her mother undressed her while her father and grandfather went back downstairs. it was very sweet to be helped and cuddled as if she were again a baby, and as she lay in bed and watched her mother setting the flowers in the bathroom and arranging everything, she tried to talk to her on some of the subjects that were uppermost in her mind. mrs. evringham came at last and lay down beside her. jewel nestled into the loving arms and kissed her cheek. "i'm too happy to go to sleep," she declared, then sighed, and instantly pretty room and pretty mother had disappeared. mrs. evringham lay there on the luxurious bed, the sleeping child in her arms, and her thoughts were rich with gratitude. her life had never been free from care: first as a young girl in her widowed mother's home, then as wife of the easy-going and unprincipled youth, whose desertion of her and her baby had filled her cup of bitterness, though she bravely struggled on. her mother had died; and soon afterward the light of christian science had dawned upon her path. strengthened by its support, she had grown into new health and courage, and life was beginning to blossom for her when her repentant husband returned. for a time his wayward habits were a care to her; but he was sincerely ashamed of himself, and the discovery of the development of character in the pretty girl whom he had left six years before roused his manhood. to her joy he began to take an interest in the faith which had wrought such changes in her, and after that she had no doubts of the outcome. from the moment when she obtained for him a business position, it became his ambition to take his rightful place in the world and to guard her from rough contact, and though as yet he still leaned upon her judgment, and she knew herself to be the earthly mainspring of all their business affairs, she knew, also, that his desire was right, and the knowledge sweetened her days. here in this home which was, to her unaccustomed eyes, palatial in its appointments, with her child again in her arms, she gave thanks for the joy of the present hour. a day or two of pleasure in these surroundings, and then she and harry would relieve mr. evringham of the care they had imposed upon him. he had borne it nobly, there was no doubt about that. he had even complicated existence by giving jewel a pony. how a pony would fit into the frugal, busy life of the chicago apartment, julia did not know; but her child's dearest wish had been gratified, and there was nothing to do but appreciate and enjoy the fact. after all, harry's father must have more paternal affection than her husband had ever given him credit for; for even on the most superficial acquaintance one could see that any adaptation of his life and tastes to those of a child would have to come with creaking difficulty to the stock broker, and the fact of jewel's ease with him told an eloquent story of how far mr. evringham must have constrained himself for harry's sake. her thoughts flowed on and had passed to business and all that awaited them in chicago, when her husband rejoined her. she rose from the bed as he came in, and hand in hand they stood and looked down at jewel, asleep. harry stooped and kissed the flushed cheek. "don't wake her, dear," said julia, smiling at the energy of the caress. "wake her? i don't believe a clap of thunder would have that effect. why, she and father have been painting the town; dining at the waldorf, driving in the park, riding in the swan boats, and then hanging around that dock. bless her little heart, i should think she'd sleep for twenty-four hours." "how wonderfully kind of him!" returned julia. "you need never tell me again, harry, that your father doesn't love you." "oh, loving hasn't been much in father's line, but we hope it will be," returned the young man as he slipped an arm around his wife. "do you remember the last time we stood watching jewel asleep? i do. it was in that beastly hotel the night before we sailed." "oh, harry!" julia buried her face a moment on his shoulder. "shall you ever forget our relief when her first letter came, showing that she was happy? do you remember the hornpipe you danced in our lodgings and how you shocked the landlady? your father may not _call_ it loving, but his care and thoughtfulness have expressed that and he can't help my loving _him_ forever and forever for being kind to jewel." harry gave his head a quick shake. "i'll be hanged if i can see how anybody could be unkind to her," he remarked. "oh, well, you've never been an elderly man, set in your ways and used to living alone. i'm sure it meant a great deal to him. think of his doing all that for her this afternoon." "oh, he had to pass the time somehow, and he couldn't very well refuse to let her come in to meet us. besides, she's on the eve of going away, and father likes to do the handsome thing. he was doing it for other people, though, when lawrence and i were kids. he never took us in any swan boats." "poor little boys!" murmured julia. "oh, not at all," returned harry, laughing rather sardonically. "we took ourselves in the swan boats and in a variety of other places not so picturesque. father's purse strings were always loose, and so long as we kept out of his way he didn't care what we did. nice old place, this, julia?" "oh, it's very fine. i had no idea how fine." her tone was somewhat awestruck. "i used to know, absolutely, that father was through with me, and that therefore i was through with bel-air; but i'm a new man," the speaker smiled down at his wife and pressed her closer to him, "and i've been telling father why, and how." "is that what you've been talking about?" "yes. he seemed interested to hear of my business and prospects and asked me a lot of questions; so, as i only began to live less than a year ago, i couldn't answer them without telling him who and what had set me on my feet." "oh, harry! you've really been talking about science?" "yes, my dear, and about you; and i tell you, he wasn't bored. when i'd let up a little he'd ask me another question; and at last he said, father did, 'well, i believe she'll make a man of you yet, harry!' not too complimentary, i admit, but i swallowed it and never flinched. i knew he wasn't going to see enough of you in two days to half know you, so i just thought i'd give him a few statistics, and they made an impression, i assure you. after that if he wanted to set me down a little it was no more than i deserved, and he was welcome." for a long moment the two looked into one another's eyes, then harry spoke in a subdued tone:-- "you've done a lot for me, julia; but the biggest thing of all, the thing that is most wonderful and that means the most to me, and for which i'd worship you through eternity if it was _all_ you'd done, is that you have taught me of christian science and shown me how it has guarded that child's love and respect for me, when i was forfeiting both every hour. i'll work to my last day, my girl, to show you my gratitude for that." "darling boy!" she murmured. next morning at rising time jewel was still wrapped in slumber. her parents looked at her before going downstairs. "do you know, i can't help feeling a bit relieved," laughed julia softly, "that she won't go down with us. the little thing is rather thoughtless with her grandfather, and though he has evidently schooled himself to endure her energetic ways, i can't help feeling a bit anxious all the time. he has borne it so well this long that i want to get her away before she breaks the camel's back. when do you think we can go, harry?" "to-morrow or next day. you might get things packed to-day. i really ought to go, but i don't want to seem in a hurry." "oh, yes, do let us go to-morrow," returned julia eagerly. the westminster clock on the stairs chimed as they passed down, and mr. evringham was waiting for them in the dining-room. as he said good-morning he looked beyond them, expectantly. mrs. forbes greeted them respectfully and indicated their seats. "where is jewel?" asked the host. "in dreamland. you couldn't waken her with a volley of artillery," returned harry cheerfully. "h'm," returned his father. they all took their places at the table and julia remarked on the charming outlook from the windows. "yes," returned the host. "i'm sorry i can't stay at home this morning and do the honors of the park. i shall leave that to harry and jewel. as we were rather late last night i didn't take my canter this morning. if you wish to have a turn on the mare, harry, zeke knows that the stables are in your hands. no one but myself rides essex maid, but i'll make a shining exception of you." "i appreciate the honor," returned harry lightly, but as a matter of fact he did not at all grasp its extent. "if you'd like to take your wife for a drive there's the spider. the child will want to show you her pony and will probably get you off on some excursion. tell her there is time enough and not to make you do two days' work in one." after breakfast the trio adjourned to the piazza and julia looked out on the thick, dewy grass and spreading trees. "i believe the park improves, father," said harry, smiling as he noted his wife's delight in the charming landscape. deep armchairs and tables, rugs and a wicker divan furnished a portion of the piazza. "how will little jewel like the apartment after this?" julia could not help asking herself the question mentally. she no longer wondered at the child's content here, even without the companionship of other children. it must be an unimaginative little maid who, supported by anna belle, could not weave a fairy-land in this fresh paradise. "won't you be seated?" said the broker, waving his hand toward the chairs. the others obeyed as he took his place. "let us know a little, now, what we are doing. what did i understand you to say, harry, is your limit for time?" "well, i ought, really, to go west to-morrow, father." mr. evringham nodded and turned his incisive glance upon his daughter-in-law. "and you, julia?" she smiled brightly at him. he observed that her complexion bore the sunlight well. "oh, jewel and i go with him, of course," she responded, confident that her reply would convey satisfaction. "h'm. indeed! now it seems to me that you would be the better for a vacation." "why! haven't i just had a trip to europe?" "yes, i should think you had. from all that harry tells me, i judge what with hunting up fashions and fabrics and corset-makers and all the rest of it, you have done the work, daily, of about two able-bodied men." "that's right," averred harry. "i was too much of a greenhorn to give her much assistance." "still, you understand your own end of the business, i take it," said his father, turning suddenly upon him. "yes, i do. i believe the firm will say i'm the square peg in the square hole." "then why not take a vacation, julia?" asked the broker again. "harry is doing splendidly," she returned gently, "but we can't live on the salary he gets now. he needs my help for a while, yet. i'm going to be a lady of leisure some day." the broker caught the glance of confidence she sent his boy. "i'm screwing up my courage now to strike them for more," said harry. "it frets me worse every day to see that girl delving away, and a great strapping, hulking chap like me not able to prevent it." his father looked gravely at the young wife. "let him begin now," he said. "he doesn't need your apron string any longer." "what do you mean?" asked julia, half timidly. "stay here with me a while and let harry go west. i will take you and jewel to the seashore." "hurray!" cried harry, his face radiant. "julia, why, you won't know yourself strolling on the sands with a parasol while your poor delicate husband is toiling and moiling away in the dingy city. good for you, father! you lift that pretty nose of hers up from the grindstone where she's held it so many years that she doesn't know anything different. hurray, julia!" in his enthusiasm the speaker rose and leaned over the chair of his astonished wife. "you wake up in the morning and read a novel instead of your appointment book for a while," he went on. "the chicago women's summer clothes are all made by this time, anyway. play lady for once and come back to me the color of mahogany. go ahead!" "why, harry, how can i? what would you do?" "i'm hanged if i don't show you what i'd do, and do it well, too," he returned. "but i ought to go home first," faltered the bewildered woman. "not a bit of it. i'll tackle the firm and the apartment, all right; and to be plain, we can't afford the needless car fare." "but, father," julia appealed to him, "is it right to make harry get on still longer without jewel?" "perfectly right. entirely so," rejoined the broker decidedly. "of course he doesn't realize how we feel about jewel," thought julia. here a large brown horse and brougham came around the driveway into sight. zeke's eyes turned curiously toward the guests, but he sat stiffly immovable. the broker rose. "i must go now or i shall miss my train. think it over. there's only one way to think about it. it is quite evidently the thing to do. the break has been made, and now is the time for julia to take her vacation before going into harness again. moreover, perhaps harry will get his raise and she won't have to go into harness. good-morning. i shall try to come out early. i hope you will make yourselves comfortable." mrs. evringham looked at zeke. he was the glass of fashion and the mould of form, but there was no indication in his smooth-shaven, wooden countenance of the comrade to whom jewel had referred in her fragmentary letters. "well, harry!" she exclaimed breathlessly, as the carriage rolled away. her expression elicited a hearty laugh from her husband. "i _never_ was so surprised. how unselfish he is! harry, is it possible that we don't know your father at _all_? think of his proposing to keep, still longer, a disturbing element like our lively little girl!" "oh, i've never believed he bothered himself very much about jewel," returned harry lightly. "you make a mountain out of that. all a child needs is a ten acre lot to let off steam in, and she's had it here. he knows you'll keep her out from under foot. let's accept this pleasure. he probably takes a lot of stock in you after all i told him last night. it's a relief to his pride and everything else that i'm not going to disgrace the name. he wants to do something for you. that's the whole thing in a nutshell; and you let him do it, julia." in an exuberance of spirits, aided by the fresh, inspiring morning, the speaker took his wife in his arms, as they stood there on the wide veranda, and hugged her heartily. "do you think i shall get over my awe of him?" she half laughed, but her tone was sincere. "i'm so unused to people who never smile and seem to be enduring me. oh, if you were only going to stay, too, harry, then it would be a vacation indeed!" "here, here! where are your principles? who's afraid now?" "but he's so stately and forbidding, and i shall feel such a responsibility of keeping jewel from troubling him." harry laughed again. "she seems entirely capable of paddling her own canoe. she didn't seem troubled by doubts or compunctions in the carriage last night; and up there in the bedroom when she flew at him! how was that for a case of _lèse majesté_? gad, at her age i'd sooner have tackled a lighted fuse! what do you suppose it was she whispered to him?" "i've no idea, and i must say i was curious enough to ask her while i was putting her to bed; but do you know, she wouldn't say!" the mother laughed. "she sidled about,--you know how she does when she is reluctant to speak, and seemed so embarrassed that i have to laugh when i think of it." "perhaps it concerned some surprise she has persuaded father to give us." "no, it couldn't be that, because she answered at last that she'd tell me when she was a young lady." they both laughed. "well," said harry, "she isn't afraid of him so you'd notice it; and you can give her a few pointers so she needn't get in father's way now that she has you again. he has evidently been mighty considerate of the little orphan." "how good he has been!" returned julia fervently. "if we could only go home with you, harry," she added wistfully, "while there's so much good feeling, and before anything happens to alter it!" "where are your principles?" asked harry again. "you know better than to think anything will happen to alter it." "yes, i do, i do; but i always have to meet my shyness of strangers, and it makes my heart beat to think of your going off and leaving me here. being tête-à-tête with your father is appalling, i must confess." "oh, well, it wouldn't do to slight his offer, and it will do you a world of good." "you'll have to send me my summer gowns." "i will." "dear me, am i really going to _do_ it?" asked julia incredulously. "certainly you are. we'd be imbecile not to accept such an opportunity." "then," she answered resignedly, "if it is fact and not a wild fancy, we have a lot of business to talk over, harry. let us make the most of our time while jewel is asleep." she led the way back to the chairs, and they were soon immersed in memoranda and discussion. chapter v the lifted veil at last their plans were reduced to order and harry placed the papers carefully in his pocket. "come in and let's have a look at the house, julia," he suggested. "it won't do to go to the stables without jewel." they entered the drawing-room and julia moved about admiring the pictures and carvings, and paused long before the oil portrait of a beautiful woman, conspicuously placed. "that's my grandmother," remarked harry. "isn't she stunning? that's the side of the family i didn't take after." while they still examined the portrait and the exquisite painting of its laces, jewel ran into the room and seized them from behind. "well, well, all dressed!" exclaimed her father as the two stooped to kiss her. "yes, but my hair isn't very nice," said the child, putting up her hand to her braids, "because i didn't want to be late to breakfast." her father's hearty laugh rang out. "lunch, do you mean?" "we're through breakfast long ago, dearie," said her mother. "no wonder you slept late. we wanted you to." "breakfast's all through!" exclaimed the child, and they were surprised at her dismay. "yes, but mrs. forbes will get you something," said her father. "but has grandpa gone?" asked the child. before they could reply the housekeeper passed the door and jewel ran to her. "has grandpa gone, mrs. forbes?" she repeated anxiously. "yes, indeed, it's after ten. come into the dining-room, jewel; sarah will give you your breakfast." "i'm not a bit hungry--yes, i am, a little--but what is grandpa's telephone number, mrs. forbes." "oh, now, you won't call him up, dear," said the housekeeper coaxingly. "come and eat your breakfast like a good girl." "yes, in just one minute i will. what is the number, please, mrs. forbes?" the housekeeper gave the number, and harry and julia drew nearer. "your grandpa is coming out early, jewel," said her father. "you'll see him in a few hours, and you can ask him whatever you wish to then." "she never has called mr. evringham up, sir," said the housekeeper. "he speaks to _her_ sometimes. you know, jewel, your grandfather doesn't like to be disturbed in his business and called to the 'phone unless it is something very important." "it is," returned the child, and she ran to the part of the hall where the instrument was situated. her mother and father followed, the former feeling that she ought to interfere, but the latter amused and curious. "my little girl," began julia, in protest, but harry put his hand on her arm and detained her. jewel was evidently filled with one idea and deaf to all else. with her usual energy she took down the receiver and made her request to the central office. harry drew his wife to where they could watch her absorbed, rosy face. her listening expression was anxiously intent. mrs. forbes also lingered at a little distance, enjoying the parents' interest and sharing it. "is that you, grandpa?" asked the sweet voice. "oh, well, i want to see mr. evringham." "what? no. i'm sorry, but nobody will do but grandpa. you tell him it's jewel, please." "what? i thought i _did_ speak plain. it's _jewel_; his little grandchild." the little girl smiled at the next response. "yes, i'm the very one that ate the nesselrode pudding," she said, and chuckled into the 'phone. by this time even julia had given up all thought of interfering, and was watching, curiously, the round head with its untidy blond hair. jewel spoke again. "i'm sorry i can't tell you the business, but it's _very_ important." evidently the earnestness of this declaration had an effect. after a minute more of waiting, the child's face lighted. "oh, grandpa, is that you?" "yes, i am. i'm _so_ sorry i slept too long!" "yes, i know you missed me, and now i have to eat my breakfast without you. why didn't you come and bring me downstairs?" "oh, but i _would_ have. did you feel very sorry when you got in the brougham, grandpa?" "i know it. did the ride seem _very_ long, all alone?" "yes, indeed. i felt so sorry inside when i found you'd gone, i had to hear you speak so as to get better so i could visit with mother and father." "yes, it _is_ a comfort. are you _sure_ you don't feel sorry now?" "well, but are you smiling, grandpa?" whatever the answer was to this, it made jewel's anxious brows relax and she laughed into the 'phone. "grandpa, you're such a joker! one smile won't make you any fatter," she protested. another listening silence, then:-- "you know the reason i feel the worst, don't you?" "why yes, you do. what we were talking about yesterday." the child sighed. "well, isn't it a comfort about eternity?" "yes, indeed, and i guess i'll kiss the 'phone now, grandpa. can you hear me?" "well, you do it, too, then. yes--yes--i hear it; and you'll come home early because you know--our secret?" "what? a lot of men waiting for you? all right. you know i love you just the same, even if i _did_ sleep, don't you?" "good-by, then, good-by." she hung up the receiver and turned a beaming face upon her dumbfounded parents. "now i'll have breakfast," she said cheerfully. "i'll only eat a little because we must go out and see star. you waited for me, didn't you?" pausing in sudden apprehension. "yes, indeed," replied harry, collecting himself. "we haven't been off the piazza." "goody. i'm so glad. i'll hurry." mrs. forbes followed the child as she bounded away, and the father and mother sank upon an old settle of flemish oak, gazing at one another. the veil having been completely lifted from their eyes, each was viewing recent circumstances in a new light. at last harry began to laugh in repressed fashion. "sold, and the money taken!" he ejaculated, softly smiting his knee. his wife smiled, too, but there was a mist in her eyes. "i smell a large mouse, julia. how is it with you?" "you mean my invitation?" "i mean that we come under the head of those things that can't be cured and must be endured." she nodded. "and that's why he wants to take me to the seashore." "yes, but all the same he's got to do it to carry his point. you get the fun just the same." the moisture that rose to harry's eyes was forced there by the effort to repress his mirth. "by jinks, the governor kissing the 'phone! i'll never get over that, never," and he exploded again. his wife laid her hand on his arm. "oh, harry, can't you see how touching it is?" "i'll sue him for alienating my daughter's affections. see if i don't. why, we're not in it at all. did you feel our insignificance when she found he'd gone? we've been blockheads, julia, blockheads." "we're certainly figureheads," she returned, rather ruefully. "i don't like to feel that your father has to pay such a price for the sake of keeping jewel a little longer." "'t won't hurt him a bit. it's a good joke on him. if he doesn't go ahead and take you now, i'll bring another suit against him for breach of promise." julia was looking thoughtfully into space. "i believe," she said, at last, "that we may find out that jewel has been a missionary here." "she's given father a brand new heart," returned harry promptly. "that's plain." "let us not say a word to the child about the plan for her and me to stay," said julia. "let us leave it all for mr. evringham." "all right; only he won't think you're much pleased with the idea." "i'm not," returned the other, smiling. "i'm a little dazed; but if he was the man he appeared to be the day we left jewel with him, and she has loved him into being a happier and better man, it may be a matter of duty for us not to deprive him of her at once. i'll try to resign myself to the rôle of necessary baggage, and even try to conceal from him the fact that i know my place." "oh, my girl, you'll have him captured in a week, and jewel will have a rival. you have the same knack she has for making the indifferent different." at this juncture the housekeeper came back into the hall. "well, mrs. forbes," said harry, rising, "that was rather amusing important business jewel had with my father." the housekeeper held up her hands and shook her head. "such lovers, sir," she responded. "such lovers! whatever he's going to do without her is more than i know." "why, it's a big change come over father, to be fond of children," returned the young man, openly perplexed. "_children!_" repeated the housekeeper. "if you suppose, mr. harry, that jewel is any common child, you must have had a wonderful experience." her impressive, almost solemn manner, sobered the father's mood. "what she is, is the result of what her mother has taught her," he returned. "not one of us wanted her when she came," said the housekeeper, looking from one to the other of the young couple standing before her. "not one person in the house was half civil to her." julia's hand tightened on her husband's arm. "i didn't want anybody troubling mr. evringham. people called him a hard, cold, selfish man; but i knew his trials, yes, mr. harry, you know i knew them. he was my employer and it was my business to make him comfortable, and i hated that dear little girl because i'd made up my mind that she'd upset him. well, jewel didn't know anything about hate, not enough to know it when she saw it. she just loved us all, through thick and thin, and you'll have to wait till you can read what the recording angel's set down, before you can have any full idea of what she's done for us. she's made a humble woman out of me, and i was the stiff-neckedest member of the congregation. there's my only child, zeke; she's persuaded him out of habits that were breaking up our lives. there was eloise evringham, without hope or god in the world. she gave her both, that little jewel did. then, most of all, she crept into mr. evringham's empty heart and filled it full, and made his whole life, as you might say, blossom again. that's what she's done, single handed, in two months, and she has no more conceit of her work than a ray of god's sunshine has when it's opening a flower bud." julia evringham's gaze was fixed intently upon the speaker, and she was unconscious that two tears rolled down her cheeks. "you've made us very happy, telling us this," she said, rather breathlessly, as the housekeeper paused. "and i should like to add, mrs. evringham," said mrs. forbes impressively, "that you'd better turn your attention to an orphan asylum and catch them as young as you can and train them up. what this old world wants is a whole crop of jewels." julia's smile was very sweet. "we may all have the pure child thought," she returned. mrs. forbes passed on upstairs. harry looked at his wife. he was winking fast. "well, this isn't any laughing matter, after all, julia." "no, it's a matter to make us very humble with joy and gratitude." as she spoke jewel bounded back into the hall and ran into her father's open arms. "a good breakfast, eh?" he asked tenderly. "yes, i didn't mean to be so long, but sarah said grandpa wanted me to eat a chop. now, _now_, we're going to see star!" "i'd better fix your hair first," remarked her mother. "oh, let her hair go till lunch time," said harry. "the horses won't care, will they, jewel?" he picked her up and set her on his shoulder and out they went to the clean, spacious stables. zeke pulled down his shirt-sleeves as he saw them coming. "this is my father and mother, zeke," cried the child, happily, and the coachman ducked his head with his most unprofessional grin. "jewel's got a great pony here," he said. "well, i should think so!" remarked harry, as he and his wife followed where the child led, to a box stall. "why, jewel, he's right out of a story!" said her mother, viewing the wavy locks and sweeping tail, as the pony turned eagerly to meet his mistress. jewel put her arms around his neck and buried her face for an instant in his mane. "i haven't anything for you, star, this time," she said, as the pretty creature nosed about her. "mother, do you see his star?" "indeed i do," replied mrs. evringham, examining the snowflake between the full, bright eyes. "he's the prettiest pony i ever saw, jewel. did your grandpa have him made to order?" zeke shrugged his gingham clad shoulders. "he would have, if he could, ma'am," he put in. mrs. evringham laughed. "well, he certainly didn't need to. oh, see that beautiful head!" for essex maid looked out to discover what all the disturbance was about. harry paused in his examination of the pony, to go over to the mare's stall. "whew, what a stunner!" he remarked. "mr. evringham said you were to ride her this morning, sir, if you liked. you'll be the first, beside him." zeke paused and with a comical gesture of his head indicated the child and then the mare. "it's been nip and tuck between them, sir; but i guess jewel's got the maid beat by now." harry laughed. "two blue ribbons, she's won, sir. she'll get another this autumn if he shows her." "i should think so. she's a raving beauty." as he spoke, harry smoothed the bright coat. "when are we going out, jewel?" "but we couldn't leave mother," returned the child, from her slippery perch on the pony's back. she had been thinking about it. "are you sure, zeke, that grandpa said father might ride essex maid?" "he told me so, himself," said harry, amused. jewel shook her head, much impressed. "then he loves you about the most of anybody," she remarked, with conviction. "don't think of me," said her mother. "you and father do just what you like. i can be happy just looking about this beautiful place." "oh, i know what," exclaimed jewel, with sudden brightness. "let's all go to the ravine of happiness before lunch time, and then wait for grandpa, and he can take mother in the phaeton, and father and i can ride horseback." "oh, i'm afraid your grandpa wouldn't like that," returned mrs. evringham quickly. zeke was standing near her. "he would if she said so, ma'am," he put in, in a low tone. julia smiled kindly upon him. harry tossed his head, amused. "it's a case, isn't it, zeke?" he remarked. "yes, sir," returned the coachman. "he comes when he's called, and will eat out of her hand, sir." harry laughed and went back to the pony's stall. "come on, then, jewel, come to my old stamping ground, the ravine." "and if her hair frightens the birds it's your fault," smiled julia, smoothing with both hands the little flaxen head. "the birds have seen me look a great deal worse than this, a great _deal_ worse," said jewel cheerfully. "perhaps they'll think her hair is a nest and sit down in it," suggested her father, as they moved away, the happy child between them, holding a hand of each. the little girl drew in her chin as she looked up at him. "oh, father, you're such a joker!" chapter vi the die is cast "oh, grandpa, we've had the most, _fun_!" cried jewel that afternoon as she ran down the veranda steps to meet the broker, getting out of the brougham. harry and julia were standing near the wicker chairs watching the welcome. they saw mr. evringham stoop to receive the child's embrace, and noted the attention he paid to her chatter as, after lifting his hat to them, he slowly advanced. "father and i played in the ravine the longest while. wasn't it a nice time, father?" "it certainly was a nice, wet time. i am one pair of shoes short, and shall have to travel to chicago in patent leathers." as julia rose she regarded her father-in-law with new eyes. all sense of responsibility had vanished, and her present passive rôle seemed delightful. "i know more about this beautiful place than when you went away," she said. "i feel as if i were at some picturesque resort. it doesn't seem at all as if work-a-day people might live here all the time." "i'm glad you like it," returned the broker, and his quick, curt manner of speech no longer startled her. "have you been driving?" "no, we preferred to have jewel plan our campaign, and she seemed to think that the driving part had better wait for you." the broker turned and looked down at the smooth head with billowy ribbon bows behind the ears. noting his expression, or lack of it, julia wondered, momentarily, if she might have dreamed the episode of kissing into the telephone. "what is your plan, jewel?" he asked. she balanced herself springily on her toes. "i thought two of us in the phaeton and two on horseback," she replied, with relish. "h'm. you in the phaeton and i on star, perhaps." "oh, grandpa, and your feet dragging in the road!" the child's laugh was a gush of merriment. the broker looked back at his daughter-in-law and handed her the large white package he was carrying. "with my compliments, madam." julia flushed prettily as she unwrapped the box. "oh, huyler's!" she exclaimed. "how delicious. thank you so much, father." jewel's eyes were big with admiration. "that's just the kind dr. ballard used to give cousin eloise," she said, sighing. "sometime i'll be grown up!" mr. evringham lifted her into his arms with a quick movement. "that's a far day, thank god," he murmured, his mustache against her hair; then lowering her until he could look into her face: "how have you arranged us, jewel? who drives and who rides?" "perhaps father would like to drive mother in the phaeton," said the child, again on her feet. harry smiled. "your last plan, i thought, was that i should ride the mare." "yes," returned jewel, with some embarrassment. "you won't look so nice as grandpa does on essex maid," she added, very gently, "but if it would be a _pleasure_ to you, father"-- her companions laughed so heartily that the child bored the toe of one shoe into the piazza, and well they knew the sign. "here," said her father hastily, "which of these delicious candies do you want, jewel? oh, how good they look! i tell you you'll have to be quick if you want any. i have only till to-morrow to eat them." "really to-morrow, father!" returned the child, pausing aghast. "to-morrow!" "yes, indeed." "to chicago, do you mean?" "to chicago." he nodded emphatically. jewel turned appealing eyes on her mother. "can't we help it?" she asked in a voice that broke. "i think not, dearie. business must come before pleasure, you know." her three companions looking at the child saw her swallow with an effort. she dropped the chocolate she had taken back into the box. a heroic smile came to her trembling lips as she lifted her eyes to the impassive face of the tall, handsome man beside her. "it's to-morrow, grandpa," she said softly, with a look that begged him to remember. he stooped until his gaze was on a level with hers. she did not touch him. all her forces were bent on self-control. "i have been asking your mother," said mr. evringham, "to stay here a while and take a vacation. hasn't she told you?" jewel shook her head mutely. "i think she will do it if you add your persuasion," continued the broker quietly. "she ought to have rest,--and of course you would stay too, to take care of her." a flash like sunlight illumined the child's tears. mr. evringham expected to feel her arms thrown around his neck. instead, she turned suddenly, and running to her father, jumped into his lap. "father, father," she said, "don't you want us to go with you?" harry cleared his throat. the little scene had moistened his eyes as well. "am i of any consequence?" he asked, with an effort at jocoseness. jewel clasped him close. "oh, father," earnestly, "you know you are; and the only reason i said you wouldn't look so nice on essex maid is that grandpa has beautiful riding clothes, and when he rides off he looks like a king in a procession. you couldn't look like a king in a procession in the clothes you wear to the store, could you, father?" "impossible, dearie." "but i want you to ride her if you'd like to, and i want mother and me to go to chicago with you if you're going to feel sorry." "you really do, eh?" jewel hesitated, then turned her head and held out her hand to mr. evringham, who took it. "if grandpa won't feel sorry," she answered. "oh, i don't know what i want. i wish i didn't love to be with so many people!" her little face, drawn with its problem, precipitated the broker's plans and made him reckless. he said to his son now, that which, in his carefully prepared programme, he had intended to say about three months hence, provided a nearer acquaintance with his daughter julia did not prove disappointing. "i suppose you are not devotedly attached to chicago, harry?" the young man looked up, surprised. "not exactly. so far she has treated me like a cross between a yellow dog and a step-child; but i shall be devoted enough if i ever succeed there." "don't succeed there," returned the broker curtly. "succeed here." harry shook his head. "oh, new york's beyond me. i have a foothold in chicago." "yes," returned the broker, who had the born and bred new yorker's contempt for the windy city. "yes, i know you've got your foot in it, but take it out." "great scott! you'd have me become a rolling stone again?" "no. i'll guarantee you a place where, if you don't gather moss, you'll even write your_self_ down as long-eared." harry's eyes brightened, and he straightened up, moving jewel to one side, the better to see his father. "do you mean it?" he asked eagerly. the broker nodded. "take your time to settle matters in chicago," he said. "if you show up here in september it will be early enough." the young man turned his eyes toward his wife and she met his smile with another. her heart was beating fast. this powerful man of whom, until this morning, she had stood in awe, was going to put a stop to the old life and lift their burdens. so much she perceived in a flash, and she knew it was for the sake of the little child whose cheeks were glowing like roses as she looked from one to another, taking in the happy promise involved in the words of the two men. "father, will you come back here?" she asked, breathing quickly. "i'd be mighty glad to, jewel," he replied. the child leaned toward the broker, to whose hand she still clung. starry lights were dancing in her eyes. "grandpa, are father and mother and i going to live with you--always?" she asked rapturously. "always--if you will, jewel." he certainly had not intended to say it until autumn leaves were falling, and he should have made certain that it was not putting his head into a noose; but the child's face rewarded him now a thousand-fold, and made the moment too sweet for regret. "didn't we _know_ that divine love would take care of us, grandpa?" she asked, with soft triumph. "we _did_ know it--even when i was crying, we knew it. didn't we?" the broker drank in her upturned glance and placed his other hand over the one that was clinging to him. chapter vii mrs. evringham's gifts when mrs. evringham opened her eyes the following morning, it was with a confused sense that some great change had taken place; and quickly came the realization that it was a happy change. as the transforming facts flowed in more clearly upon her consciousness, she covered her eyes quickly with her hand. "'green pastures are before me!'" she thought, and her heart grew warm with gratitude. her husband was asleep, and she arose and went softly to jewel's chamber, and carefully opened the door. to her amazement the bed was empty. its coverings were stripped down and the sweet morning breeze was flooding the spacious room. she returned to her own, wondering how late it might be. her husband stirred and opened his eyes, but before she could speak a ripple of distant laughter sounded on the air. she ran to the window and raised the shade. "oh, come, harry, quick!" she exclaimed, and, half asleep, he obeyed. there, riding down the driveway, they saw mr. evringham and jewel starting off for their morning canter. "how dear they look, how dear!" exclaimed julia. "father is stunning, for a fact," remarked harry, watching alertly. on yesterday's excursion he had ridden essex maid, after all; and he smiled with interest now, in the couple who were evidently talking to one another with the utmost zest as they finally disappeared at a canter among the trees. "it is ideal, it's perfectly ideal, harry." julia drew a long breath. "i was so surprised this morning, to waken and find it reality, after all." she looked with thoughtful eyes at her husband. "i wonder what my new work will be!" she added. "not talking about that already, i hope!" he answered, laughing. "i've an idea you will find occupation enough for one while, in learning to be idle. sit still now and look about you on the work accomplished." "what work?" "that i'm here and that you're here: that the action of truth has brought these wonders about." after breakfast the farewells were said. "you're happy, aren't you, father?" asked jewel doubtfully, as she clung about his neck. "never so happy, jewel," he answered. she turned to her grandfather. "when is father coming back again?" she asked. "as soon as he can," was the reply. "you don't want me until september, i believe," said the young man bluntly. he still retained the consciousness, half amused, half hurt, that his father considered him superfluous. "why, september is almost next winter," said jewel appealingly. mr. evringham looked his son full in the eyes and liked the direct way they met him. "the latchstring will be out from now on, harry i want you to feel that it is your latchstring as much as mine." his son did not speak, but the way the two men suddenly clasped hands gave jewel a very comforted sensation. "and you don't feel a bit sorry to be going alone to chicago?" she pursued, again centring her attention and embrace upon her father. "i tell you i was never so happy in my life," he responded, kissing her and setting her on her feet. "are you going to allow me to drive to the station in your place this morning?" "i'd let you do anything, father," returned jewel affectionately. it touched her little heart to see him go alone away from such a happy family circle, but her mother's good cheer was reassuring. they had scarcely had a minute alone together since mrs. evringham's arrival, and when the last wave had been sent toward the head leaning out of the brougham window, mother and child went up the broad staircase together, pausing before the tall clock whose chime had grown so familiar to jewel since that chilling day when mrs. forbes warned her not to touch it. "everything in this house is so fine, jewel," said the mother. "it must have seemed very strange to you at first." "it did. anna belle and i felt more at home out of doors, because you see god owned the woods, and he didn't care if we broke something, and mrs. forbes used to be so afraid; but it's all much different now," added the child. they went on up to the room where stood the small trunk which was all mrs. evringham had taken abroad for her personal belongings. to many children the moment of their mother's unpacking after a return from a trip is fraught with pleasant and eager anticipation of gifts. in this case it was different; for jewel had no previous journey of her mother's to remember, and her gifts had always been so small, with the shining exception of anna belle, that she made no calculations now concerning the steamer trunk, as she watched her mother take out its contents. each step mrs. evringham took on the rich carpet, each glance she cast at the park through the clear sheets of plate glass in the windows, each smooth-running drawer, each undreamed-of convenience in the closet with its electric light for dark days, impressed her afresh with a sense of wondering pleasure. the lady of her name who had so recently dwelt among these luxuries had accepted them fretfully, as no more than her due; the long glass which now reflected julia's radiant dark eyes lately gave back a countenance impressed with lines of care and discontent. "jewel, i feel like a queen here," said the happy woman softly. "i like beautiful things very much, but i never had them before in my life. come, darling, we must read the lesson." she closed the lid of the trunk. "yes, but wait till i get anna belle." the child ran into her own room and brought the doll. then she jumped into her mother's lap, for there was room for all three in the big chair by the window. some memory made the little girl lift her shoulders. "this was aunt madge's chair," she said. "she used to sit here in the prettiest lace wrapper--i was never in this room before except two or three times,"--jewel's awed tone changed,--"but now my own mother lives here! and cousin eloise would love to know it and to know that i have her room. i mean to write her about it." "you must take me upstairs pretty soon and let me see the chamber that was yours. oh, there is so much to see, jewel; shall we ever get to the end?" mrs. evringham's tone was joyous, as she hugged the child impulsively, and rested her cheek on the flaxen head. "darling," she went on softly, "think what divine love has done for mother, to bring her here! i've worked very hard, my little girl, and though love helped me all the time, and i was happy, i've had so much care, and almost never a day when i had leisure to stop and think about something else than my work. i expected to go right back to it now, with father, and i didn't worry, because god was leading me--but, dearie, when i woke up this morning"--she paused, and as jewel lifted her head, mother and child gazed into one another's eyes--"i said--you know what i said?" for answer the little girl smiled gladly and began to sing the familiar hymn. her mother joined an alto to the clear voice, in the manner that had been theirs for years, and fervently, now, they sang the words:-- "green pastures are before me, which yet i have not seen. bright skies will soon be o'er me, where darkest clouds have been. my hope i cannot measure, my path in life is free, my father has my treasure, and he will walk with me!" jewel looked joyous. "the green pastures were in bel-air park, weren't they?" she said, "and you hadn't seen them, had you?" "no," returned mrs. evringham gently, "and just now there is not a cloud in our bright sky." "father's gone away," returned jewel doubtfully. "only to get ready to come back. it is very wonderful, jewel." "yes, it is. i'm sure it makes god glad to see us so happy." "i'm sure it does; and the best of it is that father knows that it is love alone that brought this happiness, just as it brings all the real happiness that ever comes in the world. he sees that it is only what knowledge we have of god that made it possible for him to come back to what ought to be his, his father's welcome home! father sees that it is a demonstration of love, and that is more important than all; for anything that gives us a stronger grasp on the truth, and more understanding of its working, is of the greatest value to us." "didn't grandpa love father before?" asked jewel, in surprise. "yes, but father disappointed him and error crept in between them, so it was only when father began to understand the truth and ask god to help him, that the discord could disappear. isn't it beautiful that it has, jewel?" "i don't think discord is much, mother," declared the little girl. "of course it isn't," returned her mother. "it isn't anything." "when i first came, grandpa had so many things to make him sorry, and everybody else here was sorry--and now nobody is. even aunt madge was happy over the pretty clothes she had to go away with." "and she'll be happy over other things, some day," returned mrs. evringham, who had already gathered a tolerably clear idea of her sister-in-law. "eloise has learned how to help her." "oh, ye--es! _she_ isn't afraid of discord any more." "now we'll study the lesson, darling. think of having all the time we want for it!" after they had finished, mrs. evringham leaned back in the big chair and patted jewel's knee. opening the bag at her side she took out a small box and gave it to the child, who opened it eagerly. a bright little garnet ring reposed on the white velvet. "oh, oh, _oh_!" cried jewel, delighted. she put on the ring, which just fitted, and then hugged her mother before she looked at it again. "dear little anna belle, when you're a big girl"--she began, turning to the doll, but mrs. evringham interrupted. "wait a minute, jewel, here is anna belle's." she took out another box and, ah, what a charming necklace appeared, brilliant with gems which outshone completely the three little garnets. jewel jumped for joy when she had clasped it about the round neck. "oh, mother, mother!" she exclaimed, patting her mother's cheek, "you kept thinking about us every day, didn't you! kiss your grandma, dearie," which the proud and happy anna belle did with a fervor that threatened to damage mrs. evringham's front teeth. "i brought you something else, jewel," said the mother, with her arms around the child. "i did think of you every day, and on the ship going over, it was pretty hard, because i had never been away from my little girl and i didn't know just what she was doing, and i didn't even know the people she was with; so, partly to keep my thoughts from error, i began to--to make something for you." "oh, what was it?" asked jewel eagerly. "i didn't finish it going over, and i had no time to do so until we were on the steamer coming home again. then i was lighter hearted and happier, because i knew my little darling had found green pastures, but--i finished it. i don't know how much you will care for it." jewel questioned the dark eyes and smiling lips eagerly. "what is it, mother; a bag for my skates?" "no." "a--a handkerchief?" "no." "oh, tell me, mother, i can't wait." mrs. evringham put the little girl down from her lap and going to the trunk took from it the only article it still contained. it was a long, flat book with pasteboard covers tied at the back with little ribbons. as she again took her seat in the big chair, jewel leaned against its arm. "it's a scrap-book full of pictures," she said, with interest. for answer her mother turned the cover toward her so she could read the words lettered distinctly upon it. jewel's story book then mrs. evringham ran her finger along the edges of the volume and let the type-written pages flutter before its owner's delighted eyes. "you've made me some stories, mother!" cried jewel. one of the great pleasures and treats of her life had been those rare half hours when her busy mother had time to tell her a story. her eyes danced with delight. "oh, you're the _kindest_ mother!" she went on, "and you'll have time to read them to me now! anna belle, won't it be the most _fun_? oh, mother, we'll go to the ravine to read, won't we?" mrs. evringham's cheeks flushed and she laughed at the child's joy. "i hope they won't disappoint you," she said. "but you wrote them out of love. how can they?" returned the little girl quickly. "that's so, jewel; that's so, dear." chapter viii the quest flower the garden in the ravine had been put into fine order to exhibit to jewel's father and mother. fresh ferns had been planted around the still pond where anna belle's china dolls went swimming, and fresh moss banks had been constructed for their repose. the brook was beginning to lose the impetuosity of spring and now gurgled more quietly between its verdant banks. it delighted jewel that the place held as much charm for her mother as for herself, and that she listened with as hushed pleasure to the songs of birds in the treetops too high to be disturbed by the presence of dwellers on the ground. it was an ideal spot wherein to read aloud, and the early hours of that sunshiny afternoon found the three seated there by the brookside ready to begin the story book. "now i'll read the titles and you shall choose what one we will take first," said mrs. evringham. jewel's attention was as unwinking as anna belle's, as she listened to the names. "anna belle ought to have first choice because she's the youngest. then i'll have next, and you next. anna belle chooses the quest flower; because she loves flowers so and she can't imagine what that means." "very well," returned mrs. evringham, smiling and settling herself more comfortably against a tree trunk. "the little girl in this story loved them too;" and so saying, jewel's mother began to read aloud:-- the quest flower hazel wright learned to love her uncle dick badger very much during a visit he made at her mother's home in boston. she became well acquainted with him. he was always kind to her in his quiet way, and always had time to take her on his knee and listen to whatever she had to tell about her school or her plays, and even took an interest in her doll, ella. mrs. wright used to laugh and tell her brother that he was a wonderful old bachelor, and could give lessons to many a husband and father; upon which uncle dick responded that he had always been fond of assuming a virtue if he had it not; and hazel wondered if "assuming-a-virtue" were a little girl. at any rate, she loved uncle dick and wished he would live with them always; so it will be seen that when it was suddenly decided that hazel was to go home with him to the town where he lived, she was delighted. "father and i are called away on business, hazel," her mother said to her one day, "and we have been wondering what to do with you. uncle dick says he'll take you home with him if you would like to go." "oh, yes, i would," replied the little girl; for it was vacation and she wanted an outing. "uncle dick has a big yard, and ella and i can have fun there." "i'm sure you can. uncle dick's housekeeper, hannah, is a kind soul, and she knew me when i was as little as you are, and will take good care of you." the evening before hazel and her uncle were to leave, mrs. wright spoke to her brother in private. "it seems too bad not to be able to write aunt hazel that her namesake is coming," she said. "is she as bitter as ever?" "oh, yes. no change." "just think of it!" exclaimed mrs. wright. "she lives within a stone's throw of you, and yet can remain unforgiving so many years. let me see--it is eight; for hazel is ten years old, and i know she was two when the trouble about the property camp up; but you did right, dick, and some time aunt hazel must know it." "oh, i think she has lucid intervals when she knows it now," returned mr. badger; "but her pride won't let her admit it. if it amuses her, it doesn't hurt me for her to pass me on the street without a word or a look. when a thing like that has run along for years, it isn't easy to make any change." "oh, but it is so unchristian, so wrong," returned his sister. "if you only had a loving enough feeling, dick, it seems as if you might take her by storm." mr. badger smiled at some memory. "i tried once. she did the storming." he shrugged his shoulders. "i'm a man of peace. i decided to let her alone." mrs. wright shook her head. "well, i haven't told hazel anything about it. she knows she is named for my aunt; but she doesn't know where aunt hazel lives, and i wish you would warn hannah not to tell the child anything about her or the affair. you know we lay a great deal of stress on not voicing discord of my kind." "yes, i know," mr. badger smiled and nodded. 'your methods seem to have turned out a mighty nice little girl, and it's been a wonder to me ever since i came, to see you going about, such a different creature from what you used to be." "yes, i'm well and happy," returned mrs. wright, "and i long to have this trouble between you and aunt hazel at an end. i suppose hazel isn't likely to come in contact with her at all." "no, indeed; no more than if aunt hazel lived in kamschatka. she does, if it's cold enough there." "dear woman. she ignored the last two letters i wrote her, i suppose because i sided with you." "oh, certainly, that would be an unpardonable offense. hannah tells me she has a crippled child visiting her now, the daughter of some friends. hannah persists in keeping an eye on aunt hazel's affairs, and telling me about them. hannah will be pleased to have little hazel to make a pet of for a few weeks." he was right. the housekeeper was charmed. she did everything to make hazel feel at home in her uncle's house, and discovering that the little girl had a passion for flowers, let her make a garden bed of her own. hazel went with her uncle to buy plants for this, and she had great fun taking geraniums and pansies out of their pots and planting them in the soft brown earth of the round garden plot; and every day blue-eyed ella, her doll, sat by and watched hazel pick out every little green weed that had put its head up in the night. "you're only grass, dearie," she would say to one as she uprooted it, "and grass is all right most everywhere; but this is a garden, so run away." not very far down the street was a real garden, though, that gave hazel such joy to look at that she carried ella there every day when it didn't rain, and would have gone every day when it did, only hannah wouldn't let her. the owner of the garden, miss fletcher, at the window where she sat sewing, began to notice the little stranger at last; for the child stood outside the fence with her doll, and gazed and gazed so long each time, that the lady began to regard her with suspicion. "that young one is after my flowers, i'm afraid, flossie," she said one day to the pale little girl in the wheeled chair that stood near another window looking on the street. "i've noticed her ever so many times," returned flossie listlessly. "i never saw her until this week, and she's always alone." "well, i won't have her climbing on my fence!" exclaimed miss fletcher, half laying down her work and watching hazel's movements sharply through her spectacles. "there, she's grabbing hold of a picket now!" she exclaimed suddenly. "i'll see to her in quick order." she jumped up and hurried out of the room, and flossie's tired eyes watched her spare figure as she marched down the garden path. she didn't care if miss fletcher did send the strange child away. what difference could it make to a girl who had the whole world to walk around in, and who could take her doll and go and play in some other pleasant place? as hazel saw miss fletcher coming, she gazed at the unsmiling face looking out from hair drawn back in a tight knot; and miss fletcher, on her part, saw such winning eagerness in the smile that met her, that she modified the sharp reproof ready to spring forth. "get down off the fence, little girl," she said. "you oughtn't ever to hang by the pickets; you'll break one if you do." "oh, yes," returned hazel, getting down quickly. "i didn't think of that. i wanted so much to see if that lily-bud had opened, that looked as if it was going to, yesterday; and it has." "which one?" asked miss fletcher, looking around. "right there behind that second rosebush," replied hazel, holding ella tight with one arm while she pointed eagerly. "oh, yes." miss fletcher went over to the plant. "i think it is the loveliest of all," went on the little girl. "it makes me think of the quest flower." "what's that?" miss fletcher looked at the strange child curiously. "i never heard of it." "it's the perfect flower," returned hazel. "where did you ever see it?" "i never did, but i read about it." "where is it to be bought?" miss fletcher was really interested now, because flowers were her hobby. "in the story it says at the public garden; but i've been to the public garden in boston, and i never saw any i thought were as beautiful as yours." hazel was not trying to win miss fletcher's heart, but she had found the road to it. the care-lined face regarded her more closely than ever. "i don't remember you. i thought i knew all the children around here." "no 'm. i'm a visitor. i live in boston; and we have a flat and of course there isn't any yard, and i think your garden is perfectly beautiful. i come to see it every day, and it's fun to stand out here and count the smells." miss fletcher's face broke into a smile. it did really seem as if it cracked, because her lips had been set in such a tight line. "it ain't very often children like flowers unless they can pick them," she replied. "i can't sleep nights sometimes, wishing my garden wasn't so near the fence." the little girl smiled and pointed to a climbing rose that had strayed from its trellis, and one pink flower that was poking its pretty little face between the pickets. "see that one," she said. "i think it wanted to look up and down the street, don't you?" "and you didn't gather it," returned miss fletcher, looking at hazel approvingly. "well, now, for anybody fond of flowers as you are, i think that was real heroic." "she belongs to nice folks," she decided mentally. "oh, it was a tame flower," returned the child, "and that would have been error. if it had been a wild one i would have picked it." "error, eh?" returned miss fletcher, and again her thin lips parted in a smile. "well, i wish everybody felt that way." "uncle dick lets me have a garden," said hazel. "he let me buy geraniums and pansies and lemon verbena--i love that, don't you?" "yes. i've got a big plant of it back here. wouldn't you like to come in and see it?" "oh, thank you," returned hazel, her gray eyes sparkling; and miss fletcher felt quite a glow of pleasure in seeing the happiness she was conferring by the invitation. most of her friends took her garden as a matter of course; and smiled patronizingly at her devotion to it. in a minute the little girl had run to the gate in the white fence, and, entering, joined the mistress of the house, who stood beside the flourishing plants blooming in all their summer loveliness. for the next fifteen minutes neither of the two knew that time was flying. they talked and compared and smelled of this blossom and that, their unity of interest making their acquaintance grow at lightning speed. miss fletcher was more pleased than she had been for many a day, and as for hazel, when her hostess went down on her knees beside a verbena bed and began taking steel hairpins from her tightly knotted hair, to pin down the luxuriant plants that they might go on rooting and spread farther, the little girl felt that the climax of interest was reached. "i'm going to ask uncle dick," she said admiringly, "if i can't have some verbenas and a paper of hairpins." "dear me," returned miss fletcher, "i wish poor flossie took as much interest in the garden as you do." "'flossie' sounds like a kitten, returned hazel. "she's a little human kitten: a poor little afflicted girl who is making me a visit. you can see her sitting up there in the house, by the window." hazel looked up and caught a glimpse of a pale face. her eyes expressed her wonder. "who afflicted her?" she asked softly. "her heavenly father, for some wise purpose," was the response. "oh, it couldn't have been that!" returned the child, shocked. "you know god is love." "yes, i know," replied miss fletcher, turning to her visitor in surprise at so decided an answer from such a source; "but it isn't for us to question what his love is. it's very different from our poor mortal ideas. there's something the matter with poor flossie's back, and she can't walk. the doctors say it's nervous and perhaps she'll outgrow it; but i think she gets worse all the time." hazel watched the speaker with eyes full of trouble and perplexity. "dear me," she replied, "if you think god made her get that way, who do you think 's going to cure her?" "nobody, it seems. her people have spent more than they can afford, trying and trying. they've made themselves poor, but nobody's helped her so far." hazel's eyes swept over the roses and lilies and then back to miss fletcher's face. the lady was regarding her curiously. she saw that thoughts were hurrying through the mind of the little girl standing there with her doll in her arms. "you look as if you wanted to say something," she said at last. "i don't want to be impolite," returned hazel, hesitating. "well," returned miss fletcher dryly, "if you knew the amount of impoliteness that has been given to me in my time, you wouldn't hesitate about adding a little more. speak out and tell me what you are thinking." "i was thinking how wonderful and how nice it is that flowers will grow for everybody," said hazel, half reluctantly. "how's that?" demanded her new friend, in fresh surprise. "have you decided i don't deserve them?" "oh, you deserve them, of course," replied the child quickly; "but when you have such thoughts about god, it's a wonder his flowers can grow so beautifully in your yard." miss fletcher felt a warmth come into her cheeks. "well," she returned rather sharply, "i should like to know what sort of teaching you've had. you're a big enough girl to know that it's a christian's business to be resigned to the will of god. you don't happen to have seen many, sick folks, i guess--what is your name?" "hazel." "why, that's queer, so is mine; and it isn't a common one." "isn't that nice!" returned the child. "we're both named hazel and we both love flowers so much." "yes; that's quite a coincidence. now, why shouldn't flowers grow for me, i should like to know?" "why, you think god afflicted that little girl's back, and didn't let her walk. why, miss fletcher," the child's voice grew more earnest, "he wouldn't do it any more than i'd kneel down and break the stem of that lovely quest flower and let it hang there and wither." miss fletcher pushed up her spectacles and gazed down into the clear gray eyes. "does flossie think he would?" added hazel with soft amazement. "i suppose she does." "then does she say her prayers just the same?" "of course she does." "what a kind girl she must be!" exclaimed hazel earnestly. "why do you say that?" "because _i_ wouldn't pray to anybody that i believed kept me afflicted." miss fletcher started back. "why, child!" she exclaimed, "i should think you'd expect a thunderbolt. where do your folks go to church, for pity's sake?" "to the christian science church." "oh--h, that's what's the matter with you! some of flossie's relatives have heard about that, and they've been teasing her mother to try it. i'm sure i'd try anything that wasn't blasphemous." "what is blasphemous?" "why--why--anything that isn't respectful to god is blasphemous." "oh!" returned hazel. then she added softly, "i should think you were that, now." "what!" and miss fletcher seemed to tower above her visitor in her amazement. "oh--please excuse me. i didn't mean to be impolite; but if you'll just _try_, you'll find out what a mistake you and flossie have been making, and that god _wants_ to heal her." the two looked at one another for a silent half-minute, the little girl's heart beating faster under the grim gaze. "you might come and see her some day," suggested miss fletcher, at last. "she has a dull time of it, poor child. i've asked the children to come in, and they've all been very kind, but it's vacation, and a good many that i know have gone away." "i will," replied hazel. "doesn't she like to come out here where the flowers are?" "yes; it's been a little too cloudy and threatening to-day, but if it's clear to-morrow i'll wheel her out under the elm-tree, and she'd like a visit from you. are you staying far from here?" "no, uncle dick's is right on this street." "what's his last name?" "mr. badger," replied hazel, and she didn't notice the sudden stiffening that went through miss fletcher. "what is your last name?" asked the lady, in a changed voice. "wright." this time any one who had eyes for something beside the flowers might have seen miss fletcher start. color flew into her thin cheeks, and the eyes that stared at hazel's straw tam-o'-shanter grew dim. this was dear mabel badger's child; her little namesake, her own flesh and blood. her jaw felt rigid as she asked the next question. "have you ever spoken to your uncle dick about my garden?" "yes, indeed. that's why he let me make one; and every night he asks, 'well, how's miss fletcher's garden to-day,' and i tell him all about it" "and didn't he ever say anything to you about me?" "why, no;" the child looked up wonderingly. "he doesn't know you, does he?" "we used to know one another," returned miss fletcher stiffly. richard had certainly behaved very decently in this particular instance. at least he had told no lies. "hazel is such an unusual name," she went on, after a minute. "who were you named for?" "my mother's favorite aunt," returned the child. "where does she live?" "i don't know," replied hazel vaguely. "my mother was talking to me about her the evening before uncle dick and i left boston. she told me how much she loved aunt hazel; but that error had crept in, and they couldn't see each other just now, but that god would bring it all right some day. i have a lovely silver spoon she gave me when i was a baby." miss fletcher stooped to her border and cut a bunch of mignonette with the scissors that hung from her belt. "here's something for you to smell of as you walk home," she said, and hazel saw her new friend's hand tremble as she held out the flowers. "do you ever kiss strangers?" added the hostess as she rose to her feet. hazel held up her face and took hold of miss fletcher's arm as she kissed her. "i think you've been so kind to me," she said warmly. "i've had the best time!" "well, pick the climbing rose as you pass," returned miss fletcher. "it seems to want to see the world. let it go along with you; and don't forget to come to-morrow. i hope it will be pleasant." she stood still, the warm breeze ruffling the thin locks about her forehead, and watched the little girl trip along the walk. the child looked back and smiled as she stopped to pick the pink rose, and when she threw a kiss to miss fletcher, that lady found herself responding. she went into the house with a flush remaining in her cheeks. "how long you stayed, aunt hazel," said the little invalid fretfully as she entered. "i expect i did," returned miss fletcher, and there was a new life in her tone that flossie noticed. "who is that girl?" "her name is hazel wright, and she is living at the badgers'. she's as crazy about flowers as i am, so we had a lot to say. she gave me a lecture on religion, too;" an excited little laugh escaped between the speaker's lips. "she's a very unusual child; and she certainly has a look of the fletchers." "what? i thought you said her name was wright." "it is! my tongue slipped. she's coming to see you to-morrow, flossie. we must fix up your doll. i'll wash and iron her pink dress this very afternoon; for hazel has a beauty doll, herself. i think you'll like that little girl." that evening when uncle dick and hazel were at their supper, mr. badger questioned her as usual about her day. "i've had the most _fun_," she replied. "i've been to see miss fletcher, and she took me into her garden, and we smelled of all the flowers, and had the loveliest time!" hannah was standing behind the little girl's chair, and her eyes spoke volumes as she nodded significantly at her employer. "yes, sir, she told miss fletcher where she was visiting, and she gave her a bunch of mignonette and a rose to bring home." "yes," agreed hazel, "they're in a vase in the parlor now, and she asked me to come to-morrow to see an afflicted girl that's living with her. you know, uncle dick," hazel lifted her eyes to him earnestly, "you know how it says everywhere in the bible that anybody that's afflicted goes to god and he heals them; and what do you think! miss fletcher and that little flossie girl both believe god afflicted her and fixed her back so she can't walk!" mr. badger smiled as he met the wondering eyes. "that isn't christian science, is it?" he returned. "i'd rather never have a garden even like miss fletcher's than to think that," declared hazel, as she went on with her supper. "i feel so sorry for them!" "so you're going over to-morrow," said mr. badger. "what are you going to do; treat the little invalid?" "why, no indeed, not unless she asks me to." "why not?" "because it would be error; it's the worst kind of impoliteness to treat anybody that doesn't ask you to; but i've got to know every minute that her belief is a lie, and that god doesn't know anything about it." "i thought god knew everything," said mr. badger, regarding the child curiously. "he does, of course, everything that's going to last forever and ever: everything that's beautiful and good and strong. whatever god thinks about has _got_ to last." the child lifted her shoulders. "i'm glad he doesn't think about mistakes,--sickness, and everything like that, aren't you?" "i don't want sickness to last forever, i'm sure" returned mr. badger. the following day was clear and bright, and early in the afternoon hazel, dressed in a clean gingham frock, took her doll and walked up the street to miss fletcher's. the wheeled chair was already out under the elm-tree, and flossie was watching for her guest. miss fletcher was sitting near her, sewing, and waiting with concealed impatience for the appearance of the bright face under the straw tam-o'-shanter. as soon as hazel reached the corner of the fence and saw them there, she began to run, her eyes fixed eagerly on the white figure in the wheeled chair. the blue eyes that looked so tired regarded her curiously as she ran up the garden path and across the grass to the large, shady tree. hazel had never been close to a sick person, and something in flossie's appearance and the whiteness of her thin hands that clasped the doll in the gay pink dress brought a lump into the well child's throat and made her heart beat. "dear father, i want to help her!" she said under her breath, and miss fletcher noticed that she had no eyes for her, and saw the wondering pity in her face as she came straight up to the invalid's chair. "flossie wallace, this is hazel wright," she said, and flossie smiled a little under the love that leaped from hazel's eyes into hers. "i'm glad you brought your doll," said flossie. "ella goes everywhere i do," returned hazel. "what's your doll's name?" "bernice; i think bernice is a beautiful name," said flossie. "so do i," returned hazel. then the two children were silent a minute, looking at one another, uncertain how to go on. hazel was the first to speak. "isn't it lovely to live with this garden?" she asked. "yes, aunt hazel has nice flowers." "i have an aunt hazel, too," said the little visitor. "miss fletcher isn't my real aunt, but i call her that," remarked flossie. "and _you_ might do it, too," suggested miss fletcher, looking at hazel, to whom her heart warmed more and more in spite of the astonishing charges of the day before. "do you think i could call you aunt hazel?" asked the child, rather shyly. "for the sake of being cousin to my garden, you might. don't you think so?" "how is the quest flower to-day?" asked hazel. "which? oh, you mean the garden lily. there's another bud." "oh, may i look at it?" cried hazel, "and wouldn't you like to come too?" turning to flossie. "can't i roll your chair?" "yes, indeed," said miss fletcher, pleased. "it rolls very easily. give flossie your doll, too, and we'll all go and see the lily bud." hazel obeyed, and carefully pushing the light chair, they moved slowly toward the spot where the white chalices of the garden lilies poured forth their incense. "miss fletcher," cried hazel excitedly, dropping on her knees beside the bed, "that is going to be the most beautiful of all. when it is perfectly open the plant will be ready to take to the king." the little girl lifted her shoulders and looked up at her hostess, smiling. "what king is going to get my lily?" "the one who will send you on your quest." "what am i to go in quest of?" inquired miss fletcher, much entertained. "i don't know;" hazel shook her head. "every one's errand is different." "what is a quest?" asked flossie. "you tell her, hazel." "why, mother says it's a search for some treasure." "you must tell us this story about the quest flower some day," said miss fletcher. "i have the story of it here," returned hazel eagerly. "i've read it over and over again because i love it, and so mother put it in my trunk with my christian science books. i can bring it over and read it to you, if you want me to. you'd like it, i know, miss fletcher." "aunt hazel told me you were a christian scientist," said flossie. "i never saw one before, but people have talked to mother about it." "i could bring _those_ books over, too," replied hazel wistfully, "and we could read the lesson every day, and perhaps it would make you feel better." "i don't know what it's about," said flossie. "it's about making sick people well and sinful people good." "i'm sinful, too, part of the time," answered flossie. "sometimes i don't like to live, and i wish i didn't have to, and everybody says that's sinful." sudden tears started to miss fletcher's eyes, and as the little girls were looking at one another absorbedly, hazel standing close to the wheeled chair, she stole away, unobserved, to the house. "she ought to be cured," she said to herself excitedly. "she ought to be cured. there's that one more chance, anyway. i've got to where i'm ready to let the babes and sucklings have a try!" chapter ix the quest flower (_continued_) the next morning was rainy, and jewel and her grandfather visited the stable instead of taking their canter. "and what will you do this dismal day?" asked the broker of his daughter-in-law as they stood alone for a minute after breakfast, jewel having run upstairs to get anna belle for the drive to the station. "this happy day," she answered, lifting to him the radiant face that he was always mentally contrasting with madge. "the rain will give me a chance to look at the many treasures you have here, books and pictures." "h'm. you are musical, i know, for jewel has the voice of a lark. do you play the piano?" julia looked wistfully at the steinway grand. "ah, if i only could!" she returned. mr. evringham cleared his throat. "madam," he said, lowering his voice, "that child has a most amazing talent." "jewel's voice, do you mean?" "she'll sing, i'm sure of it," he replied, "but i mean for music in general. eloise is an accomplished pianist. she has one piece that jewel especially enjoyed, the old spring song of mendelssohn. probably you know it." julia shook her head. "i doubt it. i've heard very little good piano playing." "well, madam, that child has picked out the melody of that piece by herself," the broker lowered his voice to still deeper impressiveness. "as soon as we return in the autumn, we will have her begin lessons." julia's eyes met his gratefully. "a very remarkable talent. i am positive of it," he went on. "jewel," for here the child entered the room, "play the spring song for your mother, will you?" "now? zeke is out there, grandpa." "dick can stretch his legs a bit faster this morning. play it." so jewel set anna belle on a brocaded chair and going to the piano, played the melody of the spring song. she could perform only a few measures, but there were no false notes in the little chromatic passages, and her grandfather's eyes sought julia's in grave triumph. "a very marvelous gift," he managed to say to her again under his breath, as jewel at last ran ahead of him out to the porte cochère. julia's eyes grew dreamy as she watched the brougham drive off. how different was to be the future of her little girl from anything she had planned in her rosiest moments of hopefulness. the more she saw of mr. evringham's absorbed attachment to the child, the more grateful she was for the manner in which he had guarded jewel's simplicity, the self-restraint with which he had abstained from loading her with knickknacks or fine clothes. the child was not merely a pet with him. she was an individual, a character whose development he respected. "god keep her good!" prayed the mother. it was a charming place to continue the story, there in the large chintz chair by mrs. evringham's window. the raindrops pattered against the clear glass, the lawn grew greener, and the great trees beyond the gateway held their leaves up to the bath. "anna belle's pond will overflow, i think," said jewel, looking out the window musingly. "and how good for the ferns," remarked her mother. "yes, i'd like to be there, now," said the child. "oh, i think it's much cosier here. i love to hear the rain, too, don't you?" "yes, i do, and we'll have the story now, won't we, mother?" at this moment there was a knock at the door and zeke appeared with an armful of birch wood. "mr. evringham said it might be a little damp up here and i was to lay a fire." "oh, yes, yes!" exclaimed jewel. "mother, wouldn't you like to have a fire while we read?" mrs. evringham assented and zeke laid the sticks on the andirons and let jewel touch the lighted match to the little twigs. "i have the loveliest book, zeke," she said, when the flames leaped up. "my mother made it for me, and you shall read it if you want to." "yes, if zeke wants to," put in mrs. evringham, smiling, "but you'd better find out first if he does. this book was written for little girls with short braids." "oh, zeke and i like a great many of the same things," responded jewel earnestly. "that's so, little kid," replied the young coachman, "and as long as you're going to stay here, i'll read anything you say." "you see," explained jewel, when he had gone out and closed the door softly, "zeke said it made his nose tingle every time he thought of anybody else braiding star's tail, so he's just as glad as anything that we're not going away." the birch logs snapped merrily, and anna belle sat in jewel's lap watching the leaping flame, while mrs. evringham leaned back in her easy chair. the reading had been interrupted yesterday by the arrival of the hour when mrs. evringham had engaged to take a drive with her father-in-law. jewel accompanied them, riding star, and it was great entertainment to her mother to watch the child's good management of the pretty pony who showed by many shakes of the head and other antics that it had not been explained to his satisfaction why essex maid was left out of this good time. jewel turned to her mother. "we're all ready now, aren't we? do go on with the story. i told grandpa about it, driving to the station this morning, and what do you suppose he asked me?" the child drew in her chin. "he asked me if i thought flossie was going to get well!" mrs. evringham smiled. "well, we'll see," she replied, opening the story-book. "where were we?" "miss fletcher had just gone into the house and flossie had just said she was sinful. she wasn't to blame a bit!" "oh, yes, here it is," said mrs. evringham, and she began to read:-- * * * * * as hazel met flossie's look, her heart swelled and she wished her mother were here to take care of this little girl who had fallen into such a sad mistake. "i wish i knew how to tell you better, flossie, about god being love," she said; "but he is, and he didn't send you your trouble." "perhaps he didn't send it," returned flossie, "but he thinks it's good for me to have it or else he'd let the doctors cure me. i've had the kindest doctors you ever heard of, and they know everything about people's backs." "but god will cure you, himself," said hazel earnestly. a strange smile flitted over the sick child's lips. "oh, no, he won't. i asked him every night for a year, and over and over all day; but i never ask him now." "oh, flossie, i know what's the truth, but i don't know how to tell about it very well; but everything about you that seems not to be the image and likeness of god is a lie; and he doesn't see lies, and so he doesn't know these mistakes you're thinking; but he _does_ know the strong, well girl you really are, and he'll help _you_ to know it, too, when you begin to think right." the sincerity and earnestness in her visitor's tone brought a gleam of interest into flossie's eyes. "just think of being well and running around here with me, and think that god wants you to!" "oh, do you believe he does?" returned flossie doubtfully. "mother says it will do my soul good for me to be sick, if i can't get well." hazel shook her head violently. "you know when jesus was on earth? well, he never told anybody it was better for them to be sick. he healed everybody, _everybody_ that asked him, and he came to do the will of his father; so god's will doesn't change, and it's just the same now." there was a faint color in flossie's cheeks. "if i was sure god wanted me to get well, why then i'd know i would some time." "of course he does; but you didn't know how to ask him right." "do _you_?" asked flossie. hazel nodded. "yes; not so well as mother, but i do know a little, and if you want me to, i'll ask him for you." "well, of course i do," returned flossie, regarding her visitor with grave, wondering eyes. in a minute miss fletcher, watching the children through a window, beheld something that puzzled her. she saw hazel roll flossie's chair back under the elm-tree, and saw her sit down on the grass beside it and cover her eyes with both hands. "what game are they playing?" she asked herself; and she smiled, well pleased by the friendship that had begun. "i wish health was catching," she sighed. "little hazel's a picture. i wonder how long it'll be before she finds out who i am. i wonder what richard's idea is in not telling her." she moved about the house a few minutes, and then returned, curiously, to the window. to her surprise matters were exactly as she saw them last. flossie was, holding both dolls in the wheeled chair, and hazel was sitting under the tree, her hands over her eyes. a wave of amazement and amusement swept over miss fletcher, and she struck her hands together noiselessly. "i _do_ believe in my heart," she exclaimed, "that hazel wright is giving flossie one of those absent treatments they tell about! well, if i ever in all my born days!" there was no more work for miss fletcher after this, but a restless moving about the room until she saw hazel bound up from the ground. then she hurried out of the house and walked over to the tree. hazel skipped to meet her, her face all alight. "oh, miss fletcher, flossie wants to be healed by christian science. if my mother was only here she could turn to all the places in the bible where it tells about god being love and healing sickness." miss fletcher noted the new expression in the invalid's usually listless face, and the new light in her eyes. "i'll take my bible," she answered, "and a concordance. i'll bring them right now. you children go on playing and i'll find all the references i can, and flossie and i will read them after you've gone." miss fletcher brought her books out under the tree, and with pencil and paper made her notes while the children played with their dolls. "let's have them both your children, flossie," said hazel. "oh, yes," replied flossie, "and they'll both be sick, and you be the doctor and come and feel their pulses. aunt hazel has my doll's little medicine bottles in the house. she'll tell you where they are." hazel paused. "let's not play that," she returned, "because--it isn't fun to be sick and--you're going to be all done with sickness." "all right," returned flossie; but it had been her principal play with her doll, bernice, who had recovered from such a catalogue of ills that it reflected great credit on her medical man. "i'll be the maid," said hazel, "and you give me the directions and i'll take the children to drive and to dancing-school and everywhere you tell me." "and when they're naughty," returned flossie, "you bring them to me to spank, because i can't let my servants punish my children." hazel paused again. "let's play you're a christian scientist," she said, "and you have a christian science maid, then there won't be any spanking; because if error creeps in, you'll know how to handle it in mind." "oh!" returned flossie blankly. but hazel was fertile in ideas, and the play proceeded with spirit, owing to the lightning speed with which the maid changed to a coachman, and thence to a market-man or a gardener, according to the demands of the situation. miss fletcher, her spectacles well down on her nose, industriously searched out her references and made record of them, her eyes roving often to the white face that was fuller of interest than she had ever seen it. when four o'clock came, she went back to the house and returned with flossie's lap table, which she leaned against the tree trunk. this afternoon lunch for the invalid was always accomplished with much coaxing on miss fletcher's part, and great reluctance on flossie's. the little girl took no notice now of what was coming. she was too much engrossed in hazel's efforts to induce miss fletcher's maltese cat to allow bernice to take a ride on his back. but when the hostess returned from the house the second time, hazel gave an exclamation. miss fletcher was carrying a tray, and upon it was laid out a large doll's tea-set. it was of white china with gold bands, and when flossie saw hazel's admiration, she exclaimed too. "this was my tea-set when i was a little girl," said miss fletcher, "and i was always very choice of it. twenty years ago i had a niece your age, hazel, who used to think it was the best fun in the world to come to aunt hazel's and have lunch off her doll's tea-set. i used to tell her i was going to give it to _her_ little girl if she ever had one." both children exclaimed admiringly over the quaint shape of the bowl and pitchers, as miss fletcher deposited the tray on her sewing-table. "when i was a child we didn't smash up handsome toys the way children do nowadays. they weren't so easy to get." "and didn't your niece ever have a little girl?" asked flossie, beginning to think that in such a case perhaps these dear dishes might come to be her own. "yes, she did," replied miss fletcher kindly, and as she looked at the guest's interested little face her eyes were thoughtful. "i shall give them to her some day." "has she ever seen them?" asked hazel. "once. i thought you children must be hungry after your games, and you'd like a little lunch." this idea was so pleasing to hazel that flossie caught her enthusiasm. "you'll be the mistress and pour, flossie, and i'll be the waitress," she said. "won't it be the most _fun_! i suppose, ma'am, you'll like to have the children come to the table?" she added, with sudden respectfulness of tone. "yes," returned flossie, with elegant languor. "i think it teaches them good manners." and then the waitress forgot herself so far as to hop up and down; for miss fletcher, who had returned to the house, now reappeared bearing a tray of eatables and drinkables. what a good time the children had, with the sewing-table for a sideboard, and the lap-table fixed firmly across flossie's chair. "are you sure you aren't getting too tired, dear?" asked miss fletcher of her invalid, doubtfully. "wouldn't you rather the waitress poured?" but flossie declared she was feeling well, and hazel looked up eagerly into miss fletcher's eyes and said, "you know she can't get too tired unless we're doing wrong." "oh, indeed!" returned the hostess dryly. "then there's nothing to fear, for she's doing the rightest kind of right." when the table was set forth, two small plates heaped high with bread-and-butter sandwiches, a coffee-pot and milk-pitcher of beaten egg and milk, a tea-pot of grape juice, one dish of nuts and another of jelly, the waitress's eyes spoke so eloquently that flossie mercifully dismissed her on the spot, and invited a lady of her acquaintance to the feast, who immediately drew up a chair with eager alacrity. miss fletcher seated herself again and looked on with the utmost satisfaction, while the children laughed and ate, and when the sandwich plates and coffee-pot and tea-pot and milk-pitcher were all emptied, she replenished them from the well-furnished sideboard. "my, i wish i was aunt hazel's real little niece!" exclaimed flossie, enchanted with pouring from the delightful china. "so do i wish i was," said hazel, looking around at her hostess with a smile that was returned. when hazel sat down to supper at home that evening, she had plenty to tell of the delightful afternoon, which made mr. badger and hannah open their eyes to the widest, although she did not suspect how she was astonishing them. "i tell you," she added, in describing the luncheon, "we were careful not to break that little girl's dishes. oh, i wish you could see them. they're the most be-_au_tiful you ever saw. they're so big--big enough for a child's real ones that she could use herself." "i judge you did use them," said uncle dick. "well, i guess we did! miss fletcher--she wants me to call her aunt hazel, uncle dick!" the child looked up to observe the effect of this. he nodded. "do it, then. perhaps she'll forget and give you the dishes." hazel laughed. "well, anyway, she said flossie'd eaten as much as she usually did in two whole days. isn't it beautiful that she's going to get well?" "i wouldn't talk to her too much about it," returned mr. badger. "it would be cruel to disappoint her." this sort of response was new to hazel. she gazed at her uncle a minute. "that's error," she said at last. "god doesn't disappoint people. they'll get some grown-up scientist, but until they do, i'll declare the truth for flossie every day. she'll get well. you'll see. "i hope so," returned mr. badger quietly. old hannah gave her employer a wink over the child's head. "you might ask them to come here by your garden and have lunch some day, hazel. i'll fix things up real nice for you, even if we haven't got any baby dishes." "i'd love to," returned hazel, "and i expect they'd love to come. to-morrow i'm going to take the lesson over and read it with them, and i'm going to read them the 'quest flower,' too. it's a story that aunt hazel will just love. i think she has one in her yard." "well, mr. richard," said hannah, after their little visitor had gone to bed, "i see the end of one family feud." mr. badger smiled. "when miss fletcher consents to take lunch in my yard, i shall see it, too," he replied. the next day was pleasant, also, and when hazel appeared outside her aunt's fence, flossie was sitting under the tree and waved a hand to her. the white face looked pleased and almost eager, and miss fletcher called:-- "come along, hazel. i guess flossie got just tired enough yesterday. she slept last night the best she has since she came." "yes," added the little invalid, smiling as her new friend drew near, "the night seemed about five minutes long." "that's the way it does to me," returned hazel. she had her doll and some books in her arms, and miss fletcher took the latter from her. "h'm, h'm," she murmured, as she looked over the titles. "you have something about christian science here." "yes, i thought i'd read to-day's lesson to flossie before i treated her, and you'd let us take your bible." "i certainly will. i can tell you, hazel, flossie and i were surprised at the number of good verses and promises i read to her last evening. anybody ought to sleep well after them." hazel looked glad, and miss fletcher let her run into the house to bring the bible, for it was on the hall table in plain sight. while she was gone the hostess smoothed flossie's hair. "i can tell you, my dear child, that reading all those verses to you last night made me feel that we don't any of us live up to our lights very well. 'tisn't always a question of sick bodies, flossie." hazel came bounding back to the elm-tree, and sitting down near the wheeled chair, opened the bible and two of the books she had brought, and proceeded to read the lesson. had she been a few years older, she would not have attempted this without a word of explanation to two people to whom many of the terms of her religion were strange, but no doubts assailed her. the little white girl in the wheeled chair was going to get out of it and run around and be happy--that was all hazel knew, and she proceeded in the only way she knew of to bring it about. miss fletcher's thin lips parted as she listened to the sentences that the child read. she understood scarcely more than flossie of what they were hearing, excepting the bible verses, and these did not seem to bear on the case. it was hazel's perfectly unhesitating certainty of manner and voice which most impressed her, and when the child had finished she continued to stare at her unconsciously. "now," said hazel, returning her look, "i guess i'd better treat her before we begin to play." her hostess started. "oh!" she ejaculated, "then i suppose you'd rather be alone." "yes, it's easier," returned the little girl. miss fletcher, feeling rather embarrassed, gathered up her sewing and moved off to the house. "if i ever in all my born days!" she thought again. "what would flossie's mother say! well, that dear little girl's prayers can't do any harm, and if she isn't a smart young one i never saw one. she's fletcher clear through. i'd like to know what richard badger thinks of her. if she'd give _him_ a few absent treatments it might do him some good." miss fletcher's lips took their old grim line as she added this reflection, but she was not altogether comfortable. her nephew's action in withholding from hazel the fact that it was her aunt whom she was visiting daily could scarcely have other than a kindly motive; and that long list of bible references which she had read to flossie last evening had stirred her strangely. there was one, "he that loveth not, knoweth not god, for god is love," which had followed her to bed and occupied her thoughts for some time. now she went actively to work preparing the luncheon which she intended serving to the children later. "and i'd better fix enough for two laboring men," she thought, smiling. later, when she went back under the tree, her little guest skipped up to her. "oh, aunt hazel," she said, and the address softened the hostess's eyes, "won't you and flossie come to-morrow afternoon if it's pleasant, and have lunch beside my garden?" miss fletcher's face changed. this was a contingency that had not occurred to her. "oh, do say yes," persisted the child. "i want you to see my flowers, and flossie says she'd love to. i'll come up and wheel her down there." "flossie can go some day, yes," replied aunt hazel reluctantly; "but i don't visit much. i'm set in my ways." "hannah, uncle dick's housekeeper, suggested it herself," pursued hazel, thinking that perhaps her own invitation was not sufficient, "and i know uncle dick would be glad. you said," with sudden remembrance, "that you used to know him." miss fletcher's lips were their grimmest. "i've spanked him many a time," she replied deliberately. "spanked him!" repeated the child, staring in still amazement. the grim lips crept into a grimmer smile. "not very hard; not hard _enough_, i've thought a good many times since." hazel recovered her breath. "you knew him when he was little?" "i certainly did. no, child, don't ask me to go out of my tracks. you come here all you will, and if you'll be very careful you can wheel flossie up to your garden some day. come, now, are you going to read us that story? i see you brought it." "yes, i brought it," replied hazel, in a rather subdued voice. she saw that there was some trouble between this kind, new friend and her dear uncle dick, and the discovery astonished her. how could grown-up people not forgive one another? miss fletcher seated herself again with her sewing, and hazel took the little white book and sat down close by the wheeled chair where flossie was holding both the dolls. "do you like stories?" she asked. "yes, when they're not interesting," returned flossie; "but when mother brings a book and says it's very interesting, i know i shan't like it." hazel laughed. "well, hear this," she said, and began to read:-- * * * * * once there was a very rich man whose garden was his chief pride and joy. in all the country around, people knew about this wonderful garden, and many came from miles away to look at the rare trees and shrubs, and the beautiful vistas through which one could gain glimpses of blue water where idle swans floated and added their snowy beauty to the scene. but loveliest of all were the rare flowers, blossoming profusely and rejoicing every beholder. it was the ambition of the man's life to have the most beautiful garden in the world; and so many strangers as well as friends told him that it was so that he came to believe it and to be certain that no beauty could be added to his enchanting grounds. one evening, as he was strolling about the avenues, he strayed near the wall and suddenly became aware of a fragrance so sweet and strange that he started and looked about him to find its source. becoming more and more interested each moment, as he could find only such blossoms as were familiar to him, he at last perceived that the wonderful perfume floated in from the public way which ran just without the wall. instantly calling a servant he dispatched him to discover what might be the explanation of this delightful mystery. the servant sped and found a youth bearing a jar containing a plant crowned with a wondrous pure white flower which sent forth this sweetness. the servant endeavored to bring the bearer to his master, but the youth steadily refused; saying that, the plant being now in perfection, he was carrying it to the king, for in his possession it would never fade. the servant returning with this news, the owner of the garden hastened, himself, and overtook the young man. when his eyes beheld the wondrous plant, he demanded it at any price. "i cannot part with it to you," returned the youth, "but do you not know that at the public garden a bulb of this flower is free to all?" "i never heard of it," replied the man, with excitement, "but to grow it must be difficult. promise me to return and tend it for me until i possess a plant as beautiful as yours." "that would be useless," returned the youth, "for every man must tend his own; and as for me, the king will send me on a quest when he has received this flower, and i shall not return this way." his face was radiant as he proceeded on his road, and the rich man, filled with an exceeding longing, hastened to the public garden and made known his desire. he was given a bulb, and was told that the king provided it, but that when the plant was in flower it must be carried to him. the man agreed, and returning to his house, rejoicing, caused the bulb to be planted in a beautiful spot set apart for its reception. but, strangely, as time went on, his gardeners could not make this plant grow. the man sent out for experts, men with the greatest wisdom concerning the ways of flowers, but still the bulb rested passive. the man offered rewards, but in vain. his garden was still famous and praised for its beauty far and near; but it pleased him no longer. his heart ached with longing for the one perfect flower. one night he lay awake, mourning and restless, until he could bear it no more. he rose, the only waking figure in the sleeping castle, and went out upon a balcony. a flood of moonlight was turning his garden to silver, and suddenly a nightingale's sobbing song pulsed upon the air and filled his heart to bursting. wrapping his mantle about him, he descended a winding stair and walked to where, in the centre of the garden, reposed his buried hope. no one was by to witness the breaking down of his pride. he knelt, and swift tears fell upon the earth and moistened it. what wonder was this? he brushed away the blinding drops, the better to see, for a little green shoot appeared from the brown earth, and, with a leap of the heart, he perceived that his flower had begun to grow. every succeeding night, while all in the castle were sleeping, he descended to the garden and tended the plant. steadily it grew, and finally the bud appeared, and one fair day it burst into blossom and filled the whole garden with its perfume. the thought of parting with this treasure tugged at the man's very heartstrings. "the king has many, how many, who can tell! must i give up mine to him? not yet. not quite yet!" so he put off carrying away the perfect flower from one day to the next, till at last it fell and was no more worthy. ah, then what sadness possessed the man's soul! he vowed that he would never rest until he had brought another plant to perfection and given it to the king; for he realized, at last, that only by giving it, could its loveliness become perennial. yet he mourned his perfect flower, for it seemed to him no other would ever possess such beauty. so he set forth again to the public garden, but there a great shock awaited him. he found that no second bulb could be vouchsafed to any one. very sadly he retraced his steps and carefully covered the precious bulb, hoping that when the season of storm and frost was past, there might come to it renewed life. as soon as the spring began to spread green loveliness again across the landscape, the man turned, with a full heart, to the care and nurture of his hope. the winter of waiting had taught him many a lesson. he tended the plant now with his own hands, in the light of day and in the sight of all men. long he cherished it, and steadily it grew, and the man's thought grew with it. finally the bud appeared, increasing and beautifying daily, until, one morning, a divine fragrance spread beyond the farthest limits of that garden, for the flower had bloomed, spotless, fit for a holy gift; and the man looked upon it humbly and not as his own; but rejoiced in the day of its perfection that he might leave all else behind him, and, carrying it to the king, lay it at his feet and receive his bidding; and so go forth upon his joyous quest. * * * * * hazel closed the book. flossie was watching her attentively. miss fletcher had laid down her sewing and was wiping her spectacles. "did you like it?" asked hazel. "yes," replied flossie. "i wish i knew what that flower was." "mother says the blossom is consecration," replied hazel. "i forget what she said the bulb was. what do you think it was, aunt hazel?" "humility, perhaps," replied miss fletcher. "yes, that's just what she said! i remember now. oh, let's go and look at yours and see how the bud is to-day." hazel sprang up from the grass and carefully pushed flossie's chair to the flower-bed. "oh, aunt hazel, it's nearly out," she cried, and miss fletcher, who had remained behind still polishing her spectacles with hands that were not very steady, felt a little frightened leap of the heart. she wished the quest flower would be slower. the afternoon was as happy a one to the children as that of the day before. they greatly enjoyed the dainty lunch from the little tea-set. they had cocoa to-day instead of the beaten egg and milk; then, just before hazel went home, miss fletcher let her water the garden with a fascinating sprinkler that whirled and was always just about to deluge either the one who managed it or her companions. in the child's little hands it was a dangerous weapon, but miss fletcher very kindly and patiently helped her to use it, for she saw the pleasure she was bestowing. that night hazel had a still more joyous tale to tell of her happy day; and uncle dick went out doors with her after supper and watched her water her own garden bed and listened to her chatter with much satisfaction. "so miss fletcher doesn't care to come and lunch in my yard," he remarked. "no," returned hazel, pausing and regarding him. "she says she used to know you well enough to spank you, too." mr. badger laughed. "she certainly did." "then error must have crept in," said the little girl, "that she doesn't know you now." "i used to think it had, when she got after me." the child observed his laughing face wistfully, "she didn't know how to handle it in mind, did she?" "not much. a slipper was good enough for her." "well, i don't see what's the matter," said hazel. "'tisn't necessary, little one. you go on having a good time. everything will come out all right some day." as mr. badger spoke he little knew what activity was taking place in his aunt's thought. her heart had been touched by the surprising arrival and sympathy of her namesake, and her conscience had been awakened by the array of golden words from the bible which she had not studied much during late bitter years. the story of the quest flower, falling upon her softened heart, seemed to hold for her a special meaning. in the late twilight that evening she stood alone in her garden, and the opening chalice of the perfect lily shone up at her through the dusk. "only a couple of days, at most," she murmured, "not more than a couple of days--and humility was the root!" when it rained the following morning, flossie looked out the window rather disconsolately; but after dinner her face brightened, for she saw hazel coming up the street under an umbrella. tightly held in one arm were ella and a bundle of books and doll's clothes. miss fletcher welcomed the guest gladly, and, after disposing of her umbrella, left the children together and took her sewing upstairs where she sat at work by a window, frowning and smiling by turns at her own thoughts. occasionally she looked down furtively at her garden, where in plain view the quest flower drank in the warm rain and opened--opened! by this time flossie and hazel were great friends, and the expression of the former's face had changed even in three days, until one would forget to call her an afflicted child. they had the lesson and the treatment this afternoon, and then their plays, and when lunch time came the appetites of the pair did not seem to have been injured by their confinement to the house. when the time came for hazel to go it had ceased raining, and miss fletcher went with her to the gate. "oh, oh, aunt hazel--see the quest flower!" exclaimed the child. true, a lily, larger, fairer than all the rest, reared itself in stately purity in the centre of the bed. miss fletcher turned and looked at it with startled eyes and pressed her hand to her heart. "why can't the thing give a body time to make up her mind!" she murmured. "oh, to-morrow, _to-morrow_, aunt hazel, the sun will come out, and i know just how that lily will look. it will be fit to take to the king!" miss fletcher passed her arm around the child's shoulders. "i want you to stay to supper with us to-morrow night, dear. ask your uncle if you may." "thank you, i'd love to," returned the child, and was skipping off. "wait a minute." miss fletcher stooped and with her scissors cut a moss rose so full of sweetness that as she handed it to her guest, hazel hugged her. the following day was fresh and bright. flossie's best pink gown and hair ribbons made her look like a rose, herself, to hazel, as the little girl, very fine in a white frock and ribbons, came skipping up the street. miss fletcher stood watching them as her niece ran toward the wheeled chair. the lustre in flossie's eyes made her heart glad; but the visitor stopped short in the midst of the garden and clasped her hands. "oh, aunt hazel!" she cried, "the quest flower!" miss fletcher nodded and slowly drew near. the stately lily looked like a queen among her subjects. "yes, it is to-day," she said softly, "to-day." she could not settle to her sewing, but, leaving the children together for their work and play, walked up and down the garden paths. later she went into the house and upstairs and put on her best black silk dress. an unusual color came into her cheeks while she dressed. "the bulb was humility," she murmured over and over, under her breath. the afternoon was drawing to a close when miss fletcher at last moved out of doors and to the elm-tree. "i didn't bring you any lunch to-day," she said to the children, "because i want you to be hungry for a good supper." "can we have the dishes just the same?" asked flossie. "the owner is going to have them to-night," replied miss fletcher, and both the little girls regarded her flushed face with eager curiosity. "why, have you asked her?" they cried together. "yes." "does she know she's going to have the tea-set?" "no." "oh, what fun!" exclaimed flossie. "i didn't know she was in town." "yes, she is in town." miss fletcher turned to hazel and put her hand on the child's shoulder. "we must do everything we can to celebrate taking the flower to the king." only then the children noticed that aunt hazel had her bonnet on. "oh," cried the child, bewildered, "are you going to _do_ it?" miss fletcher met her radiant eyes thoughtfully. "if i should take the flower of consecration to the king, hazel, i know what would be the first errand he would give me to do. i am going to do it now. go on playing. i shan't be gone long." she moved away down the garden path and out of the gate. "what do you suppose it is?" asked flossie. "i don't know," returned hazel simply. "something right;" and then they took up their dolls again. miss fletcher did not return very soon. in fact, nearly an hour had slipped away before she came up the street, and then a man was with her. as they entered the gate hazel looked up. "uncle dick, uncle dick!" she cried gladly, jumping up and running to meet him. he and miss fletcher both looked very happy, as they all moved over to flossie's chair. mr. badger's kind eyes looked down into hers and he carried her into the house in his strong arms. hazel followed, rolling the chair and having many happy thoughts; but she did not understand even a little of the situation until they all went into the dining-room and flossie was carefully seated in the place the hostess indicated. the white and gold tea-set was not in front of flossie this time, but grouped about another place. hazel's quick eyes noted that there were four seats, but before she had time to speak of the expected child--happy owner of the tea-set--uncle dick spoke:-- "where do i go, aunt hazel?" the child's eyes widened at such familiarity. "why, uncle dick!" she ejaculated. he and the hostess both regarded her, smiling. "she is my aunt," he said; and then he lifted hazel into the chair before the pretty china. "i believe these are your dishes," he added. the child leaned back in her chair and looked from one to another. slowly, slowly, she understood. that was the aunt hazel who gave her the silver spoon. it had been aunt hazel all the time! she suddenly jumped down from her chair, and, running to miss fletcher, hugged her without a word. aunt hazel embraced her very tenderly. "yes, my lamb," she whispered, "error crept in, but it has crept out again, i hope forever;" and through the wide-open windows came the perfume of the quest flower: pure, strong, beautiful,--radiantly white in the evening glow. * * * * * before hazel went back to boston, flossie's mother came to miss fletcher's, and the change for the better in her little daughter filled her with wonder and joy. with new hope she followed the line of treatment suggested by a little girl, and by the time another summer came around, two happy children played again in aunt hazel's garden, both as free as the sweet air and sunshine, for divine love had made flossie "every whit whole." chapter x the apple woman's story jewel told her grandfather all about it that day while they were having their late afternoon ride. "and so the little girl got well," he commented. "yes, and could run and play and have the most _fun_!" returned jewel joyously. "and aunt hazel made it up with her nephew." "yes. why don't people know that all they have to do is to put on more love to one another? just supposing, grandpa, that you hadn't loved me so much when i first came." "h'm. it _is_ fortunate that i was such an affectionate old fellow!" "mother says we all have to tend the flower and carry it to the king before we're really happy. do you know it made us both think of the same thing when at last the man did it." "what was that?" "our hymn:-- 'my hope i cannot measure, my path in life is free, my father has my treasure and he will walk with me!' don't you begin to love mother very much, grandpa?" "she is charming." "of course she isn't your real relation, the way i am." "oh, come now. she's my daughter." jewel smiled at him doubtfully. "but so is aunt madge," she returned. "why, jewel, i'm surprised that any one who looks so tall as you do in a riding skirt shouldn't know more than that! mrs. harry evringham is _your_ mother." "i never thought of that," returned the child seriously. "why, so she is." "that brings her very close, very close, you see," said mr. evringham, and his reasoning was clear as daylight to jewel. at dinner that evening she was still further reassured. the child did not know that the maids in the house, having been scornfully informed by aunt madge of mrs. harry's business, were prepared to serve her grudgingly, and regard her visit as being merely on sufferance despite mrs. forbes's more optimistic view. but the spirit that looked out of mrs. evringham's dark eyes and dwelt in the curves of her lips came and saw and conquered. jewel had won the hearts of the household, and already its unanimous voice, after the glimpses it had had of her mother during two days, was that it was no wonder. even the signs of labor that appeared in julia's pricked fingers made the serenity of her happy face more charming to her father-in-law. she had jewel's own directness and simplicity, her appreciation and enjoyment of all beauty, the child's own atmosphere of unexacting love and gratitude. every half hour that mr. evringham spent with her lessened his regret at having burned his bridges behind him. "now, you mustn't be lonely here, julia," he said, that evening at dinner. "i have come to be known as something of a hermit by choice; but while madge and eloise lived with me, i fancy they had a good many callers, and they went out, to the mild degree that society smiles upon in the case of a recent widow and orphan. they were able to manage their own affairs; but you are a stranger in a strange land. if you desire society, give me a hint and i will get it for you." "oh, no, father!" replied julia, smiling. "there is nothing i desire less." "mother'll get acquainted with the people at church," said jewel, "and i know she'll love mr. and mrs. reeves. they're grandpa's friends, mother." "yes," remarked mr. evringham, busy with his dinner, "some of the best people in bel-air have gone over to this very strange religion of yours, julia. i shan't be quite so conspicuous in harboring two followers of the faith as i should have been a few years ago." "no, it is becoming quite respectable," returned julia, with twinkling eyes. "three, grandpa, you have three here," put in jewel. "you didn't count zeke." mrs. evringham looked up kindly at mrs. forbes, who stood by, as usual, in her neat gown and apron. "zeke is really in for it, eh, mrs. forbes?" mr. evringham asked the question without glancing up. "yes, sir, and i have no objection. i'm too grateful for the changes for the better in the boy. if jewel had persuaded him to be a fire worshiper i shouldn't have lifted my voice. i'd have said to myself, 'what's a little more fire here, so long as there'll be so much less hereafter.'" mrs. evringham laughed and the broker shook his head. "mrs. forbes, mrs. forbes, i'm afraid your orthodoxy is getting rickety," he said. "how about your own, father?" asked julia. "oh, i'm a passenger. you see, i know that jewel will ask at the heavenly gate if i can come in, and if they refuse, they won't get her, either. that makes me feel perfectly safe." jewel watched the speaker seriously. mr. evringham met her thoughtful eyes. "oh, they'll want you, jewel. don't you be afraid." "i'm not afraid. how could i be? but i was just wondering whether you didn't know that you'll have to do your own work, grandpa." he looked up quickly and met julia's shining eyes. "dear me," he responded, with an uncomfortable laugh. "don't i get out of it?" the next morning when jewel had driven back from the station, and she and her mother had studied the day's lesson, they returned to the ravine, taking the story book with them. before settling themselves to read, they counted the new wild flowers that had unfolded, and jewel sprinkled them and the ferns, from the brook. "did you ever see anybody look so pretty as anna belle does, in that necklace?" exclaimed jewel, fondly regarding her child, enthroned against the snowy trunk of a little birch-tree. "it isn't going to be your turn to choose the story this morning, dearie. here, i'll give you a daisy to play with." "wait, jewel, i think anna belle would rather see it growing until we go, don't you?" "would you, dearie? yes, she says she would; but when we go, we'll take the sweet little thing and let it have the fun of seeing grandpa's house and what we're all doing." "it seems such a pity, to me, to pick them and let them wither," said mrs. evringham. "why, i think they only seem to wither, mother," replied jewel hopefully. "a daisy is an idea of god, isn't it?" "yes, dear." "when one seems to wither and go out of sight, we only have to look around a little, and pretty soon we see the daisy idea again, standing just as white and bright as ever, because god's flowers don't fade." "that's so, jewel," returned the mother quietly. the child drew a long breath. "i've thought a lot about it, here in the ravine. at first i thought perhaps picking a violet might be just as much error as killing a bluebird; and then i remembered that we pick the flower for love, and it doesn't hurt it nor its little ones; but nobody ever killed a bird for love." mrs. evringham nodded. "now it's my turn to choose," began jewel, in a different tone, settling herself near the seat her mother had taken. mrs. evringham opened the book and again read over the titles of the stories. "let's hear 'the apple woman's story,'" said jewel, when she paused. her mother looked up. "do you remember good old chloe, who used to come every saturday to scrub for me? well, something she told me of an experience she once had, when she was a little girl, put the idea of this tale into my head; and i'll read you the apple woman's story franz and emilie and peter wenzel were little german children, born in america. their father was a teacher, and his children were alone with him except for the good old german woman, anna, who was cook and nurse too in the household. she tried to teach franz and emilie to be good children, and took great care of peter, the sturdy three-year-old boy, a fat, solemn baby, whose hugs were the greatest comfort his father had in the world. franz and emilie had learned german along with their english by hearing it spoken in the house, and it was a convenience at times, for instance, when they wished to say something before the colored apple woman which they did not care to have her understand; but the apple woman did not think they were polite when they used an unknown tongue before her. "go off fum here," she would say to them when they began to talk in german. "none o' that lingo round my stand. go off and learn manners." and when franz and emilie found she was in earnest they would ask her to forgive them in the politest english they were acquainted with; for they were very much attached to the clean, kind apple woman, whose stand was near their father's house. they admired her bright bandana headdress and thought her the most interesting person in the world. as for the apple woman, she had had so many unpleasant experiences with teasing children that she did not take franz and emilie into her favor all at once, but for some time accepted their pennies and gave them their apples when they came to buy, watching them suspiciously with her sharp eyes to make sure that they were not intending to play her any trick. but even before they had become regular customers she decided under her breath that they were "nice chillen;" and when she came to know them better her kind heart overflowed to them. one morning as they smiled and nodded to her on the way to school, she called out and beckoned. "apples for the little baskets?" "not to-day," answered emilie. she beckoned to them again with determination, and the children approached. "we forgot to brush our teeth last night," explained franz, "so we haven't any penny." "i forgot it," said emilie, "and franz didn't remind me, so we neither of us got it. that's the way anna makes us remember." "never you mind, honey, here's apples for love," replied the colored woman, holding up two rosy beauties. the children looked at one another and shook their heads. "thank you," said emilie, "but we can't. papa said the last time you gave them to us that if we ate your apples without paying for them we mustn't come to visit you any more." "now think o' that!" exclaimed the apple woman when the children had gone on. she was much touched and pleased to know that franz and emilie would rather come and sit and talk to her and listen to her stories than to eat her apples. she was right; they were nice children; but they had their naughty times, and good old anna was often greatly troubled by them. she felt her responsibility of the whole family very deeply, and tried to talk no more german. these children must grow up to be good americans, and she must not hold them back. it was very hard for the poor woman to remember always to speak english, and funny broken english it was; so that little peter, hearing it all the time, had a baby talk of his own that was very comical and different from other children. he talked about the "luckle horse" he played with, and the "boomps" he got when he fell down, and he was very brave and serious, as became a fat baby boy who had to take care of himself a great deal. anna was so busy cooking and mending for a family of five she was very glad of the hours when mr. wenzel worked at home at his desk and baby peter could stay in the same room with him and play with his toys. mr. wenzel was a kind father and longed as far as possible to fill the place of mother also to his children, who loved him dearly. to little peter he was all-powerful. a kiss from papa soothed the hardest "boomp" that his many tumbles gave him; but even peter realized that when papa was at his desk he was very busy indeed, and though any of the children might sit in the room with him, they must not speak unless it was absolutely necessary. emilie was now eight years old, and she might have helped her father and anna more than she did; but she never thought of this. she loved to read, especially fairy stories, and she often curled up on the sofa in her father's room and read while peter either played about the room with his toys, or went to papa's desk and stood with his round eyes fixed on mr. wenzel's face until the busy man would look up from his papers and ask: "what does my peter want?" especially did emilie fly to this refuge in papa's room after a quarrel with franz, and i'm sorry to say she had a great many. the apple woman found out that the little brother and sister were not always amiable. anna had confided in her; and then one day the children approached her stand contradicting each other, their voices growing louder and louder as they came, until at last franz made a face at emilie, giving her a push, and she, quick as a kitten, jumped forward and slapped him. what franz would have done after this i don't know, if the apple woman hadn't said, "chillen, chillen!" so loud that he stopped to look at her. "ah, listen at that fairy slap-back a-laughin'!" cried the apple woman. "the fairy flapjack?" asked franz, as he and his sister forgot their wrath and ran toward the stand. "_flapjack!_" repeated the apple woman with scorn, as the children nestled down, one each side of her. "yo' nice chillen pertendin' not to know yo' friends!" "what friends? what?" asked emilie eagerly. "the fairy slap-back. p'raps i didn't see her jest now, a-grinnin' over yo' shoulder." "is she anybody to be afraid of?" asked emilie, big-eyed. "to be sho' she is if you-all go makin' friends with her," returned the apple woman, with a knowing sidewise nod of her head. then drawing back from the children with an air of greatest surprise, "you two don't mean to come here tellin' me you ain't never heerd o' the error-fairies?" she asked. "never," they both replied together. "shoo!" exclaimed the apple woman. "if you ain't the poor igno'antest w'ite chillen that ever lived. why, if you ain't never heerd on 'em, yo're likely to be snapped up by 'em any day in the week as you was jest now." "oh, tell us. do tell us!" begged franz and emilie. "co'se i will, 'case 't ain't right for them mis'able creeturs to be hangin' around you all, and you not up to their capers. fust place they're called the error-fairies 'case they're all servants to a creetur named error. she's a cheat and a humbug, allers pertendin' somethin' or other, and she makes it her business to fight a great and good fairy named love. now love--oh, chillen, my pore tongue can't tell you of the beauty and goodness o' the fairy love! she's the messenger of a great king, and spends her whole time a-blessin' folks. her hair shines with the gold o' the sun; her eyes send out soft beams; her gown is w'ite, and when she moves 'tis as if forget-me-nots and violets was runnin' in little streams among its folds. ah, chillen," the apple woman shook her head, "she's the blessin' o' the world. her soft arms are stretched out to gather in and comfort every sorrowin' heart. "well, 'case she was so lovely an' the great king trusted her, error thought she'd try her hand; but she hadn't any king, error hadn't. there wa'n't nobody to stand for her or to send her on errands. she was a low-lifed, flabby creetur," the apple woman made a scornful grimace; "jest a misty-moisty nobody; nothin' to her. her gown was a cloud and she wa'n't no more 'n a shadder, herself, until she could git somebody to listen to her. when she did git somebody to listen to her, she'd begin to stiffen up and git some backbone and git awful sassy; so she crep' around whisperin' to folks that love was no good, and 'lowin' that she--that mis'able creetur--was the queen o' life. "some folks knowed better and told her so, right pine blank, an' then straight off she'd feel herself changin' back into a shadder, an' sail away as fast as she could to try it on somebody else. she was ugly to look at as a bad dream, but yet there was lots o' folks would pay 'tention to her, and after they'd listened once or twice, she kep' gittin' stronger and pearter, an' as she got stronger, they got weaker, and every day it was harder fer 'em to drive her off, even after they'd got sick of her. "then, even if she didn't have a king, she had slaves; oh, dozens and dozens of error-fairies, to do her will. creepin' shadders they was, too, till somebody listened to 'em and give 'em a backbone. there's--let me see"--the apple woman looked off to jog her memory--"there's laziness, selfishness, backbitin', cruelty--oh, i ain't got time to tell 'em all; an' not one mite o' harm in one of 'em, only for some silly mortal that listens and gives the creetur a backbone. they jest lop over an' melt away, the whole batch of 'em, when love comes near. she knows what no-account humbugs they are, you see; and they jest lop over an' melt away whenever even a little chile knows enough to say 'go off fum here, an' quit pesterin''!" franz and emilie stared at the apple woman and listened hard. their cheeks matched the apples. "what happened a minute ago to you-all? an error-creetur named slap-back whispered to you. 'quarrel!' says she. what'd you do? did you say 'go off, you triflin' vilyun'? "not a bit of it. you quarreled; an' slap-back kep' gittin' bigger and stronger and stiffer in the backbone while you was goin' it, an' at last up comes this little hand of emilie's. whack! that was the time slap-back couldn't hold in, an' she jest laughed an' laughed over yo' shoulder. ah, the little red eyes she had, and the wiry hair! and that other one, the fairy, love, she was pickin' up her w'ite gown with both hands an' flyin' off as if she had wings. of course you didn't notice her. you was too taken up with yo' friend." "but slap-back isn't our friend," declared emilie earnestly. the apple woman shook her head. "bless yo' heart, honey, it's mean to deny it now; but, disown her or not, she'll stick to you and pester you; and you'll find it out if ever you try to drive her off. you'll have as hard a time as little dinah did." "what happened to dinah?" asked franz, picking up the apple woman's clean towel and beginning to polish apples. "drop that, now, chile! yo' friend might cast her eye on it. i don't want to sell pizened apples." franz, crestfallen, obeyed, and glanced at emilie. they had never before found their assistance refused, and they both looked very sober. "little dinah was a chile lived 'way off down south 'mongst the cotton fields; and that good fairy watched over dinah,--love, so sweet to look at she'd make yo' heart sing. "dinah had a little brother, too, jest big enough to walk; an' a daddy that worked from mornin' till night to git hoe-cake 'nuff fer 'em all; and his ole mammy, she helped him, and made the fire, and swept the room, and dug in the garden, and milked the cow. she was a good woman, that ole mammy, an' 't was a great pity there wa'n't nobody to help 'er, an' she gittin' older every day." "why, there was dinah," suggested emilie. the apple woman stared at her with both hands raised. "dinah! lawsy massy, honey, the only thing that chile would do was look at pictur' books an' play with the other chillen. she wouldn't even so much as pick up baby mose when he tumbled down an' barked his shin. oh, but she was a triflin' lazy little nigger as ever you see." "and that's why the red-eyed fairy got hold of her," said franz, who was longing to hear something exciting. "'twas, partly," said the apple woman. "you see there's somethin' very strange about them fairies, love and the error-fairies. the error-fairies, they run after the folks that love themselves, and love can only come near them that loves other people. sounds queer, honey, but it's the truth; so, when dinah got to be a likely, big gal, and never thought whether the ole mammy was gittin' tired out, or tried to amuse little mose, or gave a thought o' pity to her pore daddy who was alone in the world, the fairy love got to feelin' as bad as any fairy could. "'do, dinah,'" she said, with her sweet mouth close to dinah's ear, 'do stop bein' so triflin', and stir yo'self to be some help in the house.' "'no,' says dinah, 'i like better to lay in the buttercups and look at pictur's,' says she. "'then,' says love, 'show mose the pictur's, too, and make him happy.' "'no,' says dinah, 'he's too little, an' he bothers me an' tears my book.' "'then,' says love, 'yo'd rather yo' tired daddy took care o' the chile after his hard day's work.' "'now yo're talkin',' says dinah. 'i shorely would. my daddy's strong.' "the tears came into love's eyes, she felt so down-hearted. 'yo' daddy needs comfort, dinah,' she says, 'an' yo're big enough to give it to him,' says she; 'an' look at the black smooches on my w'ite gown. they're all because o' you, dinah, that i've been friends with so faithful. i've got to leave you now, far enough so's my gown'll come w'ite; but if you call me i'll hear, honey, an' i'll come. good-by,' "'good riddance!' says dinah. 'i'm right down tired o' bein' lectured,' says she. 'now i can roll over in the buttercups an' sing, an' be happy an' do jest as i please.' "so dinah threw herself down in the long grass and, bing! she fell right atop of a wasp, and he was so scared at such capers he stung her in the cheek. whew! you could hear her 'way 'cross the cotton field! "her ole gran'mam comforted her, the good soul. 'never you mind, honey,' she says, 'i'll swaje it fer you.' "but every day dinah got mo' triflin'. she pintedly wouldn't wash the dishes, nor mind little mose; an' every time the hot fire o' temper ran over her, she could hear a voice in her ear--'give it to 'em good. that's the way to do it, dinah!' an' it kep' gittin' easier to be selfish an' to let her temper run away, an' the cabin got to be a mighty pore place jest on account o' dinah, who'd ought to ha' been its sunshine. "as for the fairy, love, dinah never heerd her voice, an' she never called to her, though there was never a minute when she didn't hate the sound o' that other voice that had come to be in her ears more 'n half the time. "one mornin' everything went wrong with dinah. her gran'mam was plum mis'able over her shif'less ways, an' she set her to sew a seam befo' she could step outside the do'. the needle was dull, the thread fell in knots. dinah's brow was mo' knotted up than the thread. her head felt hot. "'say you won't do it,' hissed the voice. "'i'll git thrashed if i do. gran'mam said so.' "'what do you care!' hissed the voice; and jest as the fairy slap-back was talkin' like this, up comes little mose to dinah, an' laughs an' pulls her work away. "then somethin' awful happened. dinah couldn't 'a' done it two weeks back; but it's the way with them that listens to that mis'able, low-lifed slap-back. jest as quick as a wink, that big gal, goin' on nine, slapped baby mose. he was that took back for a minute that he didn't cry; but the hateful voice laughed an' hissed an' laughed again. "good, dinah, good! now you'll ketch it!' "then over went little mose's lip, an' he wailed out, an' dinah clasped her naughty hands an' saw a face close to her--a bad one, with red eyes shinin'. she jumped away from it, for it made her cold to think she'd been havin' sech a playfeller all along. "'oh, love, y' ain't done fergit me, is yer? come back, love, _love_!' she called; then she dropped on her knees side o' mose an' called him her honey an' her lamb, an' she cried with him, an' pulled him into her lap, an' when the ole gran'mam come in from where she'd been feedin' the hens, they was both asleep." franz took a long breath, for the way the apple woman told a story always made him listen hard. "i guess that was the last of old slap-back with dinah," he remarked. the apple woman shook her head. "that's the worst of that fairy," she said. "love'll clar out when you tell 'er to, 'case she's quality, an' she's got manners; but slap-back ain't never had no raisin'. she hangs around, an' hangs around, an' is allers puttin' in her say jest as she was a few minutes ago with you and emilie in the road there. there's nothin' in this world tickles her like a chile actin' naughty, 'ceptin' it's two chillen scrappin'. now pore little dinah found she had to have all her wits about her to keep love near, an' make that ornery slap-back stay away. love was as willin', as willin' to stay as violets is to open in the springtime; but when dinah an' slap-back was both agin her, what could she do? an' dinah, she'd got so used to slap-back, an' that bodacious creetur had sech a way o' gittin' around the chile, sometimes, 'fore dinah knew it, she'd be listenin' to 'er ag'in; but dinah'd had one good scare an' she didn't mean to give in. jest now, too, her daddy fell sick. that good man, that lonely man, he'd had a mighty hard time of it, an' no chile to care or love 'im." "wait," interrupted emilie sternly. "if you are going to let dinah's father die, i'm going home." the apple woman showed the whites of her eyes in the astonished stare she gave her. "because"--emilie swallowed and then finished suddenly--"because it wouldn't be nice." the apple woman looked straight out over her stand. "well, he didn't, an' dinah made him mighty glad he got well, too; for she stopped buryin' her head in pictur' books, an' she did errands for gran'mam without whinin', an' she minded mose so her daddy had mo' peace when he come home tuckered out; an' when she'd got so she could smile at the boy in the next cabin, 'stead o' runnin' out her tongue at him, the fairy, love, could stay by without smoochin' her gown, an' slap-back had to melt away an' sail off to try her capers on some other chile." "but you needn't pretend you saw her with us," said franz uneasily. the apple woman nodded her red bandana wisely. "folks that lives outdoors the way i do, honey, sees mo' than you-all," she answered. emilie ran home ahead of her brother, and softly entered her father's room. he was at his desk, as was usual at this hour. his head leaned on his hand, and he was so deep in his work that he did not notice her quiet entrance. she curled up on the sofa in her usual attitude, but instead of reading she watched little peter on the floor building his block house. his chubby hands worked carefully until the crooked house grew tall, then in turning to find a last block he bumped his head on the corner of a chair. emilie watched him rub the hurt place in silence. then he got up on his fat legs and went to the desk, where he stood patiently, his round face very red and solemn, while he waited to gain his father's attention. at last the busy man became conscious of the child's presence, and, turning, looked down into the serious eyes. "i'm here wid a boomp," said peter. then after receiving the consolation of a hug and kiss he returned contentedly to his block house. emilie saw her father look after the child with a smile sad and tender. her heart beat faster as she lay in her corner. her father was lonely and hard worked, with no one to take pity on him. a veil seemed to drop from her eyes, even while they grew wet. "i don't believe i'm too old to change, even if i am going on nine," thought emilie. at that minute the block house fell in ruins, and peter, self-controlled though he was, looked toward the desk and began to whimper. "peter--baby," cried emilie softly, leaning forward and holding out the picture of a horse in her book. her father had turned with an involuntary sigh, and seeing peter trot toward the sofa and emilie receive him with open arms, went back to his papers with a relief that his little daughter saw. her breath came fast and she hugged the baby. something caught in her throat. "oh, papa, you don't know how many, _many_ times i'm going to do it," she said in the silence of her own full heart. and emilie kept that unspoken promise. chapter xi the golden dog "i think, after all, the ravine is the nicest place for stories," said jewel the next day. the sun had dried the soaked grass, and not only did the leaves look freshly polished from their bath, but the swollen brook seemed to be turning joyous little somersaults over its stones when mrs. evringham, jewel, and anna belle scrambled down to its bank. "i don't know that we ought to read a story every day," remarked mrs. evringham. "they won't last long at this rate." "when we finish we'll begin and read them all over again," returned jewel promptly. "oh, that's your plan, is it?" said mrs. evringham, laughing. jewel laughed too, for sheer happiness, though she saw nothing amusing about such an obviously good plan. "aren't we getting well acquainted, mother?" she asked, nestling close to her mother's side and forgetting anna belle, who at once lurched over, head downward, on the grass. "do you remember what a little time you used to have to hold me in your lap and hug me?" "yes, dearie. divine love is giving me so many blessings these days i only pray to bear them well," replied mrs. evringham. "why, i think it's just as _easy_ to bear blessings, mother," began jewel, and then she noticed her child's plight. "darling anna belle, what are you doing!" she exclaimed, picking up the doll and brushing her dress. "i shouldn't think you had any more backbone than an error-fairy! now don't look sorry, dearie, because to-day it's your turn to choose the story." anna belle, her eyes beaming from among her tumbled curls, at once turned happy and expectant, and when her hat had been straightened and her boa removed so that her necklace could gleam resplendently about her fair, round throat, she was seated against a tree-trunk and listened with all her ears to the titles mrs. evringham offered. after careful consideration, she made her choice, and mrs. evringham and jewel settling themselves comfortably, the former began to read aloud the tale of-- the golden dog if it had not been for the birds and brooks, the rabbits and squirrels, gabriel would have been a very lonely boy. his older brothers, william and henry, did not care for him, because he was so much younger than they, and, moreover, they said he was stupid. his father might take some interest in him when he grew bigger and stronger and could earn money; but money was the only thing gabriel's father cared for, and when the older brothers earned any they tried to keep it a secret from the father lest he should take it away from them. gabriel had a stepmother, but she was a sorry woman, too full of care to be companionable. so he sought his comrades among the wild things in the woods, to get away from the quarrels at home. he was a muscular, rosy-cheeked lad, and in the sports at school he could out-run and out-jump the other boys and was always good-natured with them; but even the children at the little country school did not like him very well, because the very things they enjoyed the most did not amuse him. he tried to explain to them that the birds were his friends, and therefore he could not rob their nests; but they laughed at him almost as much as when he tried to dissuade them from mocking old mother lemon, as they passed her cottage door on their way to and from school. she was an old cross-patch, of course, they told him, or else she would not live alone on the edge of a forest, with nobody but a cat and owls for company. "perhaps she would be glad to have some one better for company," gabriel replied. "go live with her, yourself, then, gabriel," said one of the boys tauntingly. "that's right! go leave your miser father, counting his gold all night while you are asleep, and too stingy to give you enough to eat, and go and be mother lemon's good little boy!" and then all the children laughed and hooted at gabriel, who walked up to the speaker and knocked him over on the grass with such apparent ease and such a calm face, that all the laughers grew silent from mere surprise. "you mustn't talk about my father to me," said gabriel, explaining. then he started for home, and the laughing began again, softly. "it was true," he thought, as he trudged along. things were getting worse at home, and sometimes he was hungry, for there was not too much on the table, and his big brothers fought for their share. as he neared mother lemon's cottage, with its thatched roof and tiny windows, he saw the old woman, in her short gown, tugging at the well-sweep. it seemed very hard for her to draw up the heavy bucket. instantly gabriel ran forward. "get out of here, now," cried the old woman, in a cracked voice, for she saw it was one of the school-children, and she was weary of their worrying tricks. "shan't i pull up the bucket for you?" asked gabriel. "ah, i know you. you want to splash me!" returned mother lemon, eying him warily; but the boy put his strong arm to the task, and the dripping bucket rose from the depths, while the little old woman withdrew to a safer distance. "show me where to put it and i will carry it into the house for you," said gabriel. "now bless your rosy cheeks, you're an honest lad," said mother lemon gratefully; but she took the precaution to walk behind him all the way, lest he should still be intending to play her some trick. when, however, he had entered the low door and filled the kettle and the pans, according to her directions, she smiled on him, and as she thanked him, she asked him his name. "gabriel," said the lad. "ah," she exclaimed, "you are the miser's boy." gabriel could not knock mother lemon down, so he only hung his head while his cheeks grew redder. "it isn't your fault, child, and by the time you are grown you will be rich. when that time comes, i pray you be kinder to me than your father is, for he oppresses the poor and makes me pay my last shilling for the rent of this hovel." "i would give the cottage to you if it were mine," returned gabriel, looking straight into her eyes with his honest gray ones; "but at present i am poorer than you." "in that case," said mother lemon, "i wish i had something worthy to reward you for your kindness to me. as i have not, here is a penny that you must keep to remember me by." and in spite of gabriel's protestations she took from her side-pocket a coin. "i cannot take it from you," protested the boy. "no one ever grew richer by refusing to give," returned mother lemon, and she tucked the penny inside gabriel's blouse and turned him out the door with her blessing; so that, being a peaceable boy of few words, he objected no longer, but moved along the road toward home, for it was nearly dinner time. he found his stepmother setting the table, and his father busily calculating with figures on a bit of paper. "get the water, gabriel, and be quick now," was his welcome from the sorry-faced woman. when he had done all she directed him, there was still a little time, for william and henry had not come in from the field. gabriel sat down near his father and, noting a rusty, dusty little book lying on the table, he picked it up. "what is this, father?" he asked, for there were few books in that house. the man looked up from his figuring and sneered. "it is called by some the book of life," he said. "as a matter of fact it would not bring two shillings." so saying he returned to his pleasant calculations and gabriel idly opened the book. his gaze widened, for the verse on which his eyes fell stood out from the others in tiny letters of flame. "_the love of money is the root of all evil_," he read. "father, father," he exclaimed, "what wonder is this? look!" the miser turned, impatient of a second interruption. "see the letters of fire!" "i see nothing. you grow stupider every day, gabriel." "but the letters burn, father," and then the boy read aloud the sentence which for him stood out so vividly on the page. they had a surprising effect upon his listener. the miser grew pale and then red with anger. he rose and, standing over the boy, frowned furiously. "i'll teach you to reprove your father," he cried. "get out of my house. no dinner for you to-day." the stepmother had heard what gabriel read, and well she knew the truth of those words. as the astonished boy gathered himself up and moved out the door, she went after him, calling in pretended sharpness; but when he came near, she whispered, "come to the back of the shed in five minutes," and when gabriel obeyed, later, he found there a thick piece of bread and a lump of cheese. these he took, hungrily, and ate them in the forest before returning to school. he had never felt so kindly toward school as this afternoon. were it not for what he learned there, he could not have read the words in the book of life; and although they had brought him into trouble, he would not have foregone the wonder of seeing the living, burning characters which his father could not perceive. he longed to open those dusty covers once again. on his way home that afternoon he met two boys teasing a small brown dog. its coat was stuck full of burrs and it tried in vain to escape from its tormentors. the boys stopped to let gabriel go by, for they had a wholesome respect for his strong right arm and they knew his love for animals. the trembling little dog looked at him in added fear. gabriel stood still. "will you give me that dog?" he asked. the boys backed away with their prize. "nothing for nothing," said the taller, who had the animal under his arm. "what'll you give us?" gabriel thought. never lived a boy with fewer possessions. ah! he suddenly remembered a whistle he had made yesterday. diving his hand into his pocket he brought it out and whistled a lively strain upon it. "this," he said, approaching. "i'll give you this." "that for one of us," replied the tall boy. "what for the other?" from the moment the dog heard gabriel's voice, its eyes had appealed to him. now it struggled to get free, and the big boy struck it. its cry sharpened gabriel's wits. "the other shall have a penny," he said, and drew mother lemon's coin out of his blouse. the big boy dropped the dog, and he and his companion struggled for the coin, each willing the other should have the whistle. gabriel lost no time in catching up the dog and making off with it. he did not stop running until he had reached a spot by the brookside, hidden amid sheltering trees. here he sat down and looked over the forlorn specimen in his lap. the dog was a rough, dingy object from its long ears to its tail. first of all, gabriel set to work to get out the burrs that stuck fast in the thick coat. this took a long time, but the little dog licked his hands gratefully now and then, showing that he understood, even if the operation was not always pleasant. "now, comrade," said gabriel, at last, "you'll have to stand a ducking." the dog's beautiful golden eyes looked at him trustfully, and gabriel, placing him in the brook, scrubbed him well, long ears and all, and then raced around with him in the warm air until he was dry. what a transformation was there! gabriel's eyes shone as he looked at his purchase. the dog's long hair, which had been a dingy brown, shone now like golden silk in the sunshine, and his eyes gleamed with the light of topazes as they fixed lovingly on gabriel's happy face; for gabriel _was_ happy, as every one is who sees love work what is called a miracle, but what is really not a miracle at all, but just one of the beautiful, happy changes for the better that follow on love, wherever she goes. the boy's lonely heart leaped at the idea that at last he had a companion. a despised little suffering dog had altered into a welcome playmate, too attractive, perhaps, to keep; for gabriel well knew that he would never be permitted to take the dog home; and any one finding him now in the woods could carry him into town and get a good price for him. "what shall i call you, little one?" asked the boy. "my word, but you are lively," for the dog was bounding about so that his ears flew and flapped around like yellow curls. "topaz, you shall be!" cried gabriel, suddenly realizing how gem-like were the creature's eyes; "and now listen to me!" to his amazement, as the boy said "listen," and raised his finger, topaz at once sat up on his hind legs with his dainty white forepaws hung in front of him. "whew!" and gabriel began whistling a little tune in his amazement, and the instant the dog heard the music he began to dance. what a sight was there! gabriel's eyes grew round as he saw topaz advance and retreat and twirl, occasionally nodding and tossing his head until his curls bobbed. he seemed to long, in his warm little dog's heart, to show gabriel that he had been worth saving. but the radiance died from the boy's face and he sank at last on the ground under a tree, looking very dejected. topaz bounded to his lap and gabriel pulled the long silky ears through his hands thoughtfully. "i thought i had found a companion," he said sadly. "bow-wow," responded topaz. "but you are a trick dog, worth nobody knows how much money, and i cannot keep you!" "bow-wow," said topaz. "to-morrow i must begin to try to find your master. meanwhile what am i to do with you?" the boy rose as he spoke and topaz showed plainly that there was no doubt in _his_ mind as to what should be done with him, for he meant to stick closely to gabriel's heel. the boy suddenly had an idea and began to trudge sturdily off in the direction of mother lemon's cottage, topaz following close. the memory of the latter's recent mishaps was too clear in his doggish mind to make him willing that a single bush should come between him and his protector. when they reached the little cottage, mother lemon sat spinning outside her low doorway. "welcome, my man," she said when she finally saw, by squinting into the sunlight, who it was that approached, "but drive off that dog." "look at him, mother lemon," said gabriel, rather sadly. "saw you ever one so handsome?" "looks are deceiving," returned the old woman, "and i have a cat." "i will see that he does not hurt your cat. i have to confess that i spent your penny for him, mother lemon." "then i have to confess that you are no worthy son of your father," returned the old woman, "for he would not have spent it for anything." "i know it was a keepsake," replied gabriel, "but the dog was in danger of his life and i had no other money to give for him." "you are a good-hearted lad," said mother lemon, going on with her spinning. "now take your dog away, for if my cat, tommy, should see him it might go hard with his golden locks." "alas, mother lemon, i have come to ask you to keep him for me." "la, la! i tell you i could not keep him any longer than until tommy laid eyes on him; neither have i any liking for dogs, myself, though that one, i must say, looks as if he had taken a bath in molten gold." "does he not!" returned gabriel. "when first i saw him some boys were misusing him and he seemed to be but a brown cur with a dingy, matted coat; and i could wish that he had turned out to be of no account, for the look in his eyes took hold upon my heart; but i rubbed him well in the brook, and now see the full, feathery tail and silky ears. he is a dog of high degree." "certain he is, lad," replied the old woman. "take him to the town and sell him to some lofty dame who has nothing better to do than brush his curls." "i would never sell him," said gabriel, regarding the dog wistfully. "he is lonely and so am i. we would stick together if we might." "what prevents? do you fear to take him home lest your father boil him down for his gold?" and mother lemon laughed as she spun. "no. my father, i know, would not give him one night's lodging, and in my perplexity i bethought me to ask you the favor," and gabriel's honest eyes looked so squarely at mother lemon that she stopped her wheel. "i cannot keep the dog," continued the boy, "and my heart is heavy." "your father is a curmudgeon," declared the old woman, for the more she looked at gabriel, the more she loved him. "what is it? would he grudge food for your pet?" "it is not that, but i cannot keep the dog in any case." "why not, pray?" for answer gabriel looked down into the topaz eyes whose regard had scarcely left his face during the interview. he held up his finger, and instantly the dog sat up. "'tis a trick dog!" exclaimed mother lemon. gabriel began to whistle, and the dance commenced. the old woman pressed her side as she laughed at the comical, pretty sight of the little dancer, the fluffy golden threads of whose silky coat gleamed in the sunlight. "your fortune is made," said mother lemon as gabriel ceased. "the dog will fetch a large price in the town, and because you are a good lad i will try to keep him for you until to-morrow, when you can go and sell him. if your father saw his tricks he would, himself, dispose of him and pocket the cash. i will shut him in an outhouse until you come again, and i only hope that he will not bark and vex tommy!" to the old woman's surprise gabriel looked sad. "but you see, mother lemon," he said soberly, "the dog already belongs to somebody." "la, la!" cried the old woman. "why, then, couldn't the somebody keep him?" "that i do not know; but to-morrow i set forth with him to find his owner." mother lemon nodded, and she saw the heaviness of the boy's heart because he must part with the golden dog. "'tis well that you leave him with me then, for your father would not permit that, any more than he would abate one farthing of my rent." gabriel went with her to the rickety shed where topaz was to spend the night, but the dog was loath to enter. he seemed to know that it meant parting with gabriel. the boy stooped down and talked to him, but topaz licked his face and sprang upon him beseechingly. when, finally, they closed the door with the dog within, the little fellow howled sorrowfully. "i'm sure he's hungry, mother lemon," said the boy, and a lump seemed to stick in his throat. "one bone perhaps you could give him?" "alas, i have none, gabriel. it is not often that tommy and i sit down to meat. he is now hunting mice in the fields or he would be lashing his tail at these strange sounds!" gabriel opened the door and, going back into the shed, spoke sternly to topaz, bidding him lie down. the dog obeyed, looking appealingly from the tops of his gem-like eyes, but when again the door was fastened, he kept an obedient silence. thanking mother lemon and promising to come early in the morning, gabriel sped home. his own hunger made his heart ache for the little dog, and when he entered the cottage he was glad to see that his stepmother was preparing the evening meal, while his father bent, as usual, over a shabby, ink-stained desk, absorbed in his endless calculations. gabriel's elder brothers were there, too, talking and laughing in an undertone. no one took any notice of gabriel, whose eye fell on the dusty, rusty book, and eagerly he picked it up, thinking to see if again he could find the wonder of the flaming words. as he opened it, several verses on the page before him gleamed into light. in mute wonder he read:-- "_and i will say to my soul, 'soul, thou hast much goods laid up for many years; take thine ease, eat, drink, and be merry._' "_but god said unto him, thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee: then whose shall those things be which thou hast provided?_' "_so is he that layeth up treasure for himself and is not rich toward god._" gabriel scarcely dared to lift his eyes toward his father, much less would he have offered to read to him again the flaming words. all through the supper time he thought of them and kept very still, for the others were unusually talkative, his father seeming in such excellent spirits that gabriel knew the figures on his desk had brought him satisfaction. "but if he did not oppress mother lemon," thought the boy, "he would be richer toward god." when the meal was over, gabriel took a piece of paper and went quietly to the back of the house where, in a box, was the refuse of the day's cooking. he found some bones and other scraps, and, running across the fields to mother lemon's, tiptoed to the low shed which held topaz, and, finding a wide crack, pushed the bones and scraps within. then he fled home and to bed, for he had always found that the earlier he closed his eyes, the shorter was the night. this time, however, when his sleepy lids opened, it was not to the light of day. a candle flame wavered above him and showed the face of his stepmother, bending down. "gabriel, gabriel," she whispered; then, as he would have replied, she hushed him with her finger on her lips. "i felt that i must warn you that your father is sorely vexed by the reproof you gave him to-day. he will send you out into the world, and i cannot prevent it; but in all that lies in my poor power, i will be your friend forever, gabriel, for you are a good boy. good-night, i must not stay longer," and a tear fell on the boy's cheek as she kissed him lightly, and then, with a breath, extinguished the candle and hastened noiselessly away. gabriel lay still, thinking busily for a while; but he was a fearless, innocent boy, and this threatened change in his fortunes could not keep him awake long. he soon fell asleep and slept soundly until the dawn. jumping out of bed then, he washed and dressed and went downstairs where his father awaited him. "gabriel," he said, "you do not grow brighter by remaining at home. i wish you to go out into the world and shift for yourself. when your fortune is made, you may return. as you go, however, i am willing to give you a small sum of money to use until you can obtain work." "i will obey you, father," returned the boy, "but as a last favor, i ask that, in place of the money, you give me the cottage where mother lemon lives." the man started and muttered: "he is even stupider than i believed him." "you may have it," he added aloud, after a wondering pause. "that--and this?" returned gabriel questioningly, taking up the book of life. his father scowled, for he remembered yesterday. "very well, if you like," he answered, with a bad grace. "then thank you, father, and i will trouble you no more." gabriel's stepmother could scarcely repress her tears as she gave the boy his breakfast and prepared him a package of bread and meat to carry on his journey. then she gave him a few pence, all she had, and he started off with her blessing. as gabriel went out into the fresh air, all nature was beautiful around him. there seemed no end to the blue sky, the wealth of sunshine, the generous foliage on the waving trees. the birds were singing joyously. all things breathed a blessing. gabriel wondered, as he walked along, about the god who, some one had once told him, made all things. it seemed to him that it could be only a loving being who created such beauty as surrounded him now. the little book was clasped in his hand. he suddenly remembered with relief that he was alone and could read it without fear. eagerly opening it, one verse, as before, flamed into brightness, and gabriel read:-- "_he that loveth not, knoweth not god; for god is love._" how wonderful! gabriel's heart swelled. god was love, then. he closed the book. for the first time god seemed real to him. the zephyrs that kissed his cheek and the sun that warmed him like a caress, seemed assuring him of the truth. the birds declared it in their songs. gabriel went down on his knees in the dewy grass and, dropping his bundle, clasped to his breast the book. "dear god," he said, "i am all alone and i have no one to love but topaz. he is a little dog and i must give him up because he doesn't belong to me. i know now that i shall love you and you will help me give topaz back, because my stepmother told me that you know everything, and she always told the truth." then gabriel arose and, taking the package of food, went on with a light heart until he came to mother lemon's cottage. even that poor shanty looked pleasant in the morning beams. the tall sunflowers near the door flaunted their colors in the light, and their cheerful faces seemed laughing at mother lemon as she came to the entrance and called anxiously to the approaching boy:-- "come quick, lad, hasten. my poor tommy is distracted, for your dog whines and threatens to dig his way out of his prison, and i will not answer for the consequences." indeed, the tortoise-shell cat was seated on the old woman's shoulder. the fur stood stiffly on his arched back, his tail was the size of two, and his eyes glowed. gabriel just glanced at the cat as it opened its mouth and hissed, then he gazed at mother lemon. "did you know there was a god?" he asked earnestly. "to be sure, lad," replied the old woman, surprised. "i've just learned about him in this wonderful book; the book of life is its name. saw you ever one like it?" the boy placed the rusty little volume in her hands. "ay, lad, many times." "does every one know it?" he asked incredulously. "most people do." "then why is not every one happy?" asked gabriel. "there is a god and he is love. do people believe it?" "ah," returned the old woman dryly, "that is a different thing." gabriel scarcely heard her. he opened his precious book. "there," he cried triumphantly, "see the living words:-- "'_nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of god which is in christ jesus our lord_.'" "h'm," said the old woman. "the print is too fine for my old eyes." "yes, perhaps 'tis for that that the letters flame like threads of fire. you see them?" "ahem!" returned mother lemon, for she saw no flaming letters, and she looked curiously at the boy's radiant face. moreover, tommy suddenly leaped from her shoulder to his. all signs of the cat's fear and anger had vanished, and as it rubbed its sleek fur against gabriel's cheek, it purred so loudly that mother lemon marveled. "had my father studied this book he might have been happy," continued the boy; "but he is offended with me and has sent me out into the world, and well i know that an unhappy heart drives him." "go back, boy, and make your peace with him," cried mother lemon excitedly, "or you will get nothing." "oh, i have received what i asked for. i asked to have this cottage, and he gave it to me, and i have come now to give it to you, mother lemon." "my lad!" exclaimed the amazed woman, and her eyes swam with sudden tears. "you will have no more rent to pay," said gabriel, stroking the cat. "and what is to become of you?" asked the woman, much moved. "i cannot go home," replied the boy quietly; "and in any case i have to give topaz, the dog, back to his owner. why do you weep, mother lemon? haven't i god to take care of me, and isn't he greater than all men?" "yes, lad. the good book says he is king of heaven and earth." "then if you believe it, why are you sad?" mother lemon dried her eyes, and at this moment they heard a great scratching on the door of the shed; for topaz had wakened from a nap and heard gabriel's voice. "ah, that i had never given you the penny!" wailed the old woman, "for then you would not have bought the yellow dog and gone away where i shall see you no more." gabriel's sober face smiled. "yes, you will see me again, mother lemon, when my fortune is made. you have god, too, you know." "ay, boy. i'm nearer him to-day than for many a long year. my blessing go with you wherever you are; and now let me have tommy, that he does not fly at your dancer, to whom i say good riddance. good-by, lad, good-by, and god bless you for your goodness and generosity to a lonely old creature!" so saying, mother lemon took the cat in her arms, and, going into the house, fastened the door and pulled down the windows, while gabriel went to the shed, and taking out the wooden staple released his prisoner. like a living nugget of gold the little dog leaped and capered about the boy, expressing his joy by the liveliest antics, barking meanwhile in a manner to set tommy's nerves on edge; but gabriel ran laughing before him into the forest, not stopping until they reached the brookside, where they both slaked their thirst. then he put the book of life carefully into his blouse, and opening the package gave topaz some of the bread and meat it contained. all the time there was a pain in gabriel's heart because topaz, by the morning light, was gayer, prettier, more loving than ever, and his clear eyes looked so trustfully into gabriel's that it was not easy to swallow the lump that rose in the boy's throat at the thought of parting with him. at last the package of food was again tied, and gabriel was ready to start. topaz stood expectantly before him, his eyes gleaming softly, the color of golden sand as it lies beneath sunlit water. the boy sat a moment watching the alert face which said as plainly as words: "whatever you are going to do, i am eager to do it, too." gabriel thoughtfully drew the silky ears through his hands. "god made you, too, topaz, and he knows i love you. if it please him, we shall not find your master this first day." then he jumped up and searched for a good stick. he tried the temper of a couple by whipping the air, and when he found one stiff enough, ran it through the string about the bundle and looked around for topaz. to his astonishment the dog had disappeared. he whistled, but there was no sign. gabriel's face grew blank, then flushed as the reason of the dog's flight flashed upon him. it forced tears into his eyes to think that any one could have struck the pretty creature, and that topaz could have suffered enough to distrust even him. he threw down stick and bundle and walked around anxiously, whistling from time to time. at last his quick eyes caught the gleam of golden color behind a bush. even topaz's fright could not take him far while a doubt remained; but he was crouching to the ground, and his eyes were appealing. gabriel threw himself down beside the little fellow, and for a minute his wet eyes were pressed to the silky fur, while he stroked his playmate. topaz licked his face, and the dog's fear fled forever. he followed gabriel back to the place where the bundle was dropped, and the boy patted him while he took up the stick and set it across his shoulder. topaz's ears flapped with joy as they started on their tramp. gabriel put away all thought of the future and frolicked with his playmate as they went along, throwing a stick which topaz would bring, and beg with short, sharp barks that the boy would throw once more, when he would race after it like a streak of sunshine, his golden curls flying. from time to time gabriel ran races with him, and no boy at school could beat gabriel at running, so topaz had a lively morning. by the time the sun was high in the heavens they were both hungry and glad to rest. they found the shade of a large tree, and there gabriel opened his package again, and when he tied it up it made a very small bundle on the end of the stick he carried over his shoulder. there was not so much running this afternoon. gabriel and topaz had come a long way, and toward evening they began to see the roofs of the town ahead of them. the dog no longer raced to right and left after butterfly and bird, but trotted sedately at the boy's heel, and after a time gabriel picked him up and carried him, for the thought came that perhaps topaz could earn them a place to sleep, and gabriel wished to rest the little legs that could be so nimble. it was nearly dusk when they reached a cultivated field and then a farmhouse. some children were playing in the yard, and when they saw a dusty boy turn in at the gate, they ran to the house crying that a beggar was coming. their mother came out from the door, and the expression of her face told plainly that she meant to drive the dusty couple away. gabriel set down the dog and took off his hat, and his clear eyes looked out of his grimy face. "i am not a beggar," he said simply. "i go to the town to return this dog to its master, but night is coming on, and we should like to sleep on the hay." "how do i know you are not a thief?" returned the woman. "it is not a very likely story that you are tramping way to town to give back a yellow dog." "he is a dog of high degree," declared gabriel, "and if you will let us sleep in your barn he will dance for you." upon this the children begged in chorus to see the dog dance, and the mother consented; so topaz, when he was bade, sat up, and then, as gabriel whistled, the dainty, dusty little white feet began to pirouette, and the children clapped their hands for joy and would have kept the dancer at his work until dark, but that gabriel would not have it so. "we have come far," he said. "let us rest now, and in the morning topaz will dance for you again." so all consented and escorted the strangers to the barn, where there was a clean, sweet hay-loft. the little dog remembered the night before, and whined under his breath and wagged his tail as he looked at gabriel, as if begging the boy not to leave him. gabriel understood, and patted the silky coat. it took him some minutes to get rid of the children, who wished to continue to caress and play with topaz; but at last they were gone and the two weary wanderers could lie down on the sweet hay. as topaz nestled into his arms gabriel felt very thankful to god for their long happy day. if the master should come to-morrow--well, the only thing to do was to give up his playfellow, and he should still be grateful for the day and night they had spent together. bright sunlight was streaming through the chinks of the rafters when the travelers awoke. sounds of men and horses leaving the barn died away, and then gabriel arose and shook himself. topaz jumped about in delight that another day had commenced. the boy looked at him wistfully. was this to be their last morning together? he felt the little book in his blouse and taking it out, opened it. it was dark in the barn, but, as ever, this wonderful book had a light of its own, and in tiny letters of flame there appeared this verse:-- "_for god hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power and of love and of a sound mind._" much comforted, gabriel put the dear book back in its hiding-place, and taking his small bundle, left the barn, the dog bounding after him. no sooner had the children of the house seen them coming than they ran forth to meet them, singing and whistling and crying upon topaz to dance, but the dog kept his golden eyes upon his master and noticed no one beside. the mother came to the door with a much pleasanter face than she had worn yesterday. "you may go to the pump yonder and wash yourself," she said; and gabriel obeyed gladly, wiping his face upon the grass that grew long and rank about the well. the clean face was such a good one that when the woman saw it she hushed the children. "be still until they have had some breakfast," she said, "then the dog will dance again." so gabriel and topaz had a comfortable meal which they enjoyed, and afterward the boy whistled and the dog danced with a good heart, and the children danced too, for very pleasure. they were all so happy that gabriel for the moment forgot his errand. "if you will sell your dog i will buy him," said the woman, at last, for the children had given her no peace when they lay down nor when they rose up, until she had promised to make this offer. gabriel looked at her frankly, and a shadow fell over his bright face. "alas, madam, he is not mine to sell." "where dwells his master, then?" "that i know not, for he had strayed and i found him and must restore him if i can." "'tis a fool's errand," said the woman, who liked the dog herself, and, moreover, saw that there was money in his nimble feet. "i will give you as many coppers as you can carry in your cap if you will leave him here and go your way and say nothing about it to any one." gabriel shook his head. "alas, madam, he is not mine," was all the woman could induce him to say, and she thought his sadness was at the thought of the cap full of pence which she believed he dared not accept for fear of getting into trouble. little she knew that if only the golden dog were gabriel's very own, no money could buy from the boy the one heart on earth that beat warmly for him, and the graceful, gay coat of flossy silk which he loved to caress; so the farmer's wife and children were obliged to let the couple go. gabriel had seen, the night before, a creek that wandered through the meadow, and before entering the town he ran to it and, pulling off his clothes, jumped in and took a good swim. barking with delight, topaz joined in this new frolic, splashing and swimming about like the jolly little water dog that he was. when, at last, they came out and were dried, and gabriel was dressed, they were a fresh looking pair that started out for the town. now gabriel was not so stupid as his brothers believed, and, as he said over to himself the verse he had read that morning in the barn, and looked at topaz, so winsomely shining after his bath, he began to see how unwise it would be to tell every one he met that he was searching for topaz's owner. there were people in the world, he knew, who would not scruple to pretend that such a pretty creature was their own, even if they had never seen him before; so gabriel determined to be very careful and to know that god would give him power and a sound mind, if he would not be afraid, as the book of life had said. now the two entered the town; but from the moment their feet struck the pavements, topaz's manner changed. he kept so close to gabriel that the boy often came near to stepping on him. "what ails you, little one?" asked gabriel, perplexed by his companion's strange actions. "don't you know that you are going home?" but topaz did not bark a reply. his feathery tail hung down. he looked at gabriel only from the tops of his eyes as he clung close to his heels, and he even seemed to the boy to tremble when they crossed the busy streets. "you mustn't be afraid, topaz," said gabriel stoutly. "no one likes a coward." but topaz only clung the closer, sometimes looking from left to right, fearfully. at last his actions were so strange that gabriel took him up under his arm. "perhaps if we meet his owner he can see him the better so," thought the boy, and he looked questioningly into the faces of men, women, and children as they passed him by. no one did more than stare at him after observing the beautiful head that looked out from under his arm. one good-natured man smiled in passing and said to gabriel: "going to the palace, i suppose." this remark astonished the boy very much, and he looked around after the man. now there had been some one following gabriel for the last five minutes, and when he looked around, this person, who was an organ-grinder, quickly turned his back and began grinding out a tune. at the first sound of it topaz started and trembled violently and snuggled so close to gabriel that the latter, who did not connect his action with the music, was dismayed. "topaz, what _is_ the matter?" he asked, and hurried along, thinking to find some park where he could sit down and try to discover what ailed his little playfellow. as he began to hurry, the organ-grinder's black eyes snapped, and he stopped playing and beckoned to a big officer of the law who stood near. "my dog has been stolen," he exclaimed. "come with me, after the thief. i will pay you." the big man obeyed and walked along, grumbling: "is the city full of stolen dogs, i wonder?" he muttered. "it is my dancing dog!" explained the organ-grinder. "the boy yonder is carrying him in his arms and running away. he will deny it, but i will pay you a silver coin. it is a week since i lost him." "stop, thief," roared the officer, beginning to run. the organ-grinder ran as well as he could with his heavy burden, and there began to be an excitement on the street, so that gabriel, hugging his dog, stopped to see what was the matter. what was his surprise to be confronted by the big officer and the black-eyed italian. "drop that dog!" ordered the officer gruffly. "not till i get a string around his neck," objected the organ-grinder, and produced a cord which he knotted about topaz's fluffy throat. then he pulled the dog away roughly. "is he yours?" cried gabriel, eyes and mouth open in astonishment. "no, it cannot be. he is afraid of you. oh, see!" "ho, this boy has stolen my whole living," said the organ-grinder, "and now he tries to claim my property." "do not believe him!" cried gabriel, appealing to the big officer. "it cannot be his. the dog loves me. let me show you." "stand off, stand off," ordered the organ-grinder, for a crowd had gathered. "would the dog dance for me if he were not mine? see!" he drew from his coat a little whip and struck the organ with a snap, at which topaz jumped. then he dropped the dog and began to grind, and the crowd saw the trembling animal raise itself to its hind legs and begin to dance. oh, the mincing little uncertain steps! no tossing of the yellow curls was here. gabriel's heart bounded hotly. did these people think they were seeing topaz dance? "oh, believe me, let me show you!" he cried, trying to come near; but the big officer pushed him away roughly. "can you pay your debts?" he said, coming close to the organ-grinder. the man stopped turning his crank and taking a silver coin handed it to the officer, but slyly, so that no one saw. then the big man turned to gabriel. "now be off from here!" he said sternly. "if you hang about a minute longer, into the lock-up you go!" gabriel, white and sorry, clasped his hands helplessly, and watched while the organ-grinder caught topaz up under his arm and made off with him, down a side street. the boy felt that he must pursue them. he turned his tearful gaze on the big officer. "i found that dog, sir," he said. "the more fool you, then, not to take it to the palace," returned the other. "it is gaudy enough to have perhaps pleased the princess, and the organ-grinder would have had to get another slave." so saying, the officer laughed and carelessly turned away. gabriel stood still, choking. it must be that the princess wished to buy a pet. ah, if he might even have parted with his little friend to her, how far better it would have been than this strange, wrong thing that had happened with such suddenness that the boy could scarcely get his breath for the way his heart beat. he pressed his hand to his streaming eyes, then, seeing that people were staring at him curiously, he stole away, walking blindly and stumbling over the rough pavement. at last he came to a place in a quiet street where a seat was built into a wall, and there he sat down and tried to think. in his despair the thought of the great king of heaven and earth came to him. "dear god," he murmured breathlessly, "what now? what did i wrong, that you did not take care of topaz and me?" the breeze in the treetops was his only answer; so after listening for a minute to the soothing sound, he took the book of life from his blouse and opened it. oh, wonderful were the words he saw. how they glowed and seemed to live upon the gray page. "_be strong and of a good courage, fear not, nor be afraid of them; for the lord thy god, he it is that doth go with thee: he will not fail thee nor forsake thee_." gabriel caught his trembling lip between his teeth. he knew no one in this crowded city. he had no home, no friends, no money except the few coppers in his pocket. how, then, was help to come? "dear god," he whispered, "i have no one now in all the world but you. topaz is gone and i am grieved sore, for he is wretched. let me save him. i am not afraid, dear god, not afraid of anything. i trust you." comforted by a little blind hope that crept into his heart, the boy looked up; and the first thing that his swollen eyes rested upon was a large poster affixed to the opposite wall, with letters a foot high. "reward!" it said. "h.r.h. the princess has lost her golden dog. a full reward for his return to the palace!" gabriel's heart gave a great bound. what golden dog was there anywhere but topaz? the color that had fled from his cheeks came back. but would an organ-grinder dare claim for his own a dog that belonged to a princess of the country? and yet--and yet--the little dog's joy and light-heartedness with himself showed that he had been well treated by whomever taught him his pretty tricks. the organ-grinder did not treat him well, and who that really knew topaz would dream of taking a whip to force him to his work! gabriel, young as he was, saw that there was some mystery here, and beside, there had been the glowing words in the book of life, telling him again not to be afraid, and promising him that the greatest of all kings would not fail him or forsake him. he started up from the seat, but forced himself back and opened the small bundle of dry bread and meat; for there was no knowing when he should eat again. he took all that remained, and when he had swallowed the last crumbs, arose with a determined heart and hurried up the street. he asked the first man he met if he could direct him to the palace. the man shrugged his shoulders. "where is your yellow dog?" he asked. "i have none," returned gabriel, "but i have business at the palace." the man laughed down at the shabby figure of the country lad. "and don't know where it is? well, follow your nose. you are on the right road." gabriel sped along and he was indeed much nearer than he had supposed; for very soon he met a sorry-faced man with a yellow dog in his arm; then another; then another; and in fact he could trace his way to the palace by the procession of men, women, and children, all returning, and each one carrying a yellow dog and chattering or grumbling according to the height from which his hopes had been dashed. when gabriel reached the palace gates he saw that there were plenty more applicants waiting inside the grounds. the boy had never realized how many varying sizes and shades of yellow dogs there were in the world. the guard had received orders to deny entrance to no person who presented a gold-colored dog for examination, but gabriel was empty-handed and the guard frowned upon him. "i wish to see the princess," said the boy. "i dare say," replied the guard. "be off." "but i wish to tell her about a golden dog." "can't you see that we are half buried in golden dogs?" returned the guard crossly. "no, sir. i have seen none but yellow dogs since i drew near this place. i have a tale to tell the princess." the guard could not forbear laughing at this simplicity. "do you suppose ragamuffins like you approach her highness?" he returned. "a dog's tail is the only sort she is interested in to-day. see the chamberlain yonder. he is red with fatigue. he is choosing such of the lot as are worthy to be looked at by the princess, and should he see you demanding audience and with no dog to show, it will go hard with you. be off!" and the guard's gesture was one to be obeyed. gabriel withdrew quietly; but he was not daunted. the princess would, perhaps, grow weary and drive out. at any rate there was nothing to do except watch for her. he looked at the splendid palace and gardens and wondered if topaz had ever raced about there. then he wondered what the dog was doing now; but this thought must be put away, because it made gabriel's eyes misty, and he must watch, watch. at last his patient vigil was rewarded. a splendid coach drawn by milk-white horses appeared in the palace grounds. gabriel's heart beat fast. he knew he must act quickly and before any one could catch him; so he made his way cautiously to the shelter of a large, flowering shrub by the roadside. the coach approached and the iron gates were flung wide. gabriel plainly saw a young girl with troubled eyes sitting alone within, and on the seat opposite an older woman with her back to the horses. suddenly, while the carriage still moved slowly outside the gates that clanged behind it, gabriel started from his hiding-place and swiftly leaped to the step of the coach and looked straight into the young girl's eyes. "princess," he exclaimed breathlessly, "i know of a golden dog, and they will not let me"--but by this time the lady-in-waiting was screaming, and the guard, who recognized gabriel, rushed forth from the gate and, seizing him roughly, jerked the boy from the step. "unhand him instantly!" exclaimed the princess, her eyes flashing, for the look gabriel had given her had reached her heart. "stop the horses!" instantly the coach came to a standstill. "_i will not fail thee, nor forsake thee_," sounded in gabriel's ears amid the roaring in his head, as he found himself free. he did not wait for further invitation, but jumped back to the coach. "stop screaming, lady gertrude!" exclaimed the princess. "but the beggar's hands are on the satin, your highness!" exclaimed the lady-in-waiting, who had had a hard week and wished there was not a yellow dog in the world. "princess, hear me and you will be glad," declared gabriel. "i beg for nothing but to be heard. i believe i know where your dog is and that he suffers." no one could have seen and heard gabriel as he said this, without believing him. tears of excitement sprang to his gray eyes and a pang went through the heart of the princess. how many times she had wondered if her lost pet had found such love as she gave him! she at once ordered the door of the coach to be opened and that gabriel should enter. "your highness!" exclaimed lady gertrude, nearly fainting. "you may leave us if you please," said the princess, with a little smile; but lady gertrude held her smelling-salts to her nose and remained in the coach, which the princess ordered to be driven through a secluded wood-road. gabriel, sitting beside her on the fine satin cushion, told his story, from the moment when he found the dingy, brown dog in the hands of the teasing boys, to the moment when the organ-grinder bore him away. the hands of the princess were clasped tightly as she listened. "you called him topaz," she said, when the boy had finished. "i called him goldilocks. ah, if it should be the same! if it should!" "surely there are not two dogs in the world so beautiful," said gabriel. "that is what i say to myself," responded the princess. "had he been less wonderful, your highness, he would be safe now, for i should have kept him. he loved me," said gabriel simply. "you are an honest boy," replied the princess gratefully, "and i will make you glad of it whether topaz turns out to be goldilocks or not. but you say he danced with so much grace?" "yes, your highness, and tossed his head for glee till his curls waved merrily." "'tis the same!" cried the princess, in a transport. "his eyes _are_ like topazes. your name is the best. he shall have it. ah, he has slept in a shed and eaten cold scraps! my goldilocks!" "yes, your highness, and would be glad to do so still; for he fears his dark-browed master, and dances with such trembling you would not know him again." "ah, cruel boy, cease! take me to him at once. show my men the spot where you left him." "your highness must use great care, for if once the organ-grinder suspects that you are searching for him, no one will ever again see the golden dog; for the man will fear to be found with him." "you are right. i can send out men with orders to examine every hand-organ in the city." "if they were quiet enough it might be done, but i have a better plan." "you may speak," returned the princess. "when we are alone, your highness," said gabriel; and the lady-in-waiting was so amazed at such effrontery that she forgot to use her salts. "to the palace," ordered the princess. lady gertrude gave the order. "does your highness intend to take this--this person to the palace?" she inquired. "i do. he loves my dog, and therefore i would give more for his advice at this time than for that of the lord high chamberlain." "then i have nothing more to say," returned the lady gertrude, leaning back among the cushions; and this was cheering news to her companions. what was the astonishment of the guard to see the coach return, still carrying the rustic lad, who sat so composedly beside the princess, and dismounted with her at the palace steps. once within, nothing was too fine for gabriel. a gentleman-in-waiting was set to serve him in an apartment, which made the boy pinch himself to make sure he was not dreaming. when he had taken a perfumed bath and obediently put on the fine clothing that was provided for him, he was summoned to a splendid room where the princess awaited him, surrounded by her ladies. she was scarcely more than a child, herself, and the boy wondered how she liked to have so many critical personages about, to watch her every action. as he entered the room, every eye was turned upon him, and the lady gertrude, especially, put up her glass in wonder that this handsome lad with the serious, fearless eyes, who seemed so at ease in the silks and satins he now wore, could be the peasant who had jumped on the step of the coach. the princess looked upon him with favor and smiled. "we are ready now," she said, "to hear what plan you propose for the rescue of the golden dog." "then will your highness kindly ask these ladies to leave us?" returned gabriel. "ah, to be sure. i forgot your wish that the communication should be private." then the princess gave orders that every one should leave the room, and her companions obeyed reluctantly, the lady gertrude above all. she remained close to the outside of the closed door, ready to fly within at the slightest cry from her mistress; for the lady gertrude could not quite believe that a boy who had ever worn a calico shirt was a safe person to leave alone with royalty. for a few minutes there was only a low buzz of voices behind the closed door, then a merry laugh from the princess assailed lady gertrude's ears. it was the first time she had laughed since the disappearance of the golden dog. before gabriel slipped between the sheets that night in his luxurious chamber, he took the little brown book which had been folded away with his shabby clothing. his heart glowed with gratitude to god for the help he had received that day, and when he opened the page it was as if a loving voice spoke:-- "_thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee; because he trusteth in thee_." "dear god, i trust in thee!" he murmured; then he climbed into the soft bed and slept dreamlessly. the following morning, the king and queen having given consent to their daughter's request, two children drove out of the palace grounds in a plain black carriage. the coachman drove to a confectioner's near the centre of the town, where the horses stopped. a tall man in dark clothes, who was also in the carriage, stepped down first and handed out the girl, and afterward the boy jumped down. then the carriage rolled away. "remember," said the girl, turning to the tall man, "you are not to remain too near us." he bowed submissively, and in a minute more the girl and boy, plainly dressed, middle-class people, were looking in at the confectioner's window at a pink and white frosted castle that reared itself above a cake surrounded with bon-bons to make one's mouth water. "saw you ever anything so grand, your highness?" exclaimed gabriel, in awe. the princess laughed. her cheeks were pink and her eyes sparkled. this was the first time her little feet had ever touched a city street, and she loved the adventure. "find me topaz, and all the contents of this window shall be yours," she returned. "i shall not care to have anything until we do find him, your highness," replied gabriel simply. "you must not call me that. some one might hear you." "i know it. there is danger of it," declared gabriel; "but the gentleman who is to follow us said i should lose my head if i treated you familiarly." the princess laughed again. she was in a new world, like a bird whose cage door had been opened. "we need your head until we find topaz," she replied, "for you have clever ideas. nevertheless, my name is louise, and you may remember it if necessity arises. now where shall we go first?" "straight down this street," said the boy, leading the way. "i am expecting god will show us where to go," he added. his companion looked at him in surprise, and gabriel observed it. "don't you know about god?" he asked. "of course. who does not?" she returned briefly. "i did not," answered gabriel, "until i found the book of life. it speaks to me in words of flame. have you such a book?" "no. i will buy it from you," said the princess. "no one can do that," declared the boy, "for it is more precious than all beside. this morning i looked into it for guidance through the day, and the glowing words were sweet:-- "'_for he shall give his angels charge over thee to keep thee in all thy ways_.'" gabriel smiled at the princess with such gladness that she gazed at him curiously. "you cannot refuse to sell me your book," she said at last, "for i can have your head taken off if i wish. i am the king's daughter." "god is greater than all kings," returned gabriel, "and he would not allow it. he helped me to get your attention yesterday, and to-day he is sending his angels with us to find topaz. the book of life is for every one, i believe. i am sure you can have one, too." here both the boy and girl started, for there came a metallic sound of music on the air. "be cautious, be very cautious," warned gabriel, and as the princess started to run, he caught her by the arm, a proceeding which horrified the tall man in dark clothes who was at some distance back, but had never taken his eyes from them. "you must not be too interested," added the boy, as excited as she. "a hand-organ is an every-day affair. we even hear them in the country at times." but they both followed the sound, veiling their eagerness as best they might. when they came in sight of the organ-grinder they both sighed, for he had no assistance from a little dog nor from any one else. the princess was for turning away impatiently. "wait," said gabriel, "we are interested in organ music." so he persuaded her to stand a minute, while her bright eyes roved in all directions; and the organ man saw a hope of coppers in the pair, for they were decently dressed and lingered in apparent pleasure. he kept his eyes upon them and at last held out his cap. the princess had plenty of pence in the bag at her side, placed there by the thoughtful gabriel in place of the handful of silver with which she had intended to reward street musicians. "you are one of the common people, your highness; or else you need have no hope of topaz," he had reminded her; so now the impatient girl tossed some coppers into the outstretched cap and hurried along as if they were wasting time. the next organ they found had, sitting upon it, a monkey dressed in red cap and jacket, and gabriel insisted on waiting to watch him, although the sight of his antics only swelled the princess's heart as she thought that somewhere topaz was being forced to such indignity. the little monkey did not seem to object, and gladly ran to his master with the coppers that gabriel dropped in his cap. the next organ-grinder they found had with him a little italian girl with a red silk handkerchief knotted about her head. she sang and played on a tambourine, and gabriel persuaded his companion to watch and listen for a few minutes. if only they could find topaz first, her royal highness, princess of the country, would ask nothing better than to roam freely about the streets, listening and gazing like any other young girl out for a holiday; but topaz was on her mind, and she was not accustomed to being forced to wait. "listen to me," murmured gabriel, as they moved on after making the little italian show her white teeth in pleasure at their gift. "do not frown. you must look pleased. it is the only way." so the princess put a restraint upon herself. with the next organ they met, she saw a yellow dog who wore a cap fastened under his chin, and sat up holding a cup in his teeth for pennies, and she set her lips in the effort to control herself. the dog had long ears and white paws. gabriel's own heart beat in his throat, but he grasped the woolen stuff of his companion's gown as the man began to play. it was not the man of yesterday, but that mattered not to gabriel. they waited till the tune was finished, the gaze of the princess devouring the dog meanwhile. then the little creature trotted up to them very prettily on his hind legs, offering his cup, and the children dropped into it coppers while they looked into the yellow eyes. "hi--oh--hi--oh"--and another tune broke into the one which their organ-grinder commenced. following the sound of the call, gabriel and the princess looked a little way off, across the street, and beheld a street musician grinding away and beckoning to them with his head, while his teeth gleamed in an attractive smile. "pay no attention to him," said the man with the yellow dog, grinding lustily, and making a frightful discord. "'tis pedro and his little brown beast. he seeks to draw my listeners away as if i had not the most intelligent dog in the universe, and, moreover, of the color which the princess has made fashionable. i doubt not if her highness saw my dog she would give me for him as many gold eagles as i have fingers on my hand; but he is not for the princess, who has joys enough without depriving the children on the street of their pleasures." the girl in the brown woolen gown was clasping her hands painfully together, and her heart was beating with hope; but gabriel shook his head at her, and she remained quiet. he had already seen that the dog was not topaz, although astonishingly like him in size and shape. pedro, across the street, kept drawing nearer, as he played and smiled and beckoned with his head. there trotted after him an unpromising little brown dog with limp tail and ears. the man, in his good-nature and success, looked very different from the organ-grinder of yesterday; and as he laughed aloud, the master of the yellow dog frowned and shouted something in italian back at him, before shouldering his organ and tramping away, his dog very glad to go on all fours again. pedro pulled off his hat, smiling at the lingering girl and boy. "he says you have given him all your coppers," he said. "i don't believe it; but in any case i will give you a tune." "you are letting him go," murmured the princess breathlessly, starting to run after the yellow dog. "saw you not 'twas not topaz?" asked gabriel, under cover of the lively tune, and again seizing a fold of the woolen gown, he held the girl in her place. "wait," he said aloud, with a show of interest, "i wish to hear the music." "let me go, my heart is sick," returned the princess, turning her head away. gabriel pretended to frown at her and pulled some pence from his pocket, at sight of which the organ-grinder's eyes brightened and he played harder than ever. "can you be strong, princess?" asked the boy distinctly. "don't look now, but topaz has come to us." the princess started, and instead of obeying, looked closely first at the dejected little brown dog and then up and down the street and behind her, but in vain. "if those pence are for me, my boy," said the organ-grinder, stopping his music, "you and your sister shall see my dog dance. he is the wonder of the world, although he is not much to look at. we cannot all be royal and own golden dogs." gabriel threw him the pennies, for he did not yet wish to come too near topaz, lest the little dog might see deeper than the respectable raiment in which his own brother would not have known him. the boy clapped his hands above his head; the organ-grinder thought it was for joy, but it was a signal agreed upon. a shrill whistle sounded on the air. the organ-grinder knew the sound and knew that it was intended to summon the officers of the law. he wondered what poor wretch was getting into trouble; but it was none of his business. he took a whip from within his coat, and with it struck the organ a violent snap. at the sound the little dog jumped. the princess noticed that gabriel's eyes were fixed on him, and wondered what he could be thinking of to confound this sorry-looking, dull-colored animal with her gay companion of the palace garden. the music began, the dog reared himself patiently upon his hind feet and stepped about so slowly that the organ-man growled at him and struck the organ again. then the dancer moved faster; but the ears did not fly and every motion was a jerk. nevertheless, the princess's heart had now begun to suffocate her. she recalled gabriel's story of washing off the brown color from the dingy fur in the brook, and her eyes swam with tears at the mere possibility that this might be the object of her search. she had just sense enough to keep still and leave everything to gabriel. here, too, approached the tall gentleman, followed by an officer of the law. gabriel saw at a glance that it was the same big fellow who had driven him away yesterday. the tall, dignified gentleman-in-waiting looked in disgust at the stiff little brown dancer. "this foolish peasant is but getting us into trouble," he thought, "but he will suffer for it." indeed, gabriel knew the law of the land; knew that if he accused the organ-grinder wrongfully he would be walked off to prison in his place; but gabriel had seen the brown dog's eyes. there were no doubts in his heart, which bounded so that it seemed as if it could hardly stay within his bosom. "come away, your highness," murmured the gentleman-in-waiting, in the princess's ear. "this is a farce." "stand back and wait," she replied sternly, and he obeyed. meanwhile the organ-grinder had observed the newcomers and was showing every tooth in his head at the prospect of a rich harvest of coppers. in a minute he ceased playing. the brown dog dropped to all fours, and his hopeless air sent a pang through the princess. the organ-grinder held out his cap. "i don't think much of your dog's dancing," said gabriel, looking him in the eye. "i could make him do better, myself." "it doesn't do to use the whip too much," replied the organ-grinder, but gabriel had already gone on his knees beside the dog and whispered to him. instantly the little creature went into a transport of delight. bounding to the boy's breast, it clung there so closely that gabriel gave up the experiment that he had intended of trying to show the organ-man how his slave could dance. rising, gabriel held the panting topaz in his arms. "i declare," he said aloud, "i declare this to be the princess's lost dog." the organ-grinder scowled and grew pale. "'tis a lie," he cried, "hers was a golden dog." "this is a golden dog," said gabriel. even the gentleman-in-waiting was impressed by the certainty of the boy's voice. the organ-grinder turned to the officer and shook his fist. "'tis that boy again!" he cried. "if this is the princess's dog, that boy stole him. as for me, i found the poor creature, friendless and lost, and i took pity on him." "why, then, did you stain his coat?" asked gabriel. the organ-grinder looked wildly up and down the street. for some reason he felt that a silver coin would not affect the officer of the law to-day. the gentleman-in-waiting pointed sternly at the culprit. "take him away," he said to the officer. "should this prove to be indeed the princess's dog, he has committed treason." and now the black carriage and spirited horses drove up. the three entered it with the dog and were whirled away. by noon it was rumored in that street that her royal highness, the princess of the land, had walked through it, dressed like one of the common people. within the carriage the princess was weeping tears of joy above her pet. "if it is you, goldilocks, if it is you!" she kept repeating; but the dog clung to the one who had recognized his topaz eyes in spite of everything. "he is not fit, yet, for your highness to touch," said gabriel, "but if you will give me one hour, i will show him to you unchanged." that afternoon there was rejoicing at the palace. all had felt the influence of the princess's grief, for she was the idol of the king and queen; and now, as topaz capered again, a living sunbeam, through corridor and garden, all had a word of praise for the peasant boy who had restored him to his home. at evening the princess received a message from gabriel and ordered that he be sent to her. in a minute he entered, dressed in the shabby garments in which he had leaped upon the coach step. in his hand he held a little rusty book, and his clear eyes looked steadily at the princess, with the honest light which had first made her listen to him. "i come to say farewell, your highness," he said. a line showed in her forehead. "what reward have they given you?" "none, your highness." "what have you in your hand?" "the book of life." "come nearer and let me see it." the ladies-in-waiting were, as usual, grouped near their mistress, and they stared curiously at the peasant boy. only topaz, who at his entrance had bounded from a satin cushion as golden as his flossy coat, leaped upon him with every sign of affection. gabriel approached and handed the book to the princess. she opened it and ran her eye over the gray pages. "i see no fiery letters," she said, and handed it back. the boy opened it. as usual a flaming verse arrested his eye. he pointed with his finger at the words and read aloud:-- "'_he shall call upon me and i will answer him: i will be with him in trouble: i will deliver him and honor him_.'" "'tis a fair promise," said the princess, "but i see no flaming letters." "i do, your highness," returned gabriel simply, and looking into his eyes she knew that he spoke the truth. she gazed at him curiously. "where go you now, and what do you do?" she asked, after a pause. "that i know not," replied gabriel, "but god will show me." "by means of that book?" "yes, your highness," and gabriel bowed his head and moved toward the door. topaz followed close at his heel. if gabriel were going for a walk, why, so much the better. he was going, too. the boy smiled rather sadly, for he knew the golden dog loved him, and there was no one else anywhere who cared whether he went or came. he stooped and, picking up the little creature, carried him to the princess. "you will have to hold him from following me, your highness." the girl took the dog, but he struggled and broke from her grasp, to leap once again upon his departing friend. "wait," said the princess, and rose. gabriel stood, all attention, and gazed at her, where she stood, smiling kindly upon him. "i promised a full reward to whomever returned me my dog. you have not yet received even the window-full of pink and white sweetmeats which i promised you this morning." gabriel smiled, too. "where is your home, gabriel, and why are you not returning there?" "i have no home. it is a long story, your highness, and would not interest you." "ah, but it does interest me," and the princess smiled more brightly than ever; "because if you have no home you can remain in our service." a light flashed into gabriel's sober face. "what happiness!" he exclaimed. no answer could have pleased the princess better than the pleasure in his eyes. "topaz is not willing you should leave him, and neither am i. when you are older, his majesty, my father, will look after your fortunes. for the present you shall be a page." "your highness!" protested the lady gertrude, "have you considered? the pages are of lofty birth. will it not go hard with the peasant? give him a purse and let him go." the princess answered but did not remove her gaze from the boy's flushed face, while topaz's cold little nose nestled in his down-dropped hand. "gabriel is my friend, be he prince or peasant," she said slowly, "and it will go hard with those who love him not." the young girl's eyes met gabriel's and then she smiled as light-heartedly as on this morning when she wore the woolen gown. "and now make topaz dance," she added, "the way he danced in the woods." the boy's happy glance dropped to the dog, and he raised his finger. with alacrity topaz sat up, and then gabriel began to whistle. how the court ladies murmured with soft laughter, for no one had ever seen such a pretty sight. not for any of them, not for the princess herself, had topaz danced as he danced to-day. "ah," murmured the princess, "how much more powerful than the whip is love!" when music and dancing had ceased, she smiled once more upon gabriel, whose happy heart was full. "go now," she said, "and learn of your new duties; but the chief one you have learned already. it is to be faithful!" chapter xii the talking doll mr. evringham's horseback rides in these days were apt to be accompanied by the stories, which jewel related to him with much enthusiasm while they cantered through wood-roads, and it is safe to say that the tales furnished full as much entertainment at second hand as they had at first. the golden dog had deeply impressed jewel's fancy, and when she finished relating the story, her face all alight, mr. evringham shook his head. "star is going to have his hands full, i can see," he remarked, restraining essex maid's longing for a gallop. "why, grandpa?" "to hold his own against that dog." jewel looked thoughtful. "i suppose it wouldn't be any use to try to teach star to dance, would it?" she asked. "oh, yes. ponies learn to dance. we shall have to go to a circus and let you see one; but how should you like it every time star heard a band or a hand-organ to have him get up on his hind legs and begin?" jewel laughed and patted her pony's glossy neck. "i guess i like star best the way he is," she replied, "but grandpa, did you ever _hear_ of such a darling dog?" "i confess i never did," admitted the broker. "i should think there was some trick star could learn," said jewel musingly. "why, of course there is. tell zeke you wish to teach star to shake hands. he'll help you." this idea pleased jewel very much, and in the fullness of time the feat was accomplished; but by the time the black pony had learned that he must lift his little hoof carefully and put it in his mistress's hand, before his lump of sugar was forthcoming, he wished, like the lady gertrude, that there had never been a yellow dog in the world. when next mrs. evringham, jewel, and anna belle settled in the ravine to the reading of a story, it was jewel's turn to choose. when her mother had finished naming the remaining titles, the child hesitated and lifted her eyebrows and shoulders as she gave the reader a meaning glance. mrs. evringham wondered what was in her mind, and, after a minute's thought, jewel turned to anna belle, sitting wide-eyed against a tree. "just excuse me one minute, dearie," she said; then, coming close to her mother's ear, she whispered:-- "is there anything in 'the talking doll' to hurt anna belle's feelings?" "no, i think she'd rather like it," returned mrs. evringham. "you see," whispered jewel, "she doesn't know she's a doll." "of course not," said mrs. evringham. jewel sat back: "i choose," she said aloud, "i choose 'the talking doll.'" as anna belle only maintained her usual amiable look of interest, mrs. evringham proceeded to read aloud as follows:-- * * * * * when gladys opened her eyes on her birthday morning, the sun was streaming across her room, all decorated in rose and white. it was the prettiest room any little girl could have, and everything about the child looked so bright, one would have expected her to laugh just for sympathy with the gay morning; but as she sat up in bed she yawned instead and her eyes gazed soberly at the dancing sunbeams. "ellen," she called, and a young woman came into the room. "oh, you're awake, miss gladys. isn't this a fine birthday mother nature's fixed up for you?" the pleasant maid helped the little girl to bathe and dress, and, as the toilet went on, tried to bring a cheerful look into gladys's face. "now what are you hoping your mother has for you?" she asked, at last. "i don't know," returned the child, very near a pout. "there isn't anything i want. i've been trying to think what i'd like to have, and i can't think of a thing." she said this in an injured tone, as if the whole world were being unkind to her. ellen shook her head. "you are a very unlucky child," she returned impressively. "i am not," retorted gladys, looking at ellen in astonishment. the idea that she, whom her father and mother watched from morning until night as their greatest treasure, could be called unlucky! she had never expressed a wish in her life that had not been gratified. "you mustn't say such things to me, ellen," added the child, vexed that her maid did not look sorry for having made such a blunder. ellen had taken care of her ever since she was born, and no one should know better what a happy, petted life she had led; but ellen only shook her head now; and when gladys was dressed she went down to the dining-room where her parents were waiting to give her a birthday greeting. they kissed her lovingly, and then her mother said:-- "well, what does my little girl want for her gift?" "what have you for me?" asked gladys, with only faint interest. she had closets and drawers full of toys and books and games, and she was like a person who has been feasted and feasted, and then is asked to sit down again at a loaded table. for answer her mother produced from behind a screen a beautiful doll. it was larger and finer than any that gladys had owned, and its parted, rosy lips showed pearly little teeth within. gladys looked at it without moving, but began to smile. then her mother put her hand about the doll's waist and it suddenly said: "ma-ma--pa-pa." "oh, if she can talk!" cried gladys, looking quite radiant for a minute, and running forward she took the doll in her arms. "her name is vera," said the mother, happy at having succeeded in pleasing her child. "here is something that your grandmother sent you, dear. isn't it a quaint old thing?" and gladys's mother showed her a heavy silver bowl with a cover. on the cover was engraved, "it is more blessed to give than to receive." "i don't know where your grandma found such an odd thing nor why she sent it to a little girl; but she says it will be an heirloom for you." gladys looked at the bowl and handled it curiously. the cover fitted so well and the silver was so bright she was rather pleased at having, such a grown-up possession. "it is evidently valuable," said her mother. "i will have it put with our silver." "no," returned gladys, and her manner was the willful one of a spoiled child. "i want it in my room. i like it." "oh, very well," answered her mother. "grandma will be glad that you are pleased." an excursion into the country had been planned for gladys to-day. she had some cousins there, a girl of her own age and a boy a little older. she had not seen faith and ernest for five years. their father and mother were away on a long visit now, so the children were living in the old farmhouse with an aunt of their father's to take care of them. gladys's mother thought it would be a pleasant change for her in the june weather, and it was an attractive idea to gladys to think of giving these country cousins a sight of her dainty self, her fine clothes, and perhaps she would take them one or two old toys that she liked the least; but the coming of vera put the toy idea completely out of her head. what would faith say to a doll who could talk! gladys was in haste now for the time to come to take the train; and as vera was well supplied with various costumes, the doll was soon arrayed, like her little mamma, in pretty summer street-dress and ready to start. gladys's father had a guest to-day, so his wife remained at home with him, and ellen took charge of the birthday excursion. driving to the station and during the hour's ride on the train, gladys was in gay spirits, chattering about her new doll and arranging its pretty clothes, and each time vera uttered her words, the child would laugh, and ellen laughed with her. gladys was a girl ten years old, but to the maid she was still a baby, and although ellen thought she saw the child's parents making mistakes with her every day, she, like them, was so relieved when gladys was good-natured that she joined heartily in the little girl's pleasure now over her birthday present. "won't faith's eyes open when she sees vera?" asked gladys gayly. "i expect they will," returned ellen. "what have you brought with you for her and her brother?" the child shrugged her shoulders. "nothing. i meant to but i forgot it, because i was so pleased with vera. isn't her hair sweet, ellen?" and gladys twisted the soft, golden locks around her fingers. "yes, but it would have been nice to bring something for those children. they don't have so much as you do." "of course not. i don't believe they have much of anything. you know they're poor. mother sends them money sometimes, so it's all right." and gladys poked the point of her finger within vera's rosy lips and touched her little white teeth. ellen shook her head and gladys saw it and pouted. "why didn't _you_ think of it, then, or mother?" she asked. "you won't have somebody to think for you all your life," returned ellen. "you'd better be beginning to think about other people yourself, gladys. what's that it said on your grandmother's silver bowl?" "oh, i don't know. something about giving and receiving." "yes. 'it is more blessed to give than to receive,' that's what it said," and ellen looked hard at her companion, though with a very soft gaze, too; for she loved this little girl because she had spent many a wakeful night and busy day for her. "yes, i remember," returned gladys. "grandma had that put on because she wanted me to know how much she would rather give me things than have people give things to her. anyway, ellen, if you are going to be cross on my birthday i wish mother had come with me, instead;" and a displeased cloud came over the little-girl's face, which ellen hastened to drive away by changing the subject. she knew her master and mistress would reprove her for annoying their idol. they always said, when their daughter was unusually naughty or selfish, "oh, gladys will outgrow all these things. we won't make much of them." by the time they reached the country station, gladys's spirits were quite restored and, carrying her doll, she left the train with ellen. faith and ernest were there to meet them. no wonder the children did not recognize each other, for they had been so young when last they met; and when gladys's curious eyes fell upon the country girl, she felt like a princess who comes to honor humble subjects with a visit. faith and ernest had never thought about being humble subjects. their rich relative who lived in some unknown place and sometimes sent their mother gifts of money and clothing had often roused their gratitude, and when she had written that their cousin gladys would like to visit the farm on her birthday, they at once set their wits to work to think how they could make her have a good time. they always had a good time themselves, and now that vacation had begun, the days seemed very full of fun and sunshine. they thought it must be hard to live in a city street as their mother had described, it to them, and even though she was away now and could not advise them, they felt as if they could make gladys enjoy herself. faith's hair was shingled as short as her brother's, and her gingham frock was clean and fresh. she watched each person descend from the train, and when a pretty girl with brown eyes and curls appeared, carrying a large doll, faith's bright gaze grew brighter, and she was delighted to find that it was gladys. she took it for granted that kind-faced ellen, so well dressed in black, was her aunt, and greeted her so, but gladys's brown eyes widened. "my mother couldn't come, for father needed her," she explained. "this is my maid, ellen." "oh," said faith, much impressed by such elegance. "we thought aunt helen was coming. ernest is holding the horse over here," and she led the way to a two-seated wagon where a twelve-year-old boy in striped shirt and old felt hat was waiting. faith made the introductions and then helped gladys and ellen into the back seat of the wagon, all unconscious of her cousin's wonder at the absence of silver mountings and broadcloth cushions. then faith climbed over the wheel into the seat beside her brother, and the horse started. she turned about so as to talk more easily with her guest. "what a beautiful doll!" she said admiringly. "yes," returned gladys, "this is my birthday, you know." "oh, then, is it new? i thought it was! hasn't she the prettiest clothes? have you named her yet?" "her name is vera. mother says it means true, or truth, or something like that." ernest turned half around to glance at the object of the girls' admiration; but he thought gladys herself a much more attractive creature than the doll. "i suppose your cousin gladys can't ask you to admire her doll much, master ernest," said ellen. she liked these rosy children at once, and the fresh, sunlit air that had painted their cheeks. "oh, it's pretty enough," returned ernest, turning back and clucking to the horse. gladys enjoyed faith's pleasure. she would not try to show off vera's supreme accomplishment in this rattlety-banging wagon. how it did jounce over occasional stones in the country road! [illustration: "i hear a sheep"] ellen smiled at her as the child took hold of her arm in fear of losing her balance. "that was a 'thank-ye-ma'am,'" she said, as the wagon suddenly bounded over a little hillock. "didn't you see what a pretty curtsy we all made?" but gladys thought it was rather uncomfortable and that ernest drove too fast, considering the state of the toads. "this wagon has such nice springs," said faith. she was eager to take vera into her own hands, but no wonder gladys liked to hold her when she had only had her such a short time. aunt martha was standing on the piazza to welcome the company when they arrived. she was an elderly woman with spectacles, and it had to be explained to her, also, that ellen was not gladys's mother. the maid was so well dressed in her quiet street suit that aunt martha groaned in spirit at first at the prospect of caring for a fashionable city servant; and it was a relief when the stranger looked up and said pleasantly: "i'm just ellen." there was an hour left before dinner, and faith and ernest carried gladys off to a place they called the grove. the farmhouse was painted in light yellow and white. it was built on a grassy slope, and at the foot of a gentle hill a pretty pond lay, and out from this flowed a brook. if one kept quite still he could hear the soft babble of the little stream even from the piazza. nearer by was a large elm-tree, so wide-spreading that the pair of baltimore orioles who hung their swaying nest on one limb scarcely had a bowing acquaintance with the robins who lived on the other side. the air was full of pleasant scents, and gladys followed her hosts willingly, far to the right side of the house, where a stone wall divided the grounds from a piece of woodland. her cousins bounded over the wall, and she tried to find a safe spot for her dainty, thin shoe, the large doll impeding her movements. "oh, let me take her!" cried faith eagerly, seeing her cousin's predicament; and as she carefully lifted the beautiful vera, she added: "help gladys over, ernest." ernest was very unused to girls who had to be helped, and he was rather awkward in trying to give his cousin assistance, but as gladys tetered on the unsteady stones, she grasped his strong shoulder and jumped down. "father and ernest cleared this grove out for us," explained faith. all the underbrush had been carried away and the straight, sweet-smelling pines rose from a carpet of dry needles. a hammock was swung between two trees. it was used more by the children's mother than by them, as they were too active to care for it; but gladys immediately ran toward it, her recovered doll in her arms, and seated herself in the netting. her cousins regarded her admiringly as she sat there pushing herself with her dainty shoe-tips. "i'll swing you," said ernest, and running to her side began with such a will that gladys cried out:-- "oh, not so hard, not so hard!" and the boy dropped his hands, abashed. now, while they were both standing before her, was a good time for gladys to give them her great surprise; so she put her hands about vera's waist, and at once "ma-ma--pa-pa" sounded in the still grove. ernest pricked up his ears. "i hear a sheep," he said, looking about. gladys flushed, but turning toward faith for appreciation, she made the doll repeat her accomplishment. "it's that dear vera!" cried faith, falling on her knees in the pine needles before gladys. "oh, make her do it again, gladys, please do!" her visitor smiled and complied, pleased with her country cousin's delight. "think of a doll that can talk!" cried faith. "i think she bleats," laughed ernest, and he mimicked vera's staccato tones. faith laughed, too, but gladys gave him a flash of her brown eyes. "a boy doesn't know anything about dolls," said faith. "i should think you'd be the happiest girl, gladys!" "i am," returned gladys complacently. "what sort of a doll have you, faith?" "rag, tag, and bobtail," laughed ernest. "now you keep still," said his sister. "i'll show you my dolls when we go to dinner, gladys. i don't play with them very much because ernest doesn't like to, and now it's vacation we're together a lot, you know; but i just love them, and if you were going to stay longer we'd have a lot of fun." faith looked so bright as she spoke, gladys wished she had brought something for her. she wasn't so sure about ernest. he was a nice-looking, strong boy, but he had made fun of vera. at present he was letting off some of his superfluous energy by climbing a tree. "look out for the pitch, ernest," said his sister warningly. "see, gladys, i have a horse out here," and faith went to where the low-growing limb of a pine sprang flexibly as she leaped upon it into an imaginary side-saddle. gladys smiled at her languidly, as she bounded gayly up and down. "i have a pony," returned gladys, rocking gently in her swinging cradle. "that must be splendid," said faith. "ernest rides our old tom bareback around the pasture sometimes, but i can't." very soon the children were called to dinner, and wonderfully good it tasted to gladys, who took note of cottage cheese, apple-butter, and doughnuts, and determined to order them at home the very next day. as they were all rising from the table, a telegraph boy drove up in a buggy, and a telegram was handed to ellen. her face showed surprise as she read it, and she looked at aunt martha. "could we stay here a few days?" she asked. "what is it, ellen?" demanded gladys. "your father's friend wants him and your mother to take a trip with him, and your mother thinks you might like to stay here a while. i'm to answer, and she will send some clothes and things." aunt martha had already learned to like good, sensible ellen, and she replied cordially; so a telegram went back by the messenger boy, and faith and gladys both jumped up and down with pleasure at the prolonging of the visit. ernest looked pleased, too. in spite of gladys's rather languid, helpless ways, he admired her very much; so the children scampered away, being left this time on a chair in the parlor. "do you like turtles?" asked faith of the guest. "i don't know," returned gladys. "didn't you ever see any?" asked ernest in astonishment. "i don't believe so." "then come on!" cried the boy, with a joyous whoop. "we'll go turtle-hunting." gladys skipped along with them until they reached the brook. "now ernest will walk on that side of the water," said faith, "and you and i will go on this." "but what are we going to do?" "watch for turtles. you'll see." ernest jumped across the brook. gladys walked along the soft grass behind faith, and the bubbling little stream swirled around its stones and gently bent its grasses as it ran through the meadow. in a minute faith's practiced eye caught sight of a dark object on a stone directly in front of them. it was a turtle sunning himself. his black shell was covered with bright golden spots, and his eyes were blinking slowly in the warm light. "quick, ernest!" cried faith, for it was on his side. he sprang forward, but not quickly enough. the turtle had only to give one vigorous push of his hind feet and, plump, he fell into the water. instantly the brook became muddy at that point, for mr. turtle knew that he must be a very busy fellow if he escaped from the eager children who were after him. he burrowed into the soft earth while ernest and faith threw themselves flat on their stomachs. gladys opened her brown eyes wide to see her cousins, their sleeves stripped up, plunging their hands blindly about hoping to trap their reluctant playfellow. ernest was successful, and bringing up the muddy turtle, soused him in the water until his golden spots gleamed again. "hurrah!" cried faith, "we have him. let me show him to gladys, please, ernest," and the boy put the turtle into the hand stretched across to him. as soon as the creature found that kicking and struggling did not do any good, it had drawn head, legs, and tail into its pretty shell house. faith put him into gladys's hand, but the little city girl cried out and dropped him on the grass. "oh, excuse me," laughed faith. "i thought you wanted to see it." "i do, but i don't believe i want to touch it." "why, they're the dearest, cleanest things," said faith, and picking up the turtle she showed her cousin its pretty under shell of cream color and black, and the round splashes of gold on its black back. "but i saw it kicking and scratching ernest, and putting its head way out," said gladys doubtfully, "and i don't like to hold it because it might put out all its legs and things again." faith laughed. "it only has four legs and a cunning little tail; and we know how to hold it so it can't scratch us, anyway; but it won't put out its head again until it thinks we've gone away, because this is an old one. see, the shell covers my hand all over. the littler ones are livelier and more willing to put out their heads. i don't believe we've had this one before, ernest," added faith, examining the creature. "we nearly always use the big ones for horses," she explained, "and then there's a gimlet hole through the shell." "who would do that?" exclaimed gladys, drawing back. "ernest. why!" observing her cousin's look of horror. "it doesn't hurt them. we wouldn't hurt them for anything. we just love them, and if they weren't geese they'd love us, too." "use them for horses? what do you mean?" "why, they draw my smallest dolls in lovely chariots." "oh," returned gladys. this sounded mysterious and interesting. she even took the clean, compact shell into her hands for a minute before faith gathered up her dress skirt and dropped the turtle into it, the three proceeding along the brook side, taking up their watch again. the warm, sunny day brought the turtles out, and the next one they saw was not larger than the palm of ernest's hand. it was swimming leisurely with the current. they all three saw it at once, but quick as faith was, the lively little creature was quicker. as she and ernest both darted upon it, it scrambled for her side and burrowed swiftly under the bank. this was the best stronghold for the turtle, and the children knew it. "i just can't lose him, i can't!" cried faith, and gladys wondered at the fearless energy with which she dived her hand into the mud, feeling around, unmindful which portion of the little animal she grasped if she only caught him; and catch him she did. with a squeal of delight she pulled out the turtle, who continued to swim vigorously, even when in mid air. "he's splendid and lively!" exclaimed faith. "you can see him go on the grass, gladys," and the little girl put the creature down, heading him away from the brook, and he made good time, thinking he was getting away from his captor. "you see, ernest harnesses them to a little pasteboard box, and i put in my smallest dolls and we have more _fun_;" but by this time the turtle realized that he was traveling inland, and turned around suddenly in the opposite direction. "no, no, pet!" cried faith gayly. "not yet," and she picked up the lively one. "see, you hold them this way;" she held the shell between her thumb and middle finger and the sharp little claws sawed the air in vain. "there, cunning," she added, looking into the turtle's bright eyes, "go see your auntie or uncle, or whoever it is," and she put it into her dress with the other one, and they walked on. "i hope we shall find a prince," said ernest, "gladys ought to see one of those." "yes, indeed," responded faith. "they're snapping turtles, really, and they grow bigger than these common ones; but they're so handsome and hard to find we call them princes. their shells are gray on top and smooth and polished, like satin; and then, underneath, oh, they're beautiful; sometimes plain ivory, and sometimes bright red; and they have lovely yellow and black splashes where the lower shell joins the upper. i wish you could see a baby turtle, gladys. once i found one no bigger than a quarter of a dollar. i don't believe it had ever been in the water." "i wish i could," returned gladys, with enthusiasm. "i wouldn't be a bit afraid of a little, _little_ one." "of course that one she found was just a common turtle, like these," said ernest, "but a baby prince is the thing we want." "yes, indeed," sighed faith ecstatically. "if i could just once find a baby prince with a red under shell, i don't know what i'd do! i'd be too happy for anything. i've hunted for one for two whole summers. the big ones do snap so that, though they're so handsome, you can't have much fun with them." the children walked on, gladys now quite in the spirit of the hunt. they found two more spotted turtles before they turned again to retrace their steps. now it proved that this was to be a red-letter day in the history of their turtle hunts, for on the way home they found the much sought baby prince. he had been in this world long enough to become a polished little creature, with all his points of beauty brought out; but not long enough to be suspicious and to make a wild scramble when he saw the children coming. faith's trained eyes fell first upon the tiny, dark object, sunning himself happily in all his baby innocence, and blinking at the lovely green world surrounding his shallow stone. her heart beat fast and she said to herself, "oh, i _know_ it's a common one!" she tiptoed swiftly nearer. it was not a common one. it was a prince! it _was_ a prince! she didn't know whether to laugh or cry, as, holding her skirt-bag of turtles with one hand, she lightly tiptoed forward, and, falling on her knees in front of the stone, gathered up the prince, just as he saw her and pushed with his tiny feet to slip off the rock into the brook. "oh, oh, _oh_!" was all she could say as she sat there, swaying herself back and forth, and holding the baby to her flushed cheek. "what is it? what?" cried ernest, jumping across the brook to her side. she smiled at him and gladys without a word, and held up her prize, showing the pretty red under shell, while the baby, very much astonished to find himself turned over in mid air, drew himself into his house. "oh, the cunning, _cunning_ thing!" cried gladys, her eyes flashing radiantly. "i'm so glad we found him!" gladys, like a good many beside herself, became fired with enthusiasm to possess whatever she saw to be precious in the sight of others. yesterday, had she seen the baby prince in some store she would not have thought of asking her mother to buy it for her; but to-day it had been captured, a little wild creature for which faith had been searching and hoping during two summers; and poor gladys had been so busy all her life wondering what people were going to get for her, and wondering whether she should like it very well when she had it, that now, instead of rejoicing that faith had such a pleasure, she began to feel a hot unrest and dissatisfaction in her breast. "he is a little beauty," she said, and then looked at her cousin and waited for her to present to her guest the baby turtle. "why didn't i see it first?" she thought, her heart beating fast, for faith showed no sign of giving up her treasure. "do you suppose we could find another?" she asked aloud, making her wistfulness very apparent as they again took up the march toward home. "well, i guess not," laughed ernest. "two of those in a day? i guess not. let me carry it for you, faith. you have to hold up your dress skirt." "oh, thank you, ernest, i don't mind, and he's _so_ cunning!" ernest kept on with the girls, now, on their side of the brook. it would be an anti-climax to catch any more turtles this afternoon. "if i could find one," said gladys, "i would carry it home for my aquarium." "oh, have you an aquarium?" asked faith with interest. "yes, a fine one. it has gold and silver fish and a number of little water creatures, and a grotto with plants growing around it." "how lovely it must be," said faith, and gladys saw her press her lips to the baby prince's polished back. "she's an awfully selfish girl," thought gladys. "i wouldn't treat company so for anything!" "you'll see the aquarium faith and i have," said ernest. "it's only a tub, but we get a good deal of fun out of it. it's our stable, too, you see. did you notice we caught one of our old horses to-day? let's see him, faith," and ernest poked among the turtles and brought out one with a little hole made carefully in the edge of his shell. "it seems very cruel to me," said gladys, with a superior air. "oh, it isn't," returned faith eagerly. "we'd rather hurt each other than the turtles, wouldn't we, ernest?" "i guess so," responded the boy, rather gruffly. he didn't wish gladys to think him too good. "it doesn't hurt them a bit," went on faith, "but you know turtles are lazy. they're all relations of the tortoise that raced with the hare in Ã�sop's fable." her eyes sparkled at gladys, who smiled slightly. "and they aren't very fond of being horses, so we only keep them a day or two and then let them go back into the brook. i think that's about as much fun as anything, don't you, ernest?" "oh, i don't know," responded her brother, who was beginning to feel that all this turtle business was a rather youthful pastime for a member of a baseball team. "you see," went on faith, "we put the turtles on the grass only a foot or two away from the brook, and wait." "and we do have to wait," added ernest, "for they always retire within themselves and pull down the blind, as soon as we start off with them anywhere." "but we press a little on their backs," said faith, "and then they put out their noses, and when they smell the brook they begin to travel. it's such fun to see them dive in, _ker-chug_! then they scurry around and burrow in the mud, getting away from us, just as if we weren't willing they should. they are pretty silly, i must say," laughed faith, "and it's the hardest thing to make them understand that you love them; but," her tone changed tenderly as she held up the baby prince, "_you'll_ know i love you, won't you, dear, when i give you tiny little pieces of meat every day!" the cloud on gladys's face deepened. "come on, let's hustle and put the turtles away and go for a row. do you like to row, gladys?" asked ernest. "yes, i guess so," she responded, rather coldly. they ran up the hill to the side of the house where was a shallow tub of water with a rock in the middle, its top high and dry. there was also a floating shingle; so the steeds could swim or sun themselves just as suited their fancy. the upper edge of the tub was covered with tin so that sharp little claws could not find a way to climb out. "it's fun to see them go in," said faith, placing one on the rock and one on the shingle, where they rested at first without sign of life; but in a minute out came head and legs and, spurning the perches with their strong feet, plump the turtles went into the water and to the bottom, evidently convinced that they were outwitting their captors. "don't you want to choose one special one for yours, gladys? it's fun to name them," said faith. the visitor hesitated only a moment. "i choose the baby, then," she said. "you know i'm afraid of the big ones." ernest thought she was joking. it did not occur to him that any one who had seen faith's happiness in finding the prince could seriously think of taking it from her. "yes," he laughed, "i guess you and i won't get a chance at that one, gladys." faith's expression changed and her eyes grew thoughtful. "hurry up, girls," continued ernest, "come on, we won't have very much time." so the turtles, prince and all, were left disporting themselves in the tub, and the trio went down to the pond, where ernest untied his boat. faith jumped in, but gladys timorously placed her little foot upon the unsteady gunwale, and the children had to help her into the boat as they had done over the wall. "i wish i'd brought vera," she said when she was seated and ernest was pushing the boat off. "next time we will," replied faith. "i don't see why ernest couldn't go back for her now," said gladys. "i'm not used to walking so much and i'm too tired to go myself." "you want me to run up the hill after a _doll_!" asked the boy, laughing. he began to believe his pretty cousin was very fond of joking. "something might happen to her before you saw her," he added mischievously. the pond was a charming sheet of water. trees lined its edges in summer, and it was a great place for sport in winter. faith and ernest chattered to their cousin of all the coasting and skating, and their bright faces and jolly stories only increased the uncomfortable feeling that gladys had allowed to slip into her heart. her cousins had more fun than she did. it wasn't fair. she had no eyes for the pretty scenery about her, as ernest's strong arms sent the boat flying along. faith noticed her changed looks and for the first time wondered how it was going to seem to have gladys to take care of for--they couldn't tell how long; but she only tried the harder to bring back the bright look her cousin had worn at dinner time. in a few minutes gladys began to rock the boat from side to side. "don't do that, please," said ernest. there was a tone of command in his voice, and the spoiled child only rocked the harder. "none of that, i tell you, gladys," he said sharply. "please don't," added faith. but the error that gladys had let creep in was enjoying her cousin's anxiety, and she smiled teasingly as she went on rocking. she had condescended to come out to the farm, and she would let these country children see if they could order her about. ernest said no more, but he promptly turned the boat around and pulled for the shore. "what are you doing?" asked gladys. "going ashore." "i don't want to," she exclaimed, her cheeks flushing. "i want to go up there." she pointed to a spot in the distance. "i want to go around that corner and see what there is there." "not to-day," replied ernest, pulling sturdily. we won't look into gladys's heart and see what went on there then, because it is too unpleasant. "you see we're the crew," said faith, a little scared by her cousin's flashing eyes and crimson cheeks. "we have to do what ernest says. he knows a lot about boats, gladys, and it _is_ dangerous to rock. the pond is real deep." "i shall come out in the boat alone, then," declared gladys. "oh, no, you won't," remarked ernest, smiling. "people that rock boats need a keeper." faith's eyes besought him, "i'll take you out to-morrow if you'll promise to sit still," he went on; "but if anything happened to the boat, you see i couldn't save both of you, and i'd be likely to try to save faith; so you'd better go ashore now and think it over." gladys stared at him in utter amazement that any one could speak to her so. why had she ever come to the farm! however, she quickly put on a little air of indifference and only said:-- "how silly to be so afraid!" all she cared for now was to get to ellen and pour out her troubles, and she was quite silent while she jumped ashore, although the wavering boat made her clutch faith's hand hard. tender-hearted faith felt very sorry for her cousin, so she began talking about vera as they went up the hill saying how anxious she was to hear her speak again. "i'll never let you!" exclaimed that strong error that had taken possession of gladys, but her lips set tight and she was glad to see ellen come out on the piazza. as the children approached they saw that the maid had something bright in her hand, and that she was smiling. "well, gladys," she said, "your mother's sent a trunk, and this was with your clothes. what do you think of that? i expect your mother thought you might like to have it." gladys recognized the silver bowl with satisfaction. she was glad to have faith and ernest see the sort of things she was used to. "oh, it looks like a wishing bowl," cried faith in admiration. "it is a solid silver bowl that my grandmother sent me for my birthday," remarked gladys coolly, and she took it from ellen. "let's see what it says on it," said faith, and she read the inscription aloud. then she added: "it does look just like the wishing bowl in our story." "what was that?" asked gladys. "why, it was a bright, beautiful silver bowl with a cover, and all you had to do if you wanted something was to say:-- pretty little silver dish, give me, pray, my dearest wish; and then, when you took off the cover, whatever you had asked for was in the bowl!" gladys shrugged her shoulders. then she took hold of ellen's hand and drew her into the house and closed the door after them. faith and ernest did not attempt to follow. they sat down on the steps and looked at one another. "she's hopping, isn't she?" said ernest softly. "oh, dear," returned faith dejectedly, "and it all began with the baby prince." "what do you mean?" "she wants him for her aquarium." ernest paused a minute to think over his cousin's words and actions; then he broke out indignantly; "well, she won't get him." "i have hunted for him so long!" mourned faith, "and his shell is so red; but, ernest, didn't you notice what it said on that bowl?" "yes, i did; but gladys is a great baby and she isn't going to get everything. tell her you'll exchange the prince for that baa-ing doll of hers, if you like it. i tell you what, faith, i've had about enough of her after that boat business. if she's going to stay on here i shall go off with the fellows." meanwhile gladys had seized the beautiful vera and drawn ellen off upstairs to their room. the maid saw the signs of storm in her face, and her own grew troubled, for it was one thing to vex gladys and quite another to appease her. "i'm not going to stay here," announced the little girl, as soon as the door was closed, her breath coming fast. "faith and ernest are the most selfish, impolite children i ever saw!" ellen sighed, and, sitting down, drew the child into her lap. she continued excitedly: "we went turtle-hunting and found a lot of scrabbly things that i couldn't bear, but faith and ernest like them. then when we found a pretty little young one that i wouldn't be a bit afraid of, faith kept it for herself. just think, when i was company, and she had all the others beside. i'm just crazy to have it, and they're _very_ hard to find and we can't _ever_ find another. shouldn't you think she'd feel ashamed? then when, we went out in the boat, just because i moved around a little and made the boat rock, ernest brought us in when i didn't want to come a bit. i even _told_ him i didn't want to come in, because i wanted to see a part of the pond that looked pretty, but he brought us just the same. did you ever _hear_ of such impoliteness?" ellen had had too much experience with the little girl not to know that there was another side to this story; but she gathered gladys down in her arms with the curly head on her shoulder, and, while a few hot tears fell from the brown eyes, she rocked her, and it comforted the little girl's sore places to feel her nurse's love. "i'm glad ernest brought you in," said ellen, after a minute of silent rocking. "if anything happened to you, you know that would be the last of poor ellen. i could never go back to town." gladys gave a sob or two. "these children haven't nearly so much as you have," went on ellen quietly. "perhaps faith was as happy over the little turtle as you are over your talking doll. she hasn't any rich mother to give her things, you know." "they have _lots_ of things. they have a great deal more fun in winter than i do," returned gladys hotly. ellen patted her. "you have too much, gladys," she replied kindly. "when i said this morning that you were unlucky, you couldn't understand it; but perhaps this visit to the farm will make you see differently. there's such a thing as having too much, dear, and that sentence on your silver bowl is as true as true. now there's the supper bell. let me wash your face." gladys was deeply offended, but she was also hungry, and she began to wonder if there would be apple-butter and cottage cheese again. there was, and the little girl did full justice to the supper, especially to aunt martha's good bread and butter; but when the meal was over she refused to go out and romp on the lawn with her cousins. "gladys isn't used to so much running around," said ellen pleasantly to the other children. "i guess she's a pretty sleepy girl and will get into bed early." so when ellen had helped aunt martha with the supper dishes, gladys went upstairs with her, to go to bed. she was half undressed when some one knocked softly, and faith came into the room. the silver bowl stood on a table near the door, and the little girl paused to look at it and examine the wreath of roses around its edge. "i never saw one so handsome," she said. then she came forward. "i thought perhaps you'd let me see you undress vera," she added. "she is undressed," answered gladys shortly. "oh, yes!" faith went up to the bed where the doll lay in its nightdress. "may i make her speak once?" "no, i'm afraid you might hurt her," returned gladys shortly, and ellen gave her a reproachful look. gladys didn't care! how could a girl expect to be so selfish as faith, and then have everybody let her do just what she wanted to? faith drew back from the bed. "i wish you'd let me see you wish once on your bowl before i go away," she said. "how silly," returned gladys. "do you suppose i believe in such things? you can wish on it yourself, if you like." "oh, that wouldn't be any use," returned faith eagerly, "because it only works for the one it belongs to." "perhaps you wouldn't like to have me make a wish and get it," said gladys, thinking of the baby prince's lovely polished tints and bewitching little tail. "yes, i would. i'd _love_ to. do, gladys, do, and see what happens." gladys curved her lips scornfully, but the strong wish sprang in her thought, and with a careless movement she pulled off the silver cover. her mouth fell open and her eyes grew as big as possible; for she had wished for the prince, and there he was, creeping about in the bowl and lifting his little head in wonder at his surroundings. "why, faith!" was all she could say. "where did it come from?" "the brook, of course," returned faith, clapping her hands in delight at her cousin's amazement. "take him out and let's see whether he's red or plain ivory underneath." "will he scrabble?" asked gladys doubtfully. "no-o," laughed faith. so the little city girl took up the turtle and lo, he was as beautiful a red as the one of the afternoon. "isn't he lovely!" she exclaimed, not quite liking to look her cousin in the eyes. "where shall i put him for to-night?" "we'll put a little water in your wash-bowl, not much, for they are so smart about climbing out." ellen, also, was gazing at the royal infant. "he is a pretty little thing," she said, "but for pity's sake, faith, fix it so he won't get on to my bare feet!" later, when they were alone and ellen kissed gladys good-night, she looked closely into her eyes "now you're happier, i suppose," she said. "of course. won't he be cunning in my aquarium?" asked gladys, returning her look triumphantly. "yes." vera was in bed, also, and to please the child, ellen stooped and kissed the doll's forehead, too. "god be good," she said gently, "to the poor little girl who gets everything she wants!" a few minutes after the light was out and ellen had gone, gladys pulled vera nearer to her. "wasn't that a silly sort of thing for ellen to say?" she asked. "i don't think so," returned vera. gladys drew back. "did you answer me?" she said. "certainly i did." "then you really can talk!" exclaimed gladys joyfully. "at night i can," said vera. "oh, i'm so glad. i'm so glad!" and gladys hugged her. "i'm not so sure that you will be," returned vera coolly. "why not?" "because i have to speak the truth. you know my name is vera." "well, i should hope so. did you suppose i wouldn't want you to speak the truth?" gladys laughed. "yes. you don't hear it very often, and you may not like it." "why, what a thing to say!" "ellen tries, sometimes, but you won't listen." gladys kept still and her companion proceeded: "she knows all the toys and books and clothes and pets that you have at home, and she sees you forgetting all of them because faith has just one thing pretty enough for you to wish for." by this time gladys had found her tongue. "you're just as impolite as you can be, vera!" she exclaimed. "of course. you always think people are impolite who tell you the truth; but i explained to you that i have to. who was impolite when you rocked the boat, although ernest asked you not to?" "he was as silly as he could be to think there was any danger. don't you suppose i know enough not to rock it too far? and then think how impolite he was to say right out that he would save faith instead of me if we fell into the water. i can tell you my father would lock him up in prison if he didn't save me." "well, you aren't so precious to anybody else," returned vera. "why would people want a girl around who thinks only of herself and what she wants. i'm sure faith and ernest will draw a long breath when you get on the cars to go back." "oh, i don't believe they will," returned gladys, ready to cry. "what have you done to make them glad you came? you didn't bring them anything, although you knew they couldn't have many toys, and it was because you were so busy thinking how much lovelier your doll was than anything faith could have. then the minute faith found one nice thing"-- "don't say that again," interrupted gladys. "you've said it once." "you behaved so disagreeably that she had to give it to you." "you have no right to talk so. the prince came up from the brook, faith said so." "oh, she was playing a game with you and she knew you understood. it isn't pleasant to have to say such things to you, gladys, but i'm vera and i have to--i shouldn't think you could lift your head up and look faith and ernest in the face to-morrow morning. what must ernest think of you!" gladys's cheeks were very hot. "didn't you see how glad faith was when she gave--i mean when i found the prince in the bowl? i guess you haven't read what it says on that silver cover or you wouldn't talk so." "oh, yes, i have. that's truth, too, but you haven't found it out yet." "well, i wish i had brought them something," said gladys, after a little pause. "why," with a sudden thought, "there's the wishing-bowl. i'll get something for them right now!" she jumped out of bed, and striking a match, lighted the candle. vera followed her, and as gladys seated herself on one side of the little table that held the silver bowl, vera climbed into a chair on the other side. gladys looked into her eyes thoughtfully while she considered. she would give faith something so far finer than the baby prince that everybody would praise her for her generosity, and no one would remember that she had ever been selfish. ah, she knew what she would ask for! "for faith first," she said, addressing vera, then looking at the glinting bowl she silently made her wish, then with eager hand lifted off the cover. ah! ah! what did she behold! a charming little bird, whose plumage changed from purple to gold in the candle light, stood on a tiny golden stand at the bottom of the bowl. gladys lifted it out, and as soon as it stood on her hand, it began to warble wonderfully, turning its head from side to side like some she had seen in switzerland when she was there with her mother. "oh, vera, isn't it _sweet_!" she cried in delight. "beautiful!" returned vera, smiling and clapping her little hands. when the song ceased gladys looked thoughtful again. "i don't think it's a very appropriate present for faith," she said, "and i've always wanted one, but we could never find one so pretty in our stores." vera looked at her very soberly. "now you just stop staring at me like that, vera. i guess it's mine, and i have a right to keep it if i can think of something that would please faith better. now let me see. i must think of something for ernest. i'll just give him something so lovely that he'll wish he'd bitten his tongue before he spoke so to me in the boat." gladys set the singing bird in her lap, fixed her eyes on the bowl, and again decided on a wish. taking off the cover, a gold watch was seen reposing on the bottom of the bowl. "that's it, that's what i wished for!" she cried gladly, and she took out the little watch, which was a wonder. on its side was a fine engraving of boys and girls skating on a frozen pond. gladys's bright eyes caught sight of a tiny spring, which she touched, and instantly a fairy bell struck the hour and then told off the quarters and minutes. "oh, it's a repeater like uncle frank's!" she cried, "and so small, too! mother said i couldn't have one until i was grown up. won't she be surprised! i don't mean to tell her for ever so long where i got it." "i thought it was for ernest," remarked vera quietly. "why, vera," returned the child earnestly, "i should think you'd see that no boy ought to have a watch like that. if it was a different _kind_ i'd give it to him, of course." "yes, if it wasn't pretty and had nothing about it that you liked, you'd give it to him, i suppose; and if the bird couldn't sing, and had dark, broken feathers so that no child would care about it, you'd give it to faith, no doubt." gladys felt her face burn. she knew this was the truth, but oh, the entrancing bird, how could she see it belong to another? how could she endure to see ernest take from his pocket this watch and show people its wonders! "selfishness is a cruel thing," said vera. "it makes a person think she can have a good time being its slave until all of a sudden the person finds out that she has chains on that cannot be broken. you think you can't break that old law of selfishness that makes it misery to you to see another child have something that you haven't. poor, unhappy gladys!" "oh, but this bird, vera!" gladys looked down at the little warbler. what did she see! a shriveled, sorry, brown creature, its feathers broken. she lifted it anxiously. no song was there. its poor little beady eyes were dull. she dropped it in disgust and again picked up the watch. what had happened to it? the cover was brass, the picture was gone. pushing the spring had no effect. "oh, faith and ernest can have them now!" cried gladys. presto! in an instant bird and watch had regained every beauty they had lost, and twinkled and tinkled upon the astonished child's eyes and ears until she could have hugged them with delight; but suddenly great tears rolled from her eyes, for she had a new thought. "what does this mean, vera? will they only be beautiful for faith and ernest?" "you asked for them to enjoy the blessing of giving, you know, not to keep for yourself. beside, they showed a great truth when they grew dull." "how?" asked gladys tearfully. "that is the way they would look to you in a few months, after you grew tired of them; for it is the punishment of the selfish, spoiled child, that her possessions disgust her after a while. there is only one thing that lives, and remains bright, and brings us happiness,--that is thoughtful love for others. there's nothing else, gladys, there is nothing else. i am vera." "and i have none of it, none!" cried the unhappy child, and rising, she threw herself upon the bed, broken-hearted, and sobbed and sobbed. ellen heard her and came in from the next room. "what is it, my lamb, what is it?" she asked, approaching the bed anxiously. "oh, ellen, i can't tell you. i can never tell you!" wailed the child. "well, move over, dearie. i'll push vera along and there'll be room for us all. there, darling, come in ellen's arms and forget all about it." gladys cuddled close, and after a few more catches in her breath, she slept soundly. when she wakened, the sunlight was streaming through the plain room, gilding everything as it had done in her rose and white bower yesterday at home. ellen was moving about, all dressed. gladys turned over and looked at vera, pretty and innocent, her eyes closed and her lips parted over little white teeth. the child came close to the doll. the wonderful dream returned vividly. "your name is vera. you had to," she whispered, and closed her eyes. "how is the baby prince?" she asked, after a minute, jumping out of bed. "he's lively, but i expect he's as hungry as you are. what's he going to have?" "meat," replied gladys, looking admiringly at the pretty little creature. "i brought in my wash-bowl for your bath. i suppose princes can't be disturbed," said ellen. while she buttoned gladys's clothes, the little girl looked at the silver bowl, and the chairs where she and vera had sat last night in her dream. she even glanced about to see some sign of watch and bird, but could not find them. how busily her thoughts were working! sensible ellen said nothing of bad dreams; and by the time gladys went downstairs, her face looked interested and happy. after all, it wasn't as though there wasn't any god to help a person, and she had said a very fervent prayer, with her nose buried in vera's golden curls, before she jumped out of bed. she had the satin shell of the baby prince in her hand. he had drawn into it because he was very uncertain what was going to happen to him; but gladys knew. she said good-morning to her cousins so brightly that faith was pleased; but pretty as she looked, smiling, ernest saw the prince in her hand and was more offended with her than ever. "i want to thank you, faith," she said, "for letting the baby stay in my room all night. i had the most fun watching him while i was dressing." she put the little turtle into her cousin's hand. "oh, but i gave him to you," replied faith earnestly. "after you hunted for him for two summers, i couldn't be so mean as to take him. i'm just delighted you found him, faith," and gladys had a very happy moment then, for she found she _was_ happy. "let's give him some bits of meat." "she's all right," thought ernest, with a swift revulsion of feeling, and he was as embarrassed as he was astonished when his cousin turned suddenly to him:-- "if you'll take me in the boat again," she said, "i won't rock. i'm sorry i did." "it _is_ a fool trick," blurted out ernest, "but you're all right, gladys. i'll take you anywhere you want to go." ellen had heard this conversation. later in the morning she was alone for a minute with gladys, and the little girl said:-- "don't you think it would be nice, ellen, when we get home, to make up a box of pretty things and send to faith and ernest?" "i do, that," replied the surprised ellen. "i'm going to ask mother if i can't send them my music-box. they haven't any piano." "why, you couldn't get another, gladys." "i don't care," replied the child firmly. "it would be so nice for evenings and rainy days." she swallowed, because she had not grown tired of the music box. ellen put her hands on the little girl's brow and cheeks and remembered the sobbing in the night. "do you feel well, gladys?" she asked, with concern. this unnatural talk alarmed her. "i never felt any better," replied the child. "well, i wouldn't say anything to them about the music-box, dearie." gladys smiled. "i know. you think i'd be sorry after i let it go; but if i am i'll talk with vera." ellen laughed. "do you think it will always be enough for you to hear her say 'ma-ma, pa-pa?'" she asked. gladys smiled and looked affectionately at her good friend; but her lips closed tightly together. ellen knew all that vera did; but the nurse loved her still! the child was to have many a tussle with the hard mistress whose chains she had worn all her short life, but truth had spoken, and she had heard; and love was coming to help in setting her free. chapter xiii a heroic offer jewel told her grandfather the tale of the talking doll while they walked their horses through a favorite wood-road, mr. evringham keeping his eyes on the animated face of the story-teller. his own was entirely impassive, but he threw in an exclamation now and then to prove his undivided attention. "_you_ know it's more blessed to give than to receive, don't you, grandpa?" added jewel affectionately, as she finished; "because you're giving things to people all the time, and nobody but god can give you anything." "i don't know about that," returned the broker. "have you forgotten the yellow chicken you gave me?" "no," returned jewel seriously; "but i've never seen anything since that i thought you would care for." mr. evringham nodded. "i think," he said confidentially, "that you have given me something pretty nice in your mother. do you know, i'm very glad that she married into our family." "yes, indeed," replied jewel, "so am i. just supposing i had had some other grandpa!" the two shook their heads at one another gravely. there were some situations that could not be contemplated. "why do you suppose i can't find any turtles in my brook?" asked the child, after a short pause. "mother says perhaps they like meadows better than shady ravines." "perhaps they do; but," and the broker nodded knowingly, "there's another reason." "why, grandpa, why?" asked jewel eagerly. "oh, nature is such a neat housekeeper!" "why, turtles must be lovely and clean." "yes, i know; and if summer would just let the brook alone you might find a baby turtle for anna belle." "she'd love it. her eyes nearly popped out when mother was telling about it." "well, there it is, you see. now i'd be ashamed to have you see that brook in august, jewel." mr. evringham slapped the pommel of his saddle to emphasize the depth of his feelings. "why, what happens?" "dry--as--a--bone!" "it _is_?" "yes, indeed. we shan't have been long at the seashore when summer will have drained off every drop of water in that brook." "what for?" "house-cleaning, of course. i suppose she scrubs out and sweeps out the bed of that brook before she'll let a bit of water come in again." "well, she _is_ fussy," laughed jewel. "even mrs. forbes wouldn't do that." "i ask you," pursued mr. evringham, "what would the turtles do while the war was on?" "why, they couldn't live there, of course. well, we won't be here while the ravine is empty of the brook, will we, grandpa? i shouldn't like to see it." "no, we shall be where there's 'water, water everywhere.' even summer won't attempt to houseclean the bottom of the sea." jewel thought a minute. "i wish she wouldn't do that," she said wistfully; "because turtles would be fun, wouldn't they, grandpa?" mr. evringham regarded her quizzically. "i see what you want me to do," he replied. "you want me to give up wall street and become the owner of a menagerie, so you can have every animal that was ever heard of." jewel smiled and shook her head. "i don't believe i do yet. we'll have to wait till everybody loves to be good." "what has that to do with it?" "then the lions and tigers will be pleasant." "will they, indeed?" mr. evringham laughed. "all those good people won't shut them up in cages then, i fancy." "no, i don't believe they will," replied jewel. "but about those turtles," continued her grandfather. "how would you like it next spring for me to get some for you for the brook?" jewel's eyes sparkled. "wouldn't that be the most _fun_?" she returned,--"but then there's summer again," she added, sobering. "what's the reason that we couldn't drive with them to the nearest river before the brook ran dry?" "perhaps we could," replied jewel hopefully "doesn't mother tell the _nicest_ stories, grandpa?" "she certainly does; and some of the most wonderful you don't hear at all. she tells them to me after you have gone to bed." "then you ought to tell them to me," answered jewel, "just the way i tell mine to you." mr. evringham shook his head. "they probably wouldn't make you open your eyes as wide as i do mine; you're used to them. they're christian science stories. your mother has been treating my rheumatism, jewel. what do you think of that?" "oh, i'm glad," replied the child heartily, "because then you've asked her to." "how do you know i have?" "because she wouldn't treat you if you hadn't, and mother says when people are willing to ask for it, then that's the beginning of everything good for them. you know, grandpa," jewel leaned toward him lovingly and added softly, "you know even _you_ have to meet mortal mind." "i shouldn't wonder," responded the broker dryly. "and it's so proud, and hates to give up so," said jewel. "i'm an old dog," returned mr. evringham. "teaching me new tricks is going to be no joke, but your mother undertakes it cheerfully. i'm reading that book, 'science and health;' and she says i may have to read it through three times before i get the hang of it." "i don't believe you will, grandpa, because it's just as _plain_," said the child. "you'll help me, jewel?" "yes, indeed i will;" the little girl's face was radiant. "and won't mr. reeves be glad to see you coming to church with us?" "i don't know whether i shall ever make mr. reeves glad in that way or not. i'm doing this to try to understand something of what you and your mother are so sure of, and what has made a man of your father. more than that, if there is any eternity for us, i propose to stick to you through it, and it may be more convenient to study here than off in some dim no-man's-land in the hereafter. if i remain ignorant, who can tell but the power that is will whisk you away from me by and by." jewel gathered the speaker's meaning very well, and now she smiled at him with the look he loved best; all her heart in her eyes. "he wouldn't. god isn't anybody to be afraid of," she said. "why, it tells us all through the bible to fear god." "yes, of course it tells us to fear to trouble the one who loves us the best of all. just think how even you and i would fear to hurt one another, and god is keeping us _alive_ with _his_ love!" half an hour afterward their horses cantered up the drive toward the house. mrs. evringham was seated on the piazza, sewing. her husband had sent the summer wardrobe promptly, and she wore now a thin blue gown that looked charmingly comfortable. "genuine!" thought her father-in-law, as he came up the steps and met a smiling welcome from her clear eyes. he liked the simple manner in which she dressed her hair. he liked her complexion, and carriage, and voice. "i don't know but that you have the better part here on the piazza, it is so warm," he said, "but i have been thinking of you rather remorsefully this afternoon, julia. these excursions of jewel's and mine are growing to seem rather selfish. have you ever learned to ride?" "never, and i don't wish to. please believe how supremely content i am." "my carriages are small. it is so long since i've had a family. when we return i shall get one that will hold us all." "oh, yes, grandpa," cried jewel enthusiastically. "you and i on the front seat, driving, and mother and father on the back seat." "well, we have more than two months to decide how we shall sit. i fancy it will oftener be your father and mother in the phaeton and you and i on our noble steeds, eh, jewel?" "yes, i think so, too," she returned seriously. mr. evringham smiled slightly at his daughter. "the occasions when we differ are not numerous enough to mention," he remarked. "i hope it may always be so," she replied, going on with her work. "this looks like moving," observed the broker, wiping his forehead with his pocket-handkerchief and looking about on the still, green scene. "i think we had better plan to go to the shore next week." julia smiled and sighed. "very well, but any change seems as if it might be for the worse," she said. "then you've never tried summer in new jersey," he responded. "i hear you are a great story-teller, julia. if i should wear some large bows behind my ears, couldn't i come to some of these readings?" as no laugh from jewel greeted this sally, he looked down at her. she was gazing off wistfully. "what is it, jewel?" he asked. "i was wondering if it wouldn't seem a long time to essex maid and star without us!" "dear me, dear me, how little you do know those horses!" and the broker shook his head. "why, grandpa? will they like it?" "do you suppose for one minute that you could make them stay at home?" "are they going with us, grandpa?" jewel began to hop joyfully, but her habit interfered. "certainly. they naturally want to see what sort of bits and bridles are being worn at the seashore this year." "do you realize what unfashionable people you are proposing to take, yourself, father?" asked julia. she was visited by daily doubts in this regard. the broker returned her glance gravely. "have you ever seen jewel's silk dress?" he asked. the child beamed at him. "she _made_ it!" she announced triumphantly. "then you must know," said mr. evringham, "that it would save any social situation." julia laughed over her sewing. "my machine came to-day," she said. "i meant to make something a little fine, but if we go in a few days"-- "don't think of it," replied the host hastily. "you are both all right. i don't want you to see a needle. i'm sorry you are at it now." "but i like it. i really do." "i'm going to take you to the coolest place on long island, but not to the most fashionable." "that is good news," returned julia, "run along, jewel, and dress for dinner." "in one minute," put in mr. evringham. "she and i wish your opinion of something first." he disappeared for a moment into the house and came back with a flat package which jewel watched with curious eyes while he untied the string. silently he placed a photograph in his daughter's lap while the child leaned eagerly beside her. "why, why, how good!" exclaimed mrs. evringham, and jewel's eyes glistened. "isn't grandpa's nose just splendid!" she said fervently. "why, father, this picture will be a treasure," went on julia. color had risen in her face. the photograph showed jewel standing beside her grandfather seated, and her arm was about his neck. it was such a natural attitude that she had taken it while waiting for the photographer to be ready. the daisy-wreathed hat hung from her hand, and she had not known when the picture was taken. it was remarkably lifelike, and the broker regarded it with a satisfaction none the less keen because he let the others do all the talking. "and now we don't need it, grandpa," said the child. "oh, indeed we do!" exclaimed the mother; and jewel, catching her grandfather's eyes, lifted her shoulders. what did her mother know of their secret! mr. evringham smoothed his mustache. "no harm to have it, jewel," he replied, nodding at her. "no harm; a very good plan, in fact; for i suppose, even to oblige me, you can't refrain from growing up. and next we must get star's picture, with you on his back." "but you weren't on essex maid's," objected jewel. "we'll have it taken both ways, then. it's best always to be on the safe side." from this day on there was no more chance for jewel to hear a tale in the story book, until the move to the seashore was accomplished, for hot weather had evidently come to stay in bel-air park. mrs. evringham felt loath to leave its green, still loveliness and her large shady rooms; but the new jerseyite's heat panic had seized upon her father-in-law, and he pushed forward the preparations for flight. "i can't pity you for remaining here," julia said to mrs. forbes on the morning of departure. "no, ma'am, you don't need to," returned the housekeeper. "zeke and i are going off on trips, and we, calculate to have a pretty good time of it. i've been wanting to speak to you, mrs. evringham, about a business matter," continued mrs. forbes, her manner indicating that she had constrained herself to make an effort. "mr. evringham tells me you and mr. harry are to make your home with him. it's a good plan," emphatically, "as right as right can be; for what he would do without jewel isn't easy to think of; but it's given me a lot to consider. i won't be necessary here any more," the housekeeper tried to conceal what the statement cost her. she endeavored to continue, but could not, and julia saw that she did not trust her voice. "mr. evringham has not said that, i am sure," she returned. "no, and he never would; but that shouldn't prevent my doing right. you can take care of him and his house now, and i wanted to tell you that i see that, plainly, and am willing to go when you all come back. i shall have plenty of time this summer to turn around and make my plans. there's plenty of work in this world for willing hands to do, and i'm a long way off from being worn out yet." "i'm so glad you spoke about this before we left," replied mrs. evringham, smiling on the brave woman. "father has said nothing to me about it, and i am certain he would as soon dispense with one of the supports of the house as with you. we all want to be busy at something, and i have a glimmering idea of what my work is to be; and i think it is not housekeeping. i should be glad to have our coming disturb father's habits as little as possible, and certainly neither you or i should be the first to speak of any change." mrs. forbes bit her lip. "well," she returned, "you see i knew it would come hard on him to ask me to go, and i wanted you both to know that i'd see it reasonably." "it was good of you," said julia; "and that is all we ever need to be sure of--just that we are willing to be led, and then, while we look to god, everything will come right." the housekeeper drank in the sweet expression of the speaker's eyes, and smiled, a bit unsteadily. "of course i'd rather stay," she replied. "transplanting folks is as hard and risky as trees. you can't ever be sure they'll flourish in the new ground; but i want to do right. i've been reading some in zeke's book, 'science and health,' and there was one sentence just got hold of me:[ ] 'self-love is more opaque than a solid body. in patient obedience to a patient god, let us labor to dissolve with the universal solvent of love the adamant of error--self-will, self-justification, and self-love!' jewel's helped me to dissolve enough so i could face handing over the keys of this house to her mother. i'm not saying i could have offered them to everybody." [footnote : _s. and h._, page .] mrs. evringham smiled. "thank you. i hope it isn't your duty to give them, nor mine to take them. we'll leave all that to father. my idea is that he would send us all back to chicago rather than give you up--his right hand." mrs. forbes's face relaxed, and she breathed more freely than for many days. as she took her way out to the barn to report this conversation to zeke, her state of mind agreed with that of her employer when he declared his pleasure that julia had married into the family. chapter xiv robinson crusoe a long stretch of white, fine sandy beach, packed hard; an orderly procession of waves, each one breaking in seething, snowy foam that ran or crept after a child's bare feet as she skipped back and forth, playing with them; that was long island to jewel. of course there was a village and on its edge a dear, clean old farmhouse where they all lived, and in whose barn essex maid and star found stables. then there were rides every pleasant day, over cool, rolling country, and woods where one was as liable to find shells as flowers. there were wide, flat fields of grain, above which the moon sailed at night; each spot had its attraction, but the beach was the place where jewel found the greatest joy; and while mr. evringham, in the course of his life, had taken part to the full in the social activities of a summer resort where men are usually scarce and proportionately prized, it can be safely said that he now set out upon the most strenuous vacation of his entire career. it was his habit in moments of excitement or especial impressiveness to address his daughter-in-law as "madam," and on the second morning after their arrival, as she was sitting on the sand, viewing the great bottle-green rollers that marched unendingly landward, she noticed her father-in-law and jewel engaged in deep discussion, where they stood, between her and the water. mr. evringham had just come to the beach, and the incessant noise of the waves made eavesdropping impossible; but his gestures and jewel's replies roused her curiosity. the child's bathing-suit was dripping, and her pink toes were submerged by the rising tide, when her grandfather seized her hand and led her back to where her mother was sitting. "madam," he said, "this child mustn't overdo this business. she tells me she has been splashing about for some time, already." "and i'm not a bit cold, mother," declared jewel. "h'm. her hands are like frogs' paws, madam. i can see she is a perfect water-baby and will want to be in the waves continually. she says you are perfectly willing. then it is because you are ignorant. she should go in once a day, madam, once a day." "oh, grandpa!" protested jewel, "not even wade?" "we'll speak of that later; but put on your bathing-suit once a day only." mr. evringham looked down at the glowing face seriously. jewel lifted her wet shoulders and returned his look. "put it on in the morning, then, and keep it on all day?" she suggested, smiling. "at the proper hour," he went on, "the bathing master is here. then you will go in, and your mother, i hope." "and you, too, grandpa?" "yes, and i'll teach you to jump the waves. i taught your father in this very place when he was your age." "oh, goody!" jewel jumped up and down on the warm sand. "what fun it must have been to be your little boy!" she added. mr. evringham refrained from looking at his daughter-in-law. he suspected that she knew better. "look at all this white sand," he said. "this was put here for babies like you to play with. old ocean is too big a comrade for you." "i just love the foam," returned the child wistfully, "and, oh, grandpa," eagerly, "i tasted of it and it's as _salt_!" mr. evringham smiled, looking at his daughter. "yes," said julia. "jewel has gone into lake michigan once or twice, and i think she was very much surprised to find that the atlantic did not taste the same." "sit down here," said mr. evringham, "and i'll show you what your father used to like to do twenty-five years ago." jewel sat down, with much interest, and watched the speaker scoop out a shallow place in the sand and make a ring about it. "there, do you see these little hoppers?" julia was looking on, also. "aren't they cunning, jewel?" she exclaimed. "exactly like tiny lobsters." "only they're white instead of red," replied the child, and her grandfather smiled and caught one of the semi-transparent creatures. "lobsters are green when they're at home," he said. "it's only in our homes that they turn red." "really?" "yes. there are a number of things you have to learn, jewel. the ocean is a splendid playmate, but rough. that is one of the things for you to remember." "but i can wade, can't i? i want to build so many things that the water runs up into." "certainly, you can take off your shoes and stockings when it's warm enough, as it is this morning, if your mother is willing you should drabble your skirts; but keep your dress on and then you won't forget yourself." jewel leaned toward the speaker affectionately. "grandpa, you know i'm a pretty big girl. i'll be nine the first of september." "yes, i know that." "beside, you're going to be with me all the time," she went on. "h'm. well, now see these sand-fleas race." "oh, are they sand-fleas? just wait for anna belle." the child reached over to where the doll was gazing, fascinated, at the advancing, roaring breakers. her boa and plumed hat had evidently been put away from the moths. she wore a most becoming bathing costume of blue and white, and a coquettish silk handkerchief was knotted around her head. it was evident that, in common with some other summer girls, she did not intend to wet her fetching bathing-suit, and certainly it would be a risk to go into the water wearing the necklace that now sparkled in the summer sun. "come here, dearie, and see the baby lobsters," said jewel, holding her child carefully away from her own glistening wetness, and seating her against mrs. evringham's knee. "if lobsters could hop like this," said mr. evringham, "they would be shooting out of the ocean like dolphins. now you choose one, jewel, and we'll see which wins the race. we're going to place them in the middle of the ring, and watch which hops first outside the circle." jewel chuckled gleefully as she caught one. "oh, mother, aren't his eyes funny! he looks as _surprised_ all the time. now hop, dearie," she added, as she placed him beside the one mr. evringham had set down. "which do you guess, anna belle? she guesses grandpa's will beat." "well, i guess yours, jewel," said her mother; but scarcely were the words spoken when anna belle's prophecy was proved correct by the airy bound with which one of the fleas cleared the barrier while jewel's choice still remained transfixed. they all laughed except anna belle, who only smiled complacently. jewel leaned over her staring protégée. "if i only knew _what_ you were so surprised at, dearie, i'd explain it to you," she said. then she gently pushed the creature, and it sped, tardily, over the border. they pursued this game until the bathing-suit was dry; then mr. evringham yawned. "ah, this bright air makes me sleepy. haven't you something you can read to us, julia?" "yes, yes," cried jewel, "she brought the story-book." "but i didn't realize it would be so noisy. i could never read aloud against this roaring." "oh, we'll go back among the dunes. that's easy," returned mr. evringham. "you don't want to hear one of these little tales, father," said julia, flushing. "why, he just loves them," replied jewel earnestly. "i've told them all to him, and he's just as _interested_." mrs. evringham did not doubt this, and she and the broker exchanged a look of understanding, but he smiled. "i'll be very good if you'll let me come," he said. "i forgot the ribbon bows, but perhaps you'd let me qualify by holding anna belle. run and get into your clothes, jewel, and i'll find a nice place by that dune over yonder." fifteen minutes afterward the little party were comfortably ensconced in the shade of the sand hill whose sparse grasses grew tall about them. jewel began pulling on them. "you'll never pull those up," remarked mr. evringham. "i believe their roots go down to china. i've heard so." "anna belle and i will dig sometime and see," replied jewel, much interested. "there are only two stories left," said mrs. evringham, who was running over the pages of the book. "and let grandpa choose, won't you?" said jewel. "oh, yes," and the somewhat embarrassed author read the remaining titles. "i choose robinson crusoe, of course," announced mr. evringham. "this is an appropriate place to read that. i dare say by stretching our necks a little we could see his island." "well, this story is a true one," said julia. "it happened to the children of some friends of mine, who live about fifty miles from chicago." then she began to read as follows:-- robinson crusoe "i guess i shall like robinson crusoe, mamma!" exclaimed johnnie ford, rushing into his mother's room after school one day. "you would be an odd kind of boy if you did not," replied mrs. ford, "and yet you didn't seem much pleased when your father gave you the book on your birthday." "well, i didn't care much about it then, but fred king says it is the best story that ever was, and he ought to know; he rides to school in an automobile. say, when'll you read it to me? do it now, won't you?" "if what?" corrected mrs. ford. "oh, if you please. you know i always mean it." "no, dear, i don't think i will. a boy nine years old ought to be able to read robinson crusoe for himself." johnnie looked startled, and stood on one leg while he twisted the other around it. "if you have a pleasant object to work for, it will make it so much the easier to study," continued mrs. ford, as she handed johnnie the blue book with a gold picture pressed into its side. johnnie pouted and looked very cross. "it's a regular old trap," he said. [illustration: trudging along before him] "yes, dear, a trap to catch a student;" and pretty mrs. ford's low laugh was so contagious that johnnie marched out of the room, fearing he might smile in sympathy; but he soon found that leaving the room was not escaping from the fascinating crusoe. up to this time johnnie had never taken much interest in school-books beyond scribbling on their blank margins. was it really worth while, he wondered, "to buckle down" and learn to read? he knew just enough about the famous crusoe to make him wish to learn more, so he finally decided that it was worth while, if only to impress chips wood, his next-door neighbor and playmate, a boy a year younger than himself, whom johnnie patronized out of school hours. so he worked away until at last there came a proud day when he carried the blue and gold wonder book into chips' yard, and, seated beside his friend on the piazza step, began to read aloud the story of robinson crusoe. it would be hard to tell which pair of eyes grew widest and roundest as the tale unfolded, and when johnnie, one day, laid the book down, finished, two sighs of admiration floated away over mrs. wood's crocus bed. "chips, i'd rather be robinson crusoe than a king!" exclaimed johnnie. "so would i," responded chips. "let's play it." "but we can't both be crusoes. wouldn't you like to be friday?" asked johnnie insinuatingly, "he was so nice and black." "ye-yes," hesitated chips, who had great confidence in johnnie's judgment, but whose fancy had been taken by the high cap and leggings in the golden picture. "then i've got a plan," and johnnie leaned toward his friend's ear and whispered something under cover of his hand, that opened the younger boy's eyes wider than ever. "now you mustn't tell," added johnnie aloud, "'cause that wouldn't he like men a hit. promise not to, deed and double!" "deed and double!" echoed chips solemnly, for that was a very binding expression between him and johnnie. for several days following this, mrs. wood and mrs. ford were besieged by the boys to permit them to earn money; and mrs. ford, especially, was astonished at the way johnnie worked at clearing up the yard, and such other jobs as were not beyond his strength; but, inquire as she might into the motive of all this labor, she could only discover that chips and johnnie wished to buy a hen. "have you asked father if you might keep hens?" she inquired of johnnie, but he only shook his head mysteriously. chips' mother found him equally uncommunicative. she would stand at her window which overlooked the fords' back yard, and watch the boys throw kindling into the shed, or sweep the paths, and wonder greatly in her own mind. "bless their little hearts, what can it all be about?" she questioned, but she could not get at the truth. suddenly the children ceased asking for jobs, and announced that they had all the money they cared for. the day after this announcement was the first of april. when mr. ford came home to dinner that day, he missed johnnie. "i suppose some of his schoolmates have persuaded him to stay and share their lunch," explained mrs. ford. she had scarcely finished speaking when mrs. wood came in, inquiring for chips. "i have not seen him for two hours," she said, "and i cannot help feeling a little anxious, for the children have behaved so queerly lately." "i know," returned mrs. ford, beginning to look worried. "why, do you know, johnnie didn't play a trick on one of us this morning. i actually had to remind him that it was april fools' day." mr. ford laughed. "how woe-begone you both look! i think there is a very simple explanation of the boys' absence. chips probably went to school to meet johnnie, who has persuaded him to stay during the play hour. i will drive around there on my way to business and send chips home." the mothers welcomed this idea warmly; and in a short time mr. ford set out, but upon reaching the school was met with the word that johnnie had not been seen there at all that morning. then it was his turn to look anxious. he drove about, questioning every one, until he finally obtained a clue at the meat market where he dealt. "your little boy was in here this morning about half past ten, after a ham. he wouldn't have it charged; said 'twas for himself," said the market-man, laughing at the remembrance. "he didn't have quite enough money to pay for it, but i told him i guessed that would be all right, and off they went, him and the little wood boy, luggin' that ham most as big as they was." "then they were together. which way did they go?" "straight south, i know, 'cause i went to the door and watched 'em. you haven't lost 'em, have you?" "i hope not," and mr. ford sprang into his buggy, and drove off in the direction indicated, occasionally stopping to inquire if the children had been seen. to his great satisfaction he found it easy to trace them, thanks to the ham; and a little beyond the outskirts of the town he saw a promising speck ahead of him on the flat, white road. as he drew nearer, the speck widened and heightened into two little boys trudging along before him. his heart gave a thankful bound at sight of the dear little legs in their black stockings and knee breeches, and leaving his buggy by the side of the road, he walked rapidly forward and caught up with the boys, who turned and faced him as he approached. displeased as he was, mr. ford could hardly resist a hearty laugh at the comical appearance of the runaways. chips carried the big, heavy ham, and johnnie was keeping firm hold of a hen, who stretched her neck and looked very uncomfortable in her quarters under his arm. "why, father!" exclaimed johnnie, recovering from a short tussle with the poor hen, "how funny that you should be here." "no stranger than that you should be here, i think. where, if i have any right to ask, are you going?" "to lake michigan," replied johnnie composedly. "oh, i do wish this old hen would keep still!" "then you have fifty miles before you," said mr. lord. "yes, sir," replied johnnie, "but it would have been a thousand miles to the ocean, you know." "ha, ha, ha!" roared mr. ford, mystified, but unable to control himself any longer at sight of johnnie and the hen, and patient-faced chips clutching the ham. "i am glad you don't mind, father," said johnnie. "i thought it would be so nice for you and mother and mrs. wood not to have chips and me to worry about any more." "it was very thoughtful of you," replied mr. ford, remembering the anxious faces at home. "and what are you going to do at lake michigan?" "take a boat and go away and get wrecked on a desert island, like robinson crusoe," responded johnnie glibly, at the same time hitching the hen up higher under his arm. "and how about chips?" "oh, i'm man friday," chirped chips, his poor little face quite black enough for the character. "i am so sorry we had to tell you so soon," said johnnie. "we were keeping it a secret until we got to the lake; then we were going to send you a letter." mr. ford looked gravely into his son's grimy face. it was an honest face, and johnnie had always been a truthful boy, and just now seemed only troubled by the restless behavior of his hen; so the father rightly concluded that the blue and gold book had captivated him into the belief that what he and chips were doing was admirable and heroic. "what part is the hen going to play?" asked the gentleman. "is she going to help stock your island?" "oh, no, but we couldn't get along without her, because she's going to lay eggs along the way." "lay eggs?" "yes, for our lunch. at first we weren't going to take anything but the hen, but chips said he liked ham and eggs better'n anything, so we decided to take it." another pause; then mr. ford said: "you both look tired, haven't you had enough of it? i'm going home now." "no, no," asserted the boys. "and have you thought of your mothers, whom you didn't even kiss good-by?" johnnie stood on one leg and twisted the other foot around it, after his manner when troubled. "i thought you knew, johnnie, that nothing ever turns out right when you undertake it without first consulting mother." "i wish now i'd kissed mine good-by," observed friday thoughtfully. "come, we'll go back together," said mr. ford quietly, moving off as he spoke, "and we will see what mrs. wood and mother have to say on the subject." johnnie and chips followed slowly. "father," said the former emphatically, "i can't be happy without being wrecked, and i do hope mother won't object." his father made no reply to this, and three quarters of an hour afterward the children jumped out of the buggy into their mothers' arms, and as they still clung to their lunch, the ham and the hen came in for a share of the embracing, which the hen objected to seriously, never having been hugged before this eventful day. "never mind, mother," said johnnie patronizingly, "father'll tell you all about it while i go and put speckle in a safe place." so the boys went, and mr. ford seated himself in an armchair, and related the events of the afternoon to the ladies, adding some advice as to the manner of making the boys see the folly of their undertaking. mrs. wood and chips took tea at the fords' that evening, and the boys, once delivered from the necessity of keeping their secret, rattled on incessantly of their plans; talked so much and so fast, in fact, that their parents were not obliged to say anything, which was a great convenience, as they had nothing they wished to say just then. it had been a mild first of april, and after supper the little company sat out on the piazza for a time. "as johnnie and chips will be obliged to spend so many nights out of doors on their way to lake michigan, it will be an excellent plan to begin immediately," said mr. ford. "you'll like to spend the night out here, of course, boys. to be sure, it will be a good deal more comfortable than the road, still you can judge by it how such a life will suit you." johnnie looked at chips and chips looked at johnnie; for the exertions of the day had served to make the thought of their white beds very inviting; but mr. ford and the ladies talked on different subjects, and took no notice of them. at last the evening air grew uncomfortably cool, and the grown people rose to go in. "good-night, all," said mrs. wood, starting for home. chips watched her down to the gate. "aren't you going to kiss me good-night?" he called. "of course, if you want me to," she answered, turning back, "but you went away this morning without kissing me, you know." then she kissed him and went away; and in all his eight years of life little man friday had never felt so forlorn. johnnie held up his lips sturdily to bid his father and mother good-night. "i think we are going to have a thunder-storm, unseasonable as it will be," remarked mr. ford pleasantly, standing in the doorway. "well, i suppose you won't mind it. good luck to you, boys!" then the heavy front door closed. johnnie had never before realized what a clang it made when it was shut. the key turned with a squeaking noise, a bolt was pushed with a solid thud; all the windows came banging down, their locks were made fast, and johnnie and chips felt literally, figuratively, and every other way left out in the cold. there was an uncomfortable silence for a minute; then chips spoke. "your house is splendid and safe, isn't it, johnnie?" "yes, it is." "i wonder where we'd better lie down," pursued chips. "i'm sleepy. let's play we're crusoe and friday now." "oh, we can't," responded johnnie impatiently, "not with so many com--" he was going to say comforts, but changed his mind. the night was very dark, not a twinkling star peeped down at the children, and the naked branches of the climbing roses rattled against the pillars to which they were nailed, for the wind was rising. the boys sat down on the steps and chips edged closer to his companion. "i think it was queer actions in my mother," he said, "to leave me here without any shawl or pillow or anything." a little chill crept over johnnie's head from sleepiness and cold. "our mothers don't care what happens to us," he replied gloomily. the stillness of the house and the growing lateness of the hour combined to make him feel that if being wrecked was more uncomfortable than this, he could, after all, be happy without it. "what do you think?" broke in the shivering man friday. "mamma says ham isn't good to eat if it isn't cooked." "and that's the meanest old hen that ever lived!" returned crusoe. "she hasn't laid an egg since i got her." a distant rumble sounded in the air. "what's that?" asked chips. "well, i should think you'd know that's thunder," replied johnnie crossly. "oh, yes," said little chips meekly, "and we're going to get wet." they were both quiet for another minute, while the wind rose and swept by them. "i really think, johnnie," began chips apologetically, "that i'm not big enough to be a good man friday. i think to-morrow you'd better find somebody else." "no, indeed," replied johnnie feelingly. "i'd rather give up being wrecked than go off with any one but you. if you give up, i shall." the rain began to patter down. "if you don't like to get wet, chips, i'd just as lieves go and ring the bell as not," he added. a sudden sweep of wind nearly tipped the children over, for they had risen, undecidedly. "no," called chips stoutly, to be heard above the blast. "i'll be friday till to-morrow." his last word sounded like a shout, for the wind suddenly died. "what do you scream so for?" asked johnnie impatiently; but the storm had only paused, as it were to get ready, and now approached swiftly, gathering strength as it came. it swept across the piazza, taking the children's breath away and bending the tall maple in front of the house with such sudden fury that a branch snapped off; then the wind died in the distance with a rushing sound and the breaking tree was illumined by a flash of lightning. "i think, johnnie," said chips unsteadily, "that god wants us to go in the house." a peal of thunder roared. "i've just thought," replied johnnie, keeping his balance by clutching the younger boy as tightly as chips was clinging to him, "that perhaps it wasn't right for us to run off the way we did, without getting any advice." they strove with the wind only a few seconds more, then, with one accord, struggled to the door where one rang peal after peal at the bell, while the other pounded sturdily. johnnie didn't stop then to wonder how his father could get downstairs to open the door so quickly. mrs. ford, too, seemed to have been waiting for the pair of heroes, and she took them straight to johnnie's room, where she undressed them in silence and rolled them into bed. they said their prayers and were asleep in two minutes, while the storm howled outside. then, in some mysterious way, mrs. wood came into the room, and the three parents stood watching the unconscious children. "that's the last of one trial with those boys, i'm sure," said mr. ford, laughing, and he was right; for it was years before any one heard either johnnie or chips mention robinson crusoe or his man friday. chapter xv st. valentine after that day when, on the lee side of the sand-dune the evringham family read together the story of johnnie and chips, it was some time before the last tale in the story book was called for. the farmhouse where they boarded stood near a pond formed by the rushing in of the sea during some change in the sands of the beach, so here was still another water playmate for jewel. "i do hope," said mr. evringham meditatively, on the first morning that he and jewel stood together on its green bank, "i do hope that very particular housekeeper, nature, will let this pond alone until we go!" jewel looked up at his serious face with the lines between the eyes. "she wouldn't touch this great big pond, would she?" she asked. "ho! wouldn't she? well, i guess so." "but," suggested jewel, lifting her shoulders, "she's too busy in summer in the ravines and everywhere." "oh," mr. evringham nodded his head knowingly. "nature looks out for everything." "grandpa!" jewel's eyes were intent. "would she ask summer to touch this great big pond? what would she want to do it for?" "oh, more house-cleaning, i suppose." the child chuckled as she looked out across the blue waves, rippling in the wind and white-capped here and there, "when you know it's washed all the _time_, grandpa," she responded. "the waves are just scrubbing it now. can't you see?" "yes," the broker nodded gravely. "no doubt that is why she has to empty it so seldom. sometimes she lets it go a very long time; but then the day comes when she begins to think it over, and to calculate how much sediment and one thing and another there is in the bottom of that pond; and at last she says, 'come now, out it must go!'" "but how can she get it out, how?" asked jewel keenly interested. "the brooks are all running somewhere, but the pond doesn't. how can she dip it out? it would take summer's hottest sun a year!" "yes, indeed, nature is too clever to try that. the winds are her servants, you know, and they understand their business perfectly; so when she says 'that pond needs to be cleaned out,' they merely get up a storm some night after everybody's gone to bed. the people have seen the pond fine and full when the sun went down. all that night the wind howls and the windows rattle and the trees bend and switch around; and if those in the farmhouse, instead of being in bed, were over there on the beach," the speaker waved his hand toward the shining white sand, distant, but in plain sight, "they might see countless billows working for dear life to dig a trench through the hard sand. the wind sends one tremendous wave after another to help them, and as a great roller breaks and recedes, all the little crested waves scrabble with might and main, pulling at the softened sand, until, after hours of this labor, the cut is made completely through from sea to pond." mr. evringham looked down and met the unwinking gaze fixed upon him. "then why--why," asked jewel, "when the big rollers keep coming, doesn't the pond get filled fuller than ever?" the broker lifted his forefinger toward his face with a long drawn "ah-h! nature is much too clever for _that_. she may not have gone to college, but she understands engineering, all the same. all this is accomplished just at the right moment for the outgoing tide to pull at the pond with a mighty hand. well,"--pausing dramatically,--"you can imagine what happens when the deep cut is finished." "does the pond have to go, grandpa?" "it just does, and in a hurry!" "is it sorry, do you think?" asked jewel doubtfully. "we-ell, i don't know that i ever thought of that side of it; but you can imagine the feelings of the people in the farmhouse, who went to bed beside the ripples of a smiling little lake, and woke to find themselves near a great empty bog." jewel thought and sighed deeply. "well," she said, at last, "i hope nature will wait till we're gone. i love this pond." "indeed i hope so, too. there wouldn't be any pleasant side to it." jewel's thoughtful face brightened. "except for the little fishes and water-creatures that would rush out to sea. it's fun for _them_. mustn't they be surprised when that happens, grandpa?" "i should think so! do you suppose the wind gives them any warning, or any time to pack?" jewel laughed. "i don't know; but just think of rushing out into those great breakers, when you don't expect it, right from living so quietly in the pond!" "h'm. a good deal like going straight from bel-air park to wall street, i should think." jewel grew serious. "i think fish have the most _fun_," she said. "do you know, grandpa, i've decided that if i couldn't be your little grandchild, i'd rather be a lobster than anything." the broker threw up his head, laughing. "some children could combine the two," he replied, "but you can't." "what?" asked jewel. "nothing. why not be a fish, jewel? they're much more graceful." "but they can't creep around among the coral and peek into oyster shells at the pearls." "imagine a lobster peeking!" mr. evringham strained his eyes to their widest and stared at jewel, who shouted. "that's just the way the sand-fleas look," she exclaimed. "well," remarked the broker, recovering his ordinary expression, "you may as well remain a little girl, so far as that goes. you can creep around among the coral and peek at pearls at tiffany's." "what's tiffany's?" "something you will take more interest in when you're older." the broker shook his head. "the difference is that the lobster wouldn't care to wear the coral and pearls. an awful thought comes over me once in a while, jewel," he added, after a pause. the child looked up at him seriously. "it can be met," she answered quickly. he smiled. he understood her peculiar expressions in these days. "hardly, i think," he answered. "it is this: that you are going to grow up." jewel looked off at the blue water. "well," she replied at last hopefully, "you're grown up, you know, and perhaps you'll like me then just as much as i do you." he squeezed the little hand he held. "we'll hope so," he said. "and besides, grandpa," she went on, for she had heard him express the same dread before, "we'll be together every day, so perhaps you won't notice it. sometimes i've tried to see a flower open. i've known it was going to do it, and i've been just _bound_ i'd see it; and i've watched and watched, but i never could see when the leaves spread, no matter how much i tried, and yet it would get to be a rose, somehow. perhaps some day somebody'll say to you, 'why, jewel's a grown up lady, isn't she?' and you'll say, 'is she, really? why, i hadn't noticed it.'" "that's a comforting idea," returned mr. evringham briefly, his eyes resting on the upturned face. "so now, if the pond won't run away, we'll have the most _fun_," went on jewel, relieved. "they _said_ we could take this boat, grandpa, and have a row." she lifted her shoulders and smiled. "h'm. a row and a swim combined," returned the broker. "i'm surprised they've nothing better this year than that ramshackle boat. you'll have to bail if we go." "what's bail?" eagerly. "dipping out the water with a tin cup." "oh, that'll be fun. it'll be an adventure, grandpa, won't it?" "i hope not," earnestly, was the reply; but jewel was already sitting on the grass pulling off her shoes and stockings. she leaped nimbly into the wet boat, and mr. evringham stepped gingerly after her, seeking for dry spots for his canvas shoes. "i think," said the child joyfully, as they pushed off, "when the winds and waves notice us having so much fun, they'll let the pond alone, don't you?" "if they have any hearts at all," responded mr. evringham, bending to the oars. "oh, grandpa, you can tell stories like any thing!" exclaimed jewel admiringly. "it has been said before," rejoined the broker modestly. * * * * * when outdoor gayeties had to be dispensed with one day, on account of a thorough downpour of rain, the last story in jewel's book was called for. the little circle gathered in the big living-room; there was no question now as to whether mr. evringham should be present. "it is hobson's choice this time," said mrs. evringham, "so we'll all choose the story, won't we?" "let anna belle have the turn, though," replied jewel. "she chose the first one and she must have the last, because she doesn't have so much fun as the rest of us." she hugged the doll and kissed her cheeks comfortingly. it was too true that often of late anna belle did not accompany all the excursions, but she went to bed with jewel every night, and it was seldom that the child was too sleepy to take her into full confidence concerning the events of the day; and anna belle, being of a sedentary turn and given to day dreams, was apparently quite as well pleased. now mr. evringham settled in a big easy-chair; the reader took a small one by the window, and jewel sat on the rug before the fire, holding anna belle. "now we're off," said mr. evringham. "go to sleep if you like, father," remarked the author, smiling, and then she began to read the story entitled st. valentine there was a little buzz of interest in miss joslyn's room in the public school, one day in february, over the arrival of a new scholar. only a very little buzz, because the new-comer was a plain little girl as to face and dress, with big, wondering eyes, and a high-necked and long-sleeved gingham apron. "take this seat, alma," said miss joslyn; and the little girl obeyed, while ada singer, the scholar directly behind her, nudged her friend, lucy berry, and mimicked the stranger's surprised way of looking around the room. the first day in a new school is an ordeal to most children, but alma felt no fear or strangeness, and gazed about her, well pleased with her novel surroundings, and her innocent pleasure was a source of great amusement to ada. "isn't she queer-looking?" she asked of lucy, as at noon they perched on the window-sill in the dressing-room, where they always ate their lunch together. "yes, she has such big eyes," assented lucy. "who is she?" "why, her mother has just come to work in my father's factory. her father is dead, or in prison, or something." "oh, no!" exclaimed a voice, and looking down from their elevated seat the girls saw alma driscoll, a big tin dinner-pail in her hand, and her cheeks flushing. "my father went away because he was discouraged, but he is coming back." ada shrugged her shoulders and took a bite of jelly-cake. "what a delicate appetite you must have," she said, winking at lucy and looking at the big pail. "oh, it isn't full; the things don't fit very well," replied alma, taking off the cover and disclosing a little lunch at the bottom; "but it was all the pail we had." then she sat down on the floor of the dressing-room and took out a piece of bread and butter. "well, upon my word, if that isn't cool!" exclaimed ada, staring at the brown gingham figure. alma looked up mildly. she had come to the dressing-room on purpose to eat her lunch where she could look at lucy berry, who seemed beautiful to alma, with her brown eyes, red cheeks, and soft cashmere dress, and it never occurred to her that she could be in the way. ada turned to lucy with a curling lip. "i should hate to be a third party, shouldn't you?" she asked, so significantly that even alma couldn't help understanding her. tears started to the big eyes as the little girl dropped her bread back into the hollow depths of the pail, replaced the cover, and went away to find a solitary corner, with a sorer spot in her heart than she had ever known. "oh, why did you say that, ada?" exclaimed lucy, making a movement as if to slip down from the window-seat and follow. "don't you go one step after her, lucy berry," commanded ada. "my mother doesn't want me to associate with the children of the factory people. she'll find plenty of friends of her own kind." "but you hurt her feelings," protested lucy. "oh, no, i didn't," carelessly; "besides, if i did, she'll forget all about it. i had to let her know that she couldn't stay with us. do you want a stranger like that to hear everything we're saying?" "i feel as if i ought to go and find her and see if she has somebody to eat with." "very well, lucy. if you go with her, i can't go with you, that's all. you can take your choice." the final tone in ada's voice destroyed lucy's courage. the little girls were very fond of one another, and lucy was entirely under strong-willed ada's influence. ada was a most attractive little person. her father, the owner of the factory, was the richest man in town; and to play on ada's wonderful piano, where you had only to push with your feet to play the gayest music, or to ride with her in her automobile, were exciting joys to her friends. she always had money in her pocket, and boxes of candy for the entertainment of other children, and lucy was proud of her own position as ada's intimate friend. so when it came to making a choice between this brilliant companion and the gingham-clad daughter of a factory hand, lucy berry's courage and sympathy oozed away, and she sat back on the window-seat, while ada began talking about something else. this first school-day was alma driscoll's introduction into the world outside of her mother's love. she had never felt so lonely as when surrounded by all these girls, each of whom had her intimate friend, and among whom she was not wanted. she could not help feeling that she was different from the others, and day by day the wondering eyes grew shy and lonely; and she avoided the children out of school hours, bravely hiding from her mother that the gingham apron, which always hid her faded dress, seemed to her a badge of disgrace that separated her from her daintily dressed schoolmates. such was the state of affairs when st. valentine's day dawned. alma's two weeks of school had seemed a little eternity to her; but this day she could feel that there was something unusual in the air, and she could not help being affected by the pleasurable excitement afloat in the room. she knew what the big white box by the door was for, and when, after school, miss joslyn was appointed to uncover and distribute the valentines, alma found herself following the crowd, until, pressed close to lucy berry's side, she stood in the centre of the merry group about the teacher. while the dainty envelopes were being passed around her, a shade of wistfulness crept over the child's face, and her eager fingers crumpled the checked apron as though alma feared they might otherwise touch the beautiful valentines that shone so enticingly with red and blue, gold and silver. suddenly miss joslyn spoke her name,--alma driscoll; only she said "miss alma driscoll," and, yes, there was no mistake about it, she had read it off one of those vine-wreathed envelopes. "did you ever see such a goose!" exclaimed ada singer, as she watched the mixture of shyness and eagerness with which alma took her valentine and opened the envelope. poor little alma! how her heart beat as she unfolded her prize--and how it sank when she beheld the coarse, flaring picture of a sewing girl, with a disgusting rhyme printed beneath it. she dropped the valentine, a great sob of disappointment choked her, and bursting into tears, she pushed her way through the crowd and rushed from the schoolroom. "what is the meaning of that?" asked miss joslyn. for answer some one handed her the picture. the young lady glanced at it, then tore it in pieces as she looked sadly around on her scholars. "whoever sent this knows that alma's mother works in the factory," she said. "it makes me ashamed of my whole school to think there is one child in it cruel enough to do this thing;" then, amid the silent consternation of the scholars, miss joslyn rose, and leaving the half-emptied box, went home without another word. "what a fuss about nothing," said ada singer. "the idea of crying because you get a 'comic!' what else could alma driscoll expect?" lucy berry's cheeks had been growing redder all through this scene, and now she turned upon ada. "she has a right to expect a great deal else," she returned excitedly, "but we've all been so hateful to her it's a wonder if she did. i wish i'd been kind to her before," she continued, her heart aching with the remembrance of the little lonely figure, and the big, hollow dinner-pail; "but i'm going to be her friend now, always, and you can be friends with us or not, just as you please;" and turning from the astonished ada, lucy berry marched out of the schoolroom, fearing she should cry if she stayed, and sure that if there were any more beauties for her in the white box, her stanch friend, frank morse, would take care of them for her. among the valentines she had already received was one addressed in his handwriting, and she looked at it as she walked along. "it's the handsomest one i ever saw," she thought, lifting a rose here, and a group of cupids there, and reading the tender messages thus disclosed. "i know what i'll do!" she exclaimed aloud. "i'll send it to alma. frank won't care," and covering the valentine in its box, she started to run, and turned a corner at such speed that she bumped into somebody coming at equal or greater speed, from the opposite direction. a passer-by just then would have been amused to see a boy and girl sitting flat on the sidewalk, rubbing their heads and staring at one another. "lucy berry!" "frank morse!" "what's up?" "nothing. something's down, and it's me." "well, excuse me; but i guess you haven't seen any more stars than i have. i don't care anything for the fourth now, i've seen enough fireworks to last me a year." both children laughed. "you've got grit, lucy," added frank, jumping up and coming to help her. "most girls would have boo-hooed over that." "oh, i wouldn't," returned the little girl, springing to her feet. "i'm too excited." "well, what _is_ up?" persisted frank. "i skipped out of the side door to try to meet you." "well, you did," laughed lucy. "oh, frank, i don't know how i can laugh," she pursued, sobering. "i don't deserve to, ever again." "what is it? something about that driscoll kid? she was crying. i was back there and i didn't hear what miss joslyn said; but i saw her leave, and then you, and i thought _i_'d go to the fire, too, if there was one." "oh, there is," returned lucy, "right in here." she grasped the waist of her dress over where her heart was beating hard. frank morse was older than herself and ada, and she knew that he was one of the few of their friends whose good opinion ada cared for. to enlist him on alma's side would mean something. "is ada still there?" she added. "yes, she took charge of the valentine box after miss joslyn left." "oh, frank, do you suppose she could have sent alma the 'comic'?" genuine grief made lucy's voice unsteady. "supposing she did," returned frank stoutly. "is that what big-eyes was crying about? i hate people to be touchy and blubber over a thing like that." "you don't know. her mother works in the factory, and this was a horrid picture making fun of it. think of your own mother earning your living and being made fun of." "ada wouldn't do that," replied frank shortly. "what made you think of such a thing?" "it was error for me to say it," returned lucy, with a meek groan. "i've been doing error things ever since alma came to school. oh, frank, you're a christian scientist, too. you must help me to get things straight." "you don't need to be a christian scientist to see that it wasn't a square deal to send the kid that picture." "no, i know it; but when alma first came, ada said her mother didn't allow her to go with girls from the factory, and so i stopped trying to be kind to alma, because ada wouldn't like me if i did; and it's been such mesmerism, frank." the boy smiled. "do you remember the stories your mother used to tell us about the work of the error-fairies?" "indeed i do. my head's just been full of it the last fifteen minutes. i've done nothing for two weeks but give the error-fairies backbones, and i don't care what happens to me, or how much i'm punished, if i can only do right again." "who's going to punish you?" asked frank, not quite seeing the reason for so much feeling. "ada. we've always had so much fun, and now it's all over." "oh, i guess not. ada singer's all right." lucy didn't think so. she was convinced that her friend had done this last unkindness to alma, and it was the shock of that discovery that was causing a portion of her suffering now. frank and lucy talked for a few minutes longer, and it was agreed that the former should return to the school and get any other valentines that should be there for lucy and himself; then, as soon as it grew dark, they would run to the driscoll cottage with an offering. late that afternoon three mothers were called to interviews with three little girls. lucy berry surprised hers by rushing in where mrs. berry was seated, sewing. "oh!" exclaimed the little girl, "i'm so sorry all over, mother!" "then you must know why you can't be," returned mrs. berry, looking up at the flushed face and seeing something there that made her put aside her work. lucy usually considered herself too large to sit in her mother's lap, but now she did so, and flinging her arms around her neck, poured out the whole story. "to think that ada _could_ send it!" finished lucy, with one big sob. "be careful, be careful. you don't know that she did," replied mrs. berry. "'thou shalt not bear false witness.'" "oh, i do _hope_ she didn't," responded lucy, "but ada is stuck up. i've been seeing it more and more lately." "and how about the beam in my little girl's own eye?" asked mrs. berry gently. "haven't i been telling you all about it? i've been just as selfish and cowardly as i could be." lucy's voice was despairing. "i think there's a beam there still. i think you are angry with ada." "how can i help it? if it hadn't been for her i shouldn't have been so mean." "oh, lucy dear!" mrs. berry smiled over the head on her shoulder. "there is old adam again, blaming somebody else for his fall. have you forgotten that there is only one person you have the right to work with and change?" "i don't care," replied lucy hotly. "i've been calling evil good. i have. i've been calling ada good and sticking to her and letting her run me." "was it because of what you could get from her, or because of what you could do for her?" asked mrs. berry quietly. lucy was silent a minute, then she spoke: "she wanted me. she liked me better than anybody." "well, now you see what selfish attachments can turn into," returned mrs. berry. "do you remember the teaching about the worthlessness of mortal mind love? here are you and ada, yesterday thinking you love one another, and to-day at enmity." "i'm going with alma driscoll now, and i'm going to eat my lunch with her, and everything. i should think that was unselfish." "perhaps it will be. we'll see. isn't it a little comfort to you to think that it will be some punishment to ada to see you do it?" "i don't know," replied lucy, who was so honest that she hesitated. "well, then, think until you do know, and be very certain whether the thoughts that are stirring you so are all loving. you see, dearie, we're all so tempted, in times of excitement, to begin at the wrong end: tempted to begin with ourselves instead of with god. the all-loving creator of you and ada and alma has made three dear children, one just as precious to him as another. if the loveliness of his creation is hidden by something discordant, then we must work away at it; and one's own consciousness is the place where she has a right to work, and that helps all. it says in the bible 'when he giveth quietness who then can make trouble?' you can rest yourself with the thought of his great quietness now, and you will reflect it." mrs. berry paused and her rocking-chair swayed softly back and forth during a moment of silence. "you know enough about science," she went on, at last, "to be certain that weeks of an offended manner with ada would have no effect except to make her long to punish you. you know that love is reflected in love, and that its opposite is just as certain to be reflected unless one knows god's truth." "but you don't say anything at all about alma," said lucy. "she's the chief one." mrs. berry smiled. "no," she returned gently. "you are the chief one. just as soon as your thought is surely right, don't you know that your heavenly father is going to show you how to unravel this little snarl? you remember there isn't any personality to error, whether it tries to fasten on ada, or on you." lucy sat upright. her cheeks were still flushed, but her eyes had lost their excited light. "frank morse and i are going to take some pretty valentines to alma's as soon as it is dark," she said. "that will be pleasant. now let us read over the lesson for to-day again, and know what a joyous thing life is." "well, mother, will you go and see mrs. driscoll some time?" "certainly i will, sunday. i suppose she is too busy to see me other days." in the singer house another excited child had rushed home from school and sought and found her mother. mrs. singer had just reached a most interesting spot in the novel she was reading, when ada startled her by running into the room and slamming the door behind her. "mother, you know you don't want me to go with the factory people," she cried. "of course not. what's the matter?" returned mrs. singer briefly, keeping her finger between the leaves of her half-closed book. "why, lucy berry is angry with me, and i don't care. i shall never go with her again!" "dear me, ada. i should think you could settle these little differences without bothering me. what has the factory to do with it?" "why, there is a new girl at school, alma driscoll, and her mother works there; and she tried to come with lucy and me, and lucy would have let her, but i told her you wouldn't like it, and, anyway, of course we didn't want her. so to-day when the valentine box was opened, alma driscoll got a 'comic;' and she couldn't take a joke and cried and went home. i can't bear a cry-baby, anyway. and then miss joslyn made a fuss about it and _she_ went home, and after that lucy berry flared up at me and said she was going to be friends with alma after this, and _she_ went home. it just spoiled everybody's fun to have them act so silly. lucy got frank morse to bring out all his valentines and hers. i'll never go with her again, whether she goes with alma or not!" angry little sparks were shining in ada's eyes, and she evidently made great effort not to cry. "what was this comic valentine that made so much trouble?" "oh, something about a factory girl. you know the verses are always silly on those." "well, it wasn't very nice to send it to her before all the children, i must say. who do you suppose did it?" "no one ever tells who sends valentines," returned ada defiantly. "no one will ever know." "well, if the foolish child, whoever it was, only had known, she wasn't so smart or so unkind as she thought she was. mrs. driscoll isn't an ordinary factory hand. she is an assistant in the bookkeeping department." "well, they must be awfully poor, the way alma looks, anyway," returned ada. "i suppose they are poor. i happened to hear mr. knapp begging your father to let a mrs. driscoll have that position, and your father finally consented. i remember his telling how long the husband had been away trying for work, and what worthy people they were, old friends of his. they lived in some neighboring town; so when mrs. driscoll was offered this position they came here. they live"-- "oh, i know where they live," interrupted ada, "and i knew they were factory people anyway, and you wouldn't want me going with girls like alma." "i'd want you to be kind to her, of course," returned mrs. singer. "then she'd have stuck to us if i had been. i guess you've forgotten the way it is at school." mrs. singer sighed and opened her book wistfully. "you ought to be kind to everybody, ada," she said vaguely, "but i really think i shall have to take you out of the public school. it is such a mixed crowd there. i should have done it long ago, only your father thinks there is no such education." ada saw that in another minute her mother would be buried again in her story. "but what shall i do about frank and lucy?" she asked, half crying. "why, is frank in it, too?" "yes. i know lucy has been talking to him. he came back and got her valentines." "oh, pshaw! don't make a quarrel over it. just be polite to alma driscoll. they're perfectly respectable people. you don't need to avoid her. don't worry. lucy will soon get over her little excitement, and you may be sure she will be glad to make up with you and be more friendly than ever." mrs. singer began to read, and ada saw it was useless to pursue the subject. she left the room undecidedly, her lips pressed together. all right, let lucy befriend alma. she wouldn't _look_ at her, and they'd just see which would get tired of it first. this hard little determination seemed to give ada a good deal of comfort for the present, and she longed for to-morrow, to begin to show lucy berry what she had lost. meanwhile alma driscoll had hastened home to an empty cottage, where she threw herself on the calico-covered bed and gave way again to her hurt and sorrow, until she had cried herself to sleep. there her mother found her when she returned from work. mrs. driscoll had plenty of troubles of her own in these days, adjusting herself to her present situation and trying hard to fill the position which her old friend mr. knapp had found for her. alma knew this, and every evening when her mother came home from the factory she met her cheerfully, and had so far bravely refrained from telling of the trials at school, which were big ones to her, and which she often longed to pour out; but the sight of her mother's face always silenced her. she knew, young as she was, that her mother was finding life in the great school of the world as hard as she was in pretty miss joslyn's room; and so she kept still, but her eyes grew bigger, and her mother saw it. to-day when mrs. driscoll came in, she was surprised to find the house dark. she lighted the lamp and saw alma asleep on the bed. "poor little dear," she thought. "the hours must seem long between school and my coming home." she went around quietly, getting supper, and when it was ready she came again to the bed and kissed alma's cheek. "doesn't my little girl want anything to eat to-night?" she asked. alma turned and opened her eyes. "guess which it is," went on mrs. driscoll, smiling. "breakfast or supper." "oh, have you come?" alma sat up. she clasped her arms around her mother. "please don't make me go to school any more," she said, the big sob with which she went to sleep rising again in her throat. "why, what has happened, dear?" mrs. driscoll grew serious. "i don't want to tell you, mother, only please let me stay at home. i'll study just as hard." "you'd be lonely here all day, alma." "i want to be lonely," returned the little girl earnestly. mrs. driscoll looked very sober. "let's sit down at the table," she said, "for i have your boiled egg all ready." alma took her place opposite her mother. supper was usually the bright spot in the day, but this evening there seemed nothing but clouds. "i want to hear all about it, alma, but you'd better eat first," said mrs. driscoll, as she poured the tea. "it isn't anything very much," replied the little girl, torn between the longing for sympathy and unwillingness to give her mother pain; "only there aren't any lonely children in that school. everybody has some one she likes to play with." a pang of understanding went through the mother's heart, so tender that she forced a smile. "oh, my dearie," she said, "you remind me of the old song,-- 'every lassie has her laddie, nane, they say, have i, but all the lads, they smile on me, when comin' thro' the rye.' if my alma smiles on all the children, they'll all smile on her." alma shook her head. it was too great an undertaking to explain all those daily experiences of longing and disappointment to her mother. the child's throat grew so full of the sob that she could not swallow the nice egg. "this is valentine's day," she said, with an effort. "they had a box in school. everybody got pretty ones but me. they sent me a 'comic.'" she swallowed bravely between the sentences, but big tears rolled down her cheeks and splashed on the gingham apron. "well, wasn't it meant to make you laugh, dearie?" "n-no. it was--was a hateful one. i--i can't tell you." a line came in mrs. driscoll's forehead. her swift thought pictured the scene only too vividly. she swallowed, too. "silly pictures can't hurt us, alma," she said. "but please don't make me go back," returned the child earnestly. "i cried and ran away, and i know all the other children laughed, and, oh, mother, i _can't_ go back!" she was sobbing again, now, and trying to dry her tears with her apron. mrs. driscoll's lips pressed firmly together to keep from quivering. "mother," said alma brokenly, as soon as she could speak again, "when do you think father will come home?" for a minute the mother could not reply. the last letter she had received from her husband had sounded discouraged, and for six weeks now she had heard nothing. her anxiety was very great; but it made her position at the factory more than ever important, while it increased the difficulty of performing her work. "i can't tell, dearie," she answered low. "we must pray and wait." as she finished speaking there came a loud knock at the door. a very unusual sound this, for no one had yet called on them, except mr. knapp, once on business. "i'll go," said mrs. driscoll. "wipe your eyes, alma." to her surprise, when she opened the door no one was there. something white on the step caught her eye in the gloom. it was a box, and when she brought it to the light, she saw that it was addressed to miss alma driscoll. her heart was too sore to hand it to the child until she had made certain that its contents were not designed to hurt. one glimpse of the gold and red interior, however, made her clap on the cover again. she brought the box to the table and seated herself. "what's all this?" she asked, passing it to the child. "it seems to be for you. there was nobody there, but i found that on the step." alma's swollen eyes looked wonderingly at the box as she took off the cover and discovered the elaborate valentine. "my! what a beauty!" exclaimed her mother. the little girl lifted the red roses and looked at the verses. the catches kept coming in her throat and she smiled faintly. "who is this that hasn't any friend?" asked mrs. driscoll cheeringly. "somebody was sorry," returned alma. "i wish they didn't have to be sorry for me." "oh, you can't be sure. when i was a little girl all the best part of valentine's day was running around to the houses with them after dark. how do you know that this wasn't meant for you all day?" "because i remember it. miss joslyn handed it to lucy berry out of the school box. lucy is the prettiest"-- another loud knocking at the door interrupted. mrs. driscoll answered the call. a big white envelope lay on the step, and it was addressed to alma. this time the latter's smile was a little brighter as she took out a handsome card covered with garlands and swinging cupids and inscribed "to my valentine." "well, i never saw any prettier ones," said mrs. driscoll. "but they weren't bought for me," returned alma. when soon again a knocking sounded on the door and a third valentine appeared, blossoming with violets, above which butterflies hovered, mrs. driscoll leaned lovingly toward her little girl. "alma," she said. "i think you were mistaken in saying that _all_ the children laughed when you received that 'comic.' now," in a different tone, "let's have some fun! some child or children are giving you the very best they have. let's catch the next one who comes, and find out who your friends are!" "oh, no," returned alma, smiling, but shrinking shyly from the idea. "yes, indeed. we all used to try when i was little. i'm going to stand by the door and hold it open a bit and you see if i don't catch somebody." alma lifted her shoulders. she wasn't sure that she liked to have her mother try this; but mrs. driscoll went to the door, set it ajar in the dark, and stood beside it. she did not expect there would be any further greetings, and did this rather to amuse alma, who sat examining her three valentines with a tearful little smile; but it was a very short time before another knock sounded on the usually neglected door, and quick as a wink it opened and mrs. driscoll's hand flying out caught another hand. a little scream followed, and in a second she had drawn a young lady into the tiny hall. they couldn't see one another's faces very well in the gloom. "oh, i beg your pardon!" exclaimed mrs. driscoll, very much embarrassed. "i was trying to catch a valentine." "well, you did," laughed the stranger. "there's one on the step now, unless my skirt switched it off when i jumped. i didn't intend to come in this time, though i meant to return after i had done an errand; but now i'm here i'll stay a minute if it isn't too early." "if you'll excuse the table," returned mrs. driscoll "alma and i have a late tea." she stooped at the door and picked up a valentine from the edge of the step, and both women were smiling as they entered the room where alma was standing, flushed and wide-eyed, scarcely able to believe that she recognized the voice. sure enough, as the visitor came into the lamplight, the little girl saw that the valentine her mother had caught and brought in out of the dark was really miss joslyn. she could hardly believe her eyes as she looked at the merry, blushing face which she was wont to see so serious and watchful. all the pretty teacher's scholars admired her, but she had a dignity and strictness which gave them some awe of her, too, and it seemed wonderful to alma that this important person should be standing here and laughing with her mother, right in their own sitting-room. miss joslyn's bright eyes saw signs of tears in her pupil's face, and she also saw the handsome valentines strewn upon the table. "well, well, alma!" she exclaimed softly, "you have quite a show there!" "and here is another," said mrs. driscoll, handing the latest arrival to the little girl. alma smiled gratefully at her teacher as she opened the envelope and took out a dove in full flight, carrying a leaf in its beak. on the leaf was printed in gold letters the word _love_. "i was caught in the act, alma," laughed miss joslyn, "but i guess i am too old and slow to be running about at night with valentines." "i like it the best of all," replied the little girl. "it was bought for me," she added in her own thought, and she was right. twenty minutes ago the white dove had been reposing at a stationer's, with every prospect of remaining there until another valentine's day came around. "please sit down, miss joslyn," said mrs. driscoll. "well, just for a minute," replied the young lady, taking the offered chair, "but i wish you would finish your supper." "we had, really," replied mrs. driscoll, smiling, "or i shouldn't have been playing such a game by the door. you haven't been the giver of all these valentines, i suppose?" "oh, no, indeed. those are from some of the school children, no doubt. i've been trying to find an evening to come here for some time, but my work isn't done when school is out." "i'm sure it isn't," replied mrs. driscoll, while alma sat with her dove in her hands, watching the bright face that looked happy and at home in these unusual surroundings. it seemed so very strange to be close to miss joslyn, like this, where the teacher had no bell to touch and no directions to give. she looked at alma and spoke: "the public school is a little hard for new scholars at first," she said, "where they enter in the middle of a term. you are going to like it better after a while, alma." "i think she will, too," put in mrs. driscoll. "my hours are long at the factory and i have liked to think of alma as safe in school. does she do pretty well in her studies, miss joslyn?" "yes, i have no fault to find." the visitor smiled at alma. "you haven't become much acquainted yet," went on miss joslyn. "i have noticed that you eat your lunch alone. so do i. supposing you and i have it together for a while until you are more at home with the other scholars. i have another chair in my corner, and we'll have a cosy time." alma's heart beat fast. she had never heard that an invitation from royalty is equivalent to a command, but instantly all possibility of staying at home from school disappeared. the picture rose before her thought of miss joslyn as she always appeared at the long recess: her chair swung about until her profile only was visible, the white napkin on her desk, the book in her hand as she read and ate at one and the same time. little did alma suspect what it meant to the kind teacher to give up that precious half-hour of solitude; but miss joslyn saw the child's eyes grow bright at the dazzling prospect, and noted the color that covered even her forehead as she murmured thanks and looked over at her mother for sympathy. the young lady talked on for a few minutes and then said good-night, leaving an atmosphere of brightness behind her. "oh, mother, i don't know what all the children will say," said alma, clasping her hands together. "i'm going to eat lunch with miss joslyn!" "it's fine," responded mrs. driscoll, glad of the change in her little girl's expression, and wishing the ache at her own heart could be as easily comforted. "do you suppose valentine's day is over, dearie, or had i better stand by the door again?" "oh, they wouldn't send me any more!" replied alma, looking fondly at her dove. "i think lucy berry was so kind to give me her lovely things; but i'd like to give them back." "no, indeed, that wouldn't do," replied mrs. driscoll. "i'm going to stand there once more. perhaps i'll catch somebody else to prove to you that lucy isn't the only one thinking about you." mrs. driscoll returned quietly to her post, and alma could see her smiling face through the open door. alma had very much wanted to send valentines to a few children, herself; but five cents was all the spending money she could have, and she had bought with it one valentine which had been addressed to lucy berry in the school box. she was glad it had not come back to her to-night. that would have been hardest of all to bear. just as she was thinking this there did come another knock at the door. the child looked up eagerly, and swiftly again mrs. driscoll's hand flew out, and grasping a garment, pulled gently and firmly. "well, well, ma'am!" exclaimed a bass voice, and this time it was the hostess's turn to give a little cry, followed by a laugh, as a stout, elderly man with chin whiskers came deliberately in. she retreated. "oh, mr. knapp, please excuse me! i thought you were a valentine!" "nobody'd have me, ma'am. nobody'd have me. not a mite o' use to try to stick a pair o' cupid's wings on these shoulders. it would take an awful pair to fly me. well, come now," he added, with a broad, approving smile at the laughing mother and child, "i'm right down glad to see you playin' a game. i've thought, the last few days, you was lookin' kind o' peaked and down in the mouth; so, seein' as we found a letter for you that was somehow overlooked this afternoon, i decided i'd bring it along. might be fetchin' you a fortune, for all i knew." mrs. driscoll's smile vanished, and her eyes looked eagerly into the good-humored red face, as mr. knapp sought deliberately in his coat pocket and brought forth an envelope, at sight of which alma's mother flushed and paled. "you have a valentine, too!" cried the little girl. "yes, it is from father. won't you sit down, mr. knapp?" "no, no, i'll just run along and let you read your letter in peace. i know you want to, and i hope it brings good news. if it don't, you just remember it's always darkest before day. frank driscoll's bound to come out right side up. he's a good feller." so saying, the kind friend to this couple took his departure, and mrs. driscoll's eager fingers tore open the envelope. at the first four words, "it's all right, nettie," she crushed the paper against her happy eyes and then hugged alma. it _was_ all right. mr. driscoll had a position at last, and by the time summer should come he was sure they could be together again. after the letter had been read and re-read, the two washed and put away the supper dishes with light hearts, and the next morning mrs. driscoll went off smiling to the factory, leaving a rather excited little girl to finish the morning work and arrange the lunch in the tin pail which was to be opened beside miss joslyn's desk. there were two other excited children getting ready for school that morning. they had both slept on their troubles, but were very differently prepared to meet the day. ada singer's mental attitude was, "i'll never give in, and lucy berry will find it out." lucy felt comforted, but there remained now the great step of eating lunch with alma and being punished by ada in consequence. her heart fluttered at the thought; but she was going to try not to think of herself at all, but to do right and let the consequences take care of themselves. "there isn't any other way," her mother said to her at parting. "anything which you do in any other spirit has simply to be done over again some time." "not one error-fairy shall cheat me to-day," thought lucy stoutly, and then a disconcerting idea came to her: supposing alma shouldn't come to school at all! but alma was there. ada singer, too, wearing a charming new dress and with a head held up so stiffly that it couldn't turn to look at anybody. frank morse, from his seat at the back of the room, looked curiously from one to another of the three girls and shook his head at his book. at the first recess ada singer spoke to him as he was going out. "wait a minute, frank. it is so mild to-day, mother is coming for me after school with the auto. we're going to take a long spin. wouldn't you like to go?" "yes, indeed," replied frank; "but don't you want to take lucy in my place?" he was a little uncomfortable. "if i did i shouldn't ask you," returned ada coolly. "all right. thank you," said frank, but as he joined the boys on the playground he felt still more uncomfortable. lucy berry, as soon as the recess bell had sounded, had gone straight to alma. her cheeks were very red, and the brown eyes were full of kindness. alma looked up in shy pleasure at her, a little embarrassed because she didn't know whether to thank lucy for the valentines or not. the latter did not give her time to speak. she said: "i came to see if you won't eat your lunch with me to-day." alma colored. how full the world was of kind people! "i'd love to," she answered, "but i think ada wants to have you all alone and"-- "but i'd like it if you would," said lucy firmly, "because i want to get more acquainted. my mother is coming to see yours on sunday afternoon, too." "i'm real glad she is," replied alma, fairly basking in the light from lucy's eyes. "i'd love to eat lunch with you, but miss joslyn invited me to have it with her to-day." "oh!" lucy's gaze grew larger. "why, that's lovely!" she said, in an awed tone. they had very little more time for talk before the short recess was over. as the children took their way to their seats, alma was amazed to see ada singer pass lucy without a word, and even turn her head to avoid looking at her. the child had watched this close friendship so wistfully that she instantly saw there was trouble, and naturally thought of her invitation from lucy as connected with it. at the long recess, thoughts of this possible quarrel mingled with her pleasure in the visit with miss joslyn, who was a charming hostess. many a girl or boy came to peep into the forbidden schoolroom, when the report was circulated that alma driscoll was up on the platform laughing and talking with the teacher and eating lunch with her in the cosy corner. miss joslyn insisted on exchanging a part of her lunch for alma's, spreading the things together on the white napkin, and chatting so eagerly and gayly that the little girl's face beamed. she soon told the teacher about the good news that came after she left the night before, and miss joslyn was very sympathetic. "it's a pretty nice world, isn't it?" she asked, smiling. "yes'm, it's just a lovely world to-day, only--only there's one thing, miss joslyn." "what is it?" "i think lucy berry and ada singer have had a quarrel." "oh, the inseparables? i guess not," the teacher smiled. "yes'm. the worst is, i think it's about me. could i go out in the dressing-room to get my handkerchief, and see if they're on their usual window-sill?" "yes, indeed, if it will make you feel easier." so alma went out and soon returned. lucy and ada were not on their window-sill. each was sitting with a different group of girls. miss joslyn saw the serious discomfort this gave her little companion, and persuaded her away from the subject, returning to the congenial theme of mr. driscoll's new prospects. but as soon as recess was over, alma's thoughts went back to ada singer, for she felt certain that whatever had happened, ada was the one to be appeased. the child could not bear to think of being the cause of trouble coming to dear, kind lucy. when school was dismissed, ada singer, her head carried high, put on her things in the dressing-room within a few feet of lucy, but ignoring her presence. "i love her," thought lucy, "and she does love me. nothing can cheat either of us." ada went out without a look, and waited at the head of the stairs for frank morse. alma driscoll hastened up to her. ada drew away. alma needn't think that because she had shared miss joslyn's luncheon she would now be as good as anybody. "can i speak to you just one minute?" asked the little girl so eagerly, yet meekly, that ada turned to her; but now that she had gained attention, alma did not know how to proceed. she hesitated and clasped and unclasped her hands over the gingham apron. "please--please"--she stammered, "don't be cross with lucy. she felt sorry for me, but i'll never eat lunch with her,--truly." "you don't know what you're talking about," rejoined ada coldly. "yes, she does." it was frank morse's voice, and ada, turning quickly, saw him and lucy standing a few feet behind her. the four children were alone in the deserted hall. "here," went on frank bluntly, "i want you two girls to kiss and make up." ada blushed violently as she met lucy's questioning, wistful look. "are you coming down to the auto, frank?" she asked coolly. "mother will be waiting." "oh, come now, ada, be a good fellow. if you and lucy want to put on the gloves, i'll see fair play; but for pity's sake drop this icy look business. great scott, i'm glad i'm not a girl!" the genuine disgust in the boy's tone as he closed did disturb ada a little, and then lucy added at once, beseechingly: "oh, it's like a bad dream, ada, to have anything the matter between us!" "whose fault is it?" asked ada sharply. "why did you fly at me so yesterday?" both girls had forgotten alma who, like a soberly dressed, big-eyed little bird, was watching the proceedings in much distress. "you just the same as accused me of sending alma the 'comic,'" continued ada. "oh, _didn't_ you send it?" cried lucy, fairly springing at her friend in her relief. "i don't care what you do to me then! i deserve anything, for i really thought you did." her eloquent face and the love in her eyes broke down some determination in ada's proud little heart, and raised another, perhaps quite as proud, but at least with an element of nobility. she foresaw that the dishonesty was going to be more than she could bear. "i did send it," she said suddenly, with her chin up. then, ignoring frank and lucy's open-mouthed stares, she turned toward alma. "i sent you the 'comic,'" she went on. "i thought it would be fun, but it wasn't, and i'm sorry. i should like to have you forgive me." her tone was far from humble, but it was music to alma's ears. the little girl clasped her hands together. "oh, i do," she replied earnestly, "and it made everybody so kind! please don't feel bad about it. i got the loveliest valentines in the evening, and miss joslyn came to see us, and we had a letter from my father and he has a splendid place to work and--and everything!" ada breathed a little faster at the close of this breathless speech. alma's eagerness to ascribe even her father's good fortune to the sending of the 'comic' touched her. in her embarrassment she took another determination. "if you'll excuse me, frank," she said turning to him, "i think i'll take alma home in the auto, instead of you." "all right," returned the boy, his face flushed. "you're a brick, ada!" this praise from one who seldom praised gave ada secret elation, and made her resolve to deserve it. "good-by, lucy," was all she said, but the girls' eyes met, and lucy knew the trouble was over. as ada and alma went downstairs, lucy ran to the hall window, and frank followed. "don't let them see us," she said joyfully. so, very cautiously, the two peeped and saw the handsome automobile waiting. mrs. singer was sitting within and they saw ada say something to her; then alma, her thick coat over the gingham apron, and the large dinner-pail in her hand, climbed in, ada after her, and away they all went. lucy turned to frank with her face glowing. "it's all right now," she said. "when ada takes hold she never lets go; and now she's taken hold right!" chapter xvi a morning ride mrs. evringham's listeners thanked her, then discussed the story a few minutes. "i'd like to get acquainted with alma," said jewel, "and help be kind to her." "oh, she's going to have a very good time now," replied mr. evringham. "one can see that with half an eye. were there any almas where you went to school, jewel?" "no, there weren't. we didn't bring lunches and we went home in a 'bus." "jewel went to a very nice private school," said mrs. evringham. "her teachers were christian scientists and i made their dresses for them in payment." the logs were red in the fireplace now, and the roar of the wind-driven sea came from the beach. "well, we've a good school for her," replied mr. evringham, "and there'll be no dresses to make either." his daughter looked at him wistfully. "i'm very happy when i think of it," she answered, "for there is other work i would rather do." "i should think so, indeed. catering to the whims of a lot of silly women who don't know their own minds! it must be the very--yes, very unpleasant. yes, we have a fine school in bel-air. jewel, we're going to work you hard next winter. how shall you like that?" "my music lessons will be the most fun," returned jewel. "and dancing school beside." "oh, grandpa, i'll love that! i used to know girls who went, in chicago." "yes, i'm sure you will. you shall learn all the latest jigs and flings, too, that any of the children know. i think you ought to learn them quickly. you've been hopping up and down ever since i knew you." jewel exchanged a happy glance with her mother and clapped her hands at the joyful prospect. mrs. evringham looked wistfully at her father-in-law. "i hope you'll be willing i should do the work i want to, father." "what's that? writing books? perfectly willing, i assure you. i think you've made a very good start." mrs. evringham smiled. "no, not writing books. practicing christian science." "well, you do that all the time, don't you?" "i mean taking patients." "what!" mr. evringham straightened up in his chair and frowned at her incredulously. "anybody? tom, dick, and harry? you can't mean it!" his tone was so severe that jewel rose from her place on the rug and, climbing into his lap, rested her head on his breast. his hand closed on the soft little one unconsciously. "i suppose i don't understand you," he added, a shade more mildly. "not in your house, father," returned julia. she had been preparing in thought for this moment for days. "of course it wouldn't do to have strangers coming and going there." "nonsense, nonsense, my dear girl," brusquely, "put it out of your head at once. there is no need for you to do anything after this but bring up your child and keep your husband's shirt buttons in place." "i won't neglect either," replied julia quietly; "but mr. reeves says there is great need of practitioners in bel-air. you know where the reading-room is? there is a little room leading out of it that i could have." "for an office, do you mean? nonsense," exclaimed mr. evringham again. "harry wouldn't think of allowing it." julia smiled. "will you if he does?" "what shall i say to her, jewel?" the broker looked down into the serious face. "i suppose mother ought to do it," replied the child. "of course every one who knows how and has time wants to. you can see that, grandpa, because isn't your rheumatism better?" "yes. i like our resident physician very much; but we need her ourselves. i don't think i shall ever give my consent to such a thing." "oh, yes, you will, grandpa, if it's right." the flaxen head on his breast wagged wisely. "some morning you'll come downstairs and say: 'julia, i think you can go and get that office whenever you like.'" mrs. evringham pressed her handkerchief to her lips. the couple in the armchair were so absorbed in one another that they did not observe her, and the broker's face showed such surprise. "upon my word!" he exclaimed, after a minute. "upon my word!" "are you all through talking about that?" asked jewel, after a pause. "i am, certainly," replied mr. evringham. "and i," added his daughter. she was content that the seed was planted, and preferred not to press the subject. "well, then," continued jewel, "i was wondering, grandpa, if the cracks in that boat couldn't be stuffed up a little more so i wouldn't have to bail, and then i could learn how to row." "ho, these little hands row!" returned mr. evringham scoffingly. "why, i could, grandpa. i just know i could. it was fun to bail at first, but i'm getting a little tired of it now, and i love to be on the pond--oh, almost as much as on star!" mr. evringham's eyes shone with an unusually pleased expression. "is it possible!" he returned. "it's a water-baby we have here, a regular water-baby!" "yes, grandpa, when i know how to swim and row and sail--yes," chuckling at the expression of exaggerated surprise which her listener assumed, "and sail, too, i'll be so _happy_!" "oh, come now, an eight-year-old baby!" "i'll be nine in five weeks, nine years old." "well," mr. evringham sighed, "that's better than nineteen." "why, grandpa," earnestly, "you forget; perhaps you'll like me when i'm grown up." "it's possible," returned the broker. how the sun shone the next morning! the foam on the great rollers that still stormed the beach showed from the farmhouse windows in ever-changing, spreading masses of white. essex maid and star, after a day of ennui, were more than ready for a scamper between the rolling fields where already the goldenrod hinted that summer was passing. star had to stretch his pretty legs at a great rate, to keep up with the maid this morning, though her master moderated her transports. the more like birds they flew, the more jewel enjoyed it. she knew now how to get star's best speed, and the pony scarcely felt her weight, so lightly did she adapt herself to his every motion. with cheeks tingling in the fine salt air, the riders finally came to a walk in the quiet country road. "i've been looking up that boat business, jewel," said mr. evringham. "the thing is hardly worth fixing. it would take a good while, just at the time we want the boat, too." "well, then," returned the child, "we'll have to make it do. there are so many happinesses here, it isn't any matter if the boat isn't just right; but i was thinking, grandpa, if you wouldn't wear such nice shoes, i'd go barefooted, and then we could both sit on the same seat and let the water come in, while i use one oar and you the other; or"--her face suddenly glowing with a brilliant idea--"we could both wear our bathing-suits!" "yes," returned the broker, "i think if you were to row we might need them." the child laughed. "no, jewel, no; we'd better bathe when we bathe, and row when we row, and not mix them. you couldn't do anything with even one of those clumsy oars in that tub of a boat." as mr. evringham said this, he saw the disappointment in the little girl's face as she looked straight ahead, and noted, too, her effort to conquer it. "well, i do have so many happinesses," she replied. "it will be a grand sight at the beach this morning, with the sunlight on the stormy waves," said mr. evringham. "the water-baby will have to keep out of them, though." jewel lifted her shoulders and looked at him. "then we ought to row over, don't you think so?" "you're not willing to be a thorough-going land lubber, are you?" returned the broker. "no," jewel sighed. "i'd rather bail than keep off the pond. oh, but i forgot," with a sudden thought, "mother'd get wet if she rowed over and it would be too bad to make her walk through the fields alone." there was a little silence and then mr. evringham turned the horses into the homeward way. "i begin to feel as if breakfast would be acceptable, jewel. how is it with you?" "why, i could eat"--began the child hungrily, "i could eat"-- "eggs?" suggested the broker, as she paused to think of something sufficiently inedible. "almost," returned the child seriously. another pause, and then she continued. "grandpa, wouldn't it be nice if mother had somebody to play with, too, so we could go out in the boat whenever we wanted to?" "yes. why doesn't your father hurry up his affairs?" jewel looked at the broker. "he has. he thought it was error for him not to let the people there know that he was going to leave them after a while; so they began right off to try to find somebody else, and they have already." "eh?" asked the broker. "your father is through in chicago, then? when did you hear that?" "mother had the letter yesterday and she told me when i went to bed last night." "why, then he'll be coming right on." "we'd like to have him," returned jewel; "but mother wasn't sure how you would feel about it, to have father here so long before business commences." "why didn't she tell me last evening?" asked mr. evringham. "i _think_," returned jewel, "that she wanted father so _much_--and--and that she thought perhaps you wouldn't think it was best, and--well, i think she felt a little bashful. you know mother isn't your real relation, grandpa," the child's head fell to one side apologetically. mr. evringham stroked his mustache; but instantly he turned grave again. his eyes met jewel's. "i think, as you say, it would be rather a convenience to us if your mother had some one to play with, too. suppose we send for him, eh?" "oh, let's," cried the child joyfully. "done with you!" returned the broker, and he gave the rein to essex maid. star had suddenly so much ado to gallop along beside her, that jewel's laugh rang out merrily. when, a little later, the family met in the dining-room for breakfast, mr. evringham accosted his daughter cheerfully: "well, this is good news i hear about harry." julia flushed and met his eyes wistfully. the broker had never seen any resemblance in jewel to her until this moment; but it was precisely the child's expression that now returned his look. "it's my boy she wants, too," he thought. "by george, she shall have him." "i wasn't sure that you would think it was good news for harry to give up his position so soon, but there wasn't any other honest way," she replied. "the sooner the break is made, the better," returned mr. evringham. "i shall wire him to close up everything at once and join us as soon as he can." mother and child exchanged a happy look and jewel clapped her hands. "father's coming, father's coming!" she cried joyfully. the broker bent his brows upon her. "jewel, are you strictly honorable?" he asked. "i don't know," returned the little girl. "you said a few minutes ago that it was a playfellow for your mother that you wanted. your enthusiasm is unseemly." "oh, father's just splendid," said jewel. after breakfast the three repaired to a certain covered piazza where they always read the lesson for the day; then mr. evringham suggested that they go promptly to the beach to see the splendid show before the rollers regained their usual monotonous dignity. "jewel and i thought we would go over in the boat instead of through the fields, but that old tub is rather uninviting for a lady's clothes." "i think i will take the solitary saunter in preference," returned mrs. evringham. "you and jewel row over if you like." "no, we'd rather walk with you," said the child heroically. julia smiled. "i don't want you. there are birds and flowers." "well, come down and see us off, anyway," said mr. evringham; so the three moved over the grass toward the pond; two walking sedately and one skipping from sheer high spirits. as they drew near the little wharf the child's quick eyes perceived that there were two boats floating there, one each side of it. "see that, grandpa! there's some visitor around here," she said, running ahead of the others. a light, graceful boat rose and fell on the waves. it was golden brown within and without, and highly varnished. its four seats were furnished with wine-colored cushions. four slim oars lay along its bottom, and its rowlocks gleamed. best of all, a slender mast with snowy sail furled about it lay along the edge. "grandpa, p-_lease_ ask somebody whose it is and if we could get in just a minute!" begged jewel, in hushed excitement. "oh, they're all good neighbors about here. they won't mind, whoever it is," returned mr. evringham carelessly, and to the child's wonder and doubt he jumped aboard. "pretty neat outfit, isn't it?" he continued, as he stood a moment looking over the lines of the craft, and then lifted the mast. "oh, it'll sail, too, it'll sail, too!" cried jewel, hopping up and down. "oh, mother, did you ever _hear_ of such a pretty boat?" "never," replied mrs. evringham. "it must be that some one has come over from one of those fine homes across the pond." privately, she was a little surprised by the manner in which mr. evringham was making himself at home. he set the mast in its place and then, his arms akimbo, stood regarding jewel's tense, sun-browned countenance and sparkling eyes. "how would it be for me to go up to the house and see if we could get permission to take a little sail?" he asked. "oh, it would be splendid, grandpa," responded jewel, "but--but he might say no, and _could_ i get in just a minute first?" "yes, come on." the child waited for no second invitation, but sprang into the boat and examined its dry, shining floor and felt its buttoned cushions with admiring awe. "hello, see here," said mr. evringham, bending over the further side. "easy, now," for jewel had scrambled to see. he trimmed the boat while her flaxen head leaned eagerly over. beautifully painted in shining black letters she read the name jewel. the child lifted her head quickly and gazed at him, "grandpa, that almost couldn't--_happen_" she said, in amazement, catching her breath. he nodded. "there's one thing pretty certain, nature won't draw off the pond now that this has come to you." "me, _me_!" cried the child. her lips trembled and she turned a little pale under the tan as she remembered how the pony came. then her eyes, dark with excitement, suffused, and recklessly she flung herself upon the broker's neck while the boat rocked wildly. mr. evringham waved one hand toward his daughter while he seized the mast. "tell harry we left our love," he cried. "dear me, jewel, what are you _doing_!" called mrs. evringham. "it's mine, mother, it's mine," cried the child, lifting her head to shout it, and then ducking back into the broker's silk shirt front. "what do you mean?" asked mrs. evringham, coming gingerly out upon the wharf, which was such an unsteady old affair that she had remained on terra firma. "why, you see," responded mr. evringham, "the farmhouse boat wasn't so impossible for two old sea-dogs like jewel and me, but when it came to inviting her lady mother to go out with us, i saw that we must have something else. well, it seems as if jewel approved of this." he winked at his daughter over the flaxen head on his breast. "what a fortunate, fortunate girl!" exclaimed julia. "i can hardly wait to sit on one of those beautiful red cushions." "jewel will invite you pretty soon, i think," said mr. evringham. "i hope so, for one of my feet is turned in and she is standing on it, but i wouldn't have her get off until she is entirely ready." he could feel the child swallowing hard, and though she moved her little feet, she could not lift her face. "grandpa," she began, in an unsteady, muffled tone, "i didn't tease you too much about the old boat, did i?" "no,--no, child!" "shall you--shall you like this one, too?" "well, i should rather think so. i have to give all my shoes to the poor as it is. i've nothing left fit to put on but my riding-boots. how shall we go over to the beach this time, jewel, row or sail? your mother is waiting for you to ask her to get in." slowly the big bows behind the child's ears came down into their normal position. she kissed her grandfather fervently and then turned her flushed face and eyes toward her mother. "come in, so you can see the boat's name," she said, and her smile shone out like sunshine from an april sky. "give me your hand, then, dearie. you know i'm a poor city girl and haven't a very good balance." the name was duly examined, and mrs. evringham's "oh's" of wonder and admiration were long-drawn. "see the darling cushions, mother. you can wear your best clothes here. it's just like a parlor!" "a very narrow parlor, jewel. move carefully." mrs. evringham had seated herself in the stern. "perhaps i can help with the rudder," she added, taking hold of the lines. "just as the admiral says," returned the broker. "oh, grandpa, you'll have to be the admiral," said jewel excitedly. "i'll be the crew and"-- "and the owner," suggested mr. evringham. "yes! oh, mother, what _will_ father say!" "he'll say that you are a very happy, fortunate little girl, and that divine love is always showing your grandpa how to do kind things for you." the child's expression as she looked up at the admiral made him apprehend another rush. "steady, jewel, steady. remember we aren't wearing our bathing-suits. which are we going to do, row or sail?" "oh, _sail_," cried the child, "and it'll never be the first time again! _could_ you wait while i get anna belle?" "certainly." like a flash jewel sprang from the boat and fled up the wharf and lawn. mr. evringham smiled and shook his head at his daughter. "a creature of fire and dew," he said. "i don't know how to thank you for all your goodness to her," said julia simply. "it would offend me to be thanked for anything i did for jewel," he returned. "i understand. she is your own flesh and blood. but what i feel chiefly grateful for is the wisdom of your kindness. i believe you will never spoil her. i should rather we had remained poor and struggling than to have that." mr. evringham gave the speaker a direct look in which appeared a trace of humor. "i think i am slightly inclined," he returned, "to overlook the fact that you and harry have any rights in jewel which should be respected; but theoretically i do acknowledge them, and it is going to be my study not to spoil her. i have an idea that we couldn't," he added. "oh, yes, we could," returned julia, "very easily." "well, there aren't quite enough of us to try," said the broker. "i believe while we're waiting for jewel, i'll just step up to the house and get some one to send that telegram to harry." "oh, yes!" exclaimed julia eagerly; and in a minute she was left alone, swaying up and down on the lapping water, in the salt, sunny breeze, while the jewel pulled at the mooring as if eager to try its snowy wings; and happy were the grateful, prayerful thoughts that swelled her heart. chapter xvii the birthday one stormy evening harry evringham blew into the farmhouse, wet from his drive from the station, and was severally hugged, kissed, and shaken by the three who waited eagerly to receive him. the month that ensued was perhaps the happiest that had ever come into the lives of either of the quartette; certainly it was the happiest period to the married pair who had waited ten years for their wedding trip. the days were filled with rowing, sailing, swimming, riding, driving, picnics, walks, talks, and _dolce far niente_ evenings, when the wind was still and the moon silvered field and sea. the happy hours were winged, the goldenrod strewed the land with sunshine, and august slipped away. one morning when jewel awoke it was with a sensation that the day was important. she looked over at anna belle and shook her gently. "wake up, dearie," she said. "'green pastures are before me,' it's my birthday." but anna belle, who certainly looked very pretty in her sleep, and perhaps suspected it, seemed unable to overcome her drowsiness until jewel set her up against the pillow, when her eyes at once flew open and she appeared ready for sociability. "do you remember gladys on her birthday morning, dearie? she couldn't think of anything she wanted, and i'm almost like her. grandpa's given me my boat, that's his birthday present; and mother says she should think it was enough for ten birthdays, and so should i. poor grandpa! in ten birthdays i'll be nineteen, and then he says i'll have to cry on his shoulder instead of into his vest. but grandpa's such a joker! of course grown-up ladies hardly ever cry. if father and mother have anything for me, i'll be just delighted; but i can't think what i want. i have the darlingest pony in the world, and the dearest little faithful watch, and the best boat that was ever built, and i rowed father quite a long way yesterday all alone, and i didn't splash much, but he caught hold of the side of the boat and pretended he was afraid"--jewel's laughter gurgled forth at the remembrance--"he's such a joker; and i do understand the sail, too, but they won't let me do it alone yet. father says he can see in my eye that i should love to jibe. i don't even know what jibe is, so how could i do it?" jewel had proceeded so far in her confidences when the door of her room opened, and her father and mother came in in their bath-wrappers. "we thought we heard you improving anna belle's mind," said her father, taking her in his arms and kissing both her cheeks and chin, the tip of her nose and her forehead, and then carefully repeating the programme. "but that was ten!" cried jewel. "certainly. if you didn't have one to grow on, how would you get along?" then her pretty mother, her brown hair hanging in long braids, took her turn and kissed jewel's cheeks till they were pinker than ever. "many, many happy returns, my little darling," she said. "i didn't know you weren't going riding this morning." "yes, grandpa said he expected a man early on business, and he had to be here to see him. father could have gone with me," said jewel, looking at him reproachfully, where he sat on the side of the bed, "but when i asked him last night he said--i forget what he said." "merely that i didn't believe that horses liked such early dew." "oh, jewel!" laughed mrs. evringham, "your father is a lazy, sleepy boy. it's later than you think, dearie. hop up now and get ready for breakfast." they left her, and the little girl arose with great alacrity, for ever since she was a baby her birthday present had always been on the breakfast table. as soon as she was dressed, she put a blue cashmere wrapper on anna belle and carried her downstairs to the room where the evringham family had their meals, separate from the other inmates of the farmhouse. mr. evringham was standing by the window, reading the newspaper as he waited, and jewel ran to him and looked up with bright expectation. "h'm!" he said, not lifting his eyes from the print, "good-morning, jewel. essex maid and star would hardly speak to me when i was out there just now, they're so vexed at having to stay indoors this morning." the child did not reply, but continued to look up, smiling. "well," said the broker at last, dropping the paper. "well? what is it? i don't see anything very exciting. you haven't on your silk dress." "grandpa! it's my _birthday_." the broker slapped his leg with very apparent annoyance. "well, now, to think i should have to be told that!" jewel laughed and hopped a little as she looked toward the table. "do you see that bunch under the cloth at my place? that's my present. isn't it the most _fun_ not to know what it is?" mr. evringham took her up in his arms and weighed her up and down thoughtfully. "yes," he said, "i believe you are a little heavier than you were yesterday." the child laughed again. "now remember, jewel, you're to go slow on this birthday business. once in two or three years is all very well." "grandpa! people _have_ to have birthdays every year," she replied as he set her down, "but after they're about twenty or something like that, it's wrong to remember how old they are." "indeed?" the broker stroked his mustache. "ladies especially, i suppose." "oh, no," returned jewel seriously. "everybody. mother's just twenty years older than i am and that's so easy to remember, it's going to be hard to forget; but i've most forgotten how much older father is," and jewel looked up with an expression of determination that caused the broker to smile broadly. "i can understand your mother's being too self-respecting to pass thirty," he returned, "but just why your father shouldn't, i fail to understand." "why, it's error to be weak and wear spectacles and have things, isn't it?" asked jewel, with such swift earnestness that mr. evringham endeavored to compose his countenance. "have things?" he repeated. jewel's head fell to one side. "why, even you, grandpa," she said lovingly, "even you thought you had the rheumatism." "i was certainly under that impression." "but you never would have expected to have it when you were as young as father, would you?" "hardly." "well, then you see why it's wrong to make laws about growing old and to remember people's ages." "ah, i see what you mean. everybody thinking the wrong way and jumping on a fellow when he's down, as it were." at this moment jewel's father and mother entered the room, and she instantly forgot every other consideration in her interest as to what charming surprise might be bunched up under the tablecloth. "anna belle can hardly wait to see my present," she said, lifting her shoulders and smiling at her mother. "she ought to know one thing that's there, certainly," replied mrs. evringham mysteriously. jewel held the doll up in front of her. "have you given me something, dearie?" she asked tenderly. "i do hope you haven't been extravagant." then with an abrupt change of manner, she hopped up into her chair eagerly, and the others took their places. the very first package that jewel took out was marked--"with anna belle's love." it proved to be a pair of handsome white hair-ribbons, and the donor looked modestly away as jewel expressed her pleasure and kissed her blushing cheeks. next came a box marked with her father's name. upon opening it there was discovered a set of ermine furs for anna belle,--at least they were very white furs with very black tiny tails: collar and muff of a regal splendor, and any one who declined to call them ermine would prove himself a cold skeptic. jewel jounced up and down in her chair with delight. "winter's coming, you know, jewel, and bel-air park is a very swell place," said her father. "and perhaps i'll have a sled at christmas and draw anna belle on it," said the child joyously. "here, dearie, let's see how they fit," and on went the furs over the blue cashmere wrapper, making anna belle such a thing of beauty that jewel gazed at her entranced. the doll was left with her chubby hands in the ample muff and the sumptuous collar half eclipsing her golden curls, while the little girl dived under the cloth once more for the largest package of all. this was marked with her mother's love and contained handsome plaid material for a dress, with the silk to trim it, and a pair of kid gloves. jewel hopped down from her chair and kissed first her father and then her mother. "that'll be the loveliest dress!" she said, and she carried it to her grandfather to let him look closer and put his hand upon it. "well, well, you are having a nice birthday, jewel," he said. "yes," she replied, putting her arm around his neck and pressing her cheek to his. "we couldn't put the boat under the tablecloth, but i'm thinking about it, grandpa." after breakfast they all went out to the covered piazza to read the lesson. it was a fine, still morning. the pond rippled dreamily. the roar of the surf was subdued. from jewel's seat beside her grandfather she could see her namesake glinting in the sun and gracefully rising and falling on the waves in the gentle breeze. they had all taken comfortable positions and mrs. evringham was finding the places in the books. mr. evringham spoke quite loudly: "well, this is a fine morning, surely, fine." "it is that," agreed harry, stretching his long legs luxuriously. "if i felt any better i couldn't stand it." as he was speaking, a strange man in a checked suit came around the corner of the house. jewel's eyes grew larger and she straightened up. "oh, grandpa, look!" she said softly, and then jumped off the seat to see better. all the little company gazed with interest, for, accompanying the man, was the most superb specimen of a collie dog that they had ever seen. "it's a golden dog, grandpa," added jewel. the collie had evidently just been washed and brushed. his coat was, indeed, of a gleaming yellow. his paws were white, the tip of his tail was white, and his breast was snowy as the thick, soft foam of the breakers. a narrow strip of white descended between his eyes,--golden, intelligent eyes, with generations of trustworthiness in them. a silver collar nestled in the long hair about his neck, and altogether he looked like a prince among dogs. jewel clasped her hands beneath her chin and gazed at him with all her eyes. he was too splendid to be flown at in her usual manner with animals. "what a beauty!" ejaculated harry. "it _is_ a golden dog," said jewel's mother, looking almost as enthusiastic as the child. "what have you there?" asked mr. evringham of the man. "something pretty fine, it appears to me." "yes, sir, there's none finer," replied the man, glancing at the animal. "i called to see you on that little matter i wrote you of." "yes, yes; well, that will wait. we're interested in that fine collie of yours. we know something about golden dogs here, eh, jewel?" "but this dog couldn't dance, grandpa," said the child soberly, drawing nearer to the creature. "i should think not," remarked the man, smiling. "what would he be doing dancing? i've seen lions jump the rope in shows; but it never looked fitting, to me." "no," said jewel, "this dog ought not to dance;" and as the collie's golden eyes met hers, she drew nearer still in fascination, and he touched her outstretched hand curiously, with his cold nose. "oh, well, but we like accomplished dogs," said mr. evringham coldly. "who says this dog ain't accomplished?" returned the man, in an injured tone. "just stand back there a bit, young lady." jewel retreated and her grandfather put his hand over her shoulder. the man spoke to the dog, and at once the handsome creature sat up, tall and dignified, on his hind legs. the man only kept him there a few seconds; and then he put him through a variety of other performances. the golden dog shook hands when he was told, rolled over, jumped over a stick, and at last sat up again, and when the man took a bit of sugar from his pocket and balanced it on the creature's nose, he tossed it in the air, and, catching it neatly, swallowed it in a trice. jewel was giving subdued squeals of delight, and everybody was laughing with pleasure; for the decorative creature appeared to enjoy his own tricks. the man looked proudly around upon the company. "well," said mr. evringham to jewel, "he is a dog of high degree, like gabriel's, isn't he? but he's such a big fellow i think the organ-grinder wouldn't have such an easy time with _him_." at the broker's voice, the dog walked up to him and wagged his feathery tail. jewel's eager hands went out to touch him, but mr. evringham held her back. "he's a friendly fellow," he went on; then continued to the man, "would you like to sell him?" the question set the little girl's heart to beating fast. "i would, first rate," replied the man, grinning, "but the trouble is i've sold him once. i'm taking him to his owner now." "that's a handsome collar you have on him." "oh, yes, it's a good one all right," returned the man. "the dog is for a surprise present. the lady i'm taking him to is going to know him by his name." "let's have a look at it, jewel," said mr. evringham, and he took hold of the silver collar, a familiarity which seemed rather to please the golden dog, who began wagging his tail again, as he looked at mr. evringham trustingly. jewel bent over eagerly. a single name was engraved clearly on the smooth plate. "topaz!" she cried. "his name is topaz! grandpa, mother, the golden dog's name is topaz!" mrs. evringham held up both hands in amazement, while harry frowned incredulously. "did you ever hear of anything so wonderful, grandpa? how _can_ the lady know him by his name so well as we do?" the child was quite breathless. "what? do _you_ know the name?" asked the man. "supposing i'd hit on the right place already. just take a look under his throat. the owner's name is there." jewel fell on her knees, and while mr. evringham kept his hand on the dog's muzzle, she pushed aside the silky white fur. "evringham. bel-air park, new jersey," was what she read, engraved on the silver. she sat still for a minute, overcome, while a procession of ideas crowded after each other through the flaxen head. it was her birthday; grandpa couldn't get the boat under the tablecloth. this beautiful dog--this impossibly beautiful dog, was a surprise present. he was for her, to love and to play with; to see his tricks every day, to teach him to know her and to run to her when she called. if she was given the choice of the whole world on this sweet birthday morning, it seemed to her nothing could be so desirable as this live creature, this playmate, this prince among dogs. when she looked up the man in the checked suit had disappeared. she glanced at her father and mother. they were watching her smilingly and she understood that they had known. she looked around a little further and saw mr. evringham seated, his hand on the collie's neck, while the wagging, feathery tail expressed great contentment in the touch of a good friend. at the time the story of the golden dog had so captivated jewel's imagination, the broker began his search for one in real life. he had already been thinking that a dog would be a good companion for the fearless child's solitary hours in the woods. as soon as the collie was found, he directed that all the ordinary tricks should be taught it, and every day until he left new york he visited the creature, who remembered him so well that on the collie's arrival late last evening, he had feared its joyous barking out at the barn would waken jewel. she rose to her knees now, and, putting her arms around the dog's neck, pressed her radiant face against him. topaz pulled back, but mr. evringham patted him, and in an instant he was freed; for his little mistress jumped up and, climbing into her grandfather's lap, rested her head against his breast. "grandpa," she said, slowly and fervently, "i wonder if you do know how much i love you!" mr. evringham patted the collie's head, then took jewel's hand and placed it with his own on the sleek forehead. the golden eyes met his attentively. "you're to take care of her, topaz. do you understand?" he asked. the feathery tail waved harder. jewel gazed at the dog. "if anything could be too good to be true, he'd be it," she said slowly. mr. evringham's pleasure showed in his usually impassive face. "well, isn't it a good thing then that nothing is?" he replied, and he kissed her. chapter xviii true delight when evening came and put a period to that memorable birthday, topaz was a dog of experiences. if he was a happy discovery to jewel, she was none the less one to him. he was delighted to romp in the fields, where his coat vied with the goldenrod; or to scamper up and down the beach, barking excitedly, while his friends jumped or swam through the cool waves. jewel was eager that her horse and dog should become acquainted; so, when late in the afternoon essex maid and star were brought out at the customary hour, saddled and bridled, she performed an elaborate introduction between the jet-black picture pony and the prince among dogs. star arched his neck and shook his wavy mane as he gazed down at the golden dog with his full bright eyes. he had seen topaz before; for the collie had spent the night in the barn, making sunshine in a shady place as he romped about the man in the checked suit. "oh, grandpa!" laughed jewel, as star pawed the ground, "he looks at topaz just the way essex maid used to look at him when he first came. just as _scornful_!" she knelt down on the grass by the pony, in her riding skirt, and topaz instantly came near, hopefully. he had already learned that by sticking to her closely he was liable to have good sport; but this time business awaited him. mr. evringham watched the pony and dog, with the flaxen-haired child between them, and wished he had a kodak. "now, star and topaz, you're going to love one another," said jewel impressively. "shake hands, topaz." she held out her hand and the dog sat down and offered a white paw. "good fellow," said the child. "now i guess you're going to be surprised," she added, looking into his yellow eyes. she turned toward the pony, who was nosing her shoulder, not at all sure that he liked this rival. "shake hands, star," she ordered. it took the pony some time to make up his mind to do this. it usually did. he shook his mane and tossed his head; but jewel kept patting his slender leg and offering her hand, until, with much gentle pawing and lifting his little hoof higher and higher, he finally rested it in the child's hand, although looking away meanwhile, in mute protest. "good star! darling star!" she exclaimed, jumping up and hugging him. "there, topaz, what do you think of that?" she asked triumphantly. for answer the golden dog yawned profoundly, and mr. evringham and jewel laughed together. "such impoliteness!" cried the child. "you must excuse him if he is a little conceited," said the broker. "he knows star can't sit up and roll over and jump sticks." "oh, grandpa." jewel's face sobered, for this revived a little difference of opinion between them. "when are you going to let me jump fences?" "in a few more birthdays, jewel, a few more," he replied. she turned back to her pets. "i suppose," she said musingly, "it wouldn't be the least use to try to make them shake hands with each other." "i suppose not," returned the broker, and his shoulders shook. "oh, jewel, you certainly will make me lose my waist. here now, time is flying. mount." he lowered his hand, jewel stepped on it and was in her white saddle instantly. the collie barked with loud inquiry and plunged hopefully. in a minute the horses were off at a good pace. "come, topaz!" cried the child, and the golden dog scampered after them with a will. harry and julia took a sail in the "jewel" while the riders were away, otherwise the four had spent the entire day together; and after dinner they all strolled out of doors to watch the coming of twilight. jewel and her father began a romp on the grass with the dog, and mr. evringham and julia took seats on the piazza. the broker watched the group on the lawn in silence for a minute, and then he spoke. "i was very much impressed by the talk we had last evening, julia; more so even than by those that have gone before. harry really seems very intelligent on this subject of christian science." "he is making a conscientious study of it," returned julia. "you have met my questions and objections remarkably well," went on mr. evringham. "i am willing and glad to admit truth where i once was skeptical, and i hope to understand much more. one thing i must say, however, i do object to--it is this worship of mrs. eddy. i know you don't call it that, but what does it matter what you call it, when you all give her slavish obedience? i should like to take the truth she has presented and make it more impersonal than you do. what is the need of thinking about her at all?" julia smiled. "well, ordinary gratitude might come in there. most of us feel that she has led us to the living christ, and helped us to all we have attained of health and happiness; but one very general mistake that error makes use of to blind people is that mrs. eddy exacts this gratitude. how willing everybody is to admit that actions speak louder than words; and yet who of our opposers ever stop to think how mrs. eddy's retired, hard-working life proves the falsity of the charges brought against her. she does wish for our love and gratitude; but it is for our sakes, not hers. think of any of the great teachers from st. paul down to the present day. who could benefit by the truth voiced by any of them, while he nursed either contempt or criticism of the personality of the teacher?" "yes," returned mr. evringham, "there is strength in that consideration; but this blind following of any suggestion your leader makes looks to me too much like giving up your own rationality." julia regarded him seriously. "supposing you were one of a party who had, for long years, searched in vain for gold. you had tried mine after mine only to find you had not the ability to discriminate between the priceless and the worthless ore, or to discern the signs of promise that lead to rich discovery. now, supposing another prospector had proved, over and over again, that he did know the places where treasure was to be found. supposing he had demonstrated, over and over again, that his judgment and discernment never led him astray, and that reward followed his labor unfailingly. now, what if this wise prospector was willing to help you? supposing he stated that in certain places, and by certain ways, you could attain that for which you longed and had striven vainly. when his advice or directions came to you, from time to time, do you think you would be likely to stop to haggle or argue over them? no; i think you would hasten to follow his suggestions, as eagerly and as closely as you were able, and with a warmly grateful heart. would that prospector be forcing you? or doing you a kindness? what are the fruits of christian science? what are the results of the directions of this wise, loving leader who can come so close to god that he teaches her to help us to come, too. oh, father, this obstacle, this foolish argument, meets nearly every one in the path you are treading, and tries to turn him back. i do hope, for your sake, you will decline to give that very flabby error-fairy a backbone, or let it detain you longer. it is marvelous how, without one element of truth or reason, it seems able to hold back so many, and waste their precious time." mr. evringham was regarding the speaker with close attention. "you are a good special pleader," he said, when she paused. "it is easy to speak the truth," she answered. he nodded thoughtfully. "you have given me a new light on the situation. i see it now from an entirely new standpoint." here the trio on the lawn came running up the steps, father and child laughing and panting as hard as topaz, whose tongue and teeth were all in evidence in the gayety of his grin. harry threw himself into the hammock, and jewel sat on the floor beside topaz, who gazed at her from his wistful eyes, his head on the side. harry laughed. "jewel, he looks at you as if he were saying, 'really, now, you are a person after my own heart.'" "she is after his heart, too," said jewel's mother, "and i'm sure she'll win it." "he likes me already," declared the child. "don't you, topaz?" she asked tenderly, laying her flaxen head with its big bows against the gold of his coat. "oh, there ought to be one more story in my book," she added, "one for us to read right now and finish up my birthday." "why not have 'the golden dog' again?" suggested mr. evringham, from the comfortable big wicker chair in which he sat watching jewel and topaz. "that would be appropriate." "oh, yes," cried the little girl, looking at her mother. "oh, no," returned julia, smiling. "there ought to be a special fresh story for a birthday. we might make one now." "a new one, mother?" asked jewel, much pleased. "could you?" "no indeed, not alone; but if everybody helped"-- "oh, yes," cried jewel, with more enthusiasm than before. "grandpa begin because he's the oldest, then father, then mother, then--well, me, if i can think of anything." "it's very wrong of you, jewel," said the broker, "to remember that i'm the oldest, under these circumstances. what did you tell me this morning?" the child's head fell to the side and she leaned toward him. "i don't know how old you are," she replied gently; "and it doesn't make any difference." "then let's begin with the youngest," he suggested. "no," said his daughter, "i think jewel's plan is the best. you begin, father." she did not in the least expect that he would consent, but jewel, her hands resting on topaz's collar, was looking at the broker lovingly. "grandpa can do just anything," she declared. mr. evringham regarded her musingly. "i know only one story," he said at last, "and not very far into that one." "you don't have to know far," returned julia encouragingly, "for harry has to begin whenever you say so." "indeed!" put in her husband. "i pity you if you have to listen to me." "it's my birthday, you know, grandpa," urged jewel. "so i've understood," returned the broker. "well, just wait a minute till i hitch up pegasus." "great scott!" exclaimed his son. "you aren't in earnest, julia? you don't expect me to do anything like that right off the bat!" "certainly, i do," she replied, laughing. "oh, see here, i have an engagement. we're one, you know, and when it comes to authorship, you're the one." "hush," returned julia, "you're disturbing father's muse." but mr. evringham's ideas, whatever they were, seemed to be at hand. he settled back in his chair, his elbows on the arms and his finger-tips touching. all his audience immediately gave attention. even anna belle had a chair all to herself and fixed an inspiring gaze on the broker. it was to be hoped that her pride kept her cool, for, in spite of the quiet warmth of the september evening, she was enveloped in her new furs, with her hands tucked luxuriously in the large muff. "once upon a time," began mr. evringham, "there was an old man. no one had ever told him that it was error to grow old and infirm, and he sometimes felt about ninety, although he was rather younger. he lived in the valley of vain regret. the climate of that region has a bad effect on the heart, and his had shriveled up until it was quite small and mean, and hard and cold, at that. "the old man wasn't poor; he lived in a splendid castle and had plenty of servants to wait on him; but he was the loneliest of creatures. he wanted to be lonely. he didn't like anybody, and all he asked of people was that they stay away from him and only speak to him when he spoke to them, which wasn't very often, i assure you. you can easily see that people were willing to stay away from a cross-grained person like that. everybody in the neighborhood was afraid of him. they shivered when he came near, and ran off to get into the sunshine; so he was used to seeing visitors pass by the fine grounds of his castle with only a scared glance or two in that direction, and he wished it to be so. but he was very unhappy all the same. his dried-up heart gave him much discomfort, and then once he had read an old parchment that told of a far different land from vain regret. in that country was the castle of true delight, and many an hour the man spent in restless longing to know how he might find it; for--so he read--if a person could once pass within the portals of that palace, he would never again know sorrow or discontent, but one happy day would follow another in endless variety and satisfaction. "many a time the man mounted on a spirited horse and rode forth in search of this castle, and many different paths he took; but every night he came home discouraged, for no sign could he find of any hope or cheer in the whole valley of vain regret, and it seemed to him to hold him like a prisoner. "one day as he was strolling on the terrace before the castle, in bitter thought, a strange sight met his eyes. a little girl pushed open the great iron gates which he had thought were locked, and walked toward him. for a minute he was too much amazed at such daring to speak, and the little girl came forward, smiling as she caught his look. she had dark eyes and her brown hair curled in her neck. most people would have remarked her sweet expression; but the old man turned fierce at sight of her. "'be off,' he commanded angrily, and he pointed to the gate. "she did not cease smiling nor turn away, but came straight on. "the little dried heart in the old man's breast began to bounce about at a great rate in his anger. he turned to a servant who stood near holding in leash two great hounds. "'set the dogs on her,' he commanded; and though the servant was loath to obey, he dared not refuse, and set free the dogs who, at the master's word, bounded swiftly toward the child. "her loving look did not alter as she saw them coming and she held out her hands to them. when they reached her they licked the little hands with their tongues and bent their great heads to her caresses, and so she advanced to the man, walking between the hounds, a hand on the neck of each. "he stared at her dumfounded as she stood before him, her eyes smiling up into his. her garments were white and of a strange fashion. "'from whence come you?' he asked, when he could speak. "'from the heavenly country,' she answered. "'and what may be your name?' "'purity.' "'i ordered you out of my grounds!' exclaimed the old man. "'i did not hear it,' returned the child, unmoved. "'don't you fear the dogs?' "'what is fear?' asked purity, her eyes wondering. "'this is the land of vain regret,' said the man. 'be off!' "'this is a beautiful land,' returned the child. "for a moment her fearless obstinacy held him silent, then he thought he would voice the question that was always with him. "'have you ever heard, in your country, of the castle of true delight?' he asked. "'often,' replied the child. "'i wish to go there,' he declared eagerly. "'then why not?' returned purity. "'i cannot find the way.' "'that is a pity,' said the child. 'it is in my country.' "'and you have seen it?' "'oh, many times.' "'then you shall show me the way.' "'whenever you are ready,' returned purity. so saying, she passed him, still accompanied by the hounds, and walked up the steps of the castle and passed within and out of sight." * * * * * the story-teller paused. jewel had risen from her seat on the floor and come to sit on a wicker hassock at his feet, and topaz rapped with his tail as she moved. "i wish you'd been there, grandpa, to take care of that little girl," she said earnestly, her eyes fixed on his. "what happened next?" "ask your father," was the response. harry evringham rolled over in the hammock where he lay stretched, until he could see his daughter's face. she rose again and pulled her hassock close to him as he continued:-- "as purity passed into the house, the dogs whined, and the servant calling them, they ran back to him. the old man stood still, bewildered, for a minute; then he struck his hands together. "'it is true, then. even that child has seen it. i will go to her at once, and we will set forth.' "so the old man entered the castle, and gave orders that the child who had just come in should be found and brought to him. "the servants immediately flew to do his bidding, but no child could they find. "'lock the gates lest she escape,' ordered the master. 'she is here. find her, or off goes every one of your foolish heads.' "this was a terrible threat. you may be sure the servants ran hither and thither, and examined every nook and corner; but still no little girl could be found. the master scowled and fumed, but he considered that if he had his servants all beheaded, it would put him to serious inconvenience; so he only sat down and bit his thumbs, and began to try to think up some new way to search for the castle of true delight. "he felt sure the child had told the truth when saying she had beheld it. it was even in the country where she had her home. the man began to see that he had made a mistake not to treat the stranger more civilly. the very dogs that he kept to drive away intruders had been more hospitable than he. "all at once he had a bright thought. the roc, the oldest and wisest of all birds, lived at the top of the mountain which rose above his castle. "'she will tell me the way,' he said, 'for she knows the world from its very beginning.' "so he ordered that they should saddle and bridle his strongest steed, and up the mountain he rode for many a toilsome hour, until he came to where the roc lived among the clouds. "she listened civilly to the man's question. 'so you are weary of your life,' she said. 'many a pilgrim comes to me on the same quest, and i tell them all the same thing. the obstacles to getting away from the valley of vain regret are many, for there is but one road, and that has difficulties innumerable; but the thing that makes escape nearly impossible is the dragon that watches for travelers, and has so many eyes that two of them are always awake. there is one hope, however. if you will examine my wings and make yourself a similar pair, you can fly above the pitfalls and the dragon's nest, and so reach the palace safely.' "as she said this, the roc slowly stretched her great wings, and the man examined them eagerly, above and below. "'and in what direction do i fly?' he asked at last. "'toward the rising sun,' replied the roc; then her wings closed, her head drooped, and she fell asleep, and no further word could the man get from her. "he rode home, and for many weeks he labored and made others labor, to build an air-ship that should carry him out of the valley of vain regret. it was finished at last. it was cleverly fashioned, and had wings as broad as the roc's; but on the day when the man finally stepped within it and set it in motion, it carried him only a short distance outside the castle gates, and then sank to the boughs of a tall tree, and, try as he might, the air-ship could not be made to take a longer flight. "his poor shrunken heart fluttered with rage and disappointment. 'i will go to the wise hermit,' he said. so he went far through the woods to the hut of the wise hermit, and he told him the same gruesome things about the difficulties that beset the road out of the valley of vain regret, and said that one's only hope lay in tunneling beneath them. "so the old man hired a large number of miners, and, setting their faces eastward, they burrowed down into the earth, and blasted and dug a way which the man followed, a greater and greater eagerness possessing him with each step of progress; but just when his hopes were highest, the miners broke through into an underground cavern, bottomless and black, from which they all started back, barely in time to save themselves. it was impossible to go farther, and the whole company returned by the way they had come, and the miners were very glad to breathe the air of the upper world again; but the man's disappointment was bitter. "'it is of no use,' he said, when again he stood on the terrace in front of his castle. 'it is of no use to struggle. i am imprisoned for life in the valley of vain regret.'" * * * * * jewel's father paused. she had listened attentively. now she turned to her grandfather. "is that the way you think the story went, grandpa?" mr. evringham nodded. "i think it did," he replied. "then go on, please, father, because i like a lot of happiness in my stories, and i want that man to hurry up and know that--that error is cheating him." "your mother to the rescue, then," replied harry evringham, smiling. jewel turned to look at her mother, and, rising again, picked up her hassock and carried it to the steamer chair in which mrs. evringham was reclining. her mother looked into her serious eyes and nodded reassuringly as she began:-- * * * * * "as that sorry old man stood there on the terrace, things had never looked so black to him. he was so tired, so tired of hating. he longed for a thousand things, he knew not what, but he was sure they were to be found at the castle of true delight; but he was shut in! there was no way out. as he was thinking these despairing thoughts and looking about on the scenes which had grown hateful to him, he saw something that made him start. the great iron gates leading out of his grounds opened as once before, and a little girl in white garments came in and moved toward him. his heart leaped at the sight,--and it swelled a bit, too! "instead of ordering her off, he hurried toward her and, although he scowled in his eagerness, she smiled and lifted dark eyes that beamed lovingly. "'i cannot find my way to your country nor to the castle of true delight,' said the man, 'and i need you to show me. since you have found your road hither twice, surely you can go back again.' "'yes, easily,' replied purity, 'and since you know that you need me, you are ready, and the king welcomes all.' "'he will not like me,' said the sorry man, 'because nobody does.' "'i do,' replied the child; and at her tone the man's heart swelled a little more. "'there is water in my eyes,' he said, as if to himself. 'what does that mean?' "'it will make you see better,' replied the child. 'it is the kind of water that softens the heart, and that always improves the sight.' "'be it so, then. perhaps i can better see the way; but the road is full of perils innumerable, child. have you found some other path?' "'there is but one,' replied purity. "'so the roc said,' declared the man. 'how did you pass the dragon?' "the child looked up wonderingly. 'i saw no dragon,' she answered. "the man stared at her. 'there are pitfalls and obstacles innumerable,' he repeated, 'and an ever-wakeful dragon. you passed it in the night, perhaps, and were too small to be observed.' "'i saw none,' repeated the child. "'yet i will risk it!' exclaimed the man. 'rather death than this life. wait until i buckle on my sword and order our horses.' "he turned to go, but the child caught his hand. 'we need no horses,' she said, gently, 'and what would you with a sword?' "'for our defense.' "the child pressed his hand softly. 'those who win to true delight use only the sword of spirit,' she answered. "the man frowned at her, but even frowning he wondered. again came the swelling sensation within his breast, which he could not understand. "the child smiled upon him and started toward the heavy gates and the man followed. he wondered at himself, but he followed. "emerging into the woodland road, purity took a path too narrow and devious for a horse to tread, but the man saw that it led toward the rising sun. she seemed perfectly sure of her way, and occasionally turned to look sweetly on the pilgrim whose breast was beginning to quake at thought of the difficulties to come. no defense had he but his two hands, and no guide but this gentle, white-robed child in her ignorant fearlessness. indeed it was worse than being alone, for he must defend her as well as himself. she was so young and helpless, and she had looked love at him. with this thought the strange water stood again in his eyes and the narrow heart in his bosom swelled yet more. "the forest thickened and deepened. sharp thorns sprang forth and at last formed a network before the travelers. "'you will hurt yourself, purity!' cried the man. 'let me go first,' and pushing by the little child, he tried to break the thorny branches and force a way; but his hands were torn in vain; and seeing the hopelessness, after a long struggle, he turned sadly to his guide. "'i told you!' he said. "'yes,' she answered, and the light from her eyes shone upon the tangle. 'on this road, force will avail nothing; but there are a thousand helps for him who treads this path with me.' "as she spoke, an army of bright-eyed little squirrels came fleetly into the thicket and gnawed down thorns and briers before the pilgrims, until they emerged safely into an open field. "'a heart full of thanks, little ones,' called purity after them as they fled. "'why did they do that for us?' asked the astonished man. "'because they know i love them,' replied the child, and she moved forward lightly beside her companion. "they had walked for perhaps half an hour when a sound of rushing waters came to their ears, and they soon reached a broad river. there was no bridge and the current was deep and swift. "the man gazed at the roaring torrent in dismay. 'oh, child, behold the flood! even if i could build a raft, we should be carried out to sea, and no swimmer could stem that tide with you in his arms. how ever came you across by yourself?' "'love helped me,' answered purity. "'alas, it will not help me,' said the man. 'i know hate better.' "'but you are becoming acquainted with love, else you would not look on me so kindly,' returned the child. 'have faith and come to the shore.' she put her little hand in his and he held it close, and together they walked to the edge of the rushing river. suddenly its blackness was touched and twinkling with silver which grew each instant more compact and solid, and, without a moment's hesitation, purity stepped upon the silver path, drawing with her the man, who marveled to see that countless large fish, with their noses toward the current and their fins working vigorously, were offering their bodies as a buoyant bridge, over which the two passed safely. "'a thousand thanks, dear ones,' said purity, as they reached the farther bank; and instantly there was a breaking and twinkling of the silver, and the rushing water swallowed up the kindly fish. "the man, speechless with wonder, moved along beside his guide, and from time to time she sang a little song, and as she sang he could feel his heart swelling and there was a strange new happiness born in it, which seemed to answer her song though his lips were mute. "and then purity talked to him of her king and of the rich delights which were ever poured out to him who once found the path to the heavenly country; and the man listened quite eagerly and humbly and clung to purity as to his only hope. "when night fell he feared to close his eyes lest the child slip away from him; but she smiled at his fears. "'i can never leave you while you want me,' she answered; 'beside, i do not wish to, for i love you. do you forget that?' "at this the man lay down quite peacefully. his heart was full and soft, and the strange water that filled his eyes overflowed upon his cheeks. "in the morning they ate fruits and berries, and pursued their journey, and it was not long before another of the obstacles which the roc and the hermit had foretold threatened to end their pilgrimage. it was a chasm that fell away so steeply and was so deep and wide that, looking into the depths below, the man shuddered and started back. before he had time to utter his dismay, a large mountain deer appeared noiselessly before the travelers. the man started eagerly, but as the creature's bright, wild gaze met his, it vanished as silently and swiftly as it had come. "'ah, why was that?' exclaimed purity. 'felt you an unloving thought?' "''twas a fine deer. had i but possessed a bow and arrow, i could have taken it!' returned the man, with excitement. "'to what end?' asked purity, her wondering eyes sad. 'one does not gain the heavenly country by slaying. we must wait now, until love drives out all else.' "the repentant man hung his head and looked at the broad chasm. 'would that i had not willed to kill the creature,' he said, 'for i am loath to lose my own life, and it is less good than the deer's.' "purity smiled upon him and slid her hand into his, and again the deer bounded before them, followed this time by its mate. "the child fondled them. 'mount upon its back,' she said to the man, indicating the larger animal. he obeyed, though with trembling, while the smaller deer kneeled to the child and she took her seat. "then the creatures planted their feet unerringly and stepped to a lower jutting point of rock, from whence with flying leaps they bridged the chasm and scrambled to firm earth on the other side. "'our hearts' best thanks, loved ones,' said purity, as the deer bounded away. "the man was trembling. 'i have slain many of god's creatures for my pleasure,' he faltered. 'may he forgive me!' "'if you do so no more you will forgive yourself; but only so,' returned purity. "they moved along again and the man spoke earnestly and humbly of the wonders that had befallen them. "'to love, all things are possible,' returned the child; 'but to love only;' and her companion listened to all she said, with a full heart. "by noon that day, an inaccessible cliff stared the travelers in the face. its mighty crags bathed their feet in a deep pool, and up, up, for hundreds of feet, ran a smooth wall of rock in which no one might find a foothold. "the man stared at it in silence, and it seemed to frown back inexorably. his companion watched his face and read its mute hopelessness. "'have you still--_still_ no faith?' she asked. "'i cannot see how'--stammered the man. "'no, you cannot see how--but what does that matter?' asked the child. 'let us eat now,' and she sat down, and the man with her, and they ate of the fruits and nuts she had gathered along the way and carried in her white gown. "while they ate, a pair of great eagles circled slowly downward out of the blue sky, nor paused until they had alighted near the travelers. "'welcome, dear birds,' said purity. 'you know well the heavenly country, and we seek your help to get there, for we have no wings to fly above those rocky steeps.' "the eagles nestled their heads within her little hands, in token of obedience, and when she took her seat upon one, the man obeyed her sign and trusted himself upon the outstretched wings of the other. "up, up, soared the great birds, over the sullen pool, up the sheer rock. up, and still up, with sure and steady flight, until, circling once again, the eagles alighted gently upon a land strewn with flowers. "the man and his guide stood upon the green earth, and purity kissed her hands gratefully to the eagles as they circled away and out of sight. "'this is a beautiful country,' said the man, and he gathered a white flower. "'yes,' returned purity, smiling on him, 'you begin to see it now.'" * * * * * mrs. evringham paused. jewel's eyes were fixed on her unwinkingly. "go on, please, mother," she said. "i think i've told enough," replied mrs. evringham. "oh, but you finish it, mother. you can tell it just beautifully." "thank you, dear, but i think it is your turn." "yes, jewel," said her father, "it's up to you now." "but i don't think a little girl _can_ tell stories to grown-up people." "oh, yes, on her birthday she can," returned her father. "go on, we're all listening; no one asleep except topaz." jewel's grandfather had been watching her absorbed face all the time, between his half-closed lids. "i think they've left the hardest part of all to you, jewel," he said,--"to tell about the dragon." "oh, no-o," returned the child scornfully, "that part's easy." the broker raised his eyebrows. "indeed?" he returned. in honor of her birthday, jewel was arrayed in her silk dress. the white ribbons, anna belle's gift, were billowing out behind her ears. she presented the appearance, as she sat on the wicker hassock, of a person who had had little experience with dragons. "well," she said, after a pause, smiling at her grandfather and lifting her shoulders, "shall i try, then?" "by all means," returned the broker. so jewel folded her hands in her silken lap and began in her light, sweet voice:-- * * * * * "when the man looked around on the flowers and lovely trees and brooks, he said, 'this is a beautiful land.' "and purity answered: 'i'm glad that you see it is. you remember i told you it was.' "'it was the valley of vain regret we were talking about then,' said the man. 'if you had known more about it, you wouldn't have called _that_ beautiful.' "then the little girl smiled because she knew something nice that the man didn't know yet; but he was going to. "so they journeyed along and journeyed along through pleasant places, and while they walked, purity told the man about the great king--how loving he was and everything like that, and the man had hold of her hand and listened just as hard as he could, for he felt sure she was telling the truth; and it made him glad, and his heart that had been wizzled up just like a fig, had grown to be as big as--oh, as big as a watermelon, and it was full of nice feelings. "'i'm happy, purity,' he said to the little girl. "i'm glad,' she answered, and she squeezed his hand back again, because she loved him now as much as if he was her grandpa. "well, they went along, and along, and at last they came to some woods and a narrow path through them. the man was beginning to think they might need the squirrels again, when suddenly"--jewel paused and looked around on her auditors whose faces she could barely see in the gathering dusk,--"suddenly the man thought he saw the dragon he had heard so much about; and he shivered and hung back, but purity walked along and wondered what was the matter with him. "'there's the dragon!' he said, in the most _afraid_ voice, and he hung back on the girl's hand so hard that she couldn't move. "when she saw how he looked, she patted him. 'i don't see anything,' she said, 'only just lovely woods.' "'oh, purity, come back, come back, we can't go any farther!' said the man, and his eyes kept staring at something among the trees, close by. "'what do you see?' asked the little girl. "'a great red dragon with seven heads and ten horns!' answered the man, and he pulled on her again, to go back with him. "'dear me,' said purity, 'is that old make-believe thing ground here, trying to cheat you? i've heard about it.' "'it would make anybody afraid,' said the man. 'it has seven heads and it could eat us up with any one of them.' "'yes, it could, if it was there,' said purity, 'but there isn't any such thing, to _be_ there. the king of the country is all-powerful and he knows we're coming, and he _wants_ us to come. hasn't he taken care of us all the way and helped us over every hard place? shouldn't you think you'd _know_ by this time that we're being taken care of?' "'oh, dear!' said the man, 'i shall never see the heavenly country, nor the castle, nor know what true delight is; for no one could get by that dragon!' "purity felt bad because his face was the sorriest that you ever saw, and his voice sounded full of crying. so she put her arms around him. 'now don't you feel that way;' she said, 'everything is just as happy as it was before. there isn't any dragon there. tell me where you see him.' "so the man pointed to the foot of a great tree close by. "'all right,' said purity, 'i'll go and stand right in front of that tree until you get 'way out of the woods, and then i'll run and catch up with you.' "the man stooped down and put his arms around the girl just as lovingly as if she was his own little grandchild. "'i can't do that,' he said; 'i'd rather the dragon would eat me up than you. you run, purity, and i'll stay; and when he tries to catch you, i'll throw myself in front of him. but kiss me once, dear, because we've been very happy together.' "purity kissed him over and over again because she was so happy about his goodness, and she saw the tears in his eyes, that are the kind that make people see better. she _knew_ what the man was going to see when he stood up again." the story-teller paused a moment, but no one spoke, although she looked at each one questioningly; so she continued:-- "well, he was the most _surprised_ man when he got up and looked around. "'the dragon has gone!' he said. "'no, he hasn't,' said purity, and she just hopped up and down, she was so glad. 'he hasn't gone, because he wasn't there!' "'he _isn't_ there!' said the man, over and over. 'he _isn't_ there!' and he looked so happy--oh, as happy as if it was his birthday or something. "so they walked along out into the sunshine again, and sweeter flowers than ever were growing all around them, and a bird that was near began singing a new song that the man had never heard. "there was a lovely green mountain ahead of them now. 'purity,' said the man, for something suddenly came into his head, 'is this the heavenly country?' "'yes,' said purity, and she clapped her hands for joy because the man knew it was. "they walked along and the bird's notes were louder and sweeter. 'i _think_, said the man softly, 'i think he is singing the song of true delight.' "'he is,' said purity. "so, when they had walked a little farther still, they began to see a splendid castle at the foot of the mountain. "'oh,' said the man, just as happily as anything, 'is that home at _last_!' "'yes,' said purity, 'it is the castle of true delight.' "the man felt young and strong and he walked so fast the little girl had to skip along to keep up with him, and the bird flew around their heads and sang 'love, love, love; _true_ delight, _true_ delight,' just as _plain_." * * * * * jewel gave the bird-song realistically, then she unclasped her hands. "mother," she said, turning to mrs. evringham, "now you finish the story. will you?" "yes, indeed, i know the rest," returned mrs. evringham quietly, and she took up the thread:-- * * * * * "as the man and purity drew near to the great gates before the castle, these flew open of their own accord, and the travelers entered. drawing near the velvet green of the terraces, a curious familiarity in the fair scene suddenly impressed the man. he stared, then frowned, then smiled. a great light streamed across his mind. "'purity,' he asked slowly, 'is this my castle?' "'yes,' she answered, watching him with eyes full of happiness. "'and will you live with me here, my precious child?' "'always. the great king wills it so.' "'but what--where--where is the valley of vain regret?' "purity shook her head and her clear eyes smiled. 'there is no valley of vain regret,' she answered. "'but i lived in it,' said the man. "'yes, before you knew the king, our father. there is no vain regret for the king's child.' "'then i--i, too, am the king's child?' asked the man, his face amazed but radiant, for he began to understand a great many things. "'you, too,' returned purity, and she nestled to him and he held her close while the bird hovered above their heads and sang with clear sweetness, 'love, love, love; true delight, true, true, _true_ delight.'" * * * * * the story-teller ceased. jewel saw that the tale was finished. she jumped up from the hassock and clapped her hands. then she ran to mr. evringham and climbed into his lap. it was so dark now on the veranda that she could scarcely see his face. but he put his arms around her and gathered her to her customary resting place on his shoulder. "wasn't that _lovely_, grandpa? did you think your story was going to end that way?" he stroked her flaxen hair in silence for a few seconds before replying, then he answered, rather huskily:-- "i hoped it would, jewel." "_the books you like to read at the price you like to pay_" * * * * * _there are two sides to everything_-- --including the wrapper which covers every grosset & dunlap book. when you feel in the mood for a good romance, refer to the carefully selected list of modern fiction comprising most of the successes by prominent writers of the day which is printed on the back of every grosset & dunlap book wrapper. you will find more than five hundred titles to choose from--books for every mood and every taste and every pocket-book. _don't forget the other side, but in case the wrapper is lost, write to the publishers for a complete catalog._ * * * * * _there is a grosset & dunlap book for every mood and for every taste_ the pg collection in honor of distributed proofreaders having posted over , ebooks. * * * * * +-----------------------------------------------------------+ | transcriber's note: | | | | this document reproduces the text for the gift edition of | | heidi, if you would like to see the illustrations, margin | | art, and decorations, the html version is recommended. | | | | inconsistent hyphenation in the original document has | | been preserved. | | | | obvious typographical errors have been corrected in this | | text. for a complete list, please see the end of this | | document. | | | +-----------------------------------------------------------+ * * * * * heidi johanna spyri [illustration: (heidi)] [illustration: (peter)] heidi gift edition [illustration: waving her hand and looking after her departing friend till he seemed no bigger than a little dot _page _] heidi by johanna spyri translated by elisabeth p. stork _with an introduction by_ charles wharton stork, a.m., ph.d. _ illustrations in color by_ maria l. kirk gift edition philadelphia and london j.b. lippincott company copyright, . by j.b. lippincott company additional illustrations and decorations copyright, , by j.b. lippincott company printed by j.b. lippincott company at the washington square press philadelphia, u.s.a. introduction unassuming in plot and style, "heidi" may none the less lay claim to rank as a world classic. in the first place, both background and characters ring true. the air of the alps is wafted to us in every page; the house among the pines, the meadows, and the eagle poised above the naked rocks form a picture that no one could willingly forget. and the people, from the kindly towns-folk to the quaint and touching peasant types, are as real as any representation of human nature need be. every goat even, has its personality. as for the little heroine, she is a blessing not only to everyone in the story, but to everyone who reads it. the narrative merits of the book are too apparent to call for comment. as to the author, johanna spyri, she has so entirely lost herself in her creation that we may pass over her career rather rapidly. she was born in switzerland in , came of a literary family, and devoted all her talent to the writing of books for and about children. since "heidi" has been so often translated into english it may well be asked why there is any need for a new version. the answer lies partly in the conventional character of the previous translations. now, if there is any quality in "heidi" that gives it a particular charm, that quality is freshness, absolute spontaneity. to be sure, the story is so attractive that it could never be wholly spoiled; but has not the reader the right to enjoy it in english at least very nearly as much as he could in german? the two languages are so different in nature that anything like a literal rendering of one into the other is sure to result in awkwardness and indirectness. such a book must be not translated, but re-lived and re-created. to perform such a feat the writer must, to begin with, be familiar with the mountains, and able to appreciate with wordsworth the silence that is in the starry sky, the sleep that is among the lonely hills. the translator of the present version was born and reared in a region closely similar to that of the story. her home was originally in the picturesque town of salzburg, and her father, franz von pausinger, was one of the greatest landscape painters of his country and generation. another equally important requisite is knowledge of children. it happens that this translator has a daughter just the age of the heroine, who moreover loves to dress in tyrolese costume. to translate "heidi" was for her therefore a labor of love, which means that the love contended with and overcame the labor. the english style of the present version is, then, distinctive. it has often been noticed that those who acquire a foreign language often learn to speak it with unusual clearness and purity. for illustration we need go no further than joseph conrad, a pole, probably the greatest master of narrative english writing to-day; or to our own fellow-citizen carl schurz. in the present case, the writer has lived seven years in america and has strengthened an excellent training with a wide reading of the best english classics. many people say that they read without noticing the author's style. this is seldom quite true; unconsciously every one is impressed in some way or other by the style of every book, or by its lack of style. children are particularly sensitive in this respect and should, therefore, as much as is practicable, read only the best. in the new translation of "heidi" here offered to the public i believe that most readers will notice an especial flavor, that very quality of delight in mountain scenes, in mountain people and in child life generally, which is one of the chief merits of the german original. the phrasing has also been carefully adapted to the purpose of reading aloud--a thing that few translators think of. in conclusion, the author, realising the difference between the two languages, has endeavored to write the story afresh, as johanna spyri would have written it had english been her native tongue. how successful the attempt has been the reader will judge. charles wharton stork assistant professor of english at the university of pennsylvania [illustration] contents part i heidi's years of learning and travel chapter page i. going up to the alm-uncle ii. with the grandfather iii. on the pasture iv. in the grandmother's hut v. two visitors vi. a new chapter with new things vii. miss rottenmeier has an uncomfortable day viii. great disturbances in the sesemann house ix. the master of the house hears of strange doings x. a grandmama xi. heidi gains in some respects and loses in others xii. the sesemann house is haunted xiii. up the alp on a summer evening xiv. on sunday when the church bells ring part ii heidi makes use of her experience xv. preparations for a journey xvi. a guest on the alp xvii. retaliation xviii. winter in the village xix. winter still continues xx. news from distant friends xxi. on further events on the alp xxii. something unexpected happens xxiii. parting to meet again illustrations page waving her hand and looking after her departing friend till he looked no bigger than a little dot _frontispiece_ she undid the heavy shawl and the two little dresses here a neat little bed was prepared she handed him also the whole slice of cheese off they started at such a pace that heidi shouted for joy when heidi heard that she struggled to get free off they started, and soon heidi was pulling the door-bell there she would remain, eating her heart away with longing throwing herself in her grandfather's arms, she held him tight with heidi's hand in his they wandered down together they are coming, oh, the doctor is coming first the two children were already flying down the alp he watched his fallen enemy tumbling downwards, downwards peter shot off and rushed down the mountain-side, turning wild somersaults on his perilous way part i heidi's years of learning and travel [illustration] heidi i going up to the alm-uncle the little old town of mayenfeld is charmingly situated. from it a footpath leads through green, well-wooded stretches to the foot of the heights which look down imposingly upon the valley. where the footpath begins to go steeply and abruptly up the alps, the heath, with its short grass and pungent herbage, at once sends out its soft perfume to meet the wayfarer. one bright sunny morning in june, a tall, vigorous maiden of the mountain region climbed up the narrow path, leading a little girl by the hand. the youngster's cheeks were in such a glow that it showed even through her sun-browned skin. small wonder though! for in spite of the heat, the little one, who was scarcely five years old, was bundled up as if she had to brave a bitter frost. her shape was difficult to distinguish, for she wore two dresses, if not three, and around her shoulders a large red cotton shawl. with her feet encased in heavy hob-nailed boots, this hot and shapeless little person toiled up the mountain. the pair had been climbing for about an hour when they reached a hamlet half-way up the great mountain named the alm. this hamlet was called "im dörfli" or "the little village." it was the elder girl's home town, and therefore she was greeted from nearly every house; people called to her from windows and doors, and very often from the road. but, answering questions and calls as she went by, the girl did not loiter on her way and only stood still when she reached the end of the hamlet. there a few cottages lay scattered about, from the furthest of which a voice called out to her through an open door: "deta, please wait one moment! i am coming with you, if you are going further up." when the girl stood still to wait, the child instantly let go her hand and promptly sat down on the ground. "are you tired, heidi?" deta asked the child. "no, but hot," she replied. "we shall be up in an hour, if you take big steps and climb with all your little might!" thus the elder girl tried to encourage her small companion. a stout, pleasant-looking woman stepped out of the house and joined the two. the child had risen and wandered behind the old acquaintances, who immediately started gossiping about their friends in the neighborhood and the people of the hamlet generally. "where are you taking the child, deta?" asked the newcomer. "is she the child your sister left?" "yes," deta assured her; "i am taking her up to the alm-uncle and there i want her to remain." "you can't really mean to take her there deta. you must have lost your senses, to go to him. i am sure the old man will show you the door and won't even listen to what you say." "why not? as he's her grandfather, it is high time he should do something for the child. i have taken care of her until this summer and now a good place has been offered to me. the child shall not hinder me from accepting it, i tell you that!" "it would not be so hard, if he were like other mortals. but you know him yourself. how could he _look_ after a child, especially such a little one? she'll never get along with him, i am sure of that!--but tell me of your prospects." "i am going to a splendid house in frankfurt. last summer some people went off to the baths and i took care of their rooms. as they got to like me, they wanted to take me along, but i could not leave. they have come back now and have persuaded me to go with them." "i am glad i am not the child!" exclaimed barbara with a shudder. "nobody knows anything about the old man's life up there. he doesn't speak to a living soul, and from one year's end to the other he keeps away from church. people get out of his way when he appears once in a twelve-month down here among us. we all fear him and he is really just like a heathen or an old indian, with those thick grey eyebrows and that huge uncanny beard. when he wanders along the road with his twisted stick we are all afraid to meet him alone." "that is not my fault," said deta stubbornly. "he won't do her any harm; and if he should, he is responsible, not i." "i wish i knew what weighs on the old man's conscience. why are his eyes so fierce and why does he live up there all alone? nobody ever sees him and we hear many strange things about him. didn't your sister tell you anything, deta?" "of course she did, but i shall hold my tongue. he would make me pay for it if i didn't." barbara had long been anxious to know something about the old uncle and why he lived apart from everybody. nobody had a good word for him, and when people talked about him, they did not speak openly but as if they were afraid. she could not even explain to herself why he was called the alm-uncle. he could not possibly be the uncle of all the people in the village, but since everybody spoke of him so, she did the same. barbara, who had only lived in the village since her marriage, was glad to get some information from her friend. deta had been bred there, but since her mother's death had gone away to earn her livelihood. she confidentially seized deta's arm and said: "i wish you would tell me the truth about him, deta; you know it all--people only gossip. tell me, what has happened to the old man to turn everybody against him so? did he always hate his fellow-creatures?" "i cannot tell you whether he always did, and that for a very good reason. he being sixty years old, and i only twenty-six, you can't expect me to give you an account of his early youth. but if you'll promise to keep it to yourself and not set all the people in prätiggan talking, i can tell you a good deal. my mother and he both came from domleschg." "how can you talk like that, deta?" replied barbara in an offended tone. "people do not gossip much in prätiggan, and i always can keep things to myself, if i have to. you won't repent of having told me, i assure you!" "all right, but keep your word!" said deta warningly. then she looked around to see that the child was not so close to them as to overhear what might be said; but the little girl was nowhere to be seen. while the two young women had talked at such a rate, they had not noticed her absence; quite a while must have elapsed since the little girl had given up following her companions. deta, standing still, looked about her everywhere, but no one was on the path, which--except for a few curves--was visible as far down as the village. "there she is! can't you see her there?" exclaimed barbara, pointing to a spot a good distance from the path. "she is climbing up with the goatherd peter and his goats. i wonder why he is so late to-day. i must say, it suits us well enough; he can look after the child while you tell me everything without being interrupted." "it will be very easy for peter to watch her," remarked deta; "she is bright for her five years and keeps her eyes wide open. i have often noticed that and i am glad for her, for it will be useful with the uncle. he has nothing left in the whole wide world, but his cottage and two goats!" "did he once have more?" asked barbara. "i should say so. he was heir to a large farm in domleschg. but setting up to play the fine gentleman, he soon lost everything with drink and play. his parents died with grief and he himself disappeared from these parts. after many years he came back with a half-grown boy, his son, tobias, that was his name, became a carpenter and turned out to be a quiet, steady fellow. many strange rumors went round about the uncle and i think that was why he left domleschg for dörfli. we acknowledged relationship, my mother's grandmother being a cousin of his. we called him uncle, and because we are related on my father's side to nearly all the people in the hamlet they too all called him uncle. he was named 'alm-uncle' when he moved up to the alm." "but what happened to tobias?" asked barbara eagerly. "just wait. how can i tell you everything at once?" exclaimed deta. "tobias was an apprentice in mels, and when he was made master, he came home to the village and married my sister adelheid. they always had been fond of each other and they lived very happily as man and wife. but their joy was short. two years afterwards, when tobias was helping to build a house, a beam fell on him and killed him. adelheid was thrown into a violent fever with grief and fright, and never recovered from it. she had never been strong and had often suffered from queer spells, when we did not know whether she was awake or asleep. only a few weeks after tobias's death they buried poor adelheid. "people said that heaven had punished the uncle for his misdeeds. after the death of his son he never spoke to a living soul. suddenly he moved up to the alp, to live there at enmity with god and man. "my mother and i took adelheid's little year-old baby, heidi, to live with us. when i went to ragatz i took her with me; but in the spring the family whose work i had done last year came from frankfurt and resolved to take me to their town-house. i am very glad to get such a good position." "and now you want to hand over the child to this terrible old man. i really wonder how you can do it, deta!" said barbara with reproach in her voice. "it seems to me i have really done enough for the child. i do not know where else to take her, as she is too young to come with me to frankfurt. by the way, barbara, where are you going? we are half-way up the alm already." deta shook hands with her companion and stood still while barbara approached the tiny, dark-brown mountain hut, which lay in a hollow a few steps away from the path. situated half-way up the alm, the cottage was luckily protected from the mighty winds. had it been exposed to the tempests, it would have been a doubtful habitation in the state of decay it was in. even as it was, the doors and windows rattled and the old rafters shook when the south wind swept the mountain side. if the hut had stood on the alm top, the wind would have blown it down the valley without much ado when the storm season came. here lived peter the goatherd, a boy eleven years old, who daily fetched the goats from the village and drove them up the mountain to the short and luscious grasses of the pastures. peter raced down in the evening with the light-footed little goats. when he whistled sharply through his fingers, every owner would come and get his or her goat. these owners were mostly small boys and girls and, as the goats were friendly, they did not fear them. that was the only time peter spent with other children, the rest of the day the animals were his sole companions. at home lived his mother and an old blind grandmother, but he only spent enough time in the hut to swallow his bread and milk for breakfast and the same repast for supper. after that he sought his bed to sleep. he always left early in the morning and at night he came home late, so that he could be with his friends as long as possible. his father had met with an accident some years ago; he also had been called peter the goatherd. his mother, whose name was brigida, was called "goatherd peter's wife" and his blind grandmother was called by young and old from many miles about just "grandmother." deta waited about ten minutes to see if the children were coming up behind with the goats. as she could not find them anywhere, she climbed up a little higher to get a better view down the valley from there, and peered from side to side with marks of great impatience on her countenance. the children in the meantime were ascending slowly in a zigzag way, peter always knowing where to find all sorts of good grazing places for his goats where they could nibble. thus they strayed from side to side. the poor little girl had followed the boy only with the greatest effort and she was panting in her heavy clothes. she was so hot and uncomfortable that she only climbed by exerting all her strength. she did not say anything but looked enviously at peter, who jumped about so easily in his light trousers and bare feet. she envied even more the goats that climbed over bushes, stones, and steep inclines with their slender legs. suddenly sitting down on the ground the child swiftly took off her shoes and stockings. getting up she undid the heavy shawl and the two little dresses. out she slipped without more ado and stood up in only a light petticoat. in sheer delight at the relief, she threw up her dimpled arms, that were bare up to her short sleeves. to save the trouble of carrying them, her aunt had dressed her in her sunday clothes over her workday garments. heidi arranged her dresses neatly in a heap and joined peter and the goats. she was now as light-footed as any of them. when peter, who had not paid much attention, saw her suddenly in her light attire, he grinned. looking back, he saw the little heap of dresses on the ground and then he grinned yet more, till his mouth seemed to reach from ear to ear; but he said never a word. the child, feeling free and comfortable, started to converse with peter, and he had to answer many questions. she asked him how many goats he had, and where he led them, what he did with them when he got there, and so forth. [illustration: she undid the heavy shawl and the two little dresses] at last the children reached the summit in front of the hut. when deta saw the little party of climbers she cried out shrilly: "heidi, what have you done? what a sight you are! where are your dresses and your shawl? are the new shoes gone that i just bought for you, and the new stockings that i made myself? where are they all, heidi?" the child quietly pointed down and said "there." the aunt followed the direction of her finger and descried a little heap with a small red dot in the middle, which she recognized as the shawl. "unlucky child!" deta said excitedly. "what does all this mean? why have you taken your things all off?" "because i do not need them," said the child, not seeming in the least repentant of her deed. "how can you be so stupid, heidi? have you lost your senses?" the aunt went on, in a tone of mingled vexation and reproach. "who do you think will go way down there to fetch those things up again? it is half-an-hour's walk. please, peter, run down and get them. do not stand and stare at me as if you were glued to the spot." "i am late already," replied peter, and stood without moving from the place where, with his hands in his trousers' pockets, he had witnessed the violent outbreak of heidi's aunt. "there you are, standing and staring, but that won't get you further," said deta. "i'll give you this if you go down." with that she held a five-penny-piece under his eyes. that made peter start and in a great hurry he ran down the straightest path. he arrived again in so short a time that deta had to praise him and gave him her little coin without delay. he did not often get such a treasure, and therefore his face was beaming and he laughingly dropped the money deep into his pocket. "if you are going up to the uncle, as we are, you can carry the pack till we get there," said deta. they still had to climb a steep ascent that lay behind peter's hut. the boy readily took the things and followed deta, his left arm holding the bundle and his right swinging the stick. heidi jumped along gaily by his side with the goats. after three quarters of an hour they reached the height where the hut of the old man stood on a prominent rock, exposed to every wind, but bathed in the full sunlight. from there you could gaze far down into the valley. behind the hut stood three old fir-trees with great shaggy branches. further back the old grey rocks rose high and sheer. above them you could see green and fertile pastures, till at last the stony boulders reached the bare, steep cliffs. overlooking the valley the uncle had made himself a bench, by the side of the hut. here he sat, with his pipe between his teeth and both hands resting on his knees. he quietly watched the children climbing up with the goats and aunt deta behind them, for the children had caught up to her long ago. heidi reached the top first, and approaching the old man she held out her hand to him and said: "good evening, grandfather!" "well, well, what does that mean?" replied the old man in a rough voice. giving her his hand for only a moment, he watched her with a long and penetrating look from under his bushy brows. heidi gazed back at him with an unwinking glance and examined him with much curiosity, for he was strange to look at, with his thick, grey beard and shaggy eyebrows, that met in the middle like a thicket. heidi's aunt had arrived in the meantime with peter, who was eager to see what was going to happen. "good-day to you, uncle," said deta as she approached. "this is tobias's and adelheid's child. you won't be able to remember her, because last time you saw her she was scarcely a year old." "why do you bring her here?" asked the uncle, and turning to peter he said: "get away and bring my goats. how late you are already!" peter obeyed and disappeared on the spot; the uncle had looked at him in such a manner that he was glad to go. "uncle, i have brought the little girl for you to keep," said deta. "i have done my share these last four years and now it is your turn to provide for her." the old man's eyes flamed with anger. "indeed!" he said. "what on earth shall i do, when she begins to whine and cry for you? small children always do, and then i'll be helpless." "you'll have to look out for that!" deta retorted. "when the little baby was left in my hands a few years ago, i had to find out how to care for the little innocent myself and nobody told me anything. i already had mother on my hands and there was plenty for me to do. you can't blame me if i want to earn some money now. if you can't keep the child, you can do with her whatever you please. if she comes to harm you are responsible and i am sure you do not want to burden your conscience any further." deta had said more in her excitement than she had intended, just because her conscience was not quite clear. the uncle had risen during her last words and now he gave her such a look that she retreated a few steps. stretching out his arm in a commanding gesture, he said to her: "away with you! begone! stay wherever you came from and don't venture soon again into my sight!" deta did not have to be told twice. she said "good-bye" to heidi and "farewell" to the uncle, and started down the mountain. like steam her excitement seemed to drive her forward, and she ran down at a tremendous rate. the people in the village called to her now more than they had on her way up, because they all were wondering where she had left the child. they were well acquainted with both and knew their history. when she heard from door and windows: "where is the child?" "where have you left her, deta?" and so forth, she answered more and more reluctantly: "up with the alm-uncle,--with the alm-uncle!" she became much provoked because the women called to her from every side: "how could you do it?" "the poor little creature!" "the idea of leaving such a helpless child up there!" and, over and over again: "the poor little dear!" deta ran as quickly as she could and was glad when she heard no more calls, because, to tell the truth, she herself was uneasy. her mother had asked her on her deathbed to care for heidi. but she consoled herself with the thought that she would be able to do more for the child if she could earn some money. she was very glad to go away from people who interfered in her affairs, and looked forward with great delight to her new place. [illustration] ii with the grandfather after deta had disappeared, the uncle sat down again on the bench, blowing big clouds of smoke out of his pipe. he did not speak, but kept his eyes fastened on the ground. in the meantime heidi looked about her, and discovering the goat-shed, peeped in. nothing could be seen inside. searching for some more interesting thing, she saw the three old fir-trees behind the hut. here the wind was roaring through the branches and the tree-tops were swaying to and fro. heidi stood still to listen. after the wind had ceased somewhat, she walked round the hut back to her grandfather. she found him in exactly the same position, and planting herself in front of the old man, with arms folded behind her back, she gazed at him. the grandfather, looking up, saw the child standing motionless before him. "what do you want to do now?" he asked her. "i want to see what's in the hut," replied heidi. "come then," and with that the grandfather got up and entered the cottage. "take your things along," he commanded. "i do not want them any more," answered heidi. the old man, turning about, threw a penetrating glance at her. the child's black eyes were sparkling in expectation of all the things to come. "she is not lacking in intelligence," he muttered to himself. aloud he added: "why don't you need them any more?" "i want to go about like the light-footed goats!" "all right, you can; but fetch the things and we'll put them in the cupboard." the child obeyed the command. the old man now opened the door, and heidi followed him into a fairly spacious room, which took in the entire expanse of the hut. in one corner stood a table and a chair, and in another the grandfather's bed. across the room a large kettle was suspended over the hearth, and opposite to it a large door was sunk into the wall. this the grandfather opened. it was the cupboard, in which all his clothes were kept. in one shelf were a few shirts, socks and towels; on another a few plates, cups and glasses; and on the top shelf heidi could see a round loaf of bread, some bacon and cheese. in this cupboard the grandfather kept everything that he needed for his subsistence. when he opened it, heidi pushed her things as far behind the grandfather's clothes as she could reach. she did not want them found again in a hurry. after looking around attentively in the room, she asked, "where am i going to sleep, grandfather?" "wherever you want to," he replied. that suited heidi exactly. she peeped into all the corners of the room and looked at every little nook to find a cosy place to sleep. beside the old man's bed she saw a ladder. climbing up, she arrived at a hayloft, which was filled with fresh and fragrant hay. through a tiny round window she could look far down into the valley. [illustration: here a neat little bed was prepared] "i want to sleep up here," heidi called down. "oh, it is lovely here. please come up, grandfather, and see it for yourself." "i know it," sounded from below. "i am making the bed now," the little girl called out again, while she ran busily to and fro. "oh, do come up and bring a sheet, grandfather, for every bed must have a sheet." "is that so?" said the old man. after a while he opened the cupboard and rummaged around in it. at last he pulled out a long coarse cloth from under the shirts. it somewhat resembled a sheet, and with this he climbed up to the loft. here a neat little bed was already prepared. on top the hay was heaped up high so that the head of the occupant would lie exactly opposite the window. the grandfather was well pleased with the arrangement. to prevent the hard floor from being felt, he made the couch twice as thick. then he and heidi together put the heavy sheet on, tucking the ends in well. heidi looked thoughtfully at her fresh, new bed and said, "grandfather, we have forgotten something." "what?" he asked. "i have no cover. when i go to bed i always creep in between the sheet and the cover." "what shall we do if i haven't any?" asked the grandfather. "never mind, i'll just take some more hay to cover me," heidi reassured him, and was just going to the heap of hay when the old man stopped her. "just wait one minute," he said, and went down to his own bed. from it he took a large, heavy linen bag and brought it to the child. "isn't this better than hay?" he asked. heidi pulled the sack to and fro with all her might, but she could not unfold it, for it was too heavy for her little arms. the grandfather put the thick cover on the bed while heidi watched him. after it was all done, she said: "what a nice bed i have now, and what a splendid cover! i only wish the evening was here, that i might go to sleep in it." "i think we might eat something first," said the grandfather. "don't you think so?" heidi had forgotten everything else in her interest for the bed; but when she was reminded of her dinner, she noticed how terribly hungry she really was. she had had only a piece of bread and a cup of thin coffee very early in the morning, before her long journey. heidi said approvingly: "i think we might, grandfather!" "let's go down then, if we agree," said the old man, and followed close behind her. going up to the fireplace, he pushed the big kettle aside and reached for a smaller one that was suspended on a chain. then sitting down on a three-legged stool, he kindled a bright fire. when the kettle was boiling, the old man put a large piece of cheese on a long iron fork, and held it over the fire, turning it to and fro, till it was golden-brown on all sides. heidi had watched him eagerly. suddenly she ran to the cupboard. when her grandfather brought a pot and the toasted cheese to the table, he found it already nicely set with two plates and two knives and the bread in the middle. heidi had seen the things in the cupboard and knew that they would be needed for the meal. "i am glad to see that you can think for yourself," said the grandfather, while he put the cheese on top of the bread, "but something is missing yet." heidi saw the steaming pot and ran back to the cupboard in all haste. a single little bowl was on the shelf. that did not perplex heidi though, for she saw two glasses standing behind. with those three things she returned to the table. "you certainly can help yourself! where shall you sit, though?" asked the grandfather, who occupied the only chair himself, heidi flew to the hearth, and bringing back the little stool, sat down on it. "now you have a seat, but it is much too low. in fact, you are too little to reach the table from my chair. now you shall have something to eat at last!" and with that the grandfather filled the little bowl with milk. putting it on his chair, he pushed it as near to the stool as was possible, and in that way heidi had a table before her. he commanded her to eat the large piece of bread and the slice of golden cheese. he sat down himself on a corner of the table and started his own dinner. heidi drank without stopping, for she felt exceedingly thirsty after her long journey. taking a long breath, she put down her little bowl. "how do you like the milk?" the grandfather asked her. "i never tasted better," answered heidi. "then you shall have more," and with that the grandfather filled the little bowl again. the little girl ate and drank with the greatest enjoyment. after she was through, both went out into the goat-shed. here the old man busied himself, and heidi watched him attentively while he was sweeping and putting down fresh straw for the goats to sleep on. then he went to the little shop alongside and fashioned a high chair for heidi, to the little girl's greatest amazement. "what is this?" asked the grandfather. "this is a chair for me. i am sure of it because it is so high. how quickly it was made!" said the child, full of admiration and wonder. "she knows what is what and has her eyes on the right place," the grandfather said to himself, while he walked around the hut, fastening a nail or a loose board here and there. he wandered about with his hammer and nails, repairing whatever was in need of fixing. heidi followed him at every step and watched the performance with great enjoyment and attention. at last the evening came. the old fir-trees were rustling and a mighty wind was roaring and howling through the tree-tops. those sounds thrilled heidi's heart and filled it with happiness and joy. she danced and jumped about under the trees, for those sounds made her feel as if a wonderful thing had happened to her. the grandfather stood under the door, watching her, when suddenly a shrill whistle was heard. heidi stood still and the grandfather joined her outside. down from the heights came one goat after another, with peter in their midst. uttering a cry of joy, heidi ran into the middle of the flock, greeting her old friends. when they had all reached the hut, they stopped on their way and two beautiful slender goats came out of the herd, one of them white and the other brown. they came up to the grandfather, who held out some salt in his hands to them, as he did every night. heidi tenderly caressed first one and then the other, seeming beside herself with joy. "are they ours, grandfather? do they both belong to us? are they going to the stable? are they going to stay with us?" heidi kept on asking in her excitement. the grandfather hardly could put in a "yes, yes, surely" between her numerous questions. when the goats had licked up all the salt, the old man said, "go in, heidi, and fetch your bowl and the bread." heidi obeyed and returned instantly. the grandfather milked a full bowl from the white goat, cut a piece of bread for the child, and told her to eat. "afterwards you can go to bed. if you need some shirts and other linen, you will find them in the bottom of the cupboard. aunt deta has left a bundle for you. now good-night, i have to look after the goats and lock them up for the night." "good-night, grandfather! oh, please tell me what their names are," called heidi after him. "the white one's name is schwänli and the brown one i call bärli," was his answer. "good-night, schwänli! good-night, bärli," the little girl called loudly, for they were just disappearing in the shed. heidi now sat down on the bench and took her supper. the strong wind nearly blew her from her seat, so she hurried with her meal, to be able to go inside and up to her bed. she slept in it as well as a prince on his royal couch. very soon after heidi had gone up, before it was quite dark, the old man also sought his bed. he was always up in the morning with the sun, which rose early over the mountain-side in those summer days. it was a wild, stormy night; the hut was shaking in the gusts and all the boards were creaking. the wind howled through the chimney and the old fir-trees shook so strongly that many a dry branch came crashing down. in the middle of the night the grandfather got up, saying to himself: "i am sure she is afraid." climbing up the ladder, he went up to heidi's bed. the first moment everything lay in darkness, when all of a sudden the moon came out behind the clouds and sent his brilliant light across heidi's bed. her cheeks were burning red and she lay peacefully on her round and chubby arms. she must have had a happy dream, for she was smiling in her sleep. the grandfather stood and watched her till a cloud flew over the moon and left everything in total darkness. then he went down to seek his bed again. iii on the pasture heidi was awakened early next morning by a loud whistle. opening her eyes, she saw her little bed and the hay beside her bathed in golden sunlight. for a short while she did not know where she was, but when she heard her grandfather's deep voice outside, she recollected everything. she remembered how she had come up the mountain the day before and left old ursula, who was always shivering with cold and sat near the stove all day. while heidi lived with ursula, she had always been obliged to keep in the house, where the old woman could see her. being deaf, ursula was afraid to let heidi go outdoors, and the child had often fretted in the narrow room and had longed to run outside. she was therefore delighted to find herself in her new home and hardly could wait to see the goats again. jumping out of bed, she put on her few things and in a short time went down the ladder and ran outside. peter was already there with his flock, waiting for schwänli and bärli, whom the grandfather was just bringing to join the other goats. "do you want to go with him to the pasture?" asked the grandfather. "yes," cried heidi, clapping her hands. "go now, and wash yourself first, for the sun will laugh at you if he sees how dirty you are. everything is ready there for you," he added, pointing to a large tub of water that stood in the sun. heidi did as she was told, and washed and rubbed herself till her cheeks were glowing. in the meanwhile the grandfather called to peter to come into the hut and bring his bag along. the boy followed the old man, who commanded him to open the bag in which he carried his scanty dinner. the grandfather put into the bag a piece of bread and a slice of cheese, that were easily twice as large as those the boy had in the bag himself. "the little bowl goes in, too," said the uncle, "for the child does not know how to drink straight from the goat, the way you do. she is going to stay with you all day, therefore milk two bowls full for her dinner. look out that she does not fall over the rocks! do you hear?" just then heidi came running in. "grandfather, can the sun still laugh at me?" she asked. the child had rubbed herself so violently with the coarse towel which the grandfather had put beside the tub that her face, neck and arms were as red as a lobster. with a smile the grandfather said: "no, he can't laugh any more now; but when you come home to-night you must go into the tub like a fish. when one goes about like the goats, one gets dirty feet. be off!" they started merrily up the alp. a cloudless, deep-blue sky looked down on them, for the wind had driven away every little cloud in the night. the fresh green mountain-side was bathed in brilliant sunlight, and many blue and yellow flowers had opened. heidi was wild with joy and ran from side to side. in one place she saw big patches of fine red primroses, on another spot blue gentians sparkled in the grass, and everywhere the golden rock-roses were nodding to her. in her transport at finding such treasures, heidi even forgot peter and his goats. she ran far ahead of him and then strayed away off to one side, for the sparkling flowers tempted her here and there. picking whole bunches of them to take home with her, she put them all into her little apron. peter, whose round eyes could only move about slowly, had a hard time looking out for her. the goats were even worse, and only by shouting and whistling, especially by swinging his rod, could he drive them together. "heidi, where are you now?" he called quite angrily. "here," it sounded from somewhere. peter could not see her, for she was sitting on the ground behind a little mound, which was covered with fragrant flowers. the whole air was filled with their perfume, and the child drew it in, in long breaths. "follow me now!" peter called out. "the grandfather has told me to look out for you, and you must not fall over the rocks." "where are they?" asked heidi without even stirring. "way up there, and we have still far to go. if you come quickly, we may see the eagle there and hear him shriek." that tempted heidi, and she came running to peter, with her apron full of flowers. "you have enough now," he declared. "if you pick them all to-day, there won't be any left to-morrow." heidi admitted that, besides which she had her apron already full. from now on she stayed at peter's side. the goats, scenting the pungent herbs, also hurried up without delay. peter generally took his quarters for the day at the foot of a high cliff, which seemed to reach far up into the sky. overhanging rocks on one side made it dangerous, so that the grandfather was wise to warn peter. after they had reached their destination, the boy took off his bag, putting it in a little hollow in the ground. the wind often blew in violent gusts up there, and peter did not want to lose his precious load. then he lay down in the sunny grass, for he was very tired. heidi, taking off her apron, rolled it tightly together and put it beside peter's bag. then, sitting down beside the boy, she looked about her. far down she saw the glistening valley; a large field of snow rose high in front of her. heidi sat a long time without stirring, with peter asleep by her side and the goats climbing about between the bushes. a light breeze fanned her cheek and those big mountains about her made her feel happy as never before. she looked up at the mountain-tops till they all seemed to have faces, and soon they were familiar to her, like old friends. suddenly she heard a loud, sharp scream, and looking up she beheld the largest bird she had ever seen, flying above her. with outspread wings he flew in large circles over heidi's head. "wake up, peter!" heidi called. "look up, peter, and see the eagle there!" peter got wide wake, and then they both watched the bird breathlessly. it rose higher and higher into the azure, till it disappeared at last behind the mountain-peak. "where has it gone?" heidi asked. "home to its nest," was peter's answer. "oh, does it really live way up there? how wonderful that must be! but tell me why it screams so loud?" heidi inquired. "because it has to," peter replied. "oh, let's climb up there and see its nest!" implored heidi, but peter, expressing decided disapproval in his voice, answered: "oh dear, oh dear, not even goats could climb up there! grandfather has told me not to let you fall down the rocks, so we can't go!" peter now began to call loudly and to whistle, and soon all the goats were assembled on the green field. heidi ran into their midst, for she loved to see them leaping and playing about. peter in the meantime was preparing dinner for heidi and himself, by putting her large pieces on one side and his own small ones on the other. then he milked bärli and put the full bowl in the middle. when he was ready, he called to the little girl. but it took some time before she obeyed his call. [illustration: she handed him also the whole slice of cheese] "stop jumping, now," said peter, "and sit down; your dinner is ready." "is this milk for me?" she inquired. "yes it is; those large pieces also belong to you. when you are through with the milk, i'll get you some more. after that i'll get mine." "what milk do you get?" heidi inquired. "i get it from my own goat, that speckled one over there. but go ahead and eat!" peter commanded again. heidi obeyed, and when the bowl was empty, he filled it again. breaking off a piece of bread for herself, she gave peter the rest, which was still bigger than his own portion had been. she handed him also the whole slice of cheese, saying: "you can eat that, i have had enough!" peter was speechless with surprise, for it would have been impossible for him ever to give up any of his share. not taking heidi in earnest, he hesitated till she put the things on his knees. then he saw she really meant it, and he seized his prize. nodding his thanks to her, he ate the most luxurious meal he had ever had in all his life. heidi was watching the goats in the meantime, and asked peter for their names. the boy could tell them all to her, for their names were about the only thing he had to carry in his head. she soon knew them, too, for she had listened attentively. one of them was the big turk, who tried to stick his big horns into all the others. most of the goats ran away from their rough comrade. the bold thistlefinch alone was not afraid, and running his horns three or four times into the other, so astonished the turk with his great daring that he stood still and gave up fighting, for the thistlefinch had sharp horns and met him in the most warlike attitude. a small, white goat, called snowhopper, kept up bleating in the most piteous way, which induced heidi to console it several times. heidi at last went to the little thing again, and throwing her arms around its head, she asked, "what is the matter with you, snowhopper? why do you always cry for help?" the little goat pressed close to heidi's side and became perfectly quiet. peter was still eating, but between the swallows he called to heidi: "she is so unhappy, because the old goat has left us. she was sold to somebody in mayenfeld two days ago." "who was the old goat?" "her mother, of course." "where is her grandmother?" "she hasn't any." "and her grandfather?" "hasn't any either." "poor little snowhopper!" said heidi, drawing the little creature tenderly to her. "don't grieve any more; see, i am coming up with you every day now, and if there is anything the matter, you can come to me." snowhopper rubbed her head against heidi's shoulder and stopped bleating. when peter had finally finished his dinner, he joined heidi. the little girl had just been observing that schwänli and bärli were by far the cleanest and prettiest of the goats. they evaded the obtrusive turk with a sort of contempt and always managed to find the greenest bushes for themselves. she mentioned it to peter, who replied: "i know! of course they are the prettiest, because the uncle washes them and gives them salt. he has the best stable by far." all of a sudden peter, who had been lying on the ground, jumped up and bounded after the goats. heidi, knowing that something must have happened, followed him. she saw him running to a dangerous abyss on the side. peter had noticed how the rash thistlefinch had gone nearer and nearer to the dangerous spot. peter only just came in time to prevent the goat from falling down over the very edge. unfortunately peter had stumbled over a stone in his hurry and was only able to catch the goat by one leg. the thistlefinch, being enraged to find himself stopped in his charming ramble, bleated furiously. not being able to get up, peter loudly called for help. heidi immediately saw that peter was nearly pulling off the animal's leg. she quickly picked some fragrant herbs and holding them under the animal's nose, she said soothingly: "come, come, thistlefinch, and be sensible. you might fall down there and break your leg. that would hurt you horribly." the goat turned about and devoured the herbs heidi held in her hand. when peter got to his feet, he led back the runaway with heidi's help. when he had the goat in safety, he raised his rod to beat it for punishment. the goat retreated shyly, for it knew what was coming. heidi screamed loudly: "peter, no, do not beat him! look how scared he is." "he well deserves it," snarled peter, ready to strike. but heidi, seizing his arm, shouted, full of indignation: "you mustn't hurt him! let him go!" heidi's eyes were sparkling, and when he saw her with her commanding mien, he desisted and dropped his rope. "i'll let him go, if you give me a piece of your cheese again to-morrow," he said, for he wanted a compensation for his fright. "you may have it all to-morrow and every day, because i don't need it," heidi assured him. "i shall also give you a big piece of bread, if you promise never to beat any of the goats." "i don't care," growled peter, and in that way he gave his promise. thus the day had passed, and the sun was already sinking down behind the mountains. sitting on the grass, heidi looked at the bluebells and the wild roses that were shining in the last rays of the sun. the peaks also started to glow, and heidi suddenly called to the boy: "oh, peter, look! everything is on fire. the mountains are burning and the sky, too. oh, look! the moon over there is on fire, too. do you see the mountains all in a glow? oh, how beautiful the snow looks! peter, the eagle's nest is surely on fire, too. oh, look at the fir-trees over there!" peter was quietly peeling his rod, and looking up, said to heidi: "this is no fire; it always looks like that." "but what is it then?" asked heidi eagerly, gazing about her everywhere. "it gets that way of itself," explained peter. "oh look! everything is all rosy now! oh, look at this mountain over there with the snow and the sharp peaks. what is its name?" "mountains have no names," he answered. "oh, see, how beautiful! it looks as if many, many roses were growing on those cliffs. oh, now they are getting grey. oh dear! the fire has gone out and it is all over. what a terrible shame!" said heidi quite despondently. "it will be the same again tomorrow," peter reassured her. "come now, we have to go home." when peter had called the goats together, they started downwards. "will it be like that every day when we are up?" asked heidi, eagerly. "it usually is," was the reply. "what about tomorrow?" she inquired. "tomorrow it will be like that, i am sure," peter affirmed. that made heidi feel happy again. she walked quietly by peter's side, thinking over all the new things she had seen. at last, reaching the hut, they found the grandfather waiting for them on a bench under the fir-trees. heidi ran up to him and the two goats followed, for they knew their master. peter called to her: "come again tomorrow! good-night!" heidi gave him her hand, assuring him that she would come, and finding herself surrounded by the goats, she hugged snowhopper a last time. when peter had disappeared, heidi returned to her grandfather. "oh grandfather! it was so beautiful! i saw the fire and the roses on the rocks! and see the many, many flowers i am bringing you!" with that heidi shook them out of her apron. but oh, how miserable they looked! heidi did not even know them any more. "what is the matter with them, grandfather? they looked so different!" heidi exclaimed in her fright. "they are made to bloom in the sun and not to be shut up in an apron," said the grandfather. "then i shall never pick them any more! please, grandfather, tell me why the eagle screeches so loudly," asked heidi. "first go and take a bath, while i go into the shed to get your milk. afterwards we'll go inside together and i'll tell you all about it during supper-time." they did as was proposed, and when heidi sat on her high chair before her milk, she asked the same question as before. "because he is sneering at the people down below, who sit in the villages and make each other angry. he calls down to them:--'if you would go apart to live up on the heights like me, you would feel much better!'" the grandfather said these last words with such a wild voice, that it reminded heidi of the eagle's screech. "why do the mountains have no names, grandfather?" asked heidi. "they all have names, and if you tell me their shape i can name them for you." heidi described several and the old man could name them all. the child told him now about all the happenings of the day, and especially about the wonderful fire. she asked how it came about. "the sun does it," he exclaimed. "saying good-night to the mountains, he throws his most beautiful rays to them, that they may not forget him till the morning." heidi was so much pleased with this explanation, that she could hardly wait to see the sun's good-night greetings repeated. it was time now to go to bed, and heidi slept soundly all night. she dreamt that the little snowhopper was bounding happily about on the glowing mountains with many glistening roses blooming round her. iv in the grandmother's hut next morning peter came again with his goats, and heidi went up to the pasture with them. this happened day after day, and in this healthy life heidi grew stronger, and more sunburnt every day. soon the autumn came and when the wind was blowing across the mountainside, the grandfather would say: "you must stay home to-day, heidi; for the wind can blow such a little thing as you down into the valley with a single gust." it always made peter unhappy when heidi did not come along, for he saw nothing but misfortunes ahead of him; he hardly knew how to pass his time, and besides, he was deprived of his abundant dinner. the goats were so accustomed to heidi by this time, that they did not follow peter when she was not with him. heidi herself did not mind staying at home, for she loved nothing better than to watch her grandfather with his saw and hammer. sometimes the grandfather would make small round cheeses on those days, and there was no greater pleasure for heidi than to see him stir the butter with his bare arms. when the wind would howl through the fir-trees on those stormy days, heidi would run out to the grove, thrilled and happy by the wondrous roaring in the branches. the sun had lost its vigor, and the child had to put on her shoes and stockings and her little dress. the weather got colder and colder, and when peter came up in the morning, he would blow into his hands, he was so frozen. at last even peter could not come any more, for a deep snow had fallen over night. heidi stood at the window, watching the snow falling down. it kept on snowing till it reached the windows; still it did not stop, and soon the windows could not be opened, and they were all shut in. when it had lasted for several days, heidi thought that it would soon cover up the cottage. it finally stopped, and the grandfather went out to shovel the snow away from the door and windows, piling it up high here and there. in the afternoon the two were sitting near the fire when noisy steps were heard outside and the door was pushed open. it was peter, who had come up to see heidi. muttering, "good-evening," he went up to the fire. his face was beaming, and heidi had to laugh when she saw little waterfalls trickling down from his person, for all the ice and snow had melted in the great heat. the grandfather now asked peter how he got along in school. heidi was so interested that she asked him a hundred questions. poor peter, who was not an easy talker, found himself in great difficulty answering the little girl's inquiries, but at least it gave him leisure to dry his clothes. during this conversation the grandfather's eyes had been twinkling, and at last he said to the boy: "now that you have been under fire, general, you need some strengthening. come and join us at supper." with that the old man prepared a meal which amply satisfied peter's appetite. it had begun to get dark, and peter knew that it was time to go. he had said good-bye and thank you, when turning to heidi he remarked: "i'll come next sunday, if i may. by the way, heidi, grandmother asked me to tell you that she would love to see you." heidi immediately approved of this idea, and her first word next morning was: "grandfather, i must go down to grandmother. she is expecting me." four days later the sun was shining and the tight-packed frozen snow was crackling under every step. heidi was sitting at the dinner-table, imploring the old man to let her make the visit then, when he got up, and fetching down her heavy cover, told her to follow him. they went out into the glistening snow; no sound was heard and the snow-laden fir-trees shone and glittered in the sun. heidi in her transport was running to and fro: "grandfather, come out! oh, look at the trees! they are all covered with silver and gold," she called to the grandfather, who had just come out of his workshop with a wide sled. wrapping the child up in her cover, he put her on the sled, holding her fast. off they started at such a pace that heidi shouted for joy, for she seemed to be flying like a bird. the sled had stopped in front of peter's hut, and grandfather said: "go in. when it gets dark, start on your way home." when he had unwrapped her, he turned homewards with his sled. [illustration: off they started at such a pace that heidi shouted for joy] opening the door, heidi found herself in a tiny, dark kitchen, and going through another door, she entered a narrow chamber. near a table a woman was seated, busy with mending peter's coat, which heidi had recognized immediately. a bent old woman was sitting in a corner, and heidi, approaching her at once, said: "how do you do, grandmother? i have come now, and i hope i haven't kept you waiting too long!" lifting her head, the grandmother sought for heidi's hand. feeling it thoughtfully, she said: "are you the little girl who lives up with the uncle? is your name heidi?" "yes," heidi replied. "the grandfather just brought me down in the sled." "how is it possible? your hands are as warm as toast! brigida, did the uncle really come down with the child?" brigida, peter's mother, had gotten up to look at the child. she said: "i don't know if he did, but i don't think so. she probably doesn't know." heidi, looking up, said quite decidedly: "i know that grandfather wrapped me up in a cover when we coasted down together." "peter was right after all," said the grandmother. "we never thought the child would live more than three weeks with him. brigida, tell me what she looks like." "she has adelheid's fine limbs and black eyes, and curly hair like tobias and the old man. i think she looks like both of them." while the women were talking, heidi had been taking in everything. then she said: "grandmother, look at the shutter over there. it is hanging loose. if grandfather were here, he would fasten it. it will break the window-pane! just look at it." "what a sweet child you are," said the grandmother tenderly. "i can hear it, but i cannot see it, child. this cottage rattles and creaks, and when the wind blows, it comes in through every chink. some day the whole house will break to pieces and fall on top of us. if only peter knew how to mend it! we have no one else." "why, grandmother, can't you see the shutter?" asked heidi. "child, i cannot see anything," lamented the old woman. "can you see it when i open the shutter to let in the light?" "no, no, not even then. nobody can ever show me the light again." "but you can see when you go out into the snow, where everything is bright. come with me, grandmother, i'll show you!" and heidi, taking the old woman by the hand, tried to lead her out. heidi was frightened and got more anxious all the time. "just let me stay here, child. everything is dark for me, and my poor eyes can neither see the snow nor the light." "but grandmother, does it not get light in the summer, when the sun shines down on the mountains to say good-night, setting them all aflame?" "no, child, i can never see the fiery mountains any more. i have to live in darkness, always." heidi burst out crying now and sobbed aloud. "can nobody make it light for you? is there nobody who can do it, grandmother? nobody?" the grandmother tried all possible means to comfort the child; it wrung her heart to see her terrible distress. it was awfully hard for heidi to stop crying when she had once begun, for she cried so seldom. the grandmother said: "heidi, let me tell you something. people who cannot see love to listen to friendly words. sit down beside me and tell me all about yourself. talk to me about your grandfather, for it has been long since i have heard anything about him. i used to know him very well." heidi suddenly wiped away her tears, for she had had a cheering thought. "grandmother, i shall tell grandfather about it, and i am sure he can make it light for you. he can mend your little house and stop the rattling." the old woman remained silent, and heidi, with the greatest vivacity, began to describe her life with the grandfather. listening attentively, the two women would say to each other sometimes: "do you hear what she says about the uncle? did you listen?" heidi's tale was interrupted suddenly by a great thumping on the door; and who should come in but peter. no sooner had he seen heidi, than he smiled, opening his round eyes as wide as possible. heidi called, "good-evening, peter!" "is it really time for him to come home!" exclaimed peter's grandmother. "how quickly the time has flown. good-evening, little peter; how is your reading going?" "just the same," the boy replied. "oh, dear, i was hoping for a change at last. you are nearly twelve years old, my boy." "why should there be a change?" inquired heidi with greatest interest. "i am afraid he'll never learn it after all. on the shelf over there is an old prayer-book with beautiful songs. i have forgotten them all, for i do not hear them any more. i longed that peter should read them to me some day, but he will never be able to!" peter's mother got up from her work now, saying, "i must make a light. the afternoon has passed and now it's getting dark." when heidi heard those words, she started, and holding out her hand to all, she said: "good-night. i have to go, for it is getting dark." but the anxious grandmother called out: "wait, child, don't go up alone! go with her, peter, and take care that she does not fall. don't let her get cold, do you hear? has heidi a shawl?" "i haven't, but i won't be cold," heidi called back, for she had already escaped through the door. she ran so fast that peter could hardly follow her. the old woman frettingly called out: "brigida, run after her. get a warm shawl, she'll freeze in this cold night. hurry up!" brigida obeyed. the children had hardly climbed any distance, when they saw the old man coming and with a few vigorous steps he stood beside them. "i am glad you kept your word, heidi," he said; and packing her into her cover, he started up the hill, carrying the child in his arms. brigida had come in time to see it, and told the grandmother what she had witnessed. "thank god, thank god!" the old woman said. "i hope she'll come again; she has done me so much good! what a soft heart she has, the darling, and how nicely she can talk." all evening the grandmother said to herself, "if only he lets her come again! i have something to look forward to in this world now, thank god!" heidi could hardly wait before they reached the cottage. she had tried to talk on the way, but no sound could be heard through the heavy cover. as soon as they were inside the hut she began: "grandfather, we must take some nails and a hammer down tomorrow; a shutter is loose in grandmother's house and many other places shake. everything rattles in her house." "is that so? who says we must?" "nobody told me, but i know," heidi replied. "everything is loose in the house, and poor grandmother told me she was afraid that the house might tumble down. and grandfather, she cannot see the light. can you help her and make it light for her? how terrible it must be to be afraid in the dark and nobody there to help you! oh, please, grandfather, do something to help her! i know you can." heidi had been clinging to her grandfather and looking up to him with trusting eyes. at last he said, glancing down: "all right, child, we'll see that it won't rattle any more. we can do it tomorrow." heidi was so overjoyed at these words that she danced around the room shouting: "we'll do it tomorrow! we can do it tomorrow!" the grandfather, keeping his word, took heidi down the following day with the same instructions as before. after heidi had disappeared, he went around the house inspecting it. the grandmother, in her joy at seeing the child again, had stopped the wheel and called: "here is the child again! she has come again!" heidi, grasping her outstretched hands, sat herself on a low stool at the old woman's feet and began to chat. suddenly violent blows were heard outside; the grandmother in her fright nearly upset the spinning-wheel and screamed: "oh, god, it has come at last. the hut is tumbling down!" "grandmother, don't be frightened," said the child, while she put her arms around her. "grandfather is just fastening the shutter and fixing everything for you." "is it possible? has god not forgotten us after all? brigida, have you heard it? surely that is a hammer. ask him to come in a moment, if it is he, for i must thank him." when brigida went out, she found the old man busy with putting a new beam along the wall. approaching him, she said: "mother and i wish you a good-afternoon. we are very much obliged to you for doing us such a service, and mother would like to see you. there are few that would have done it, uncle, and how can we thank you?" "that will do," he interrupted. "i know what your opinion about me is. go in, for i can find what needs mending myself." brigida obeyed, for the uncle had a way that nobody could oppose. all afternoon the uncle hammered around; he even climbed up on the roof, where much was missing. at last he had to stop, for the last nail was gone from his pocket. the darkness had come in the meantime, and heidi was ready to go up with him, packed warmly in his arms. thus the winter passed. sunshine had come again into the blind woman's life, and made her days less dark and dreary. early every morning she would begin to listen for heidi's footsteps, and when the door was opened and the child ran in, the grandmother exclaimed every time more joyfully: "thank god, she has come again!" heidi would talk about her life, and make the grandmother smile and laugh, and in that way the hours flew by. in former times the old woman had always sighed: "brigida, is the day not over yet?" but now she always exclaimed after heidi's departure: "how quickly the afternoon has gone by. don't you think so, too, brigida?" her daughter had to assent, for heidi had long ago won her heart. "if only god will spare us the child!" the grandmother would often say. "i hope the uncle will always be kind, as he is now."--"does heidi look well, brigida?" was a frequent question, which always got a reassuring answer. heidi also became very fond of the old grandmother, and when the weather was fair, she visited her every day that winter. whenever the child remembered that the grandmother was blind, she would get very sad; her only comfort was that her coming brought such happiness. the grandfather soon had mended the cottage; often he would take down big loads of timber, which he used to good purpose. the grandmother vowed that no rattling could be heard any more, and that, thanks to the uncle's kindness, she slept better that winter than she had done for many a year. [illustration] v two visitors two winters had nearly passed. heidi was happy, for the spring was coming again, with the soft delicious wind that made the fir-trees roar. soon she would be able to go up to the pasture, where blue and yellow flowers greeted her at every step. she was nearly eight years old, and had learned to take care of the goats, who ran after her like little dogs. several times the village teacher had sent word by peter that the child was wanted in school, but the old man had not paid any attention to the message and had kept her with him as before. it was a beautiful morning in march. the snow had melted on the slopes, and was going fast. snowdrops were peeping through the ground, which seemed to be getting ready for spring. heidi was running to and fro before the door, when she suddenly saw an old gentleman, dressed in black, standing beside her. as she appeared frightened, he said kindly: "you must not be afraid of me, for i love children. give me your hand, heidi, and tell me where your grandfather is." "he is inside, making round wooden spoons," the child replied, opening the door while she spoke. it was the old pastor of the village, who had known the grandfather years ago. after entering, he approached the old man, saying: "good-morning, neighbor." the old man got up, surprised, and offering a seat to the visitor, said: "good-morning, mr. parson. here is a wooden chair, if it is good enough." sitting down, the parson said: "it is long since i have seen you, neighbor. i have come to-day to talk over a matter with you. i am sure you can guess what it is about." the clergyman here looked at heidi, who was standing near the door. "heidi, run out to see the goats," said the grandfather, "and bring them some salt; you can stay till i come." heidi disappeared on the spot. "the child should have come to school a year ago," the parson went on to say. "didn't you get the teacher's warning? what do you intend to do with the child?" "i do not want her to go to school," said the old man, unrelentingly. "what do you want the child to be?" "i want her to be free and happy as a bird!" "but she is human, and it is high time for her to learn something. i have come now to tell you about it, so that you can make your plans. she must come to school next winter; remember that." "i shan't do it, pastor!" was the reply. "do you think there is no way?" the clergyman replied, a little hotly. "you know the world, for you have travelled far. what little sense you show!" "you think i am going to send this delicate child to school in every storm and weather!" the old man said excitedly. "it is a two hours' walk, and i shall not let her go; for the wind often howls so that it chokes me if i venture out. did you know adelheid, her mother? she was a sleep-walker, and had fainting-fits. nobody shall compel me to let her go; i will gladly fight it out in court." "you are perfectly right," said the clergyman kindly. "you could not send her to school from here. why don't you come down to live among us again? you are leading a strange life here; i wonder how you can keep the child warm in winter." "she has young blood and a good cover. i know where to find good wood, and all winter i keep a fire going. i couldn't live in the village, for the people there and i despise each other; we had better keep apart." "you are mistaken, i assure you! make your peace with god, and then you'll see how happy you will be." the clergyman had risen, and holding out his hand, he said cordially: "i shall count on you next winter, neighbor. we shall receive you gladly, reconciled with god and man." but the uncle replied firmly, while he shook his visitor by the hand: "thank you for your kindness, but you will have to wait in vain." "god be with you," said the parson, and left him sadly. the old man was out of humor that day, and when heidi begged to go to the grandmother, he only growled: "not to-day." next day they had hardly finished their dinner, when another visitor arrived. it was heidi's aunt deta; she wore a hat with feathers and a dress with such a train that it swept up everything that lay on the cottage floor. while the uncle looked at her silently, deta began to praise him and the child's red cheeks. she told him that it had not been her intention to leave heidi with him long, for she knew she must be in his way. she had tried to provide for the child elsewhere, and at last she had found a splendid chance for her. very rich relations of her lady, who owned the largest house in frankfurt, had a lame daughter. this poor little girl was confined to her rolling-chair and needed a companion at her lessons. deta had heard from her lady that a sweet, quaint child was wanted as playmate and schoolmate for the invalid. she had gone to the housekeeper and told her all about heidi. the lady, delighted with the idea, had told her to fetch the child at once. she had come now, and it was a lucky chance for heidi, "for one never knew what might happen in such a case, and who could tell--" "have you finished?" the old man interrupted her at last. "why, one might think i was telling you the silliest things. there is not a man in prätiggan who would not thank god for such news." "bring them to somebody else, but not to me," said the uncle, coldly. deta, flaming up, replied: "do you want to hear what i think? don't i know how old she is; eight years old and ignorant of everything. they have told me that you refuse to send her to church and to school. she is my only sister's child, and i shall not bear it, for i am responsible. you do not care for her, how else could you be indifferent to such luck. you had better give way or i shall get the people to back me. if i were you, i would not have it brought to court; some things might be warmed up that you would not care to hear about." "be quiet!" the uncle thundered with flaming eyes. "take her and ruin her, but do not bring her before my sight again. i do not want to see her with feathers in her hat and wicked words like yours." with long strides he went out. "you have made him angry!" said heidi with a furious look. "he won't be cross long. but come now, where are your things?" asked deta. "i won't come," heidi replied. "what?" deta said passionately. but changing her tone, she continued in a more friendly manner: "come now; you don't understand me. i am taking you to the most beautiful place you have ever seen." after packing up heidi's clothes she said again, "come, child, and take your hat. it is not very nice, but we can't help it." "i shall not come," was the reply. "don't be stupid and obstinate, like a goat. listen to me. grandfather is sending us away and we must do what he commands, or he will get more angry still. you'll see how fine it is in frankfurt. if you do not like it, you can come home again and by that time grandfather will have forgiven us." "can i come home again to-night?" asked heidi. "come now, i told you you could come back. if we get to mayenfeld today, we can take the train to-morrow. that will make you fly home again in the shortest time!" holding the bundle, deta led the child down the mountain. on their way they met peter, who had not gone to school that day. the boy thought it was a more useful occupation to look for hazel-rods than to learn to read, for he always needed the rods. he had had a most successful day, for he carried an enormous bundle on his shoulder. when he caught sight of heidi and deta, he asked them where they were going. "i am going to frankfurt with aunt deta," heidi replied; "but first i must see grandmother, for she is waiting." "oh no, it is too late. you can see her when you come back, but not now," said deta, pulling heidi along with her, for she was afraid that the old woman might detain the child. peter ran into the cottage and hit the table with his rods. the grandmother jumped up in her fright and asked him what that meant. "they have taken heidi away," peter said with a groan. "who has, peter? where has she gone?" the unhappy grandmother asked. brigida had seen deta walking up the footpath a short while ago and soon they guessed what had happened. with a trembling hand the old woman opened a window and called out as loudly as she could: "deta, deta, don't take the child away. don't take her from us." when heidi heard that she struggled to get free, and said: "i must go to grandmother; she is calling me." but deta would not let her go. she urged her on by saying that she might return soon again. she also suggested that heidi might bring a lovely present to the grandmother when she came back. heidi liked this prospect and followed deta without more ado. after a while she asked: "what shall i bring to the grandmother?" "you might bring her some soft white rolls, heidi. i think the black bread is too hard for poor grandmother to eat." "yes, i know, aunt, she always gives it to peter," heidi confirmed her. "we must go quickly now; we might get to frankfurt today and then i can be back tomorrow with the rolls." [illustration: when heidi heard that she struggled to get free] heidi was running now, and deta had to follow. she was glad enough to escape the questions that people might ask her in the village. people could see that heidi was pulling her along, so she said: "i can't stop. don't you see how the child is hurrying? we have still far to go," whenever she heard from all sides: "are you taking her with you?" "is she running away from the uncle?" "what a wonder she is still alive!" "what red cheeks she has," and so on. soon they had escaped and had left the village far behind them. from that time on the uncle looked more angry than ever when he came to the village. everybody was afraid of him, and the women would warn their children to keep out of his sight. he came down but seldom, and then only to sell his cheese and buy his provisions. often people remarked how lucky it was that heidi had left him. they had seen her hurrying away, so they thought that she had been glad to go. the old grandmother alone stuck to him faithfully. whenever anybody came up to her, she would tell them what good care the old man had taken of heidi. she also told them that he had mended her little house. these reports reached the village, of course, but people only half believed them, for the grandmother was infirm and old. she began her days with sighing again. "all happiness has left us with the child. the days are so long and dreary, and i have no joy left. if only i could hear heidi's voice before i die," the poor old woman would exclaim, day after day. [illustration] vi a new chapter with new things in a beautiful house in frankfurt lived a sick child by the name of clara sesemann. she was sitting in a comfortable rolling-chair, which could be pushed from room to room. clara spent most of her time in the study, where long rows of bookcases lined the walls. this room was used as a living-room, and here she was also given her lessons. clara had a pale, thin face with soft blue eyes, which at that moment were watching the clock impatiently. at last she said: "oh miss rottenmeier, isn't it time yet?" the lady so addressed was the housekeeper, who had lived with clara since mrs. sesemann's death. miss rottenmeier wore a peculiar uniform with a long cape, and a high cap on her head. clara's father, who was away from home a great deal, left the entire management of the house to this lady, on the condition that his daughter's wishes should always be considered. while clara was waiting, deta had arrived at the front door with heidi. she was asking the coachman who had brought her if she could go upstairs. "that's not my business," grumbled the coachman; "you must ring for the butler." sebastian, the butler, a man with large brass buttons on his coat, soon stood before her. "may i see miss rottenmeier?" deta asked. "that's not my business," the butler announced. "ring for tinette, the maid." with that, he disappeared. deta, ringing again, saw a girl with a brilliant white cap on her head, coming down the stairway. the maid stopped half-way down and asked scornfully: "what do you want?" deta repeated her wish again. tinette told her to wait while she went upstairs, but it did not take long before the two were asked to come up. following the maid, they found themselves in the study. deta held on to heidi's hand and stayed near the door. miss rottenmeier, slowly getting up, approached the newcomers. she did not seem pleased with heidi, who wore her hat and shawl and was looking up at the lady's headdress with innocent wonder. "what is your name?" the lady asked. "heidi," was the child's clear answer. "what? is that a christian name? what name did you receive in baptism?" inquired the lady again. "i don't remember that any more," the child replied. "what an answer! what does that mean?" said the housekeeper, shaking her head. "is the child ignorant or pert, miss deta?" "i shall speak for the child, if i may, madam," deta said, after giving heidi a little blow for her unbecoming answer. "the child has never been in such a fine house and does not know how to behave. i hope the lady will forgive her manners. she is called adelheid after her mother, who was my sister." "oh well, that is better. but miss deta, the child seems peculiar for her age. i thought i told you that miss clara's companion would have to be twelve years old like her, to be able to share her studies. how old is adelheid?" "i am sorry, but i am afraid she is somewhat younger than i thought. i think she is about ten years old." "grandfather said that i was eight years old," said heidi now. deta gave her another blow, but as the child had no idea why, she did not get embarrassed. "what, only eight years old!" miss rottenmeier exclaimed indignantly. "how can we get along? what have you learned? what books have you studied?" "none," said heidi. "but how did you learn to read?" "i can't read and peter can't do it either," heidi retorted. "for mercy's sake! you cannot read?" cried the lady in her surprise. "how is it possible? what else have you studied?" "nothing," replied heidi, truthfully. "miss deta, how could you bring this child?" said the housekeeper, when she was more composed. deta, however, was not easily intimidated, and said: "i am sorry, but i thought this child would suit you. she _is_ small, but older children are often spoilt and not like her. i must go now, for my mistress is waiting. as soon as i can, i'll come to see how the child is getting along." with a bow she was outside and with a few quick steps hurried down-stairs. miss rottenmeier followed her and tried to call her back, for she wanted to ask deta a number of questions. heidi was still standing on the same spot. clara had watched the scene, and called to the child now to come to her. heidi approached the rolling-chair. "do you want to be called heidi or adelheid?" asked clara. "my name is heidi and nothing else," was the child's answer. "i'll call you heidi then, for i like it very much," said clara. "i have never heard the name before. what curly hair you have! was it always like that?" "i think so." "did you like to come to frankfurt?" asked clara again. "oh, no, but then i am going home again to-morrow, and shall bring grandmother some soft white rolls," heidi explained. "what a curious child you are," said clara. "you have come to frankfurt to stay with me, don't you know that? we shall have our lessons together, and i think it will be great fun when you learn to read. generally the morning seems to have no end, for mr. candidate comes at ten and stays till two. that is a long time, and he has to yawn himself, he gets so tired. miss rottenmeier and he both yawn together behind their books, but when i do it, miss rottenmeier makes me take cod-liver oil and says that i am ill. so i must swallow my yawns, for i hate the oil. what fun it will be now, when you learn to read!" heidi shook her head doubtfully at these prospects. "everybody must learn to read, heidi. mr. candidate is very patient and will explain it all to you. you won't know what he means at first, for it is difficult to understand him. it won't take long to learn, though, and then you will know what he means." when miss rottenmeier found that she was unable to recall deta, she came back to the children. she was in a very excited mood, for she felt responsible for heidi's coming and did not know how to cancel this unfortunate step. she soon got up again to go to the dining-room, criticising the butler and giving orders to the maid. sebastian, not daring to show his rage otherwise, noisily opened the folding doors. when he went up to clara's chair, he saw heidi watching him intently. at last she said: "you look like peter." miss rottenmeier was horrified with this remark, and sent them all into the dining-room. after clara was lifted on to her chair, the housekeeper sat down beside her. heidi was motioned to sit opposite the lady. in that way they were placed at the enormous table. when heidi saw a roll on her plate, she turned to sebastian, and pointing at it, asked, "can i have this?" heidi had already great confidence in the butler, especially on account of the resemblance she had discovered. the butler nodded, and when he saw heidi put the bread in her pocket, could hardly keep from laughing. he came to heidi now with a dish of small baked fishes. for a long time the child did not move; then turning her eyes to the butler, she said: "must i eat that?" sebastian nodded, but another pause ensued. "why don't you give it to me?" the child quietly asked, looking at her plate. the butler, hardly able to keep his countenance, was told to place the dish on the table and leave the room. when he was gone, miss rottenmeier explained to heidi with many signs how to help herself at table. she also told her never to speak to sebastian unless it was important. after that the child was told how to accost the servants and the governess. when the question came up of how to call clara, the older girl said, "of course you shall call me clara." a great many rules followed now about behavior at all times, about the shutting of doors and about going to bed, and a hundred other things. poor heidi's eyes were closing, for she had risen at five that morning, and leaning against her chair she fell asleep. when miss rottenmeier had finished instructions, she said: "i hope you will remember everything, adelheid. did you understand me?" "heidi went to sleep a long time ago," said clara, highly amused. "it is atrocious what i have to bear with this child," exclaimed miss rottenmeier, ringing the bell with all her might. when the two servants arrived, they were hardly able to rouse heidi enough to show her to her bed-room. vii miss rottenmeier has an uncomfortable day when heidi opened her eyes next morning, she did not know where she was. she found herself on a high white bed in a spacious room. looking around she observed long white curtains before the windows, several chairs, and a sofa covered with cretonne; in a corner she saw a wash-stand with many curious things standing on it. suddenly heidi remembered all the happenings of the previous day. jumping out of bed, she dressed in a great hurry. she was eager to look at the sky and the ground below, as she had always done at home. what was her disappointment when she found that the windows were too high for her to see anything except the walls and windows opposite. trying to open them, she turned from one to the other, but in vain. the poor child felt like a little bird that is placed in a glittering cage for the first time. at last she had to resign herself, and sat down on a low stool, thinking of the melting snow on the slopes and the first flowers of spring that she had hailed with such delight. suddenly tinette opened the door and said curtly: "breakfast's ready." heidi did not take this for a summons, for the maid's face was scornful and forbidding. she was waiting patiently for what would happen next, when miss rottenmeier burst into the room, saying: "what is the matter, adelheid? didn't you understand? come to breakfast!" heidi immediately followed the lady into the dining-room, where clara greeted her with a smile. she looked much happier than usual, for she expected new things to happen that day. when breakfast had passed without disturbance, the two children were allowed to go into the library together and were soon left alone. "how can i see down to the ground?" heidi asked. "open a window and peep out," replied clara, amused at the question. "but it is impossible to open them," heidi said, sadly. "oh no. you can't do it and i can't help you, either, but if you ask sebastian he'll do it for you." heidi was relieved. the poor child had felt like a prisoner in her room. clara now asked heidi what her home had been like, and heidi told her gladly about her life in the hut. the tutor had arrived in the meantime, but he was not asked to go to the study as usual. miss rottenmeier was very much excited about heidi's coming and all the complications that arose therefrom. she was really responsible for it, having arranged everything herself. she presented the unfortunate case before the teacher, for she wanted him to help her to get rid of the child. mr. candidate, however, was always careful of his judgments, and not afraid of teaching beginners. when the lady saw that he would not side with her, she let him enter the study alone, for the a,b,c held great horrors for her. while she considered many problems, a frightful noise as of something falling was heard in the adjoining room, followed by a cry to sebastian for help. running in, she beheld a pile of books and papers on the floor, with the table-cover on top. a black stream of ink flowed across the length of the room. heidi had disappeared. "there," miss rottenmeier exclaimed, wringing her hands. "everything drenched with ink. did such a thing ever happen before? this child brings nothing but misfortunes on us." the teacher was standing up, looking at the devastation, but clara was highly entertained by these events, and said: "heidi has not done it on purpose and must not be punished. in her hurry to get away she caught on the table-cover and pulled it down. i think she must never have seen a coach in all her life, for when she heard a carriage rumbling by, she rushed out like mad." "didn't i tell you, mr. candidate, that she has no idea whatever about behavior? she does not even know that she has to sit quiet at her lessons. but where has she gone? what would mr. sesemann say if she should run away?" when miss rottenmeier went down-stairs to look for the child, she saw her standing at the open door, looking down the street. "what are you doing here? how can you run away like that?" scolded miss rottenmeier. "i heard the fir-trees rustle, but i can't see them and do not hear them any more," replied heidi, looking in great perplexity down the street. the noise of the passing carriage had reminded her of the roaring of the south-wind on the alp. "fir-trees? what nonsense! we are not in a wood. come with me now to see what you have done." when heidi saw the devastation that she had caused, she was greatly surprised, for she had not noticed it in her hurry. "this must never happen again," said the lady sternly. "you must sit quiet at your lessons; if you get up again i shall tie you to your chair. do you hear me?" heidi understood, and gave a promise to sit quietly during her lessons from that time on. after the servants had straightened the room, it was late, and there was no more time for studies. nobody had time to yawn that morning. in the afternoon, while clara was resting, heidi was left to herself. she planted herself in the hall and waited for the butler to come up-stairs with the silver things. when he reached the head of the stairs, she said to him: "i want to ask you something." she saw that the butler seemed angry, so she reassured him by saying that she did not mean any harm. "all right, miss, what is it?" "my name is not miss, why don't you call me heidi?" "miss rottenmeier told me to call you miss." "did she? well then, it must be so. i have three names already," sighed the child. "what can i do for you?" asked sebastian now. "can you open a window for me?" "certainly," he replied. sebastian got a stool for heidi, for the window-sill was too high for her to see over. in great disappointment, heidi turned her head away. "i don't see anything but a street of stone. is it the same way on the other side of the house?" "yes." "where do you go to look far down on everything?" "on a church-tower. do you see that one over there with the golden dome? from there you can overlook everything." heidi immediately stepped down from the stool and ran down-stairs. opening the door, she found herself in the street, but she could not see the tower any more. she wandered on from street to street, not daring to accost any of the busy people. passing a corner, she saw a boy who had a barrel-organ on his back and a curious animal on his arm. heidi ran to him and asked: "where is the tower with the golden dome?" "don't know," was the reply. "who can tell me?" "don't know." "can you show me another church with a tower?" "of course i can." "then come and show me." "what are you going to give me for it?" said the boy, holding out his hand. heidi had nothing in her pocket but a little flower-picture. clara had only given it to her this morning, so she was loath to part with it. the temptation to look far down into the valley was too great for her, though, and she offered him the gift. the boy shook his head, to heidi's satisfaction. "what else do you want?" "money." "i have none, but clara has some. how much must i give you?" "twenty pennies." "all right, but come." while they were wandering down the street, heidi found out what a barrel-organ was, for she had never seen one. when they arrived before an old church with a tower, heidi was puzzled what to do next, but having discovered a bell, she pulled it with all her might. the boy agreed to wait for heidi and show her the way home if she gave him a double fee. the lock creaked now from inside, and an old man opened the door. in an angry voice, he said: "how do you dare to ring for me? can't you see that it is only for those who want to see the tower?" "but i do," said heidi. "what do you want to see? did anybody send you?" asked the man. "no; but i want to look down from up there." "get home and don't try it again." with that the tower-keeper was going to shut the door, but heidi held his coat-tails and pleaded with him to let her come. the tower-keeper looked at the child's eyes, which were nearly full of tears. "all right, come along, if you care so much," he said, taking her by the hand. the two climbed up now many, many steps, which got narrower all the time. when they had arrived on top, the old man lifted heidi up to the open window. heidi saw nothing but a sea of chimneys, roofs and towers, and her heart sank. "oh, dear, it's different from the way i thought it would be," she said. "there! what could such a little girl know about a view? we'll go down now and you must promise never to ring at my tower any more." on their way they passed an attic, where a large grey cat guarded her new family in a basket. this cat caught half-a-dozen mice every day for herself, for the old tower was full of rats and mice. heidi gazed at her in surprise, and was delighted when the old man opened the basket. "what charming kittens, what cunning little creatures!" she exclaimed in her delight, when she saw them crawling about, jumping and tumbling. "would you like to have one?" the old man asked. "for me? to keep?" heidi asked, for she could not believe her ears. "yes, of course. you can have several if you have room for them," the old man said, glad to find a good home for the kittens. how happy heidi was! of course there was enough room in the huge house, and clara would be delighted when she saw the cunning things. "how can i take them with me?" the child asked, after she had tried in vain to catch one. "i can bring them to your house, if you tell me where you live," said heidi's new friend, while he caressed the old cat, who had lived with him many years. "bring them to mr. sesemann's house; there is a golden dog on the door, with a ring in his mouth." the old man had lived in the tower a long time and knew everybody; sebastian also was a special friend of his. "i know," he said. "but to whom shall i send them? do you belong to mr. sesemann?" "no. please send them to clara; she will like them, i am sure." heidi could hardly tear herself away from the pretty things, so the old man put one kitten in each of her pockets to console her. after that she went away. the boy was waiting patiently for her, and when she had taken leave of the tower-keeper, she asked the boy: "do you know where mr. sesemann's house is?" "no," was the reply. she described it as well as she could, till the boy remembered it. off they started, and soon heidi found herself pulling the door-bell. when sebastian arrived he said: "hurry up." heidi went in, and the boy was left outside, for sebastian had not even seen him. "come up quickly, little miss," he urged. "they are all waiting for you in the dining-room. miss rottenmeier looks like a loaded cannon. how could you run away like that?" heidi sat down quietly on her chair. nobody said a word, and there was an uncomfortable silence. at last miss rottenmeier began with a severe and solemn voice: "i shall speak with you later, adelheid. how can you leave the house without a word? your behavior was very remiss. the idea of walking about till so late!" "meow!" was the reply. "i didn't," heidi began--"meow!" sebastian nearly flung the dish on the table, and disappeared. "this is enough," miss rottenmeier tried to say, but her voice was hoarse with fury. "get up and leave the room." [illustration: off they started, and soon heidi was pulling the door-bell] heidi got up. she began again. "i made--" "meow! meow! meow!--" "heidi," said clara now, "why do you always say 'meow' again, if you see that miss rottenmeier is angry?" "i am not doing it, it's the kittens," she explained. "what? cats? kittens?" screamed the housekeeper. "sebastian, tinette, take the horrible things away!" with that she ran into the study, locking herself in, for she feared kittens beyond anything on earth. when sebastian had finished his laugh, he came into the room. he had foreseen the excitement, having caught sight of the kittens when heidi came in. the scene was a very peaceful one now; clara held the little kittens in her lap, and heidi was kneeling beside her. they both played happily with the two graceful creatures. the butler promised to look after the new-comers and prepared a bed for them in a basket. a long time afterwards, when it was time to go to bed, miss rottenmeier cautiously opened the door. "are they away?" she asked. "yes," replied the butler, quickly seizing the kittens and taking them away. the lecture that miss rottenmeier was going to give heidi was postponed to the following day, for the lady was too much exhausted after her fright. they all went quietly to bed, and the children were happy in the thought that their kittens had a comfortable bed. [illustration] viii great disturbances in the sesemann house a short time after the tutor had arrived next morning, the door-bell rang so violently that sebastian thought it must be mr. sesemann himself. what was his surprise when a dirty street-boy, with a barrel-organ on his back, stood before him! "what do you mean by pulling the bell like that?" the butler said. "i want to see clara." "can't you at least say 'miss clara', you ragged urchin?" said sebastian harshly. "she owes me forty pennies," said the boy. "you are crazy! how do you know miss clara lives here?" "i showed her the way yesterday and she promised to give me forty pennies." "what nonsense! miss clara never goes out. you had better take yourself off, before i send you!" the boy, however, did not even budge, and said: "i saw her. she has curly hair, black eyes and talks in a funny way." "oh," sebastian chuckled to himself, "that was the little miss." pulling the boy into the house, he said: "all right, you can follow me. wait at the door till i call you, and then you can play something for miss clara." knocking at the study-door, sebastian said, when he had entered: "a boy is here who wants to see miss clara." clara, delighted at his interruption, said: "can't he come right up, mr. candidate?" but the boy was already inside, and started to play. miss rottenmeier was in the adjoining room when she heard the sounds. where did they come from? hurrying into the study, she saw the street-boy playing to the eager children. "stop! stop!" she called, but in vain, for the music drowned her voice. suddenly she made a big jump, for there, between her feet, crawled a black turtle. only when she shrieked for sebastian could her voice be heard. the butler came straight in, for he had seen everything behind the door, and a great scene it had been! glued to a chair in her fright, miss rottenmeier called: "send the boy away! take them away!" sebastian obediently pulled the boy after him; then he said: "here are forty pennies from miss clara and forty more for playing. it was well done, my boy." with that he closed the door behind him. miss rottenmeier found it wiser now to stay in the study to prevent further disturbances. suddenly there was another knock at the door. sebastian appeared with a large basket, which had been brought for clara. "we had better have our lesson before we inspect it," said miss rottenmeier. but clara, turning to the tutor, asked: "oh, please, mr. candidate, can't we just peep in, to see what it is?" "i am afraid that you will think of nothing else," the teacher began. just then something in the basket, which had been only lightly fastened, moved, and one, two, three and still more little kittens jumped out, scampering around the room with the utmost speed. they bounded over the tutor's boots and bit his trousers; they climbed up on miss rottenmeier's dress and crawled around her feet. mewing and running, they caused a frightful confusion. clara called out in delight: "oh, look at the cunning creatures; look how they jump! heidi, look at that one, and oh, see the one over there?" heidi followed them about, while the teacher shook them off. when the housekeeper had collected her wits after the great fright, she called for the servants. they soon arrived and stored the little kittens safely in the new bed. no time had been found for yawning that day, either! when miss rottenmeier, who had found out the culprit, was alone with the children in the evening, she began severely: "adelheid, there is only one punishment for you. i am going to send you to the cellar, to think over your dreadful misdeeds, in company with the rats." a cellar held no terrors for heidi, for in her grandfather's cellar fresh milk and the good cheese had been kept, and no rats had lodged there. but clara shrieked: "oh, miss rottenmeier, you must wait till papa comes home, and then he can punish heidi." the lady unwillingly replied: "all right, clara, but i shall also speak a few words to mr. sesemann." with those words she left the room. since the child's arrival everything had been upset, and the lady often felt discouraged, though nothing remarkable happened for a few days. clara, on the contrary, enjoyed her companion's society, for she always did funny things. in her lesson she could never get her letters straight. they meant absolutely nothing to her, except that they would remind her of goats and eagles. the girls always spent their evenings together, and heidi would entertain her friend with tales of her former life, till her longing grew so great that she added: "i have to go home now. i must go tomorrow." clara's soothing words and the prospect of more rolls for the grandmother kept the child. every day after dinner she was left alone in her room for some hours. thinking of the green fields at home, of the sparkling flowers on the mountains, she would sit in a corner till her desire for all those things became too great to bear. her aunt had clearly told her that she might return, if she wished to do so, so one day she resolved to leave for the alm-hut. in a great hurry she packed the bread in the red shawl, and putting on her old straw hat, started off. the poor child did not get very far. at the door she encountered miss rottenmeier, who stared at heidi in mute surprise. "what are you up to?" she exploded. "haven't i forbidden you to run away? you look like a vagabond!" "i was only going home," whispered the frightened child. "what, you want to run away from this house? what would mr. sesemann say? what is it that does not suit you here? don't you get better treatment than you deserve? have you ever before had such food, service and such a room? answer!" "no," was the reply. "don't i know that?" the furious lady proceeded. "what a thankless child you are, just idle and good-for-nothing!" but heidi could not bear it any longer. she loudly wailed: "oh, i want to go home. what will poor snowhopper do without me? grandmother is waiting for me every day. poor thistlefinch gets blows if peter gets no cheese, and i must see the sun again when he says good-night to the mountains. how the eagle would screech if he saw all the people here in frankfurt!" "for mercy's sake, the child is crazy!" exclaimed miss rottenmeier, running up the stairs. in her hurry she had bumped into sebastian, who was just then coming down. "bring the unlucky child up!" she called to him, rubbing her head. "all right, many thanks," answered the butler, rubbing his head, too, for he had encountered something far harder than she had. when the butler came down, he saw heidi standing near the door with flaming eyes, trembling all over. cheerfully he asked: "what has happened, little one? do not take it to heart, and cheer up. she nearly made a hole in my head just now, but we must not get discouraged. oh, no!--come, up with you; she said so!" heidi walked up-stairs very slowly. seeing her so changed, sebastian said: "don't give in! don't be so sad! you have been so courageous till now; i have never heard you cry yet. come up now, and when the lady's away we'll go and look at the kittens. they are running round like wild!" nodding cheerlessly, the child disappeared in her room. that night at supper miss rottenmeier watched heidi constantly, but nothing happened. the child sat as quiet as a mouse, hardly touching her food, except the little roll. talking with the tutor next morning, miss rottenmeier told him her fears about heidi's mind. but the teacher had more serious troubles still, for heidi had not even learned her a,b,c in all this time. heidi was sorely in need of some clothes, so clara had given her some. miss rottenmeier was just busy arranging the child's wardrobe, when she suddenly returned. "adelheid," she said contemptuously, "what do i find? a big pile of bread in your wardrobe! i never heard the like. yes, clara, it is true." then, calling tinette, she ordered her to take away the bread and the old straw hat she had found. "no, don't! i must keep my hat! the bread is for grandmother," cried heidi in despair. "you stay here, while we take the rubbish away," said the lady sternly. heidi threw herself down now on clara's chair and sobbed as if her heart would break. "now i can't bring grandmother any rolls! oh, they were for grandmother!" she lamented. "heidi, don't cry any more," clara begged. "listen! when you go home some day, i am going to give you as many rolls as you had, and more. they will be much softer and better than those stale ones you have kept. those were not fit to eat, heidi. stop now, please, and don't cry any more!" only after a long, long time did heidi become quiet. when she had heard clara's promise, she cried: "are you really going to give me as many as i had?" at supper, heidi's eyes were swollen and it was still hard for her to keep from crying. sebastian made strange signs to her that she did not understand. what did he mean? later, though, when she climbed into her high bed, she found her old beloved straw hat hidden under her cover. so sebastian had saved it for her and had tried to tell her! she crushed it for joy, and wrapping it in a handkerchief, she hid it in the furthest corner of her wardrobe. ix the master of the house hears of strange doings a few days afterwards there was great excitement in the sesemann residence, for the master of the house had just arrived. the servants were taking upstairs one load after another, for mr. sesemann always brought many lovely things home with him. when he entered his daughter's room, heidi shyly retreated into a corner. he greeted clara affectionately, and she was equally delighted to see him, for she loved her father dearly. then he called to heidi: "oh, there is our little swiss girl. come and give me your hand! that's right. are you good friends, my girls, tell me now? you don't fight together, what?" "oh, no, clara is always kind to me," heidi replied. "heidi has never even tried to fight, papa," clara quickly remarked. "that's good, i like to hear that," said the father rising. "i must get my dinner now, for i am hungry. i shall come back soon and show you what i have brought home with me." in the dining-room he found miss rottenmeier surveying the table with a most tragic face. "you do not look very happy at my arrival, miss rottenmeier. what is the matter? clara seems well enough," he said to her. "oh, mr. sesemann, we have been terribly disappointed," said the lady. "how do you mean?" asked mr. sesemann, calmly sipping his wine. "we had decided, as you know, to have a companion for clara. knowing as i did that you would wish me to get a noble, pure child, i thought of this swiss child, hoping she would go through life like a breath of pure air, hardly touching the earth." "i think that even swiss children are made to touch the earth, otherwise they would have to have wings." "i think you understand what i mean. i have been terribly disappointed, for this child has brought the most frightful animals into the house. mr. candidate can tell you!" "the child does not look very terrible. but what do you mean?" "i cannot explain it, because she does not seem in her right mind at times." mr. sesemann was getting worried at last, when the tutor entered. "oh, mr. candidate, i hope you will explain. please take a cup of coffee with me and tell me about my daughter's companion. make it short, if you please!" but this was impossible for mr. candidate, who had to greet mr. sesemann first. then he began to reassure his host about the child, pointing out to him that her education had been neglected till then, and so on. but poor mr. sesemann, unfortunately, did not get his answer, and had to listen to very long-winded explanations of the child's character. at last mr. sesemann got up, saying: "excuse me, mr. candidate, but i must go over to clara now." he found the children in the study. turning to heidi, who had risen at his approach, he said: "come, little one, get me--get me a glass of water." "fresh water?" "of course, fresh water," he replied. when heidi had gone, he sat down near clara, holding her hand. "tell me, little clara," he asked, "please tell me clearly what animals heidi has brought into the house; is she really not right in her mind?" clara now began to relate to her father all the incidents with the kittens and the turtle, and explained heidi's speeches that had so frightened the lady. mr. sesemann laughed heartily and asked clara if she wished heidi to remain. "of course, papa. since she is here, something amusing happens every day; it used to be so dull, but now heidi keeps me company." "very good, very good, clara; oh! here is your friend back again. did you get nice fresh water?" asked mr. sesemann. heidi handed him the glass and said: "yes, fresh from the fountain." "you did not go to the fountain yourself, heidi?" said clara. "certainly, but i had to get it from far, there were so many people at the first and at the second fountain. i had to go down another street and there i got it. a gentleman with white hair sends his regards to you, mr. sesemann." clara's father laughed and asked: "who was the gentleman?" "when he passed by the fountain and saw me there with a glass, he stood still and said: 'please give me to drink, for you have a glass; to whom are you bringing the water?' then i said: 'i am bringing it to mr. sesemann.' when he heard that he laughed very loud and gave me his regards for you, with the wish that you would enjoy your drink." "i wonder who it was? what did the gentleman look like?" "he has a friendly laugh and wears a gold pendant with a red stone on his thick gold chain; there is a horsehead on his cane." "oh, that was the doctor--" "that was my old doctor," exclaimed father and daughter at the same time. in the evening, mr. sesemann told miss rottenmeier that heidi was going to remain, for the children were very fond of each other and he found heidi normal and very sweet. "i want the child to be treated kindly," mr. sesemann added decidedly. "her peculiarities must not be punished. my mother is coming very soon to stay here, and she will help you to manage the child, for there is nobody in this world that my mother could not get along with, as you know, miss rottenmeier." "of course, i know that, mr. sesemann," replied the lady, but she was not very much pleased at the prospect. mr. sesemann only stayed two weeks, for his business called him back to paris. he consoled his daughter by telling her that his mother was coming in a very few days. mr. sesemann had hardly left, when the grandmother's visit was announced for the following day. clara was looking forward to this visit, and told heidi so much about her dear grandmama that heidi also began to call her by that name, to miss rottenmeier's disapproval, who thought that the child was not entitled to this intimacy. [illustration] x a grandmama the following evening great expectation reigned in the house. tinette had put on a new cap, sebastian was placing footstools in front of nearly every armchair, and miss rottenmeier walked with great dignity about the house, inspecting everything. when the carriage at last drove up, the servants flew downstairs, followed by miss rottenmeier in more measured step. heidi had been sent to her room to await further orders, but it was not long before tinette opened the door and said brusquely: "go into the study!" the grandmama, with her kind and loving way, immediately befriended the child and made her feel as if she had known her always. to the housekeeper's great mortification, she called the child heidi, remarking to miss rottenmeier: "if somebody's name is heidi, i call her so." the housekeeper soon found that she had to respect the grandmother's ways and opinions. mrs. sesemann always knew what was going on in the house the minute she entered it. on the following afternoon clara was resting and the old lady had shut her eyes for five minutes, when she got up again and went into the dining-room. with a suspicion that the housekeeper was probably asleep, she went to this lady's room, knocking loudly on the door. after a while somebody stirred inside, and with a bewildered face miss rottenmeier appeared, staring at the unexpected visitor. "rottenmeier, where is the child? how does she pass her time? i want to know," said mrs. sesemann. "she just sits in her room, not moving a finger; she has not the slightest desire to do something useful, and that is why she thinks of such absurd things that one can hardly mention them in polite society." "i should do exactly the same thing, if i were left alone like that. please bring her to my room now, i want to show her some pretty books i have brought with me." "that is just the trouble. what should she do with books? in all this time she has not even learned the a,b,c for it is impossible to instil any knowledge into this being. if mr. candidate was not as patient as an angel, he would have given up teaching her long ago." "how strange! the child does not look to me like one who cannot learn the a,b,c," said mrs. sesemann. "please fetch her now; we can look at the pictures anyway." the housekeeper was going to say more, but the old lady had turned already and gone to her room. she was thinking over what she had heard about heidi, making up her mind to look into the matter. heidi had come and was looking with wondering eyes at the splendid pictures in the large books, that grandmama was showing her. suddenly she screamed aloud, for there on the picture she saw a peaceful flock grazing on a green pasture. in the middle a shepherd was standing, leaning on his crook. the setting sun was shedding a golden light over everything. with glowing eyes heidi devoured the scene; but suddenly she began to sob violently. the grandmama took her little hand in hers and said in the most soothing voice: "come, child, you must not cry. did this remind you of something? now stop, and i'll tell you the story to-night. there are lovely stories in this book, that people can read and tell. dry your tears now, darling, i must ask you something. stand up now and look at me! now we are merry again!" heidi did not stop at once, but the kind lady gave her ample time to compose herself, saying from time to time: "now it's all over. now we'll be merry again." when the child was quiet at last, she said: "tell me now how your lessons are going. what have you learnt, child, tell me?" "nothing," heidi sighed; "but i knew that i never could learn it." "what is it that you can't learn?" "i can't learn to read; it is too hard." "what next? who gave you this information?" "peter told me, and he tried over and over again, but he could not do it, for it is too hard." "well, what kind of boy is he? heidi, you must not believe what peter tells you, but try for yourself. i am sure you had your thoughts elsewhere when mr. candidate showed you the letters." "it's no use," heidi said with such a tone as if she was resigned to her fate. "i am going to tell you something, heidi," said the kind lady now. "you have not learnt to read because you have believed what peter said. you shall believe me now, and i prophesy that you will learn it in a very short time, as a great many other children do that are like you and not like peter. when you can read, i am going to give you this book. you have seen the shepherd on the green pasture, and then you'll be able to find out all the strange things that happen to him. yes, you can hear the whole story, and what he does with his sheep and his goats. you would like to know, wouldn't you, heidi?" heidi had listened attentively, and said now with sparkling eyes: "if i could only read already!" "it won't be long, i can see that. come now and let us go to clara." with that they both went over to the study. since the day of heidi's attempted flight a great change had come over the child. she had realized that it would hurt her kind friends if she tried to go home again. she knew now that she could not leave, as her aunt deta had promised, for they all, especially clara and her father and the old lady, would think her ungrateful. but the burden grew heavier in her heart and she lost her appetite, and got paler and paler. she could not get to sleep at night from longing to see the mountains with the flowers and the sunshine, and only in her dreams she would be happy. when she woke up in the morning, she always found herself on her high white bed, far away from home. burying her head in her pillow, she would often weep a long, long time. mrs. sesemann had noticed the child's unhappiness, but let a few days pass by, hoping for a change. but the change never came, and often heidi's eyes were red even in the early morning. so she called the child to her room one day and said, with great sympathy in her voice: "tell me, heidi, what is the matter with you? what is making you so sad?" but as heidi did not want to appear thankless, she replied sadly: "i can't tell you." "no? can't you tell clara perhaps?" "oh, no, i can't tell anyone," heidi said, looking so unhappy that the old lady's heart was filled with pity. "i tell you something, little girl," she continued. "if you have a sorrow that you cannot tell to anyone, you can go to our father in heaven. you can tell him everything that troubles you, and if we ask him he can help us and take our suffering away. do you understand me, child? don't you pray every night? don't you thank him for all his gifts and ask him to protect you from evil?" "oh no, i never do that," replied the child. "have you never prayed, heidi? do you know what i mean?" "i only prayed with my first grandmother, but it is so long ago, that i have forgotten." "see, heidi, i understand now why you are so unhappy. we all need somebody to help us, and just think how wonderful it is, to be able to go to the lord, when something distresses us and causes us pain. we can tell him everything and ask him to comfort us, when nobody else can do it. he can give us happiness and joy." heidi was gladdened by these tidings, and asked: "can we tell him everything, everything?" "yes, heidi, everything." the child, withdrawing her hand from the grandmama, said hurriedly, "can i go now?" "yes, of course," was the reply, and with this heidi ran to her room. sitting down on a stool she folded her hands and poured out her heart to god, imploring him to help her and let her go home to her grandfather. about a week later, mr. candidate asked to see mrs. sesemann, to tell her of something unusual that had occurred. being called to the lady's room, he began: "mrs. sesemann, something has happened that i never expected," and with many more words the happy grandmama was told that heidi had suddenly learned to read with the utmost correctness, most rare with beginners. "many strange things happen in this world," mrs. sesemann remarked, while they went over to the study to witness heidi's new accomplishment. heidi was sitting close to clara, reading her a story; she seemed amazed at the strange, new world that had opened up before her. at supper heidi found the large book with the beautiful pictures on her plate, and looking doubtfully at grandmama, she saw the old lady nod. "now it belongs to you, heidi," she said. "forever? also when i am going home?" heidi inquired, confused with joy. "certainly, forever!" the grandmama assured her. "tomorrow we shall begin to read it." "but heidi, you must not go home; no, not for many years," clara exclaimed, "especially when grandmama goes away. you must stay with me." heidi still looked at her book before going to bed that night, and this book became her dearest treasure. she would look at the beautiful pictures and read all the stories aloud to clara. grandmama would quietly listen and explain something here and there, making it more beautiful than before. heidi loved the pictures with the shepherd best of all; they told the story of the prodigal son, and the child would read and re-read it till she nearly knew it all by heart. since heidi had learned to read and possessed the book, the days seemed to fly, and the time had come near that the grandmama had fixed for her departure. xi heidi gains in some respects and loses in others the grandmama sent for heidi every day after dinner, while clara was resting and miss rottenmeier disappeared into her room. she talked to heidi and amused her in various ways, showing her how to make clothes for pretty little dolls that she had brought. unconsciously heidi had learned to sew, and made now the sweetest dresses and coats for the little people out of lovely materials the grandmama would give her. often heidi would read to the old lady, for the oftener she read over the stories the dearer they became to her. the child lived everything through with the people in the tales and was always happy to be with them again. but she never looked really cheerful and her eyes never sparkled merrily as before. in the last week of mrs. sesemann's stay, heidi was called again to the old lady's room. the child entered with her beloved book under her arm. mrs. sesemann drew heidi close to her, and laying the book aside, she said: "come, child, and tell me why you are so sad. do you still have the same sorrow?" "yes," heidi replied. "did you confide it to our lord?" "yes." "do you pray to him every day that he may make you happy again and take your affliction away?" "oh no, i don't pray any more." "what do i hear, heidi? why don't you pray?" "it does not help, for god has not listened. i don't wonder," she added, "for if all the people in frankfurt pray every night, he cannot listen to them all. i am sure he has not heard me." "really? why are you so sure?" "because i have prayed for the same thing many, many weeks and god has not done what i have asked him to." "that is not the way, heidi. you see, god in heaven is a good father to all of us, who knows what we need better than we do. when something we ask for is not very good for us, he gives us something much better, if we confide in him and do not lose confidence in his love. i am sure what you asked for was not very good for you just now; he has heard you, for he can hear the prayers of all the people in the world at the same time, because he is god almighty and not a mortal like us. he heard your prayers and said to himself: 'yes, heidi shall get what she is praying for in time.' now, while god was looking down on you to hear your prayers, you lost confidence and went away from him. if god does not hear your prayers any more, he will forget you also and let you go. don't you want to go back to him, heidi, and ask his forgiveness? pray to him every day, and hope in him, that he may bring cheer and happiness to you." heidi had listened attentively; she had unbounded confidence in the old lady, whose words had made a deep impression on her. full of repentance, she said: "i shall go at once and ask our father to pardon me. i shall never forget him any more!" "that's right, heidi; i am sure he will help you in time, if you only trust in him," the grandmother consoled her. heidi went to her room now and prayed earnestly to god that he would forgive her and fulfill her wish. the day of departure had come, but mrs. sesemann arranged everything in such a way that the children hardly realized she was actually going. still everything was empty and quiet when she had gone, and the children hardly knew how to pass their time. next day, heidi came to clara in the afternoon and said: "can i always, always read to you now, clara?" clara assented, and heidi began. but she did not get very far, for the story she was reading told of a grandmother's death. suddenly she cried aloud: "oh, now grandmother is dead!" and wept in the most pitiful fashion. whatever heidi read always seemed real to her, and now she thought it was her own grandmother at home. louder and louder she sobbed: "now poor grandmother is dead and i can never see her any more; and she never got one single roll!" clara attempted to explain the mistake, but heidi was too much upset. she pictured to herself how terrible it would be if her dear old grandfather would die too while she was far away. how quiet and empty it would be in the hut, and how lonely she would be! miss rottenmeier had overheard the scene, and approaching the sobbing child she said impatiently: "adelheid, now you have screamed enough. if i hear you again giving way to yourself in such a noisy fashion, i shall take your book away forever!" heidi turned pale at that, for the book was her greatest treasure. quickly drying her tears, she choked down her sobs. after that heidi never cried again; often she could hardly repress her sobs and was obliged to make the strangest faces to keep herself from crying out. clara often looked at her, full of surprise, but miss rottenmeier did not notice them and found no occasion to carry out her threat. however, the poor child got more cheerless every day, and looked so thin and pale that sebastian became worried. he tried to encourage her at table to help herself to all the good dishes, but listlessly she would let them pass and hardly touch them. in the evening she would cry quietly, her heart bursting with longing to go home. thus the time passed by. heidi never knew if it was summer or winter, for the walls opposite never changed. they drove out very seldom, for clara was only able to go a short distance. they never saw anything else than streets, houses and busy people; no grass, no fir-trees and no mountains. heidi struggled constantly against her sorrow, but in vain. autumn and winter had passed, and heidi knew that the time was coming when peter would go up the alp with his goats, where the flowers were glistening in the sunshine and the mountains were all afire. she would sit down in a corner of her room and put both hands before her eyes, not to see the glaring sunshine on the opposite wall. there she would remain, eating her heart away with longing, till clara would call for her to come. [illustration] [illustration: there she would remain, eating her heart away with longing] xii the sesemann house is haunted for several days miss rottenmeier had been wandering silently about the house. when she went from room to room or along the corridors, she would often glance back as if she were afraid that somebody was following her. if she had to go to the upper floor, where the gorgeous guest-rooms were, or to the lower story, where the big ball-room was situated, she always told tinette to come with her. the strange thing was, that none of the servants dared to go anywhere alone and always found an excuse to ask each other's company, which requests were always granted. the cook, who had been in the house for many years, would often shake her head and mutter: "that i should live to see this!" something strange and weird was happening in the house. every morning, when the servants came down-stairs, they found the front door wide open. at first everybody had thought that the house must have been robbed, but nothing was missing. every morning it was the same, despite the double locks that were put on the door. at last john and sebastian, taking courage, prepared themselves to watch through a night to see who was the ghost. armed and provided with some strengthening liquor, they repaired to a room down-stairs. first they talked, but soon, getting sleepy, they leaned silently back in their chairs. when the clock from the old church tower struck one, sebastian awoke and roused his comrade, which was no easy matter. at last, however, john was wide awake, and together they went out into the hall. the same moment a strong wind put out the light that john held in his hand. rushing back, he nearly upset sebastian, who stood behind him, and pulling the butler back into the room, he locked the door in furious haste. when the light was lit again, sebastian noticed that john was deadly pale and trembling like an aspen leaf. sebastian, not having seen anything, asked anxiously: "what is the matter? what did you see?" "the door was open and a white form was on the stairs; it went up and was gone in a moment," gasped john. cold shivers ran down the butler's back. they sat without moving till the morning came, and then, shutting the door, they went upstairs to report to the housekeeper what they had seen. the lady, who was waiting eagerly, heard the tale and immediately sat down to write to mr. sesemann. she told him that fright had paralyzed her fingers and that terrible things were happening in the house. then followed a tale of the appearance of the ghost. mr. sesemann replied that he could not leave his business, and advised miss rottenmeier to ask his mother to come to stay with them, for mrs. sesemann would easily despatch the ghost. miss rottenmeier was offended with the tone of the letter, which did not seem to take her account seriously. mrs. sesemann also replied that she could not come, so the housekeeper decided to tell the children all about it. clara, at the uncanny tale, immediately exclaimed that she would not stay alone another moment and that she wished her father to come home. the housekeeper arranged to sleep with the frightened child, while heidi, who did not know what ghosts were, was perfectly unmoved. another letter was despatched to mr. sesemann, telling him that the excitement might have serious effects on his daughter's delicate constitution, and mentioning several misfortunes that might probably happen if he did not relieve the household from this terror. this brought mr. sesemann. going to his daughter's room after his arrival, he was overjoyed to see her as well as ever. clara was also delighted to see her father. "what new tricks has the ghost played on you, miss rottenmeier?" asked mr. sesemann with a twinkle in his eye. "it is no joke, mr. sesemann," replied the lady seriously. "i am sure you will not laugh tomorrow. those strange events indicate that something secret and horrible has happened in this house in days gone by." "is that so? this is new to me," remarked mr. sesemann. "but will you please not suspect my venerable ancestors? please call sebastian; i want to speak to him alone." mr. sesemann knew that the two were not on good terms, so he said to the butler: "come here, sebastian, and tell me honestly, if you have played the ghost for miss rottenmeier's pastime?" "no, upon my word, master; you must not think that," replied sebastian frankly. "i do not like it quite myself." "well, i'll show you and john what ghosts look like by day. you ought to be ashamed of yourselves, strong young men like you! now go at once to my old friend, dr. classen, and tell him to come to me at nine o'clock to-night. tell him that i came from paris especially to consult him, and that i want him to sit up all night with me. do you understand me, sebastian?" "yes indeed! i shall do as you say, mr. sesemann." mr. sesemann then went up to clara's room to quiet and comfort her. punctually at nine o'clock the doctor arrived. though his hair was grey, his face was still fresh, and his eyes were lively and kind. when he saw his friend, he laughed aloud and said: "well, well, you look pretty healthy for one who needs to be watched all night." "have patience, my old friend," replied mr. sesemann. "i am afraid the person we have to sit up for will look worse, but first we must catch him." "what? then somebody _is_ sick in this house? what do you mean?" "far worse, doctor, far worse. a ghost is in the house. my house is haunted." when the doctor laughed, mr. sesemann continued: "i call that sympathy; i wish my friend miss rottenmeier could hear you. she is convinced that an old sesemann is wandering about, expiating some dreadful deed." "how did she make his acquaintance?" asked the doctor, much amused. mr. sesemann then explained the circumstances. he said that the matter was either a bad joke which an acquaintance of the servants was playing in his absence, or it was a gang of thieves, who, after intimidating the people, would surely rob his house by and by. with these explanations they entered the room where the two servants had watched before. a few bottles of wine stood on the table and two bright candelabra shed a brilliant light. two revolvers were ready for emergencies. they left the door only partly open, for too much light might drive the ghost away. then, sitting down comfortably, the two men passed their time by chatting, taking a sip now and then. "the ghost seems to have spied us and probably won't come to-day," said the doctor. "we must have patience. it is supposed to come at one," replied his friend. so they talked till one o'clock. everything was quiet, and not a sound came from the street. suddenly the doctor raised his finger. "sh! sesemann, don't you hear something?" while they both listened, the bar was unfastened, the key was turned, and the door flew open. mr. sesemann seized his revolver. "you are not afraid, i hope?" said the doctor, getting up. "better be cautious!" whispered mr. sesemann, seizing the candelabrum in the other hand. the doctor followed with his revolver and the light, and so they went out into the hall. on the threshhold stood a motionless white form, lighted up by the moon. "who is there?" thundered the doctor, approaching the figure. it turned and uttered a low shriek. there stood heidi, with bare feet and in her white night-gown, looking bewildered at the bright light and the weapons. she was shaking with fear, while the two men were looking at her in amazement. "sesemann, this seems to be your little water carrier," said the doctor. "child, what does this mean?" asked mr. sesemann. "what did you want to do? why have you come down here?" pale from fright, heidi said: "i do not know." the doctor came forward now. "sesemann, this case belongs to my field. please go and sit down while i take her to bed." putting his revolver aside, he led the trembling child up-stairs. "don't be afraid; just be quiet! everything is all right; don't be frightened." when they had arrived in heidi's room, the doctor put the little girl to bed, covering her up carefully. drawing a chair near the couch, he waited till heidi had calmed down and had stopped trembling. then taking her hand in his, he said kindly: "now everything is all right again. tell me where you wanted to go?" "i did not want to go anywhere," heidi assured him; "i did not go myself, only i was there all of a sudden." "really! tell me, what did you dream?" "oh, i have the same dream every night. i always think i am with my grandfather again and can hear the fir-trees roar. i always think how beautiful the stars must be, and then i open the door of the hut, and oh, it is so wonderful! but when i wake up i am always in frankfurt." heidi had to fight the sobs that were rising in her throat. "does your back or your head hurt you, child?" "no, but i feel as if a big stone was pressing me here." "as if you had eaten something that disagreed with you?" "oh no, but as if i wanted to cry hard." "so, and then you cry out, don't you?" "oh no, i must never do that, for miss rottenmeier has forbidden it." "then you swallow it down? yes? do you like to be here?" "oh yes," was the faint, uncertain reply. "where did you live with your grandfather?" "up on the alp." "but wasn't it a little lonely there?" "oh no, it was so beautiful!"--but heidi could say no more. the recollection, the excitement of the night and all the restrained sorrow overpowered the child. the tears rushed violently from her eyes and she broke out into loud sobs. the doctor rose, and soothing her, said: "it won't hurt to cry; you'll go to sleep afterward, and when you wake up everything will come right." then he left the room. joining his anxious friend down-stairs, he said: "sesemann, the little girl is a sleep-walker, and has unconsciously scared your whole household. besides, she is so home-sick that her little body has wasted away. we shall have to act quickly. the only remedy for her is to be restored to her native mountain air. this is my prescription, and she must go tomorrow." "what, sick, a sleep-walker, and wasted away in my house! nobody even suspected it! you think i should send this child back in this condition, when she has come in good health? no, doctor, ask everything but that. take her in hand and prescribe for her, but let her get well before i send her back." "sesemann," the doctor replied seriously, "just think what you are doing. we cannot cure her with powders and pills. the child has not a strong constitution, and if you keep her here, she might never get well again. if you restore her to the bracing mountain air to which she is accustomed, she probably will get perfectly well again." when mr. sesemann heard this he said, "if that is your advice, we must act at once; this is the only way then." with these words mr. sesemann took his friend's arm and walked about with him to talk the matter over. when everything was settled, the doctor took his leave, for the morning had already come and the sun was shining in through the door. xiii up the alp on a summer evening mr. sesemann, going upstairs in great agitation, knocked at the housekeeper's door. he asked her to hurry, for preparations for a journey had to be made. miss rottenmeier obeyed the summons with the greatest indignation, for it was only half-past four in the morning. she dressed in haste, though with great difficulty, being nervous and excited. all the other servants were summoned likewise, and one and all thought that the master of the house had been seized by the ghost and that he was ringing for help. when they had all come down with terrified looks, they were most surprised to see mr. sesemann fresh and cheerful, giving orders. john was sent to get the horses ready and tinette was told to prepare heidi for her departure while sebastian was commissioned to fetch heidi's aunt. mr. sesemann instructed the housekeeper to pack a trunk in all haste for heidi. miss rottenmeier experienced an extreme disappointment, for she had hoped for an explanation of the great mystery. but mr. sesemann, evidently not in the mood to converse further, went to his daughter's room. clara had been wakened by the unusual noises and was listening eagerly. her father told her of what had happened and how the doctor had ordered heidi back to her home, because her condition was serious and might get worse. she might even climb the roof, or be exposed to similar dangers, if she was not cured at once. clara was painfully surprised and tried to prevent her father from carrying out his plan. he remained firm, however, promising to take her to switzerland himself the following summer, if she was good and sensible now. so the child, resigning herself, begged to have heidi's trunk packed in her room. mr. sesemann encouraged her to get together a good outfit for her little friend. heidi's aunt had arrived in the meantime. being told to take her niece home with her, she found no end of excuses, which plainly showed that she did not want to do it; for deta well remembered the uncle's parting words. mr. sesemann dismissed her and summoned sebastian. the butler was told to get ready for travelling with the child. he was to go to basle that day and spend the night at a good hotel which his master named. the next day the child was to be brought to her home. "listen, sebastian," mr. sesemann said, "and do exactly as i tell you. i know the hotel in basle, and if you show my card they will give you good accommodations. go to the child's room and barricade the windows, so that they can only be opened by the greatest force. when heidi has gone to bed, lock the door from outside, for the child walks in her sleep and might come to harm in the strange hotel. she might get up and open the door; do you understand?" "oh!--oh!--so it was she?" exclaimed the butler. "yes, it was! you are a coward, and you can tell john he is the same. such foolish men, to be afraid!" with that mr. sesemann went to his room to write a letter to heidi's grandfather. sebastian, feeling ashamed, said to himself that he ought to have resisted john and found out alone. heidi was dressed in her sunday frock and stood waiting for further commands. mr. sesemann called her now. "good-morning, mr. sesemann," heidi said when she entered. "what do you think about it, little one?" he asked her. heidi looked up to him in amazement. "you don't seem to know anything about it," laughed mr. sesemann. tinette had not even told the child, for she thought it beneath her dignity to speak to the vulgar heidi. "you are going home to-day." "home?" heidi repeated in a low voice. she had to gasp, so great was her surprise. "wouldn't you like to hear something about it?" asked mr. sesemann smiling. "oh yes, i should like to," said the blushing child. "good, good," said the kind gentleman. "sit down and eat a big breakfast now, for you are going away right afterwards." the child could not even swallow a morsel, though she tried to eat out of obedience. it seemed to her as if it was only a dream. "go to clara, heidi, till the carriage comes," mr. sesemann said kindly. heidi had been wishing to go, and now she ran to clara's room, where a huge trunk was standing. "heidi, look at the things i had packed for you. do you like them?" clara asked. there were a great many lovely things in it, but heidi jumped for joy when she discovered a little basket with twelve round white rolls for the grandmother. the children had forgotten that the moment for parting had come, when the carriage was announced. heidi had to get all her own treasures from her room yet. the grandmama's book was carefully packed, and the red shawl that miss rottenmeier had purposely left behind. then putting on her pretty hat, she left her room to say good-bye to clara. there was not much time left to do so, for mr. sesemann was waiting to put heidi in the carriage. when miss rottenmeier, who was standing on the stairs to bid farewell to her pupil, saw the red bundle in heidi's hand, she seized it and threw it on the ground. heidi looked imploringly at her kind protector, and mr. sesemann, seeing how much she treasured it, gave it back to her. the happy child at parting thanked him for all his goodness. she also sent a message of thanks to the good old doctor, whom she suspected to be the real cause of her going. while heidi was being lifted into the carriage, mr. sesemann assured her that clara and he would never forget her. sebastian followed with heidi's basket and a large bag with provisions. mr. sesemann called out: "happy journey!" and the carriage rolled away. only when heidi was sitting in the train did she become conscious of where she was going. she knew now that she would really see her grandfather and the grandmother again, also peter and the goats. her only fear was that the poor blind grandmother might have died while she was away. the thing she looked forward to most was giving the soft white rolls to the grandmother. while she was musing over all these things, she fell asleep. in basle she was roused by sebastian, for there they were to spend the night. the next morning they started off again, and it took them many hours before they reached mayenfeld. when sebastian stood on the platform of the station, he wished he could have travelled further in the train rather than have to climb a mountain. the last part of the trip might be dangerous, for everything seemed half-wild in this country. looking round, he discovered a small wagon with a lean horse. a broad-shouldered man was just loading up large bags, which had come by the train. sebastian, approaching the man, asked some information concerning the least dangerous ascent to the alp. after a while it was settled that the man should take heidi and her trunk to the village and see to it that somebody would go up with her from there. not a word had escaped heidi, until she now said, "i can go up alone from the village. i know the road." sebastian felt relieved, and calling heidi to him, presented her with a heavy roll of bills and a letter for the grandfather. these precious things were put at the bottom of the basket, under the rolls, so that they could not possibly get lost. heidi promised to be careful of them, and was lifted up to the cart. the two old friends shook hands and parted, and sebastian, with a slightly bad conscience for having deserted the child so soon, sat down on the station to wait for a returning train. the driver was no other than the village baker, who had never seen heidi but had heard a great deal about her. he had known her parents and immediately guessed she was the child who had lived with the alm-uncle. curious to know why she came home again, he began a conversation. "are you heidi, the child who lived with the alm-uncle?" "yes." "why are you coming home again? did you get on badly?" "oh no; nobody could have got on better than i did in frankfurt." "then why are you coming back?" "because mr. sesemann let me come." "pooh! why didn't you stay?" "because i would rather be with my grandfather on the alp than anywhere on earth." "you may think differently when you get there," muttered the baker. "it is strange though, for she must know," he said to himself. they conversed no more, and heidi began to tremble with excitement when she recognized all the trees on the road and the lofty peaks of the mountains. sometimes she felt as if she could not sit still any longer, but had to jump down and run with all her might. they arrived at the village at the stroke of five. immediately a large group of women and children surrounded the cart, for the trunk and the little passenger had attracted everybody's notice. when heidi had been lifted down, she found herself held and questioned on all sides. but when they saw how frightened she was, they let her go at last. the baker had to tell of heidi's arrival with the strange gentleman, and assured all the people that heidi loved her grandfather with all her heart, let the people say what they would about him. heidi, in the meantime, was running up the path; from time to time she was obliged to stop, for her basket was heavy and she lost her breath. her one idea was: "if only grandmother still sits in her corner by her spinning wheel!--oh, if she should have died!" when the child caught sight of the hut at last, her heart began to beat. the quicker she ran, the more it beat, but at last she tremblingly opened the door. she ran into the middle of the room, unable to utter one tone, she was so out of breath. "oh god," it sounded from one corner, "our heidi used to come in like that. oh, if i just could have her again with me before i die. who has come?" "here i am! grandmother, here i am!" shouted the child, throwing herself on her knees before the old woman. she seized her hands and arms and snuggling up to her did not for joy utter one more word. the grandmother had been so surprised that she could only silently caress the child's curly hair over and over again. "yes, yes," she said at last, "this is heidi's hair, and her beloved voice. oh my god, i thank thee for this happiness." out of her blind eyes big tears of joy fell down on heidi's hand. "is it really you, heidi? have you really come again?" "yes, yes, grandmother," the child replied. "you must not cry, for i have come and will never leave you any more. now you won't have to eat hard black bread any more for a little while. look what i have brought you." heidi put one roll after another into the grandmother's lap. "ah, child, what a blessing you bring to me!" the old woman cried. "but you are my greatest blessing yourself, heidi!" then, caressing the child's hair and flushed cheeks, she entreated: "just say one more word, that i may hear your voice." while heidi was talking, peter's mother arrived, and exclaimed in her amazement: "surely, this is heidi. but how can that be?" the child rose to shake hands with brigida, who could not get over heidi's splendid frock and hat. "you can have my hat, i don't want it any more; i have my old one still," heidi said, pulling out her old crushed straw hat. heidi had remembered her grandfather's words to deta about her feather hat; that was why she had kept her old hat so carefully. brigida at last accepted the gift after a great many remonstrances. suddenly heidi took off her pretty dress and tied her old shawl about her. taking the grandmother's hand, she said: "good-bye, i must go home to grandfather now, but i shall come again tomorrow. good-night, grandmother." "oh, please come again to-morrow, heidi," implored the old woman, while she held her fast. "why did you take your pretty dress off?" asked brigida. "i'd rather go to grandfather that way, or else he might not know me any more, the way you did." brigida accompanied the child outside and said mysteriously: "he would have known you in your frock; you ought to have kept it on. please be careful, child, for peter tells us that the uncle never says a word to anyone and always seems so angry." but heidi was unconcerned, and saying good-night, climbed up the path with the basket on her arm. the evening sun was shining down on the grass before her. every few minutes heidi stood still to look at the mountains behind her. suddenly she looked back and beheld such glory as she had not even seen in her most vivid dream. the rocky peaks were flaming in the brilliant light, the snow-fields glowed and rosy clouds were floating overhead. the grass was like an expanse of gold, and below her the valley swam in golden mist. the child stood still, and in her joy and transport tears ran down her cheeks. she folded her hands, and looking up to heaven, thanked the lord that he had brought her home again. she thanked him for restoring her to her beloved mountains,--in her happiness she could hardly find words to pray. only when the glow had subsided, was heidi able to follow the path again. [illustration: throwing herself in her grandfather's arms, she held him tight] she climbed so fast that she could soon discover, first the tree-tops, then the roof, finally the hut. now she could see her grandfather sitting on his bench, smoking a pipe. above the cottage the fir-trees gently swayed and rustled in the evening breeze. at last she had reached the hut, and throwing herself in her grandfather's arms, she hugged him and held him tight. she could say nothing but "grandfather! grandfather! grandfather!" in her agitation. the old man said nothing either, but his eyes were moist, and loosening heidi's arms at last, he sat her on his knee. when he had looked at her a while, he said: "so you have come home again, heidi? why? you certainly do not look very cityfied! did they send you away?" "oh no, you must not think that, grandfather. they all were so good to me; clara, mr. sesemann and grandmama. but grandfather, sometimes i felt as if i could not bear it any longer to be away from you! i thought i should choke; i could not tell any one, for that would have been ungrateful. suddenly, one morning mr. sesemann called me very early, i think it was the doctor's fault and--but i think it is probably written in this letter;" with that heidi brought the letter and the bank-roll from her basket, putting them on her grandfather's lap. "this belongs to you," he said, laying the roll beside him. having read the letter, he put it in his pocket. "do you think you can still drink milk with me, heidi?" he asked, while he stepped into the cottage. "take your money with you, you can buy a bed for it and clothes for many years." "i don't need it at all, grandfather," heidi assured him; "i have a bed and clara has given me so many dresses that i shan't need any more all my life." "take it and put it in the cupboard, for you will need it some day." heidi obeyed, and danced around the hut in her delight to see all the beloved things again. running up to the loft, she exclaimed in great disappointment: "oh grandfather, my bed is gone." "it will come again," the grandfather called up from below; "how could i know that you were coming back? get your milk now!" heidi, coming down, took her old seat. she seized her bowl and emptied it eagerly, as if it was the most wonderful thing she had ever tasted. "grandfather, our milk is the best in all the world." suddenly heidi, hearing a shrill whistle, rushed outside, as peter and all his goats came racing down. heidi greeted the boy, who stopped, rooted to the spot, staring at her. then she ran into the midst of her beloved friends, who had not forgotten her either. schwänli and bärli bleated for joy, and all her other favorites pressed near to her. heidi was beside herself with joy, and caressed little snowhopper and patted thistlefinch, till she felt herself pushed to and fro among them. "peter, why don't you come down and say good-night to me?" heidi called to the boy. "have you come again?" he exclaimed at last. then he took heidi's proffered hand and asked her, as if she had been always there: "are you coming up with me to-morrow?" "no, to-morrow i must go to grandmother, but perhaps the day after." peter had a hard time with his goats that day, for they would not follow him. over and over again they came back to heidi, till she entered the shed with bärli and schwänli and shut the door. when heidi went up to her loft to sleep, she found a fresh, fragrant bed waiting for her; and she slept better that night than she had for many, many months, for her great and burning longing had been satisfied. about ten times that night the grandfather rose from his couch to listen to heidi's quiet breathing. the window was filled up with hay, for from now on the moon was not allowed to shine on heidi any more. but heidi slept quietly, for she had seen the flaming mountains and had heard the fir-trees roar. xiv on sunday when the church bells ring heidi was standing under the swaying fir-trees, waiting for her grandfather to join her. he had promised to bring up her trunk from the village while she went in to visit the grandmother. the child was longing to see the blind woman again and to hear how she had liked the rolls. it was saturday, and the grandfather had been cleaning the cottage. soon he was ready to start. when they had descended and heidi entered peter's hut, the grandmother called lovingly to her: "have you come again, child?" she took hold of heidi's hand and held it tight. grandmother then told the little visitor how good the rolls had tasted, and how much stronger she felt already. brigida related further that the grandmother had only eaten a single roll, being so afraid to finish them too soon. heidi had listened attentively, and said now: "grandmother, i know what i shall do. i am going to write to clara and she'll surely send me a whole lot more." but brigida remarked: "that is meant well, but they get hard so soon. if i only had a few extra pennies, i could buy some from our baker. he makes them too, but i am hardly able to pay for the black bread." heidi's face suddenly shone. "oh, grandmother, i have an awful lot of money," she cried. "now i know what i'll do with it. every day you must have a fresh roll and two on sundays. peter can bring them up from the village." "no, no, child," the grandmother implored. "that must not be. you must give it to grandfather and he'll tell you what to do with it." but heidi did not listen but jumped gaily about the little room, calling over and over again: "now grandmother can have a roll every day. she'll get well and strong, and," she called with fresh delight, "maybe your eyes will see again, too, when you are strong and well." the grandmother remained silent, not to mar the happiness of the child. seeing the old hymn-book on the shelf, heidi said: "grandmother, shall i read you a song from your book now? i can read quite nicely!" she added after a pause. "oh yes, i wish you would, child. can you really read?" heidi, climbing on a chair, took down the dusty book from a shelf. after she had carefully wiped it off, she sat down on a stool. "what shall i read, grandmother?" "whatever you want to," was the reply. turning the pages, heidi found a song about the sun, and decided to read that aloud. more and more eagerly she read, while the grandmother, with folded arms, sat in her chair. an expression of indescribable happiness shone in her countenance, though tears were rolling down her cheeks. when heidi had repeated the end of the song a number of times, the old woman exclaimed: "oh, heidi, everything seems bright to me again and my heart is light. thank you, child, you have done me so much good." heidi looked enraptured at the grandmother's face, which had changed from an old, sorrowful expression to a joyous one. she seemed to look up gratefully, as if she could already behold the lovely, celestial gardens told of in the hymn. soon the grandfather knocked on the window, for it was time to go. heidi followed quickly, assuring the grandmother that she would visit her every day now; on the days she went up to the pasture with peter, she would return in the early afternoon, for she did not want to miss the chance to make the grandmother's heart joyful and light. brigida urged heidi to take her dress along, and with it on her arm the child joined the old man and immediately told him what had happened. on hearing of her plan to purchase rolls for the grandmother every day, the grandfather reluctantly consented. at this the child gave a bound, shouting: "oh grandfather, now grandmother won't ever have to eat hard, black bread any more. oh, everything is so wonderful now! if god our father had done immediately what i prayed for, i should have come home at once and could not have brought half as many rolls to grandmother. i should not have been able to read either. grandmama told me that god would make everything much better than i could ever dream. i shall always pray from now on, the way grandmama taught me. when god does not give me something i pray for, i shall always remember how everything has worked out for the best this time. we'll pray every day, grandfather, won't we, for otherwise god might forget us." "and if somebody should forget to do it?" murmured the old man. "oh, he'll get on badly, for god will forget him, too. if he is unhappy and wretched, people don't pity him, for they will say: 'he went away from god, and now the lord, who alone can help him, has no pity on him'." "is that true, heidi? who told you so?" "grandmama explained it all to me." after a pause the grandfather said: "yes, but if it has happened, then there is no help; nobody can come back to the lord, when god has once forgotten him." "but grandfather, everybody can come back to him; grandmama told me that, and besides there is the beautiful story in my book. oh, grandfather, you don't know it yet, and i shall read it to you as soon as we get home." the grandfather had brought a big basket with him, in which he carried half the contents of heidi's trunk; it had been too large to be conveyed up the steep ascent. arriving at the hut and setting down his load, he had to sit beside heidi, who was ready to begin the tale. with great animation heidi read the story of the prodigal son, who was happy at home with his father's cows and sheep. the picture showed him leaning on his staff, watching the sunset. "suddenly he wanted to have his own inheritance, and be able to be his own master. demanding the money from his father, he went away and squandered all. when he had nothing in the world left, he had to go as servant to a peasant, who did not own fine cattle like his father, but only swine; his clothes were rags, and for food he only got the husks on which the pigs were fed. often he would think what a good home he had left, and when he remembered how good his father had been to him and his own ungratefulness, he would cry from repentance and longing. then he said to himself: 'i shall go to my father and ask his forgiveness.' when he approached his former home, his father came out to meet him--" "what do you think will happen now?" heidi asked. "you think that the father is angry and will say: 'didn't i tell you?' but just listen: 'and his father saw him and had compassion and ran and fell on his neck. and the son said: father, i have sinned against heaven and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son. but the father said to his servants: bring forth the best robe and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand and shoes on his feet; and bring hither the fatted calf and kill it; and let us eat and be merry: for this my son was dead and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.' and they began to be merry." "isn't it a beautiful story, grandfather?" asked heidi, when he sat silently beside her. "yes, heidi, it is," said the grandfather, but so seriously that heidi quietly looked at the pictures. "look how happy he is," she said, pointing to it. a few hours later, when heidi was sleeping soundly, the old man climbed up the ladder. placing a little lamp beside the sleeping child, he watched her a long, long time. her little hands were folded and her rosy face looked confident and peaceful. the old man now folded his hands and said in a low voice, while big tears rolled down his cheeks: "father, i have sinned against heaven and thee, and am no more worthy to be thy son!" the next morning found the uncle standing before the door, looking about him over valley and mountain. a few early bells sounded from below and the birds sang their morning anthems. re-entering the house, he called: "heidi, get up! the sun is shining! put on a pretty dress, for we are going to church!" that was a new call, and heidi obeyed quickly. when the child came downstairs in her smart little frock, she opened her eyes wide. "oh, grandfather!" she exclaimed, "i have never seen you in your sunday coat with the silver buttons. oh, how fine you look!" the old man, turning to the child, said with a smile: "you look nice, too; come now!" with heidi's hand in his they wandered down together. the nearer they came to the village, the louder and richer the bells resounded. "oh grandfather, do you hear it? it seems like a big, high feast," said heidi. when they entered the church, all the people were singing. though they sat down on the last bench behind, the people had noticed their presence and whispered it from ear to ear. when the pastor began to preach, his words were a loud thanksgiving that moved all his hearers. after the service the old man and the child walked to the parsonage. the clergyman had opened the door and received them with friendly words. "i have come to ask your forgiveness for my harsh words," said the uncle. "i want to follow your advice to spend the winter here among you. if the people look at me askance, i can't expect any better. i am sure, mr. pastor, you will not do so." [illustration: with heidi's hand in his they wandered down together] the pastor's friendly eyes sparkled, and with many a kind word he commended the uncle for this change, and putting his hand on heidi's curly hair, ushered them out. thus the people, who had been all talking together about this great event, could see that their clergyman shook hands with the old man. the door of the parsonage was hardly shut, when the whole assembly came forward with outstretched hands and friendly greetings. great seemed to be their joy at the old man's resolution; some of the people even accompanied him on his homeward way. when they had parted at last, the uncle looked after them with his face shining as with an inward light. heidi looked up to him and said: "grandfather, you have never looked so beautiful!" "do you think so, child?" he said with a smile. "you see, heidi, i am more happy than i deserve; to be at peace with god and men makes one's heart feel light. god has been good to me, to send you back." when they arrived at peter's hut, the grandfather opened the door and entered. "how do you do, grandmother," he called out. "i think we must start to mend again, before the fall wind comes." "oh my god, the uncle!" exclaimed the grandmother in joyous surprise. "how happy i am to be able to thank you for what you have done, uncle! thank you, god bless you for it." with trembling joy the grandmother shook hands with her old friend. "there is something else i want to say to you, uncle," she continued. "if i have ever hurt you in any way, do not punish me. do not let heidi go away again before i die. i cannot tell you what heidi means to me!" so saying, she held the clinging child to her. "no danger of that, grandmother, i hope we shall all stay together now for many years to come." brigida now showed heidi's feather hat to the old man and asked him to take it back. but the uncle asked her to keep it, since heidi had given it to her. "what blessings this child has brought from frankfurt," brigida said. "i often wondered if i should not send our little peter too. what do you think, uncle?" the uncle's eyes sparkled with fun, when he replied: "i am sure it would not hurt peter; nevertheless i should wait for a fitting occasion before i sent him." the next moment peter himself arrived in great haste. he had a letter for heidi, which had been given to him in the village. what an event, a letter for heidi! they all sat down at the table while the child read it aloud. the letter was from clara sesemann, who wrote that everything had got so dull since heidi left. she said that she could not stand it very long, and therefore her father had promised to take her to ragatz this coming fall. she announced that grandmama was coming too, for she wanted to see heidi and her grandfather. grandmama, having heard about the rolls, was sending some coffee, too, so that the grandmother would not have to eat them dry. grandmama also insisted on being taken to the grandmother herself when she came on her visit. great was the delight caused by this news, and what with all the questions and plans that followed, the grandfather himself forgot how late it was. this happy day, which had united them all, caused the old woman to say at parting: "the most beautiful thing of all, though, is to be able to shake hands again with an old friend, as in days gone by; it is a great comfort to find again, what we have treasured. i hope you'll come soon again, uncle. i am counting on the child for tomorrow." this promise was given. while heidi and her grandfather were on their homeward path, the peaceful sound of evening bells accompanied them. at last they reached the cottage, which seemed to glow in the evening light. part ii heidi makes use of her experience [illustration] xv preparations for a journey the kind doctor who had sent heidi home to her beloved mountains was approaching the sesemann residence on a sunny day in september. everything about him was bright and cheerful, but the doctor did not even raise his eyes from the pavement to the blue sky above. his face was sad and his hair had turned very gray since spring. a few months ago the doctor had lost his only daughter, who had lived with him since his wife's early death. the blooming girl had been his only joy, and since she had gone from him the ever-cheerful doctor was bowed down with grief. when sebastian opened the door to the physician he bowed very low, for the doctor made friends wherever he went. "i am glad you have come doctor," mr. sesemann called to his friend as he entered. "please let us talk over this trip to switzerland again. do you still give the same advice, now that clara is so much better?" "what must i think of you, sesemann?" replied the doctor, sitting down. "i wish your mother was here. everything is clear to her and things go smoothly then. this is the third time to-day that you have called me, and always for the same thing!" "it is true, it must make you impatient," said mr. sesemann. laying his hand on his friend's shoulder, he continued: "i cannot say how hard it is for me to refuse clara this trip. haven't i promised it to her and hasn't she looked forward to it for months? she has borne all her suffering so patiently, just because she had hoped to be able to visit her little friend on the alp. i hate to rob her of this pleasure. the poor child has so many trials and so little change." "but, sesemann, you must do it," was the doctor's answer. when his friend remained silent, he continued: "just think what a hard summer clara has had! she never was more ill and we could not attempt this journey without risking the worst consequences. remember, we are in september now, and though the weather may still be fine on the alp, it is sure to be very cool. the days are getting short, and she could only spend a few hours up there, if she had to return for the night. it would take several hours to have her carried up from ragatz. you see yourself how impossible it is! i shall come in with you, though, to talk to clara, and you'll find her sensible. i'll tell you of my plan for next may. first she can go to ragatz to take the baths. when it gets warm on the mountain, she can be carried up from time to time. she'll be stronger then and much more able to enjoy those excursions than she is now. if we hope for an improvement in her condition, we must be extremely cautious and careful, remember that!" mr. sesemann, who had been listening with the utmost submission, now said anxiously: "doctor, please tell me honestly if you still have hope left for any change?" with shrugging shoulders the doctor replied: "not very much. but think of me, sesemann! have you not a child, who loves you and always welcomes you? you don't have to come back to a lonely house and sit down alone at your table. your child is well taken care of, and if she has many privations, she also has many advantages. sesemann, you do not need to be pitied! just think of my lonely home!" mr. sesemann had gotten up and was walking round the room, as he always did when something occupied his thoughts. suddenly he stood before his friend and said: "doctor, i have an idea. i cannot see you sad any longer. you must get away. you shall undertake this trip and visit heidi in our stead." the doctor had been surprised by this proposal, and tried to object. but mr. sesemann was so full of his new project that he pulled his friend with him into his daughter's room, not leaving him time for any remonstrances. clara loved the doctor, who had always tried to cheer her up on his visits by bright and funny tales. she was sorry for the change that had come over him and would have given much to see him happy again. when he had shaken hands with her, both men pulled up their chairs to clara's bedside. mr. sesemann began to speak of their journey and how sorry he was to give it up. then he quickly began to talk of his new plan. clara's eyes had filled with tears. but she knew that her father did not like to see her cry, and besides she was sure that her papa would only forbid her this pleasure because it was absolutely necessary to do so. so she bravely fought her tears, and caressing the doctor's hand, said: "oh please, doctor, do go to heidi; then you can tell me all about her, and can describe her grandfather to me, and peter, with his goats,--i seem to know them all so well. then you can take all the things to her that i had planned to take myself. oh, please doctor, go, and then i'll be good and take as much cod-liver oil as ever you want me to." who can tell if this promise decided the doctor? at any rate he answered with a smile: "then i surely must go, clara, for you will get fat and strong, as we both want to see you. have you settled yet when i must go?" "oh, you had better go tomorrow morning, doctor," clara urged. "she is right," the father assented; "the sun is shining and you must not lose any more glorious days on the alp." the doctor had to laugh. "why don't you chide me for being here still? i shall go as quickly as i can, sesemann." clara gave many messages to him for heidi. she also told him to be sure to observe everything closely, so that he would be able to tell her all about it when he came back. the things for heidi were to be sent to him later, for miss rottenmeier, who had to pack them, was out on one of her lengthy wanderings about town. the doctor promised to comply with all clara's wishes and to start the following day. clara rang for the maid and said to her, when she arrived: "please, tinette, pack a lot of fresh, soft coffee-cake in this box." a box had been ready for this purpose many days. when the maid was leaving the room she murmured: "that's a silly bother!" sebastian, who had happened to overhear some remarks, asked the physician when he was leaving to take his regards to the little miss, as he called heidi. with a promise to deliver this message the doctor was just hastening out, when he encountered an obstacle. miss rottenmeier, who had been obliged to return from her walk on account of the strong wind, was just coming in. she wore a large cape, which the wind was blowing about her like two full sails. both had retreated politely to give way to each other. suddenly the wind seemed to carry the housekeeper straight towards the doctor, who had barely time to avoid her. this little incident, which had ruffled miss rottenmeier's temper very much, gave the doctor occasion to soothe her, as she liked to be soothed by this man, whom she respected more than anybody in the world. telling her of his intended visit, he entreated her to pack the things for heidi as only she knew how. clara had expected some resistance from miss rottenmeier about the packing of her presents. what was her surprise when this lady showed herself most obliging, and immediately, on being told, brought together all the articles! first came a heavy coat for heidi, with a hood, which clara meant her to use on visits to the grandmother in the winter. then came a thick warm shawl and a large box with coffee-cake for the grandmother. an enormous sausage for peter's mother followed, and a little sack of tobacco for the grandfather. at last a lot of mysterious little parcels and boxes were packed, things that clara had gathered together for heidi. when the tidy pack lay ready on the ground, clara's heart filled with pleasure at the thought of her little friend's delight. sebastian now entered, and putting the pack on his shoulder, carried it to the doctor's house without delay. xvi a guest on the alp the early dawn was tinging the mountains and a fresh morning-breeze rocked the old fir-trees to and fro. heidi opened her eyes, for the rustling of the wind had awakened her. these sounds always thrilled her heart, and now they drew her out of bed. rising hurriedly, she soon was neatly dressed and combed. coming down the little ladder and finding the grandfather's bed empty, she ran outside. the old man was looking up at the sky to see what the weather was going to be like that day. rosy clouds were passing overhead, but gradually the sky grew more blue and deep, and soon a golden light passed over the heights, for the sun was rising in all his glory. "oh, how lovely! good-morning, grandfather," heidi exclaimed. "are your eyes bright already?" the grandfather retorted, holding out his hand. heidi then ran over to her beloved fir-trees and danced about, while the wind was howling in the branches. after the old man had washed and milked the goats, he brought them out of the shed. when heidi saw her friends again, she caressed them tenderly, and they in their turn nearly crushed her between them. sometimes when bärli got too wild, heidi would say: "but bärli, you push me like the big turk," and that was enough to quiet the goat. soon peter arrived with the whole herd, the jolly thistlefinch ahead of all the others. heidi, being soon in the mist of them, was pushed about among them. peter was anxious to say a word to the little girl, so he gave a shrill whistle, urging the goats to climb ahead. when he was near her he said reproachfully: "you really might come with me to-day!" "no, i can't, peter," said heidi. "they might come from frankfurt any time. i must be home when they come." "how often you have said that," grumbled the boy. "but i mean it," replied heidi. "do you really think i want to be away when they come from frankfurt? do you really think that, peter?" "they could come to uncle," peter growled. then the grandfather's strong voice was heard: "why doesn't the army go forward? is it the field-marshal's fault, or the fault of the troop?" peter immediately turned about and led his goats up the mountain without more ado. since heidi had come home again to her grandfather she did many things that had never occurred to her before. for instance, she would make her bed every morning, and run about the hut, tidying and dusting. with an old rag she would rub the chairs and table till they all shone, and the grandfather would exclaim: "it is always sunday with us now; heidi has not been away in vain." on this day after breakfast, when heidi began her self-imposed task, it took her longer than usual, for the weather was too glorious to stay within. over and over again a bright sunbeam would tempt the busy child outside. how could she stay indoors, when the glistening sunshine was pouring down and all the mountains seemed to glow? she had to sit down on the dry, hard ground and look down into the valley and all about her. then, suddenly remembering her little duties, she would hasten back. it was not long, though, till the roaring fir-trees tempted her again. the grandfather had been busy in his little shop, merely glancing over at the child from time to time. suddenly he heard her call: "oh grandfather, come!" he was frightened and came out quickly he saw her running down the hill crying: "they are coming, they are coming. oh, the doctor is coming first." [illustration: they are coming, oh, the doctor is coming first] when heidi at last reached her old friend, he held out his hand, which heidi immediately seized. in the full joy of her heart, she exclaimed: "how do you do, doctor? and i thank you a thousand times!" "how are you, heidi? but what are you thanking me for already?" the doctor asked, with a smile. "because you let me come home again," the child explained. the gentleman's face lit up like sunshine. he had certainly not counted on such a reception on the alp. on the contrary! not even noticing all the beauty around him, he had climbed up sadly, for he was sure that heidi probably would not know him any more. he thought that he would be far from welcome, being obliged to cause her a great disappointment. instead, he beheld heidi's bright eyes looking up at him in gratefulness and love. she was still holding his arm, when he said: "come now, heidi, and take me to your grandfather, for i want to see where you live." like a kind father he had taken her hand, but heidi stood still and looked down the mountain-side. "but where are clara and grandmama?" she asked. "child, i must tell you something now which will grieve you as much as it grieves me," replied the doctor. "i had to come alone, for clara has been very ill and could not travel. of course grandmama has not come either; but the spring will soon be here, and when the days get long and warm, they will surely visit you." heidi was perfectly amazed; she could not understand how all those things that she had pictured to herself so clearly would not happen after all. she was standing perfectly motionless, confused by the blow. it was some time before heidi remembered that, after all, she had come down to meet the doctor. looking up at her friend, she was struck by his sad and cheerless face. how changed he was since she had seen him! she did not like to see people unhappy, least of all the good, kind doctor. he must be sad because clara and grandmama had not come, and to console him she said: "oh, it won't last long till spring comes again; then they will come for sure; they'll be able to stay much longer then, and that will please clara. now we'll go to grandfather." hand in hand she climbed up with her old friend. all the way she tried to cheer him up by telling him again and again of the coming summer days. after they had reached the cottage, she called out to her grandfather quite happily: "they are not here yet, but it won't be very long before they are coming!" the grandfather warmly welcomed his guest, who did not seem at all a stranger, for had not heidi told him many things about the doctor? they all three sat down on the bench before the door, and the doctor told of the object of his visit. he whispered to the child that something was coming up the mountain very soon which would bring her more pleasure than his visit. what could it be? the uncle advised the doctor to spend the splendid days of autumn on the alp, if possible, and to take a little room in the village instead of in ragatz; then he could easily walk up every day to the hut, and from there the uncle could take him all around the mountains. this plan was accepted. the sun was in its zenith and the wind had ceased. only a soft delicious breeze fanned the cheeks of all. the uncle now got up and went into the hut, returning soon with a table and their dinner. "go in, heidi, and set the table here. i hope you will excuse our simple meal," he said, turning to his guest. "i shall gladly accept this delightful invitation; i am sure that dinner will taste good up here," said the guest, looking down over the sun-bathed valley. heidi was running to and fro, for it gave her great joy to be able to wait on her kind protector. soon the uncle appeared with the steaming milk, the toasted cheese, and the finely-sliced, rosy meat that had been dried in the pure air. the doctor enjoyed his dinner better than any he had ever tasted. "yes, we must send clara up here. how she could gather strength!" he said; "if she would have an appetite like mine to-day, she couldn't help getting nice and fat." at this moment a man could be seen walking up with a large sack on his shoulders. arriving on top, he threw down his load, breathing in the pure, fresh air. opening the cover, the doctor said: "this has come for you from frankfurt, heidi. come and look what is in it." heidi timidly watched the heap, and only when the gentleman opened the box with the cakes for the grandmother she said joyfully: "oh, now grandmother can eat this lovely cake." she was taking the box and the beautiful shawl on her arm and was going to race down to deliver the gifts, when the men persuaded her to stay and unpack the rest. what was her delight at finding the tobacco and all the other things. the men had been talking together, when the child suddenly planted herself in front of them and said: "these things have not given me as much pleasure as the dear doctor's coming." both men smiled. when it was near sunset, the doctor rose to start on his way down. the grandfather, carrying the box, the shawl and the sausage, and the guest holding the little girl by the hand, they wandered down the mountain-side. when they reached peter's hut, heidi was told to go inside and wait for her grandfather there. at parting she asked: "would you like to come with me up to the pasture to-morrow, doctor?" "with pleasure. good-bye, heidi," was the reply. the grandfather had deposited all the presents before the door, and it took heidi long to carry in the huge box and the sausage. the shawl she put on the grandmother's knee. brigida had silently watched the proceedings, and could not open her eyes wide enough when she saw the enormous sausage. never in her life had she seen the like, and now she really possessed it and could cut it herself. "oh grandmother, don't the cakes please you awfully? just look how soft they are!" the child exclaimed. what was her amazement when she saw the grandmother more pleased with the shawl, which would keep her warm in winter. "grandmother, clara has sent you that," heidi said. "oh, what kind good people they are to think of a poor old woman like me! i never thought i should ever own such a splendid wrap." at this moment peter came stumbling in. "the uncle is coming up behind me, and heidi must--" that was as far as he got, for his eyes had fastened on the sausage. heidi, however, had already said good-bye, for she knew what he had meant. though her uncle never went by the hut any more without stepping in, she knew it was too late to-day. "heidi, come, you must get your sleep," he called through the open door. bidding them all good-night, he took heidi by the hand and under the glistening stars they wandered home to their peaceful cottage. [illustration] xvii retaliation early the next morning the doctor climbed up the mountain in company with peter and his goats. the friendly gentleman made several attempts to start a conversation with the boy, but as answer to his questions he got nothing more than monosyllables. when they arrived on top, they found heidi already waiting, fresh and rosy as the early dawn. "are you coming?" asked peter as usual. "of course i shall, if the doctor comes with us," replied the child. the grandfather, coming out of the hut, greeted the newcomer with great respect. then he went up to peter, and hung on his shoulder the sack, which seemed to contain more than usual that day. when they had started on their way, heidi kept urging forward the goats, which were crowding about her. when at last she was walking peacefully by the doctor's side, she began to relate to him many things about the goats and all their strange pranks, and about the flowers, rocks and birds they saw. when they arrived at their destination, time seemed to have flown. peter all the time was sending many an angry glance at the unconscious doctor, who never even noticed it. heidi now took the doctor to her favorite spot. from there they could hear the peaceful-sounding bells of the grazing cattle below. the sky was deep blue, and above their heads the eagle was circling with outstretched wings. everything was luminous and bright about them, but the doctor had been silent. suddenly looking up, he beheld heidi's radiant eyes. "heidi, it is beautiful up here," he said. "but how can anybody with a heavy heart enjoy the beauty? tell me!" "oh," exclaimed heidi, "one never has a sad heart here. one only gets unhappy in frankfurt." a faint smile passed over the doctor's face. then he began: "but if somebody has brought his sorrow away with him, how would you comfort him?" "god in heaven alone can help him." "that is true, child," remarked the doctor. "but what can we do when god himself has sent us the affliction?" after meditating a moment, heidi replied: "one must wait patiently, for god knows how to turn the saddest things to something happy in the end. god will show us what he has meant to do for us. but he will only do so if we pray to him patiently." "i hope you will always keep this beautiful belief, heidi," said the doctor. then looking up at the mighty cliffs above, he continued: "think how sad it would make us not to be able to see all these beautiful things. wouldn't that make us doubly sad? can you understand me, child?" a great pain shot through heidi's breast. she had to think of the poor grandmother. her blindness was always a great sorrow to the child, and she had been struck with it anew. seriously she replied: "oh yes, i can understand it. but then we can read grandmother's songs; they make us happy and bright again." "which songs, heidi?" "oh, those of the sun, and of the beautiful garden, and then the last verses of the long one. grandmother loves them so that i always have to read them over three times," said heidi. "i wish you would say them to me, child, for i should like to hear them," said the doctor. heidi, folding her hands, began the consoling verses. she stopped suddenly, however, for the doctor did not seem to listen. he was sitting motionless, holding his hand before his eyes. thinking that he had fallen asleep, she remained silent. but the verses had recalled his childhood days; he seemed to hear his mother and see her loving eyes, for when he was a little boy she had sung this song to him. a long time he sat there, till he discovered that heidi was watching him. "heidi, your song was lovely," he said with a more joyful voice. "we must come here another day and then you can recite it to me again." during all this time peter had been boiling with anger. now that heidi had come again to the pasture with him, she did nothing but talk to the old gentleman. it made him very cross that he was not even able to get near her. standing a little distance behind heidi's friend, he shook his fist at him, and soon afterwards both fists, finally raising them up to the sky, as heidi and the doctor remained together. when the sun stood in its zenith and peter knew that it was noon, he called over to them with all his might: "time to eat." when heidi was getting up to fetch their dinner, the doctor just asked for a glass of milk, which was all he wanted. the child also decided to make the milk her sole repast, running over to peter and informing him of their resolution. when the boy found that the whole contents of the bag was his, he hurried with his task as never in his life before. but he felt guilty on account of his former anger at the kind gentleman. to show his repentance he held his hands up flat to the sky, indicating by his action that his fists did not mean anything any more. only after that did he start with his feast. heidi and the doctor had wandered about the pasture till the gentleman had found it time to go. he wanted heidi to remain where she was, but she insisted on accompanying him. all the way down she showed him many places where the pretty mountain flowers grew, all of whose names she could tell him. when they parted at last, heidi waved to him. from time to time he turned about, and seeing the child still standing there, he had to think of his own little daughter who used to wave to him like that when he went away from home. the weather was warm and sunny that month. every morning the doctor came up to the alp, spending his day very often with the old man. many a climb they had together that took them far up, to the bare cliffs near the eagle's haunt. the uncle would show his guest all the herbs that grew on hidden places and were strengthening and healing. he could tell many strange things of the beasts that lived in holes in rock or earth, or in the high tops of trees. in the evening they would part, and the doctor would exclaim: "my dear friend, i never leave you without having learned something." but most of his days he spent with heidi. then the two would sit together on the child's favorite spot, and peter, quite subdued, behind them. heidi had to recite the verses, as she had done the first day, and entertain him with all the things she knew. at last the beautiful month of september was over. one morning the doctor came up with a sadder face than usual. the time had come for him to go back to frankfurt, and great was the uncle's sadness at that news. heidi herself could hardly realize that her loving friend, whom she had been seeing every day, was really leaving. the doctor himself was loath to go, for the alp had become as a home to him. but it was necessary for him to go, and shaking hands with the grandfather, he said good-bye, heidi going along with him a little way. hand in hand they wandered down, till the doctor stood still. then caressing heidi's curly hair, he said: "now i must go, heidi! i wish i could take you along with me to frankfurt; then i could keep you." at those words, all the rows and rows of houses and streets, miss rottenmeier and tinette rose before heidi's eyes. hesitating a little, she said: "i should like it better if you would come to see us again." "i believe that will be better. now farewell!" said the friendly gentleman. when they shook hands his eyes filled with tears. turning quickly he hurried off. heidi, standing on the same spot, looked after him. what kind eyes he had! but they had been full of tears. all of a sudden she began to cry bitterly, and ran after her friend, calling with all her might, but interrupted by her sobs: "oh doctor, doctor!" looking round he stood still and waited till the child had reached him. her tears came rolling down her cheeks while she sobbed: "i'll come with you to frankfurt and i'll stay as long as ever you want me to. but first i must see grandfather." "no, no, dear child," he said affectionately, "not at once. you must remain here, i don't want you to get ill again. but if i should get sick and lonely and ask you to come to me, would you come and stay with me? can i go away and think that somebody in this world still cares for me and loves me?" "yes, i shall come to you the same day, for i really love you as much as grandfather," heidi assured him, crying all the time. shaking hands again, they parted. heidi stayed on the same spot, waving her hand and looking after her departing friend till he seemed no bigger than a little dot. then he looked back a last time at heidi and the sunny alp, muttering to himself: "it is beautiful up there. body and soul get strengthened in that place and life seems worth living again." [illustration] xviii winter in the village the snow lay so deep around the alm-hut that the windows seemed to stand level with the ground and the house-door had entirely disappeared. round peter's hut it was the same. when the boy went out to shovel the snow, he had to creep through the window; then he would sink deep into the soft snow and kick with arms and legs to get free. taking a broom, the boy would have to clear away the snow from the door to prevent its falling into the hut. the uncle had kept his word; when the first snow had fallen, he had moved down to the village with heidi and his goats. near the church and the parish house lay an old ruin that once had been a spacious building. a brave soldier had lived there in days gone by; he had fought in the spanish war, and coming back with many riches, had built himself a splendid house. but having lived too long in the noisy world to be able to stand the monotonous life in the little town, he soon went away, never to come back. after his death, many years later, though the house was already beginning to decay, a distant relation of his took possession of it. the new proprietor did not want to build it up again, so poor people moved in. they had to pay little rent for the house, which was gradually crumbling and falling to pieces. years ago, when the uncle had come to the village with tobias, he had lived there. most of the time it had been empty, for the winter lasted long, and cold winds would blow through the chinks in the walls. when poor people lived there, their candles would be blown out and they would shiver with cold in the dark. but the uncle, had known how to help himself. in the fall, as soon as he had resolved to live in the village, he came down frequently, fitting up the place as best he could. on approaching the house from the back, one entered an open room, where nearly all the walls lay in ruins. on one side the remains of a chapel could be seen, now covered with the thickest ivy. a large hall came next, with a beautiful stone floor and grass growing in the crevices. most of the walls were gone and part of the ceiling also. if a few thick pillars had not been left supporting the rest, it would undoubtedly have tumbled down. the uncle had made a wooden partition here for the goats, and covered the floor with straw. several corridors, most of them half decayed, led finally to a chamber with a heavy iron door. this room was still in good condition and had dark wood panelling on the four firm walls. in one corner was an enormous stove, which nearly reached up to the ceiling. on the white tiles were painted blue pictures of old towers surrounded by high trees, and of hunters with their hounds. there also was a scene with a quiet lake, where, under shady oak-trees, a fisherman was sitting. around the stove a bench was placed. heidi loved to sit there, and as soon as she had entered their new abode, she began to examine the pictures. arriving at the end of the bench, she discovered a bed, which was placed between the wall and the stove. "oh grandfather, i have found my bed-room," exclaimed the little girl. "oh, how fine it is! where are you going to sleep?" "your bed must be near the stove, to keep you warm," said the old man. "now come and look at mine." with that the grandfather led her into his bed-room. from there a door led into the hugest kitchen heidi had ever seen. with a great deal of trouble the grandfather had fitted up this place. many boards were nailed across the walls and the door had been fastened with heavy wires, for beyond, the building lay in ruins. thick underbrush was growing there, sheltering thousands of insects and lizards. heidi was delighted with her new home, and when peter arrived next day, she did not rest till he had seen every nook and corner of the curious dwelling-place. heidi slept very well in her chimney corner, but it took her many days to get accustomed to it. when she woke up in the morning and could not hear the fir-trees roar, she would wonder where she was. was the snow too heavy on the branches? was she away from home? but as soon as she heard her grandfather's voice outside, she remembered everything and would jump merrily out of bed. after four days had gone by, heidi said to her grandfather: "i must go to grandmother now, she has been alone so many days." but the grandfather shook his head and said: "you can't go yet, child. the snow is fathoms deep up there and is still falling. peter can hardly get through. a little girl like you would be snowed up and lost in no time. wait a while till it freezes and then you can walk on top of the crust." heidi was very sorry, but she was so busy now that the days flew by. every morning and afternoon she went to school, eagerly learning whatever was taught her. she hardly ever saw peter there, for he did not come very often. the mild teacher would only say from time to time: "it seems to me, peter is not here again! school would do him good, but i guess there is too much snow for him to get through." but when heidi came home towards evening, peter generally paid her a visit. after a few days the sun came out for a short time at noon, and the next morning the whole alp glistened and shone like crystal. when peter was jumping as usual into the snow that morning, he fell against something hard, and before he could stop himself he flew a little way down the mountain. when he had gained his feet at last, he stamped upon the ground with all his might. it really was frozen as hard as stone. peter could hardly believe it, and quickly running up and swallowing his milk, and putting his bread in his pocket, he announced: "i must go to school to-day!" "yes, go and learn nicely," answered his mother. then, sitting down on his sled, the boy coasted down the mountain like a shot. not being able to stop his course when he reached the village, he coasted down further and further, till he arrived in the plain, where the sled stopped of itself. it was already late for school, so the boy took his time and only arrived in the village when heidi came home for dinner. "we've got it!" announced the boy, on entering. "what, general?" asked the uncle. "the snow," peter replied. "oh, now i can go up to grandmother!" heidi rejoiced. "but peter, why didn't you come to school? you could coast down to-day," she continued reproachfully. "i went too far on my sled and then it was too late," peter replied. "i call that deserting!" said the uncle. "people who do that must have their ears pulled; do you hear?" the boy was frightened, for there was no one in the world whom he respected more than the uncle. "a general like you ought to be doubly ashamed to do so," the uncle went on. "what would you do with the goats if they did not obey you any more?" "beat them," was the reply. "if you knew of a boy that was behaving like a disobedient goat and had to get spanked, what would you say?" "serves him right." "so now you know it, goat-general: if you miss school again, when you ought to be there, you can come to me and get your due." now at last peter understood what the uncle had meant. more kindly, the old man then turned to peter and said, "come to the table now and eat with us. then you can go up with heidi, and when you bring her back at night, you can get your supper here." this unexpected change delighted peter. not losing any time, he soon disposed of his full plate. heidi, who had given the boy most of her dinner, was already putting on clara's new coat. then together they climbed up, heidi chatting all the time. but peter did not say a single word. he was preoccupied and had not even listened to heidi's tales. before they entered the hut, the boy said stubbornly: "i think i had rather go to school than get a beating from the uncle." heidi promptly confirmed him in his resolution. when they went into the room, peter's mother was alone at the table mending. the grandmother was nowhere to be seen. brigida now told heidi that the grandmother was obliged to stay in bed on those cold days, as she did not feel very strong. that was something new for heidi. quickly running to the old woman's chamber, she found her lying in a narrow bed, wrapped up in her grey shawl and thin blanket. "thank heaven!" the grandmother exclaimed when she heard her darling's step. all autumn and winter long a secret fear had been gnawing at her heart, that heidi would be sent for by the strange gentleman of whom peter had told her so much. heidi had approached the bed, asking anxiously: "are you very sick, grandmother?" "no, no, child," the old woman reassured her, "the frost has just gone into my limbs a little." "are you going to be well again as soon as the warm weather comes?" inquired heidi. "yes, yes, and if god wills, even sooner. i want to go back to my spinning-wheel and i nearly tried it to-day. i'll get up to-morrow, though," the grandmother said confidently, for she had noticed how frightened heidi was. the last speech made the child feel more happy. then, looking wonderingly at the grandmother, she said: "in frankfurt people put on a shawl when they go out. why are you putting it on in bed, grandmother?" "i put it on to keep me warm, heidi. i am glad to have it, for my blanket is very thin." "but, grandmother, your bed is slanting down at your head, where it ought to be high. no bed ought to be like that." "i know, child, i can feel it well." so saying, the old woman tried to change her position on the pillow that lay under her like a thin board. "my pillow never was very thick, and sleeping on it all these years has made it flat." "oh dear, if i had only asked clara to give me the bed i had in frankfurt!" heidi lamented. "it had three big pillows on it; i could hardly sleep because i kept sliding down from them all the time. could you sleep with them, grandmother?" "of course, because that would keep me warm. i could breathe so much easier, too," said the grandmother, trying to find a higher place to lie on. "but i must not talk about it any more, for i have to be thankful for many things. i get the lovely roll every day and have this beautiful warm shawl. i also have you, my child! heidi, wouldn't you like to read me something to-day?" heidi immediately fetched the book and read one song after another. the grandmother in the meantime was lying with folded hands; her face, which had been so sad a short time ago, was lit up with a happy smile. suddenly heidi stopped. "are you well again, grandmother?" she asked. "i feel very much better, heidi. please finish the song, will you?" the child obeyed, and when she came to the last words, when mine eyes grow dim and sad, let thy love more brightly burn, that my soul, a wanderer glad, safely homeward may return. "safely homeward may return!" she exclaimed: "oh, grandmother, i know what it is like to come home." after a while she said: "it is getting dark, grandmother, i must go home now. i am glad that you feel better again." [illustration: the two children were already flying down the alp] the grandmother, holding the child's hand in hers, said: "yes, i am happy again, though i have to stay in bed. nobody knows how hard it is to lie here alone, day after day. i do not hear a word from anybody and cannot see a ray of sunlight. i have very sad thoughts sometimes, and often i feel as if i could not bear it any longer. but when i can hear those blessed songs that you have read to me, it makes me feel as if a light was shining into my heart, giving me the purest joy." shaking hands, the child now said good-night, and pulling peter with her, ran outside. the brilliant moon was shining down on the white snow, light as day. the two children were already flying down the alp, like birds soaring through the air. after heidi had gone to bed that night, she lay awake a little while, thinking over everything the grandmother had said, especially about the joy the songs had given her. if only poor grandmother could hear those comforting words every day! heidi knew that it might be a week or two again before she could repeat her visit. the child became very sad when she thought how uncomfortable and lonely the old woman would be. was there no way for help? suddenly heidi had an idea, and it thrilled her so that she felt as if she could not wait till morning came to put her plan in execution. but in her excitement she had forgotten her evening prayer, so sitting up in bed, she prayed fervently to god. then, falling back into the fragrant hay, she soon slept peacefully and soundly still the bright morning came. [illustration] xix winter still continues peter arrived punctually at school next day. he had brought his lunch with him in a bag, for all the children that came from far away ate in school, while the others went home. in the evening peter as usual paid his visit to heidi. the minute he opened the door she ran up to him, saying: "peter, i have to tell you something." "say it," he replied. "you must learn to read now," said the child. "i have done it already." "yes, yes, peter, but i don't mean it that way," heidi eagerly proceeded; "you must learn so that you really know how afterwards." "i can't," peter remarked. "nobody believes you about that any more, and i won't either," heidi said resolutely. "when i was in frankfurt, grandmama told me that it wasn't true and that i shouldn't believe you." peter's astonishment was great. "i'll teach you, for i know how; when you have learnt it, you must read one or two songs to grandmother every day." "i shan't!" grumbled the boy. this obstinate refusal made heidi very angry. with flaming eyes she planted herself before the boy and said: "i'll tell you what will happen, if you don't want to learn. your mother has often said that she'll send you to frankfurt. clara showed me the terrible, large boys' school there, where you'll have to go. you must stay there till you are a man, peter! you mustn't think that there is only one teacher there, and such a kind one as we have here. no, indeed! there are whole rows of them, and when they are out walking they have high black hats on their heads. i saw them myself, when i was out driving!" cold shivers ran down peter's back. "yes, you'll have to go there, and when they find out that you can't read or even spell, they'll laugh at you!" "i'll do it," said peter, half angry and half frightened. "oh, i am glad. let us start right away!" said heidi joyfully, pulling peter over to the table. among the things that clara had sent, heidi had found a little book with the a,b,c and some rhymes. she had chosen this for the lessons. peter, having to spell the first rhyme, found great difficulty, so heidi said, "i'll read it to you, and then you'll be able to do it better. listen: "if a, b, c you do not know, before the school board you must go." "i won't go," said peter stubbornly. "where?" "before the court." "hurry up and learn the three letters, then you won't have to!" peter, beginning again, repeated the three letters till heidi said: "now you know them." having observed the good result of the first rhyme, she began to read again: d, e, f you then must read, or of misfortune take good heed! if h,i,j,k are forgot, adversity is on the spot who over l and m doth stumble, must pay a penance and feel humble. there's trouble coming; if you knew, you'd quickly learn n, o, p, q. if still you halt on r, s, t, you'll suffer for it speedily. heidi, stopping, looked at peter, who was so frightened by all these threats and mysterious horrors that he sat as still as a mouse. heidi's tender heart was touched, and she said comfortingly: "don't be afraid, peter; if you come to me every day, you'll soon learn all the letters and then those things won't happen. but come every day, even when it snows. promise!" peter did so, and departed. obeying heidi's instructions, he came daily to her for his lesson. sometimes the grandfather would sit in the room, smoking his pipe; often the corners of his mouth would twitch as if he could hardly keep from laughing. he generally invited peter to stay to supper afterwards, which liberally rewarded the boy for all his great exertions. thus the days passed by. in all this time peter had really made some progress, though the rhymes still gave him difficulty. when they had come to u, heidi read: whoever mixes u and v, will go where he won't want to be! and further, if w you still ignore, look at the rod beside the door. often peter would growl and object to those measures, but nevertheless he kept on learning, and soon had but three letters left. the next few days the following rhymes, with their threats, made peter more eager than ever. if you the letter x forget for you no supper will be set. if you still hesitate with y, for shame you'll run away and cry. when heidi read the last, and he who makes his z with blots, must journey to the hottentots, peter sneered: "nobody even knows where they are!" "i am sure grandfather does," heidi retorted, jumping up. "just wait one minute and i shall ask him. he is over with the parson," and with that she had opened the door. "wait!" shrieked peter in great alarm, for he saw himself already transported to those dreadful people. "what is the matter with you?" said heidi, standing still. "nothing, but stay here. i'll learn," he blubbered. but heidi, wanting to know something about the hottentots herself, could only be kept back by piteous screams from peter. so at last they settled down again, and before it was time to go, peter knew the last letter, and had even begun to read syllables. from this day on he progressed more quickly. it was three weeks since heidi had paid her last visit to the grandmother, for much snow had fallen since. one evening, peter, coming home, said triumphantly: "i can do it!" "what is it you can do, peter?" asked his mother, eagerly. "read." "what, is it possible? did you hear it, grandmother?" exclaimed brigida. the grandmother also was curious to learn how this had happened. "i must read a song now; heidi told me to," peter continued. to the women's amazement, peter began. after every verse his mother would exclaim, "who would have ever thought it!" while the grandmother remained silent. one day later, when it happened that it was peter's turn to read in school, the teacher said: "peter, must i pass you by again, as usual? or do you want to try--i shall not say to read, but to stammer through a line?" peter began and read three lines without stopping. in dumb astonishment, the teacher, putting down his book, looked at the boy. "what miracle has happened to you?" he exclaimed. "for a long time i tried to teach you with all my patience, and you were not even able to grasp the letters, but now that i had given you up as hopeless, you have not only learnt how to spell, but even to read. how did this happen, peter?" "it was heidi," the boy replied. in great amazement, the teacher looked at the little girl. then the kind man continued: "i have noticed a great change in you, peter. you used to stay away from school, sometimes more than a week, and lately you have not even missed a day. who has brought about this change?" "the uncle." every evening now peter on his return home read one song to his grandmother, but never more. to the frequent praises of brigida, the old woman once replied: "i am glad he has learnt something, but nevertheless i am longing for the spring to come. then heidi can visit me, for when she reads, the verses sound so different. i cannot always follow peter, and the songs don't thrill me the way they do when heidi says them!" and no wonder! for peter would often leave out long and difficult words,--what did three or four words matter! so it happened sometimes that there were hardly any nouns left in the hymns that peter read. xx news from distant friends may had come. warm sunshine was bathing the whole alp in glorious light, and having melted the last snow, had brought the first spring flowers to the surface. a merry spring wind was blowing, drying up the damp places in the shadow. high above in the azure heaven the eagle floated peacefully. heidi and her grandfather were back on the alp. the child was so happy to be home again that she jumped about among the beloved objects. here she discovered a new spring bud, and there she watched the gay little gnats and beetles that were swarming in the sun. the grandfather was busy in his little shop, and a sound of hammering and sawing could be heard. heidi had to go and see what the grandfather was making. there before the door stood a neat new chair, while the old man was busy making a second. "oh, i know what they are for," said heidi gaily. "you are making them for clara and grandmama. oh, but we need a third--or do you think that miss rottenmeier won't come, perhaps?" "i really don't know," said grandfather: "but it is safer to have a chair for her, if she should come." heidi, thoughtfully looking at the backless chairs, remarked: "grandfather, i don't think she would sit down on those." "then we must invite her to sit down on the beautiful green lounge of grass," quietly answered the old man. while heidi was still wondering what the grandfather had meant, peter arrived, whistling and calling. as usual, heidi was soon surrounded by the goats, who also seemed happy to be back on the alp. peter, angrily pushing the goats aside, marched up to heidi, thrusting a letter into her hand. "did you get a letter for me on the pasture?" heidi said, astonished. "no." "where did it come from?" "from my bag." the letter had been given to peter the previous evening; putting it in his lunch-bag, the boy had forgotten it there till he opened the bag for his dinner. heidi immediately recognized clara's handwriting, and bounding over to her grandfather, exclaimed: "a letter has come from clara. wouldn't you like me to read it to you, grandfather?" heidi immediately read to her two listeners, as follows:-- dear heidi:-- we are all packed up and shall travel in two or three days. papa is leaving, too, but not with us, for he has to go to paris first. the dear doctor visits us now every day, and as soon as he opens the door, he calls, 'away to the alp!' for he can hardly wait for us to go. if you only knew how he enjoyed being with you last fall! he came nearly every day this winter to tell us all about you and the grandfather and the mountains and the flowers he saw. he said that it was so quiet in the pure, delicious air, away from towns and streets, that everybody has to get well there. he is much better himself since his visit, and seems younger and happier. oh, how i look forward to it all! the doctor's advice is, that i shall go to ragatz first for about six weeks, then i can go to live in the village, and from there i shall come to see you every fine day. grandmama, who is coming with me, is looking forward to the trip too. but just think, miss rottenmeier does not want to go. when grandmama urges her, she always declines politely. i think sebastian must have given her such a terrible description of the high rocks and fearful abysses, that she is afraid. i think he told her that it was not safe for anybody, and that only goats could climb such dreadful heights. she used to be so eager to go to switzerland, but now neither tinette nor she wants to take the risk. i can hardly wait to see you again! good-bye, dear heidi, with much love from grandmama, i am your true friend, clara. when peter heard this, he swung his rod to right and left. furiously driving the goats before him, he bounded down the hill. heidi visited the grandmother next day, for she had to tell her the good news. sitting up in her corner, the old woman was spinning as usual. her face looked sad, for peter had already announced the near visit of heidi's friends, and she dreaded the result. after having poured out her full heart, heidi looked at the old woman. "what is it, grandmother?" said the child. "are you not glad?" "oh yes, heidi, i am glad, because you are happy." "but, grandmother, you seem so anxious. do you still think miss rottenmeier is coming?" "oh no, it is nothing. give me your hand, for i want to be sure that you are still here. i suppose it will be for the best, even if i shall not live to see the day!" "oh, but then i would not care about this coming," said the child. the grandmother had hardly slept all night for thinking of clara's coming. would they take heidi away from her, now that she was well and strong? but for the sake of the child she resolved to be brave. "heidi," she said, "please read me the song that begins with 'god will see to it.'" heidi immediately did as she was told; she knew nearly all the grandmother's favorite hymns by now and always found them quickly. "that does me good, child," the old woman said. already the expression of her face seemed happier and less troubled. "please read it a few times over, child," she entreated. thus evening came, and when heidi wandered homewards, one twinkling star after another appeared in the sky. heidi stood still every few minutes, looking up to the firmament in wonder. when she arrived home, her grandfather also was looking up to the stars, murmuring to himself: "what a wonderful month!--one day clearer than the other. the herbs will be fine and strong this year." the blossom month had passed, and june, with the long, long days, had come. quantities of flowers were blooming everywhere, filling the air with perfume. the month was nearing its end, when one morning heidi came running out of the hut, where she had already completed her duties. suddenly she screamed so loud that the grandfather hurriedly came out to see what had happened. "grandfather! come here! look, look!" a strange procession was winding up the alm. first marched two men, carrying an open sedan chair with a young girl in it, wrapped up in many shawls. then came a stately lady on horseback, who, talking with a young guide beside her, looked eagerly right and left. then an empty rolling-chair, carried by a young fellow, was followed by a porter who had so many covers, shawls and furs piled up on his basket that they towered high above his head. "they are coming! they are coming!" cried heidi in her joy, and soon the party had arrived at the top. great was the happiness of the children at seeing each other again. when grandmama had descended from her horse, she tenderly greeted heidi first, and then turned to the uncle, who had approached the group. the two met like two old friends, they had heard so much about each other. after the first words were exchanged, the grandmother exclaimed: "my dear uncle, what a wonderful residence you have. who would have ever thought it! kings could envy you here! oh, how well my heidi is looking, just like a little rose!" she continued, drawing the child closely to her side and patting her cheeks. "what glory everywhere! clara, what do you say to it all?" clara, looking about her rapturously, cried: "oh, how wonderful, how glorious! i have never dreamt it could be as beautiful as that. oh grandmama, i wish i could stay here!" the uncle had busied himself in the meantime with getting clara's rolling-chair for her. then, going up to the girl, he gently lifted her into her seat. putting some covers over her knees, he tucked her feet in warmly. it seemed as if the grandfather had done nothing else all his life than nurse lame people. "my dear uncle," said the grandmama, surprised, "please tell me where you learned that, for i shall send all the nurses i know here immediately." the uncle smiled faintly, while he replied: "it comes more from care than study." his face became sad. before his eyes had risen bygone times. for that was the way he used to care for his poor wounded captain, whom he had found in sicily after a violent battle. he alone had been allowed to nurse him till his death, and now he would take just as good care of poor, lame clara. when clara had looked a long time at the cloudless sky above and all the rocky crags, she said longingly: "i wish i could walk round the hut to the fir-trees. if i only could see all the things you told me so much about!" heidi pushed with all her might, and behold! the chair rolled easily over the dry grass. when they had come into the little grove, clara could not see her fill of those splendid trees that must have stood there so many, many years. although the people had changed and vanished, they had remained the same, ever looking down into the valley. when they passed the empty goat-shed, clara said pitifully: "oh grandmama, if i could only wait up here for schwänli and bärli! i am afraid i shan't see peter and his goats, if we have to go away so soon again." "dear child, enjoy now what you can," said the grandmama, who had followed. "oh, what wonderful flowers!" exclaimed clara again; "whole bushes of exquisite, red blossoms. oh, if i could only pick some of those bluebells!" heidi, immediately gathering a large bunch, put them in clara's lap. "clara, this is really nothing in comparison with the many flowers in the pasture. you must come up once and see them. there are so many that the ground seems golden with them. if you ever sit down among them, you will feel as if you could never get up any more, it is so beautiful." "oh, grandmama, do you think i can ever go up there?" clara asked with a wild longing in her eyes. "if i could only walk with you, heidi, and climb round everywhere!" "i'll push you!" heidi said for comfort. to show how easy it was, she pushed the chair at such a rate that it would have tumbled down the mountain, if the grandfather had not stopped it at the last moment. it was time for dinner now. the table was spread near the bench, and soon everybody sat down. the grandmother was so overcome by the view and the delicious wind that fanned her cheek that she remarked: "what a wondrous place this is! i have never seen its like! but what do i see?" she continued. "i think you are actually eating your second piece of cheese, clara?" "oh grandmama, it tastes better than all the things we get in ragatz," replied the child, eagerly eating the savory dish. "don't stop, our mountain wind helps along where the cooking is faulty!" contentedly said the old man. during the meal the uncle and the grandmama had soon got into a lively conversation. they seemed to agree on many things, and understood each other like old friends. a little later the grandmama looked over to the west. "we must soon start, clara, for the sun is already low; our guides will be here shortly." clara's face had become sad, and she entreated: "oh, please let us stay here another hour or so. we haven't even seen the hut yet. i wish the day were twice as long." the grandmama assented to clara's wish to go inside. when the rolling-chair was found too broad for the door, the uncle quietly lifted clara in his strong arms and carried her in. grandmama was eagerly looking about her, glad to see everything so neat. then going up the little ladder to the hay-loft, she discovered heidi's bed. "is that your bed, heidi? what a delicious perfume! it must be a healthy place to sleep," she said, looking out through the window. the grandfather, with clara, was coming up, too, with heidi following. clara was perfectly entranced. "what a lovely place to sleep! oh, heidi, you can look right up to the sky from your bed. what a good smell! you can hear the fir-trees roar here, can't you? oh, i never saw a more delightful bed-room!" the uncle, looking at the old lady, said now: "i have an idea that it would give clara new strength to stay up here with us a little while. of course, i only mean if you did not object. you have brought so many wraps that we can easily make a soft bed for clara here. my dear lady, you can easily leave the care to me. i'll undertake it gladly." the children screamed for joy, and grandmama's face was beaming. "what a fine man you are!" she burst out. "i was just thinking myself that a stay here would strengthen the child, but then i thought of the care and trouble for you. and now you have offered to do it, as if it was nothing at all. how can i thank you enough, uncle?" after shaking hands many times, the two prepared clara's bed, which, thanks to the old lady's precautions, was soon so soft that the hay could not be felt through at all. the uncle had carried his new patient back to her rolling-chair, and there they found her sitting, with heidi beside her. they were eagerly talking of their plans for the coming weeks. when they were told that clara might stay for a month or so, their faces beamed more than ever. the guide, with the horse, and the carriers of the chair, now appeared, but the last two were not needed any more and could be sent away. when the grandmother got ready to leave, clara called gaily to her: "oh grandmama, it won't be long, for you must often come and see us." while the uncle was leading the horse down the steep incline, the grandmama told him that she would go back to ragatz, for the dörfli was too lonely for her. she also promised to come back from time to time. before the grandfather had returned, peter came racing down to the hut with all his goats. seeing heidi, they ran up to her in haste, and so clara made the acquaintance of schwänli and bärli and all the others. peter, however, kept away, only sending furious looks at the two girls. when they bade him good-night, he only ran away, beating the air with his stick. the end of the joyous day had come. the two children were both lying in their beds. "oh, heidi!" clara exclaimed, "i can see so many glittering stars, and i feel as if we were driving in a high carriage straight into the sky." "yes, and do you know why the stars twinkle so merrily?" inquired heidi. "no, but tell me." "because they know that god in heaven looks after us mortals and we never need to fear. see, they twinkle and show us how to be merry, too. but clara, we must not forget to pray to god and ask him to think of us and keep us safe." sitting up in bed, they then said their evening prayer. as soon as heidi lay down, she fell asleep. but clara could not sleep quite yet, it was too wonderful to see the stars from her bed. in truth she had never seen them before, because in frankfurt all the blinds were always down long before the stars came out, and at night she had never been outside the house. she could hardly keep her eyes shut, and had to open them again and again to watch the twinkling, glistening stars, till her eyes closed at last and she saw two big, glittering stars in her dream. xxi of further events on the alp the sun was just rising, and the alm-uncle was watching how mountain and dale awoke to the new day, and the clouds above grew brighter. next, the old man turned to go back into the hut, and softly climbed the ladder. clara, having just a moment ago opened her eyes, looked about her in amazement. bright sunbeams danced on her bed. where was she? but soon she discovered her sleeping friend, and heard the grandfather's cheery voice: "how did you sleep? not tired?" clara, feeling fresh and rested, said that she had never slept better in all her life. heidi was soon awake, too, and lost no time in coming down to join clara, who was already sitting in the sun. a cool morning breeze fanned their cheeks, and the spicy fragrance from the fir-trees filled their lungs with every breath. clara had never experienced such well-being in all her life. she had never breathed such pure, cool morning air and never felt such warm, delicious sunshine on her feet and hands. it surpassed all her expectations. "oh, heidi, i wish i could always stay up here with you!" she said. "now you can see that everything is as beautiful as i told you," heidi replied triumphantly. "up on the alp with grandfather is the loveliest spot in all the world." the grandfather was just coming out of the shed with two full bowls of steaming, snow-white milk. handing one to each of the children, he said to clara: "this will do you good, little girl. it comes from schwänli and will give you strength. to your health! just drink it!" he said encouragingly, for clara had hesitated a little. but when she saw that heidi's bowl was nearly empty already, she also drank without even stopping. oh, how good it was! it tasted like cinnamon and sugar. "we'll take two tomorrow," said the grandfather. after their breakfast, peter arrived. while the goats were rushing up to heidi, bleating loudly, the grandfather took the boy aside. "just listen, and do what i tell you," he said. "from now on you must let schwänli go wherever she likes. she knows where to get the richest herbs, and you must follow her, even if she should go higher up than usual. it won't do you any harm to climb a little more, and will do all the others good. i want the goats to give me splendid milk, remember. what are you looking at so furiously?" peter was silent, and without more ado started off, still angrily looking back now and then. as heidi had followed a little way, peter called to her: "you must come along, heidi, schwänli has to be followed everywhere." "no, but i can't," heidi called back: "i won't be able to come as long as clara is with me. grandfather has promised, though, to let us come up with you once." with those words heidi returned to clara, while the goatherd was hurrying onward, angrily shaking his fists. the children had promised to write a letter to grandmama every day, so they immediately started on their task. heidi brought out her own little three-legged stool, her school-books and her papers, and with these on clara's lap they began to write. clara stopped after nearly every sentence, for she had to look around. oh, how peaceful it was with the little gnats dancing in the sun and the rustling of the trees! from time to time they could hear the shouting of a shepherd re-echoed from many rocks. the morning had passed, they knew not how, and dinner was ready. they again ate outside, for clara had to be in the open air all day, if possible. the afternoon was spent in the cool shadow of the fir-trees. clara had many things to relate of frankfurt and all the people that heidi knew. it was not long before peter arrived with his flock, but without even answering the girls' friendly greeting, he disappeared with a grim scowl. while schwänli was being milked in the shed, clara said: "oh, heidi, i feel as if i could not wait for my milk. isn't it funny? all my life i have only eaten because i had to. everything always tasted to me like cod-liver oil, and i have often wished that i should never have to eat. and now i am so hungry!" "oh yes, i know," heidi replied. she had to think of the days in frankfurt when her food seemed to stick in her throat. when at last the full bowls were brought by the old man, clara, seizing hers, eagerly drank the contents in one draught and even finished before heidi. "please, may i have a little more?" she asked, holding out the bowl. nodding, much pleased, the grandfather soon refilled it. this time he also brought with him a slice of bread and butter for the children. he had gone to maiensass that afternoon to get the butter, and his trouble was well rewarded: they enjoyed it as if it had been the rarest dish. this evening clara fell asleep the moment she lay down. two or three days passed in this pleasant way. the next brought a surprise. two strong porters came up the alp, each carrying on his back a fresh, white bed. they also brought a letter from grandmama, in which she thanked the children for their faithful writing, and told them that the beds were meant for them. when they went to sleep that night, they found their new beds in exactly the same position as their former ones had been. clara's rapture in her new life grew greater every day, and she could not write enough of the grandfather's kindly care and of heidi's entertaining stories. she told her grandmama that her first thought in the morning always was: "thank god, i am still in the alm-hut." grandmama was highly pleased at those reports, and put her projected visit off a little while, for she had found the ride pretty tiring. the grandfather took excellent care of his little patient, and no day passed on which he did not climb around to find the most savory herbs for schwänli. the little goat thrived so that everybody could see it in the way her eyes were flashing. it was the third week of clara's stay. every morning after the grandfather had carried her down, he said to her: "would my clara try to stand a little?" clara always sighed, "oh, it hurts me so!" but though she would cling to him, he made her stand a little longer every day. this summer was the finest that had been for years. day after day the sun shone on a cloudless sky, and at night it would pour its purple, rosy light down on the rocks and snow-fields till everything seemed to glow like fire. heidi had told clara over and over again of all the flowers on the pasture, of the masses of golden roses and the blue-flowers that covered the ground. she had just been telling it again, when a longing seized her, and jumping up she ran over to her grandfather, who was busy carving in the shop. "oh, grandfather," she cried from afar, "won't you come with us to the pasture tomorrow? oh, it's so beautiful up there now." "all right, i will," he replied; "but tell clara that she must do something to please me; she must try to stand longer this evening for me." heidi merrily came running with her message. of course, clara promised, for was it not her greatest wish to go up with heidi to the pasture! when peter returned this evening, he heard of the plan for the morrow. but for answer peter only growled, nearly hitting poor thistlefinch in his anger. the children had just resolved to stay awake all night to talk about the coming day, when their conversation suddenly ceased and they were both peacefully slumbering. in her dreams clara saw before her a field that was thickly strewn with light-blue flowers, while heidi heard the eagle scream to her from above, "come, come, come!" xxii something unexpected happens the next day dawned cloudless and fair. the grandfather was still with the children, when peter came climbing up; his goats kept at a good distance from him, to evade the rod, which was striking right and left. the truth was that the boy was terribly embittered and angry by the changes that had come. when he passed the hut in the morning, heidi was always busy with the strange child, and in the evening it was the same. all summer long heidi had not been up with him a single time; it was too much! and to-day she was coming at last, but again in company with this hateful stranger. [illustration: he watched his fallen enemy tumbling downwards, downwards] it was then that peter noticed the rolling-chair standing near the hut. after carefully glancing about him, he rushed at the hated object and pushed it down the incline. the chair fairly flew away and had soon disappeared. peter's conscience smote him now, and he raced up the alp, not daring to pause till he had reached a blackberry bush. there he could hide, when the uncle might appear. looking down, he watched his fallen enemy tumbling downwards, downwards. sometimes it was thrown high up into the air, to crash down again the next moment harder than ever. pieces were falling from it right and left, and were blown about. now the stranger would have to travel home and heidi would be his again! but peter had forgotten that a bad deed always brings a punishment. heidi just now came out of the hut. the grandfather, with clara, followed. heidi at first stood still, and then, running right and left, she returned to the old man. "what does this mean? have you rolled the chair away heidi?" he asked. "i am just looking for it everywhere, grandfather. you said it was beside the shop door," said the child, still hunting for the missing object. a strong wind was blowing, which at this moment violently closed the shop-door. "grandfather, the wind has done it," exclaimed heidi eagerly. "oh dear! if it has rolled all the way down to the village, it will be too late to go to-day. it will take us a long time to fetch it." "if it has rolled down there, we shall never get it any more, for it will be smashed to pieces," said the old man, looking down and measuring the distance from the corner of the hut. "i don't see how it happened," he remarked. "what a shame! now i'll never be able to go up to the pasture," lamented clara. "i am afraid i'll have to go home now. what a pity, what a pity!" "you can find a way for her to stay, grandfather, can't you?" "we'll go up to the pasture to-day, as we have planned. then we shall see what further happens." the children were delighted, and the grandfather lost no time in getting ready. first he fetched a pile of covers, and seating clara on a sunny spot on the dry ground, he got their breakfast. "i wonder why peter is so late to-day," he said, leading his goats out of the shed. then, lifting clara up on one strong arm, he carried the covers on the other. "now, march!" he cried. "the goats come with us." that suited heidi, and with one arm round schwänli and the other round bärli, she wandered up. her little companions were so pleased at having her with them again that they nearly crushed her with affection. what was their astonishment when, arriving on top, they saw peter already lying on the ground, with his peaceful flock about him. "what did you mean by going by us like that? i'll teach you!" called the uncle to him. peter was frightened, for he knew the voice. "nobody was up yet," the boy retorted. "have you seen the chair?" asked the uncle again. "which?" peter growled. the uncle said no more. unfolding the covers, he put clara down on the dry grass. then, when he had been assured of clara's comfort, he got ready to go home. the three were to stay there till his return in the evening. when dinner time had come, heidi was to prepare the meal and see that clara got schwänli's milk. the sky was a deep blue, and the snow on the peaks was glistening. the eagle was floating above the rocky crags. the children felt wonderfully happy. now and then one of the goats would come and lie down near them. tender little snowhopper came oftener than any and would rub her head against their shoulders. they had been sitting quietly for a few hours, drinking in the beauty about them, when heidi suddenly began to long for the spot where so many flowers grew. in the evening it would be too late to see them, for they always shut their little eyes by then. "oh, clara," she said hesitatingly, "would you be angry if i went away from you a minute and left you alone? i want to see the flowers; but wait!--" jumping away, she brought clara some bunches of fragrant herbs and put them in her lap. soon after she returned with little snowhopper. "so, now you don't need to be alone," said heidi. when clara had assured her that it would give her pleasure to be left alone with the goats, heidi started on her walk. clara slowly handed one leaf after another to the little creature; it became more and more confiding, and cuddling close to the child, ate the herbs out of her hand. it was easy to see how happy it was to be away from the boisterous big goats, which often annoyed it. clara felt a sensation of contentment such as she had never before experienced. she loved to sit there on the mountain-side with the confiding little goat by her. a great desire rose in her heart that hour. she longed to be her own master and be able to help others instead of being helped by them. many other thoughts and ideas rushed through her mind. how would it be to live up here in continual sunshine? the world seemed so joyous and wonderful all of a sudden. premonitions of future undreamt-of happiness made her heart beat. suddenly she threw both arms about the little goat and said: "oh, little snowhopper how beautiful it is up here! if i could always stay with you!" heidi in the meantime had reached the spot, where, as she had expected, the whole ground was covered with yellow rock-roses. near together in patches the bluebells were nodding gently in the breeze. but all the perfume that filled the air came from the modest little brown flowers that hid their heads between the golden flower-cups. heidi stood enraptured, drawing in the perfumed air. suddenly she turned and ran back to clara, shouting to her from far: "oh, you must come, clara, it is so lovely there. in the evening it won't be so fine any more. don't you think i could carry you?" "but heidi," clara said, "of course you can't; you are much smaller than i am. oh, i wish i could walk!" heidi meditated a little. peter was still lying on the ground. he had been staring down for hours, unable to believe what he saw before him. he had destroyed the chair to get rid of the stranger, and there she was again, sitting right beside his playmate. heidi now called to him to come down, but as reply he only grumbled: "shan't come." "but you must; come quickly, for i want you to help me. quickly!" urged the child. "don't want to," sounded the reply. heidi hurried up the mountain now and shouted angrily to the boy: "peter, if you don't come this minute, i shall do something that you won't like." those words scared peter, for his conscience was not clear. his deed had rejoiced him till this moment, when heidi seemed to talk as if she knew it all. what if the grandfather should hear about it! trembling with fear, peter obeyed. "i shall only come if you promise not to do what you said," insisted the boy. "no, no, i won't. don't be afraid," said heidi compassionately: "just come along; it isn't so hard." peter, on approaching clara, was told to help raise the lame child from the ground on one side, while heidi helped on the other. this went easily enough, but difficulties soon followed. clara was not able to stand alone, and how could they get any further? "you must take me round the neck," said heidi, who had seen what poor guides they made. the boy, who had never offered his arm to anybody in his life, had to be shown how first, before further efforts could be made. but it was too hard. clara tried to set her feet forward, but got discouraged. "press your feet on the ground more and i am sure it will hurt you less," suggested heidi. "do you think so?" said clara, timidly. but, obeying, she ventured a firmer step and soon another, uttering a little cry as she went. "oh, it really has hurt me less," she said joyfully. "try it again," heidi urged her. clara did, and took another step, and then another, and another still. suddenly she cried aloud: "oh, heidi, i can do it. oh, i really can. just look! i can take steps, one after another." heidi rapturously exclaimed: "oh, clara, can you really? can you walk? oh, can you take steps now? oh, if only grandfather would come! now you can walk, clara, now you can walk," she kept on saying joyfully. clara held on tight to the children, but with every new step she became more firm. "now you can come up here every day," cried heidi. "now we can walk wherever we want to and you don't have to be pushed in a chair any more. now you'll be able to walk all your life. oh, what joy!" clara's greatest wish, to be able to be well like other people, had been fulfilled at last. it was not very far to the flowering field. soon they reached it and sat down among the wealth of bloom. it was the first time that clara had ever rested on the dry, warm earth. all about them the flowers nodded and exhaled their perfume. it was a scene of exquisite beauty. the two children could hardly grasp this happiness that had come to them. it filled their hearts brimming full and made them silent. peter also lay motionless, for he had gone to sleep. thus the hours flew, and the day was long past noon. suddenly all the goats arrived, for they had been seeking the children. they did not like to graze in the flowers, and were glad when peter awoke with their loud bleating. the poor boy was mightily bewildered, for he had dreamt that the rolling-chair with the red cushions stood again before his eyes. on awaking, he had still seen the golden nails; but soon he discovered that they were nothing but flowers. remembering his deed, he obeyed heidi's instructions willingly. when they came back to their former place, heidi lost no time in setting out the dinner. the bag was very full to-day, and heidi hurried to fulfill her promise to peter, who with bad conscience had understood her threat differently. she made three heaps of the good things, and when clara and she were through, there was still a lot left for the boy. it was too bad that all this treat did not give him the usual satisfaction, for something seemed to stick in his throat. soon after their belated dinner, the grandfather was seen climbing up the alp. heidi ran to meet him, confusedly telling him of the great event. the old man's face shone at this news. going over to clara, he said: "so you have risked it? now we have won." then picking her up, he put one arm around her waist, and the other one he stretched out as support, and with his help she marched more firmly than ever. heidi jumped and bounded gaily by their side. in all this excitement the grandfather did not lose his judgment, and before long lifted clara on his arm to carry her home. he knew that too much exertion would be dangerous, and rest was needed for the tired girl. peter, arriving in the village late that day, saw a large disputing crowd. they were all standing about an interesting object, and everybody pushed and fought for a chance to get nearest. it was no other than the chair. "i saw it when they carried it up," peter heard the baker say. "i bet it was worth at least five hundred francs. i should just like to know how it has happened." "the wind might have blown it down," remarked barbara, who was staring open-mouthed at the beautiful velvet cushions. "the uncle said so himself." "it is a good thing if nobody else has done it," continued the baker. "when the gentleman from frankfurt hears what has happened, he'll surely find out all about it, and i should pity the culprit. i am glad i haven't been up on the alm for so long, else they might suspect me, as they would anybody who happened to be up there at the time." many more opinions were uttered, but peter had heard enough. he quietly slipped away and went home. what if they should find out he had done it? a policeman might arrive any time now and they might take him away to prison. peter's hair stood up on end at this alarming thought. he was so troubled when he came home that he did not answer any questions and even refused his dish of potatoes. hurriedly creeping into bed, he groaned. "i am sure peter has eaten sorrel again, and that makes him groan so," said his mother. "you must give him a little more bread in the morning, brigida. take a piece of mine," said the compassionate grandmother. when clara and heidi were lying in their beds that night, glancing up at the shining stars, heidi remarked: "didn't you think to-day, clara, that it is fortunate god does not always give us what we pray for fervently, because he knows of something better?" "what do you mean, heidi?" asked clara. "you see, when i was in frankfurt i prayed and prayed to come home again, and when i couldn't, i thought he had forgotten me. but if i had gone away so soon you would never have come here and would never have got well." clara, becoming thoughtful, said: "but, heidi, then we could not pray for anything any more, because we would feel that he always knows of something better." "but, clara, we must pray to god every day to show we don't forget that all gifts come from him. grandmama has told me that god forgets us if we forget him. but if some wish remains unfulfilled we must show our confidence in him, for he knows best." "how did you ever think of that?" asked clara. "grandmama told me, but i know that it is so. we must thank god to-day that he has made you able to walk, clara." "i am glad that you have reminded me, heidi, for i have nearly forgotten it in my excitement." the children both prayed and sent their thanks up to heaven for the restoration of the invalid. next morning a letter was written to grandmama, inviting her to come up to the alp within a week's time, for the children had planned to take her by surprise. clara hoped then to be able to walk alone, with heidi for her guide. the following days were happier still for clara. every morning she awoke with her heart singing over and over again, "now i am well! now i can walk like other people!" she progressed, and took longer walks every day. her appetite grew amazingly, and the grandfather had to make larger slices of the bread and butter that, to his delight, disappeared so rapidly. he had to fill bowl after bowl of the foaming milk for the hungry children. in that way they reached the end of the week that was to bring the grandmama. [illustration] xxiii parting to meet again a day before her visit the grandmama had sent a letter to announce her coming. peter brought it up with him next morning. the grandfather was already before the hut with the children and his merry goats. his face looked proud, as he contemplated the rosy faces of the girls and the shining hair of his two goats. peter, approaching, neared the uncle slowly. as soon as he had delivered the letter, he sprang back shyly, looking about him as if he was afraid. then with a leap he started off. "i should like to know why peter behaves like the big turk when he is afraid of the rod," said heidi, watching his strange behavior. "maybe peter fears a rod that he deserves," said the old man. all the way peter was tormented with fear. he could not help thinking of the policeman who was coming from frankfurt to fetch him to prison. it was a busy morning for heidi, who put the hut in order for the expected visitor. the time went by quickly, and soon everything was ready to welcome the good grandmama. the grandfather also returned from a walk, on which he had gathered a glorious bunch of deep-blue gentians. the children, who were sitting on the bench, exclaimed for joy when they saw the glowing flowers. heidi, getting up from time to time to spy down the path, suddenly discovered grandmama, sitting on a white horse and accompanied by two men. one of them carried plenty of wraps, for without those the lady did not dare to pay such a visit. the party came nearer and nearer, and soon reached the top. "what do i see? clara, what is this? why are you not sitting in your chair? how is this possible?" cried the grandmama in alarm, dismounting hastily. before she had quite reached the children she threw her arms up in great excitement: "clara, is that really you? you have red, round cheeks, my child! i hardly know you any more!" grandmama was going to rush at her grandchild, when heidi slipped from the bench, and clara, taking her arm, they quietly took a little walk. the grandmama was rooted to the spot from fear. what was this? upright and firm, clara walked beside her friend. when they came back their rosy faces beamed. rushing toward the children, the grandmother hugged them over and over again. looking over to the bench, she beheld the uncle, who sat there smiling. taking clara's arm in hers, she walked over to him, continually venting her delight. when she reached the old man, she took both his hands in hers and said: "my dear, dear uncle! what have we to thank you for! this is your work, your care and nursing--" "but our lord's sunshine and mountain air," interrupted the uncle, smiling. then clara called, "yes, and also schwänli's good, delicious milk. grandmama, you ought to see how much goat-milk i can drink now; oh, it is so good!" "indeed i can see that from your cheeks," said the grandmama, smiling. "no, i hardly recognize you any more. you have become broad and round! i never dreamt that you could get so stout and tall! oh, clara, is it really true? i cannot look at you enough. but now i must telegraph your father to come. i shan't tell him anything about you, for it will be the greatest joy of all his life. my dear uncle, how are we going to manage it? have you sent the men away?" "i have, but i can easily send the goatherd." so they decided that peter should take the message. the uncle immediately whistled so loud that it resounded from all sides. soon peter arrived, white with fear, for he thought his doom had come. but he only received a paper that was to be carried to the post-office of the village. relieved for the moment, peter set out. now all the happy friends sat down round the table, and grandmama was told how the miracle had happened. often the talk was interrupted by exclamations of surprise from grandmama, who still believed it was all a dream. how could this be her pale, weak little clara? the children were in a constant state of joy, to see how their surprise had worked. meanwhile mr. sesemann, having finished his business in paris, was also preparing a surprise. without writing his mother he traveled to ragatz on a sunny summer morning. he had arrived on this very day, some hours after his mother's departure, and now, taking a carriage, he drove to mayenfeld. the long ascent to the alp from there seemed very weary and far to the traveller. when would he reach the goat-herd's hut? there were many little roads branching off in several directions, and sometimes mr. sesemann doubted if he had taken the right path. but not a soul was near, and no sound could be heard except the rustling of the wind and the hum of little insects. a merry little bird was singing on a larch-tree, but nothing more. standing still and cooling his brow, he saw a boy running down the hill at topmost speed. mr. sesemann called to him, but with no success, for the boy kept at a shy distance. "now, my boy, can't you tell me if i am on the right path to the hut where heidi lives and the people from frankfurt are staying?" a dull sound of terror was the only reply. peter shot off and rushed head over heels down the mountain-side, turning wild somersaults on his perilous way. his course resembled the course his enemy had taken some days ago. [illustration: peter shot off and rushed down the mountain-side, turning wild somersaults on his perilous way] "what a funny, bashful mountaineer!" mr. sesemann remarked to himself, thinking that the appearance of a stranger had upset this simple son of the alps. after watching the downward course of the boy a little while, he soon proceeded on his way. in spite of the greatest effort, peter could not stop himself, and kept rolling on. but his fright and terror were still more terrible than his bumps and blows. this stranger was the policeman, that was a certain fact! at last, being thrown against a bush, he clutched it wildly. "good, here's another one!" a voice near peter said. "i wonder who is going to be pushed down tomorrow, looking like a half-open potato-bag?" the village baker was making fun of him. for a little rest after his weary work, he had quietly watched the boy. peter regained his feet and slunk away. how did the baker know the chair had been pushed? he longed to go home to bed and hide, for there alone he felt safe. but he had to go up to the goats, and the uncle had clearly told him to come back as quickly as he could. groaning, he limped away up to the alp. how could he run now, with his fear and all his poor, sore limbs? mr. sesemann had reached the hut soon after meeting peter, and felt reassured. climbing further, with renewed courage, he at last saw his goal before him, but not without long and weary exertion. he saw the alm-hut above him, and the swaying fir-trees. mr. sesemann eagerly hurried to encounter his beloved child. they had seen him long ago from the hut, and a treat was prepared for him that he never suspected. as he made the last steps, he saw two forms coming towards him. a tall girl, with light hair and rosy face, was leaning on heidi, whose dark eyes sparkled with keen delight. mr. sesemann stopped short, staring at this vision. suddenly big tears rushed from his eyes, for this shape before him recalled sweet memories. clara's mother had looked exactly like this fair maiden. mr. sesemann at this moment did not know if he was awake or dreaming. "papa, don't you know me any more?" clara called with beaming eyes. "have i changed so much?" mr. sesemann rushed up to her, folding her in his arms. "yes, you _have_ changed. how is it possible? is it really true? is it really you, clara?" asked the over-joyed father, embracing her again and again, and then gazing at her, as she stood tall and firm by his side. his mother joined them now, for she wanted to see the happiness of her son. "what do you say to this, my son? isn't our surprise finer than yours?" she greeted him. "but come over to our benefactor now,--i mean the uncle." "yes, indeed, i also must greet our little heidi," said the gentleman, shaking heidi's hand. "well? always fresh and happy on the mountain? i guess i don't need to ask, for no alpine rose can look more blooming. ah, child, what joy this is to me!" with beaming eyes the child looked at the kind gentleman who had always been so good to her. her heart throbbed in sympathy with his joy. while the two men, who had at last approached each other, were conversing, grandmama walked over to the grove. there, under the fir-trees, another surprise awaited her. a beautiful bunch of wondrously blue gentians stood as if they had grown there. "how exquisite, how wonderful! what a sight!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands. "heidi, come here! have you brought me those? oh, they are beautiful!" the children had joined her, heidi assuring her that it was another person's deed. "oh grandmama, up on the pasture it looks just like that," clara remarked. "just guess who brought you the flowers?" at that moment a rustle was heard, and they saw peter, who was trying to sneak up behind the trees to avoid the hut. immediately the old lady called to him, for she thought that peter himself had picked the flowers for her. he must be creeping away out of sheer modesty, the kind lady thought. to give him his reward, she called: "come here, my boy! don't be afraid." petrified with fear, peter stood still. what had gone before had robbed him of his courage. he thought now that all was over with him. with his hair standing up on end and his pale face distorted by anguish, he approached. "come straight to me, boy," the old lady encouraged him. "now tell me, boy, if you have done that." in his anxiety, peter did not see the grandmama's finger that pointed to the flowers. he only saw the uncle standing near the hut, looking at him penetratingly, and beside him the policeman, the greatest horror for him in the world. trembling in every limb, peter answered, "yes!" "well, but what are you so frightened about?" "because--because it is broken and can never be mended again," peter said, his knees tottering under him. the grandmama now walked over to the hut: "my dear uncle," she asked kindly, "is this poor lad out of his mind?" "not at all," was the reply; "only the boy was the wind which blew away the wheel-chair. he is expecting the punishment he well deserves." grandmama was very much surprised, for she vowed that peter looked far from wicked. why should he have destroyed the chair? the uncle told her that he had noticed many signs of anger in the boy since clara's advent on the alp. he assured her that he had suspected the boy from the beginning. "my dear uncle," the old lady said with animation, "we must not punish him further. we must be just. it was very hard on him when clara robbed him of heidi, who is and was his greatest treasure. when he had to sit alone day after day, it roused him to a passion which drove him to this wicked deed. it was rather foolish, but we all get so when we get angry." the lady walked over to the boy again, who was still quivering with fear. sitting down on the bench, she began: "come, peter, i'll tell you something. stop trembling and listen. you pushed the chair down, to destroy it. you knew very well that it was wicked and deserved punishment. you tried very hard to conceal it, did you not? but if somebody thinks that nobody knows about a wicked deed, he is wrong; god always knows it. as soon as he finds that a man is trying to conceal an evil he has done, he wakens a little watchman in his heart, who keeps on pricking the person with a thorn till all his rest is gone. he keeps on calling to the evildoer: 'now you'll be found out! now your punishment is near!'--his joy has flown, for fear and terror take its place. have you not just had such an experience, peter?" peter nodded, all contrite. he certainly had experienced this. "you have made a mistake," the grandmama continued, "by thinking that you would hurt clara by destroying her chair. it has so happened that what you have done has been the greatest good for her. she would probably never have tried to walk, if her chair had been there. if she should stay here, she might even go up to the pasture every single day. do you see, peter? god can turn a misdeed to the good of the injured person and bring trouble on the offender. have you understood me, peter? remember the little watchman when you long to do a wicked deed again. will you do that?" "yes, i shall," peter replied, still fearing the policeman, who had not left yet. "so now that matter is all settled," said the old lady in conclusion. "now tell me if you have a wish, my boy, for i am going to give you something by which to remember your friends from frankfurt. what is it? what would you like to have?" peter, lifting his head, stared at the grandmama with round, astonished eyes. he was confused by this sudden change of prospect. being again urged to utter a wish, he saw at last that he was saved from the power of the terrible man. he felt as if the most crushing load had fallen off him. he knew now that it was better to confess at once, when something had gone wrong, so he said: "i have also lost the paper." reflecting a while, the grandmama understood and said: "that is right. always confess what is wrong, then it can be settled. and now, what would you like to have?" so peter could choose everything in the world he wished. his brain got dizzy. he saw before him all the wonderful things in the fair in mayenfeld. he had often stood there for hours, looking at the pretty red whistles and the little knives; unfortunately peter had never possessed more than half what those objects cost. he stood thinking, not able to decide, when a bright thought struck him. "ten pennies," said peter with decision. "that certainly is not too much," the old lady said with a smile, taking out of her pocket a big, round thaler, on top of which she laid twenty pennies. "now i'll explain this to you. here you have as many times ten pennies as there are weeks in the year. you'll be able to spend one every sunday through the year." "all my life?" peter asked quite innocently. the grandmama began to laugh so heartily at this that the two men came over to join her. laughingly she said: "you shall have it my boy; i will put it in my will and then you will do the same, my son. listen! peter the goatherd shall have a ten-penny piece weekly as long as he lives." mr. sesemann nodded. peter, looking at his gift, said solemnly: "god be thanked!" jumping and bounding, he ran away. his heart was so light that he felt he could fly. a little later the whole party sat round the table holding a merry feast. after dinner, clara, who was lively as never before, said to her father: "oh, papa, if you only knew all the things grandfather did for me. it would take many days to tell you; i shall never forget them all my life. oh, if we could please him only half as much as what he did for me." "it is my greatest wish, too, dear child," said her father; "i have been trying to think of something all the time. we have to show our gratitude in some way." accordingly mr. sesemann walked over to the old man, and began: "my dear friend, may i say one word to you. i am sure you believe me when i tell you that i have not known any real joy for years. what was my wealth to me when i could not cure my child and make her happy! with the help of the lord you have made her well. you have given her a new life. please tell me how to show my gratitude to you. i know i shall never be able to repay you, but what is in my power i shall do. have you any request to make? please let me know." the uncle had listened quietly and had looked at the happy father. "mr. sesemann, you can be sure that i also am repaid by the great joy i experience at the recovery of clara," said the uncle firmly. "i thank you for your kind offer, mr. sesemann. as long as i live i have enough for me and the child. but i have one wish. if this could be fulfilled, my life would be free of care." "speak, my dear friend," urged clara's father. "i am old," continued the uncle, "and shall not live many years. when i die i cannot leave heidi anything. the child has no relations except one, who even might try to take advantage of her if she could. if you would give me the assurance, mr. sesemann, that heidi will never be obliged to go into the world and earn her bread, you would amply repay me for what i was able to do for you and clara." "my dear friend, there is no question of that," began mr. sesemann; "the child belongs to us! i promise at once that we shall look after her so that there will not be any need of her ever earning her bread. we all know that she is not fashioned for a life among strangers. nevertheless, she has made some true friends, and one of them will be here very shortly. dr. classen is just now completing his last business in frankfurt. he intends to take your advice and live here. he has never felt so happy as with you and heidi. the child will have two protectors near her, and i hope with god's will, that they may be spared a long, long time." "and may it be god's will!" added the grandmama, who with heidi had joined them, shaking the uncle tenderly by the hand. putting her arms around the child, she said: "heidi, i want to know if you also have a wish?" "yes indeed, i have," said heidi, pleased. "tell me what it is, child!" "i should like to have my bed from frankfurt with the three high pillows and the thick, warm cover. then grandmother will be able to keep warm and won't have to wear her shawl in bed. oh, i'll be so happy when she won't have to lie with her head lower than her heels, hardly able to breathe!" heidi had said all this in one breath, she was so eager. "oh dear, i had nearly forgotten what i meant to do. i am so glad you have reminded me, heidi. if god sends us happiness we must think of those who have many privations. i shall telegraph immediately for the bed, and if miss rottenmeier sends it off at once, it can be here in two days. i hope the poor blind grandmother will sleep better when it comes." heidi, in her happiness, could hardly wait to bring the old woman the good news. soon it was resolved that everybody should visit the grandmother, who had been left alone so long. before starting, however, mr. sesemann revealed his plans. he proposed to travel through switzerland with his mother and clara. he would spend the night in the village, so as to fetch clara from the alm next morning for the journey. from there they would go first to ragatz and then further. the telegram was to be mailed that night. clara's feelings were divided, for she was sorry to leave the alp, but the prospect of the trip delighted her. when everything was settled, they all went down, the uncle carrying clara, who could not have risked the lengthy walk. all the way down heidi told the old lady of her friends in the hut; the cold they had to bear in winter and the little food they had. brigida was just hanging up peter's shirt to dry, when the whole company arrived. rushing into the house, she called to her mother: "now they are all going away. uncle is going, too, carrying the lame child." "oh, must it really be?" sighed the grandmother. "have you seen whether they took heidi away? oh, if she only could give me her hand once more! oh, i long to hear her voice once more!" the same moment the door was flung open and heidi held her tight. "grandmother, just think. my bed with the three pillows and the thick cover is coming from frankfurt. grandmama has said that it will be here in two days." heidi thought that grandmother would be beside herself with joy, but the old woman, smiling sadly, said: "oh, what a good lady she must be! i know i ought to be glad she is taking you with her, heidi, but i don't think i shall survive it long." "but nobody has said so," the grandmama, who had overheard those words, said kindly. pressing the old woman's hand, she continued: "it is out of the question. heidi will stay with you and make you happy. to see heidi again, we will come up every year to the alm, for we have many reasons to thank the lord there." immediately the face of the grandmother lighted up, and she cried tears of joy. "oh, what wonderful things god is doing for me!" said the grandmother, deeply touched. "how good people are to trouble themselves about such a poor old woman as i. nothing in this world strengthens the belief in a good father in heaven more than this mercy and kindness shown to a poor, useless little woman, like me." "my dear grandmother," said mrs. sesemann, "before god in heaven we are all equally miserable and poor; woe to us, if he should forget us!--but now we must say good-bye; next year we shall come to see you just as soon as we come up the alp. we shall never forget you!" with that, mrs. sesemann shook her hand. it was some time before she was allowed to leave, however, because the grandmother thanked her over and over again, and invoked all heaven's blessings on her and her house. mr. sesemann and his mother went on down, while clara was carried up to spend her last night in the hut. next morning, clara shed hot tears at parting from the beloved place, where such gladness had been hers. heidi consoled her with plans for the coming summer, that was to be even more happy than this one had been. mr. sesemann then arrived, and a few last parting words were exchanged. clara, half crying, suddenly said: "please give my love to peter and the goats, heidi! please greet schwänli especially from me, for she has helped a great deal in making me well. what could i give her?" "you can send her salt, clara. you know how fond she is of that," advised little heidi. "oh, i will surely do that," clara assented. "i'll send her a hundred pounds of salt as a remembrance from me." it was time to go now, and clara was able to ride proudly beside her father. standing on the edge of the slope, heidi waved her hand, her eyes following clara till she had disappeared. * * * * * the bed has arrived. grandmother sleeps so well every night now, that before long she will be stronger than ever. grandmama has not forgotten the cold winter on the alp and has sent a great many warm covers and shawls to the goatherd's hut. grandmother can wrap herself up now and will not have to sit shivering in a corner. in the village a large building is in progress. the doctor has arrived and is living at present in his old quarters. he has taken the uncle's advice and has bought the old ruins that sheltered heidi and her grandfather the winter before. he is rebuilding for himself the portion with the fine apartment already mentioned. the other side is being prepared for heidi and her grandfather. the doctor knows that his friend is an independent man and likes to have his own dwelling. bärli and schwänli, of course, are not forgotten; they will spend the winter in a good solid stable that is being built for them. the doctor and the alm-uncle become better friends every day. when they overlook the progress of the building, they generally come to speak of heidi. they both look forward to the time when they will be able to move into the house with their merry charge. they have agreed to share together the pleasure and responsibility that heidi brings them. the uncle's heart is filled with gratitude too deep for any words when the doctor tells him that he will make ample provision for the child. now her grandfather's heart is free of care, for if he is called away, another father will take care of heidi and love her in his stead. at the moment when our story closes, heidi and peter are sitting in grandmother's hut. the little girl has so many interesting things to relate and peter is trying so hard not to miss anything, that in their eagerness they are not aware that they are near the happy grandmother's chair. all summer long they have hardly met, and very many wonderful things have happened. they are all glad at being together again, and it is hard to tell who is the happiest of the group. i think brigida's face is more radiant than any, for heidi has just told her the story of the perpetual ten-penny piece. finally the grandmother says: "heidi, please read me a song of thanksgiving and praise. i feel that i must praise and thank the lord for the blessings he has brought to us all!" the end. [illustration: (heidi)] [illustration: (peter)] * * * * * +-----------------------------------------------------------+ | typographical errors corrected in text: | | | | page : freindly replaced with friendly | | page : tham replaced with than | | | | in this edition, the poem on page , is missing the | | lines for g, h, i, j, and k. | +-----------------------------------------------------------+ * * * * * thistle and rose a story for girls by amy walton ________________________________________________________________________ a gently moving story for girls. anna is aged fifteen, and her father needs to go abroad on business for a while. her mother had died before anna could remember. anna is to go to dornton to stay while her father is away, and she is looking forward to meeting her relatives, including her grandfather, who had been estranged from her father for many years. the grandfather is living quietly in a small house "with no servants" and has a job as organist in dornton church. he is well-known as an excellent teacher of music, especially the violin. the story goes on from there. the book is not a long one, and the audiobook takes a little over four hours. nh ________________________________________________________________________ thistle and rose a story for girls by amy walton chapter one. the picture. a countenance in which did meet sweet records, promises as sweet. wordsworth. "and so, my dear anna, you really leave london to-morrow!" "by the ten o'clock train," added an eager voice, "and i shan't get to dornton until nearly five. father will go with me to paddington, and then i shall be alone all the way. my very first journey by myself--and such a long one!" "you don't seem to mind the idea," said the governess, with a glance at her pupil's bright, smiling face. "you don't mind leaving all the people and things you have been used to all your life?" anna tried to look grave. "i see so little of father, you know," she said, "and i'm sure i shall like the country better than london. i shall miss _you_, of course, dear miss milverton," she added quickly, bending forward to kiss her governess. miss milverton gave a little shake of the head, as she returned the kiss; perhaps she did not believe in being very much missed. "you are going to new scenes and new people," she said, "and at your age, anna, it is easier to forget than to remember. i should like to think, though, that some of our talks and lessons during the last seven years might stay in your mind." she spoke wistfully, and her face looked rather sad. as she saw it, anna felt ungrateful to be so glad to go away, and was ready to promise anything. "oh, of course they will," she exclaimed. "indeed, i will never forget what you have told me. i couldn't." "you have lived so very quietly hitherto," continued miss milverton, "that it will be a new thing for you to be thrown with other people. they will be nearly all strangers to you at waverley, i think?" "there will be aunt sarah and uncle john at the rectory," said anna. "aunt sarah, of course, i know; but i've never seen uncle john. he's father's brother, you know. then there's dornton; that's just a little town near. i don't know any one there, but i suppose aunt sarah does. waverley's quite in the country, with a lovely garden--oh, i do so long to see it!" "you will make friends, too, of your own age, i daresay," said miss milverton. "oh, i hope so," said anna earnestly. "it has been so dull here sometimes! after you go away in the afternoon there's nothing to do, and when father dines out there's no one to talk to all the evening. you can't think how tired i get of reading." "well, it will be more cheerful and amusing for you at waverley, no doubt," said miss milverton, "and i hope you will be very happy there; but what i want to say to you is this: try, whether you are at waverley or wherever you are, to value the best things in yourself and others." anna's bright eyes were gazing over the blind into the street, where a man with a basket of flowers on his head was crying, "all a-blowing and a-growing." in the country she would be able to pick flowers instead of buying them. she smiled at the thought, and said absently, "yes, miss milverton." miss milverton's voice, which always had a regretful sound in it, went steadily on, while anna's bright fancies danced about gaily. "it is so easy to value the wrong things most. they often look so attractive, and the best things lie so deeply hidden from us. and yet, to find them out and treasure them, and be true to them, makes the difference between a worthy and an unworthy life. if you look for them, my dear anna, you will find them. my last wish before we part is, that you may be quick to see, and ready to do them honour, and to prize them as they should be prized. bless you, my dear!" miss milverton had felt what she said so deeply, that the tears stood in her eyes, as she finished her speech and kissed her pupil for the last time. anna returned the kiss affectionately, and as she followed her governess out into the hall and opened the door for her, she was quite sorry to think that she had so often been tiresome at her lessons. perhaps she had helped to make miss milverton's face so grave and her voice so sad. now she should not see her any more, and there was no chance of doing better. for full five minutes after she had waved a last good-bye, anna remained in a sober mood, looking thoughtfully at all the familiar, dingy objects in the schoolroom, where she and miss milverton had passed so many hours. it was not a cheerful room. carpet, curtains, paper, everything in it had become of one brownish-yellow hue, as though the london fog had been shut up in it, and never escaped again. even the large globes, which stood one on each side of the fireplace, had the prevailing tinge over their polished, cracked surfaces; but as anna's eye fell on these, her heart gave a sudden bound of joy. she would never have to do problems again! she would never have to pass any more dull hours in this room, with miss milverton's grave face opposite to her, and the merest glimpses of sunshine peering in now and then over the brown blinds. no more sober walks in kensington gardens, where she had so often envied the ragged children, who could play about, and laugh, and run, and do as they liked. there would be freedom now, green fields, flowers, companions perhaps of her own age. everything new, everything gay and bright, no more dullness, no more tedious days--after all, she was glad, very glad! it was so pleasant to think of, that she could not help dancing round and round the big table all alone, snapping her fingers at the globes as she passed them. when she was tired, she flung herself into miss milverton's brown leather chair, and looked up at the clock, which had gone soberly on its way as though nothing were to be changed in anna's life. she felt provoked with its placid face. "to-morrow at this time," she said to it, half aloud, "i shan't be here, and miss milverton won't be here, and i shall be seeing new places and new people, and--oh, i do wonder what it will all be like!" the clock ticked steadily on, regardless of anything but its own business. half-past six! miss milverton had stayed longer than usual. anna began to wonder what time her father would be home. they were to dine together on this, their last evening, but mr forrest was so absorbed in his preparations for leaving england that he was likely to be very late. perhaps he would not be in till eight o'clock, and even then would have his mind too full of business to talk much at dinner, and would spend the evening in writing letters. anna sighed. there were some questions she very much wanted to ask him, and this would be her only chance. to-morrow she was to go to waverley, and the next day mr forrest started for america, and she would not see him again for two whole years. it was strange to think of, but not altogether sad from anna's point of view, for her father was almost a stranger to her. he lived a life apart, into which she had never entered: his friends, his business, his frequent journeys abroad, occupied him fully, and he was quite content that anna's welfare should be left in the hands of miss milverton, her daily governess. it was aunt sarah who recommended miss milverton to the post, which she had now filled, with ceaseless kindness and devotion, for seven years. "you will find her invaluable," mrs forrest had said to her brother-in-law, and so she was. when anna was ill, she nursed her; when she wanted change of air, she took her to the sea-side; she looked after her both in body and mind, with the utmost conscientiousness. but there was one thing she could not do: she could not be an amusing companion for a girl of fifteen, and anna had often been lonely and dull. now that was all over. a sudden change had come into her life. the london house was to be given up, her father was going away, and she was to be committed to aunt sarah's instruction and care for two whole years. waverley and aunt sarah, instead of london and miss milverton! it was a change indeed, in more than one way, for although anna was nearly fifteen, she had never yet stayed in the country; her ideas of it were gathered from books, and from what she could see from a railway carriage, as miss milverton and she were carried swiftly on their way to the sea-side for their annual change of air. she thought of it all now, as she sat musing in the old brown chair. it had often seemed strange that aunt sarah, who arranged everything, and to whom appeal was always made in matters which concerned anna, should never have asked her to stay at waverley before. certainly there were no children at the rectory, but still it would have been natural, she thought, for was not uncle john her father's own brother, and she had never even seen him! aunt sarah came to london occasionally and stayed the night, and had long talks with mr forrest and miss milverton, but she had never hinted at a visit from anna. when, a little later, her father came bustling in, with a preoccupied pucker on his brow, and his most absent manner, she almost gave up all idea of asking questions. dinner passed in perfect silence, and she was startled when mr forrest suddenly mentioned the very place that was in her mind. "well, anna," he said, "i've been to waverley to-day." "oh, father, have you?" she answered eagerly. mr forrest sipped his wine reflectively. "how old are you?" he asked. "fifteen next august," replied anna. "then," he continued, half to himself, "it must be over sixteen years since i saw waverley and dornton." "are they just the same?" asked his daughter; "are they pretty places?" "waverley's pretty enough. your uncle john has built another room, and spoilt the look of the old house, but that's the only change i can see." "and dornton," said anna, "what is that like?" "dornton," said mr forrest absently--"dornton is the same dull little hole of a town i remember it then." "oh," said anna in a disappointed voice. "there's a fine old church, though, and the river's nice enough. i used to know every turn in that river.--well," rising abruptly and leaning his arm against the mantel-piece, "it's a long while ago--a long while ago--it's like another life." "used you to stay often at waverley?" anna ventured to ask presently. mr forrest had fallen into a day-dream, with his eyes fixed on the ground. he looked up when anna spoke as though he had forgotten her presence. "it was there i first met your mother," he said, "or rather, at dornton. we were married in dornton church." "oh," said anna, very much interested, "did mother live at dornton? i never knew that." "and that reminds me," said mr forrest, taking a leather case out of his pocket, and speaking with an effort, "i've something i want to give you before you go away. you may as well have it now. to-morrow we shall be both in a hurry. come here." he opened the case and showed her a small round portrait painted on ivory. it was the head of a girl of eighteen, exquisitely fair, with sweet, modest-looking eyes. "your mother," he said briefly. anna almost held her breath. she had never seen a picture of her mother before, and had very seldom heard her mentioned. "how lovely!" she exclaimed. "may i really have it to keep?" "i had it copied for you from the original," said mr forrest. "oh, father, thank you so much," said anna earnestly. "i do so love to have it." mr forrest turned away suddenly, and walked to the window. he was silent for some minutes, and anna stood with the case in her hand, not daring to speak to him. she had an instinct that it was a painful subject. "well," he said at last, "i need not tell you to take care of it. when i come back you'll be nearly as old as she was when that was painted. i can't hope more than that you may be half as good and beautiful." anna gazed earnestly at the portrait. there were some words in tiny letters beneath it: "priscilla goodwin," she read, "aged eighteen." priscilla! a soft, gentle sort of name, which seemed to suit the face. if father wanted me to look like this, she thought to herself, he shouldn't have called me "anna." how could any one named anna grow so pretty! "why was i named anna?" she asked. "it was your mother's wish," replied mr forrest. "i believe it was her mother's name." "is my grandmother alive?" said anna. "no; she died years before i ever saw your mother. your grandfather, old mr goodwin, is living still--at dornton." "at dornton!" exclaimed anna in extreme surprise. "then why don't i go to stay with him while you're away, instead of at waverley?" "because," said mr forrest, turning from the window to face his daughter, "it has been otherwise arranged." anna knew that tone of her father's well; it meant that she had asked an undesirable question. she was silent, but her eager face showed that she longed to hear more. "your grandfather and i have not been very good friends," said mr forrest at length, "and have not met for a good many years--but you're too young to understand all that. he lives in a very quiet sort of way. once, if he had chosen, he might have risen to a different position. but he didn't choose, and he remains what he has been for the last twenty years--organist of dornton church. he has great musical talent, i've always been told, but i'm no judge of that." these new things were quite confusing to anna; it was difficult to realise them all at once. the beautiful, fair-haired mother, whose picture she held in her hand, was not so strange. but her grandfather! she had never even heard of his existence, and now she would very soon see him and talk to him. her thoughts, hitherto occupied with waverley and the rectory, began to busy themselves with the town of dornton, the church where her mother had been married, and the house where she had lived. "aunt sarah knows my grandfather, of course," she said aloud. "he will come to waverley, and i shall go sometimes to see him at dornton?" "oh, no doubt, no doubt, your aunt will arrange all that," said mr forrest wearily. "and now you must leave me, anna; i've no time to answer any more questions. tell mary to take a lamp into the study, and bring me coffee. i have heaps of letters to write, and people to see this evening." "your aunt will arrange all that!" what a familiar sentence that was. anna had heard it so often that she had come to look upon aunt sarah as a person whose whole office in life was to arrange and settle the affairs of other people, and who was sure to do it in the best possible way. when she opened her eyes the next morning, her first movement was to feel under her pillow for the case which held the picture of her mother. she had a half fear that she might have dreamt all that her father had told her. no. it was real. the picture was there. the gentle face seemed to smile at her as she opened the case. how nice to have such a beautiful mother! as she dressed, she made up her mind that she would go to see her grandfather directly she got to waverley. what would he be like? her father had spoken of his musical talent in a half-pitying sort of way. anna was not fond of music, and she very much hoped that her grandfather would not be too much wrapped up in it to answer all her questions. well, she would soon find out everything about him. her reflections were hurried away by the bustle of departure, for mr forrest, though he travelled so much, could never start on a journey without agitation and fuss, and fears as to losing his train. so, for the next hour, until anna was safely settled in a through carriage for dornton, with her ticket in her purse, a benevolent old lady opposite to her, and the guard prepared to give her every attention, there was no time to realise anything, except that she must make haste. "well, i think you're all right now," said mr forrest, with a sigh of relief, as he rested from his exertions. "look out for your aunt on the platform at dornton; she said she would meet you herself.--why," looking at his watch, "you don't start for six minutes. we needn't have hurried after all. well, there's no object in waiting, as i'm so busy; so i'll say good-bye now. remember to write when you get down. take care of yourself." he kissed his daughter, and was soon out of sight in the crowded station. anna had now really begun her first journey out into the world. chapter two. dornton. a bird of the air shall carry the matter. on the same afternoon as that on which anna was travelling towards waverley, mrs hunt, the doctor's wife in dornton, held one of her working parties. this was not at all an unusual event, for the ladies of dornton and the neighbourhood had undertaken to embroider some curtains for their beautiful old church, and this necessitated a weekly meeting of two hours, followed by the refreshment of tea, and conversation. the people of dornton were fond of meeting in each other's houses, and very sociably inclined. they met to work, they met to read shakespeare, they met to sing and to play the piano, they met to discuss interesting questions, and they met to talk. it was not, perhaps, so much what they met to do that was the important thing, as the fact of meeting. "so pleasant to _meet_, isn't it?" one lady would say to the other. "i'm not very musical, you know, but i've joined the glee society, because it's an excuse for _meeting_." and, certainly, of all the houses in dornton where these meetings were held, dr hunt's was the favourite. mrs hunt was so amiable and pleasant, the tea was so excellent, and the conversation of a most superior flavour. there was always the chance, too, that the doctor might look in for a moment at tea-time, and though he was discretion itself, and never gossiped about his patients, it was interesting to gather from his face whether he was anxious, or the reverse, as to any special case. this afternoon, therefore, mrs hunt's drawing-room presented a busy and animated scene. it was a long, low room, with french windows, through which a pleasant old garden, with a wide lawn and shady trees, glimpses of red roofs beyond, and a church tower, could be seen. little tables were placed at convenient intervals, holding silk, scissors, cushions full of needles and pins, and all that could be wanted for the work in hand, which was to be embroidered in separate strips; over these many ladies were already deeply engaged, though it was quite early, and there were still some empty seats. "shall we see mrs forrest this afternoon?" asked one of those who sat near the hostess at the end of the room. "i think not," replied mrs hunt, as she greeted a new-comer; "she told me she had to drive out to losenick about the character of a maid-servant." "oh, well," returned the other with a little shake of the head, "even mrs forrest can't manage to be in two places at once, can she?" mrs hunt smiled, and looked pleasantly round on her assembled guests, but did not make any other answer. "although i was only saying this morning, there's very little mrs forrest can't do if she makes up her mind to it," resumed miss gibbins, the lady who had first spoken. "look at all her arrangements at waverley! it's well known that she manages the schools almost entirely--and then her house--so elegant, so orderly--and such a way with her maids! _some_ people consider her a little stiff in her manner, but i don't _know_ that i should call her that." she glanced inquiringly at mrs hunt, who still smiled and said nothing. "it's not such a very difficult thing," said mrs hurst, the wife of the curate of dornton, "to be a good manager, or to have good servants, if you have plenty of money." she pressed her lips together rather bitterly, as she bent over her work. "there was one thing, though," pursued miss gibbins, dropping her voice a little, "that mrs forrest was not able to prevent, and that was her brother-in-law's marriage. i happen to know that she felt that very much. and it _was_ a sad mistake altogether, wasn't it?" she addressed herself pointedly to mrs hunt, who was gazing serenely out into the garden, and that lady murmured in a soft tone: "poor prissy goodwin! how pretty and nice she was!" "oh, as to that, dear mrs hunt," broke in a stout lady with round eyes and a very deep voice, who had newly arrived, "that's not quite the question. poor prissy was very pretty, and very nice and refined, and as good as gold. we all know that. but _was_ it the right marriage for mr bernard forrest? an organist's daughter! or you might even say, a music-master's daughter!" "old mr goodwin has aged very much lately," remarked mrs hunt. "i met him this morning, looking so tired, that i made him come in and rest a little. he had been giving a lesson to mrs palmer's children out at pynes." "how kind and thoughtful of you, dear mrs hunt," said miss gibbins. "that's very far for him to walk. i wonder he doesn't give it up. i suppose, though, he can't afford to do that." "i don't think he has ever been the same man since prissy's marriage," said mrs hunt, "though he plays the organ more beautifully than ever." with her spectacles perched upon her nose, her hands crossed comfortably on her lap, and a most beaming smile on her face, mrs hunt looked the picture of contented idleness, while her guests stitched away busily, with flying fingers, and heads bent over their work. she had done about half an inch of the pattern on her strip, and now, her needle being unthreaded, made no attempt to continue it. "delia's coming in presently," she remarked placidly, meeting miss gibbins' sharp glance as it rested on her idle hands; "she will take my work a little while--ah, here she is," as the door opened. a girl of about sixteen came towards them, stopping to speak to the ladies as she passed them on her way up the room. she was short for her age, and rather squarely built, holding herself very upright, and walking with calmness and decision. everything about delia hunt seemed to express determination, from her firm chin to her dark curly hair, which would always look rough, although it was brushed back from her forehead and fastened up securely in a knot at the back of her head. nothing could make it lie flat and smooth, however, and in spite of all delia's efforts, it curled and twisted itself defiantly wherever it had a chance. perhaps, by doing so, it helped to soften a face which would have been a little hard without the good-tempered expression which generally filled the bright brown eyes. "that sort of marriage never answers," said mrs winn, as delia reached her mother's side. "just see what unhappiness it caused. it was a bitter blow to mr and mrs forrest; it made poor old mr goodwin miserable, and separated him from his only child; and as to prissy herself--well, the poor thing didn't live to find out her mistake, and left her little daughter to feel the consequences of it." "poor little motherless darling," murmured mrs hunt.--"del, my love, go on with my work a little, while i say a few words to old mrs crow." delia took her mother's place, threaded her needle, raised her eyebrows with an amused air, as she examined the work accomplished, and bent her head industriously over it. "doesn't it seem quite impossible," said miss gibbins, "to realise that prissy's daughter is really coming to waverley to-morrow! why, it seems the other day that i saw prissy married in dornton church!" "it must be fifteen years ago at the least," said mrs winn, in such deep tones that they seemed to roll round the room. "the child must be fourteen years old." "she wore grey cashmere," said miss gibbins, reflectively, "and a little white bonnet. and the sun streamed in upon her through the painted window. i remember thinking she looked like a dove. i wonder if the child is like her." "the forrests have never taken much notice of mr goodwin, since the marriage," said mrs hurst, "but i suppose, now his grandchild is to live there, all that will be altered." delia looked quickly up at the speaker, but checked the words on her lips, and said nothing. "you can't do away with the ties of blood," said mrs winn; "the child's his grandchild. you can't ignore that." "why should you want to ignore it?" asked delia, suddenly raising her eyes and looking straight at her. the attack was so unexpected that mrs winn had no answer ready. she remained speechless, with her large grey eyes wider open than usual, for quite a minute before she said, "these are matters, delia, which you are too young to understand." "perhaps i am," answered delia; "but i can understand one thing very well, and that is, that mr goodwin is a grandfather that any one ought to be proud of, and that, if his relations are not proud of him, it is because they're not worthy of him." "oh, well," said miss gibbins, shaking her head rather nervously as she looked at delia, "we all know what a champion mr goodwin has in you, delia. `music with its silver sound' draws you together, as shakespeare says. and, of course, we're all proud of our organist in dornton, and, of course, he has great talent. still, you know, when all's said and done, he _is_ a music-master, and in quite a different position from the forrests." "socially," said mrs winn, placing her large, white hand flat on the table beside her, to emphasise her words, "mr goodwin is not on the same footing. when delia is older she will know what that means." "i know it now," replied delia. "i never consider them on the same footing at all. there are plenty of clergymen everywhere, but where could you find any one who can play the violin like mr goodwin?" she fixed her eyes with innocent inquiry on mrs winn. mrs hurst bridled a little. "i do think," she said, "that clergymen occupy a position quite apart. i like mr goodwin very much. i've always thought him a nice old gentleman, and herbert admires his playing, but--" "of course, of course," said mrs winn, "we must be all agreed as to that.--you're too fond, my dear delia, of giving your opinion on subjects where ignorance should keep you silent. a girl of your age should try to behave herself, lowly and reverently, to all her betters." "so i do," said delia, with a smile; "in fact, i feel so lowly and reverent sometimes, that i could almost worship mr goodwin. i am ready to humble myself to the dust, when i hear him playing the violin." mrs winn was preparing to make a severe answer to this, when miss gibbins, who was tired of being silent, broke adroitly in, and changed the subject. "you missed a treat last thursday, mrs winn, by losing the shakespeare reading. it was rather far to get out to pynes, to be sure, but it was worth the trouble, to hear mrs hurst read `arthur.'" the curate's wife gave a little smile, which quickly faded as miss gibbins continued: "i had no idea there was anything so touching in shakespeare. positively melting! and then mrs palmer looked so well! she wore that rich plum-coloured silk, you know, with handsome lace, and a row of most beautiful lockets. i thought to myself, as she stood up to read in that sumptuous drawing-room, that the effect was regal. `regal,' i said afterwards, is the only word to express mrs palmer's appearance this afternoon." "what part did mrs palmer read?" asked delia, as miss gibbins looked round for sympathy. "let me see. dear me, it's quite escaped my memory. ah, i have it. it was the mother of the poor little boy, but i forget her name.--you will know, mrs hurst; you have such a memory!" "it was constance," said the curate's wife. "mrs palmer didn't do justice to the part. it was rather too much for her. indeed, i don't consider that they arranged the parts well last time. they gave my husband nothing but `messengers,' and the vicar had `king john.' now, i don't want to be partial, but i think most people would agree that herbert reads shakespeare _rather_ better than the vicar." "i wonder," said miss gibbins, turning to delia, as the murmur of assent to this speech died away, "that you haven't joined us yet, but i suppose your studies occupy you at present." "but i couldn't read aloud, in any case, before a lot of people," said delia, "and shakespeare must be so very difficult." "you'd get used to it," said miss gibbins. "i remember," with a little laugh, "how nervous _i_ felt the first time i stood up to read. my heart beat so fast i thought it would choke me. the first sentence i had to say was, `cut him in pieces!' and the words came out quite in a whisper. but now i can read long speeches without losing my breath or feeling at all uncomfortable." "i like the readings," said mrs hurst, "because they keep up one's knowledge of shakespeare, and that _must_ be refining and elevating, as herbert says." "so pleasant, too, that the clergy can join," added miss gibbins. "mrs crow objects to that," said mrs hurst. "she told me once she considered it wrong, because they might be called straight away from reading plays to attend a deathbed. herbert, of course, doesn't agree with her, or he wouldn't have helped to get them up. he has a great opinion of shakespeare as an elevating influence, and though he _did_ write plays, they're hardly ever acted. he doesn't seem, somehow, to have much to do with the theatre." "between ourselves," said miss gibbins, sinking her voice and glancing to the other end of the room, where mrs crow's black bonnet was nodding confidentially at mrs hunt, "dear old mrs crow is _rather_ narrow-minded. i should think the presence of the vicar at the readings might satisfy her that all was right." "the presence of _any_ clergyman," began mrs hurst, "ought to be sufficient warrant that--" but her sentence was not finished, for at this moment a little general rustle at the further end of the room, the sudden ceasing of conversation, and the door set wide open, showed that it was time to adjourn for tea. work was rolled up, thimbles and scissors put away in work-bags, and very soon the whole assembly had floated across the hall into the dining-room, and was pleasantly engaged upon mrs hunt's hospitable preparations for refreshment. brisk little remarks filled the air as they stood about with their teacups in their hands. "i never can resist your delicious scones, mrs hunt.--home-made? you don't say so. i wish my cook could make them."--"thank you, delia; i _will_ take another cup of coffee: yours is always so good."--"such a pleasant afternoon! dear me, nearly five o'clock? how time flies."--"dr hunt very busy? fever in back row? so sorry. but decreasing? so glad."--"good-bye, _dear_ mrs hunt. we meet next thursday, i hope?"--and so on, until the last lady had said farewell and smiled affectionately at her hostess, and a sudden silence fell on the room, left in the possession of delia and her mother. "del, my love," said the latter caressingly, "go and put the drawing-room straight, and see that all those things are cleared away. i will try to get a little nap. dear old mrs crow had so much to tell me that my head quite aches." delia went into the deserted drawing-room, where the chairs and tables, standing about in the little groups left by their late occupiers, still seemed to have a confidential air, as though they were telling each other interesting bits of news. she moved about with a preoccupied frown on her brow, picking up morsels of silk from the floor, rolling up strips of serge, and pushing back chairs and tables, until the room had regained its ordinary look. then she stretched her arms above her head, gave a sigh of relief, and strolled out of the open french windows into the garden. the air was very calm and still, so that various mingled noises from the town could be plainly heard, though not loudly enough to produce more than a subdued hum, which was rather soothing than otherwise. amongst them the deep recurring tones of the church bell, ringing for evening prayers, fell upon delia's ear as she wandered slowly up the gravel path, her head full of busy thoughts. they were not wholly pleasant thoughts, and they had to do chiefly with two people, one very well known to her, and the other quite a stranger-- mr goodwin, and his grandchild, anna forrest. delia could hardly make up her mind whether she were pleased or annoyed at the idea of anna's arrival. of course she was glad, she told herself, of anything that would please the "professor," as she always called mr goodwin; and she was curious and anxious to see what the new-comer would be like, for perhaps they might be companions and friends, though anna was two years younger than herself. she could not, however, prevent a sort of suspicion that made her feel uneasy. anna might be proud. she might even speak of the professor in the condescending tone which so many people used in dornton. mrs forrest at waverley always looked proud, delia thought. perhaps anna would be like her. "if she is," said delia to herself, suddenly stopping to snap off the head of a snapdragon which grew in an angle of the old red wall--"if she is--if she dares--if she doesn't see that the professor is worth more than all the people in dornton--_i will_ despise her--i will--" she stopped and shook her head. "and if it's the other way, and she loves and honours him as she ought, and is everything to him, and, and, takes my place, what shall i do then? why, then, i will try not to detest her." she laughed a little as she stooped to gather some white pinks which bordered the path, and fastened them in her dress. "pretty she is sure to be," she continued to herself, "like her mother, whom they never mention without praise--and she is almost certain to love music. dear old professor, how pleased he will be! i will try not to mind, but i do hope she can't play the violin as well as i do. after all, it would be rather unfair if she had a beautiful face and a musical soul as well." the bell stopped, and the succeeding silence was harshly broken by the shrill whistle of a train. "there's the five o'clock train," said delia to herself; "to-morrow by this time she will be here." mrs winn and miss gibbins meanwhile had pursued their way home together, for they lived close to each other. "it's a pity delia hunt has such blunt manners, isn't it?" said the latter regretfully, "and such very decided opinions for a young girl? it's not at all becoming. i felt quite uncomfortable just now." "she'll know better by-and-by," said mrs winn. "there's a great deal of good in delia, but she is conceited and self-willed, like all young people." miss gibbins sighed. "she'll never be so amiable as her dear mother," she said.--"why!" suddenly changing her tone to one of surprise, "isn't that mr oswald?" "yes, i think so," said mrs winn, gazing after the spring-cart which had passed them rapidly. "what then?" "he had a _child_ with him," said miss gibbins impressively. "a child with fair hair, like prissy goodwin's, and they came from the station. something tells me it was prissy's daughter." "nonsense, julia," replied mrs winn; "she's not expected till to-morrow. mrs forrest told mrs hunt so herself. besides, how should mr oswald have anything to do with meeting her? that was his own little girl with him, i daresay." "daisy oswald has close-cropped, black hair," replied miss gibbins, quite unshaken in her opinion. "this child was older, and her hair shone like gold. i feel sure it was prissy's daughter." chapter three. waverley. meadows trim with daisies pied, shallow brooks and rivers wide. milton. while this went on at dornton, anna was getting nearer and nearer to her new home. at first she was pleased and excited at setting forth on a journey all by herself, and found plenty to occupy her with all she saw from the carriage windows, and with wondering which of the villages and towns she passed so rapidly were like dornton and waverley. it was surprising that the old lady sitting opposite to her could look so placid and calm. perhaps, however, she was not going to a strange place amongst new people, and most likely had taken a great many journeys already in her life. anna was glad this was not her own ease: it must be very dull, she thought, to be old, and to have got used to everything, and to have almost nothing to look forward to. as the day wore on, and the hot afternoon sun streamed in at the windows, the old lady, who was her only companion, fell fast asleep, and anna began to grow rather weary. she took the case with her mother's picture in it out of her pocket and studied it again attentively. the gentle, sweet face seemed to smile back kindly at her. "if you are half as beautiful and a quarter as good," her father had said. was she at all like the picture now? anna wondered. surely her hair was rather the same colour. she pulled a piece of it round to the front--it was certainly yellow, but hardly so bright. well, her grandfather would tell her--she would ask him on the very first opportunity. her grandfather! it was wonderful to think she should really see him soon, and ask him all sorts of questions about her mother. he lived at dornton, but that was only two miles from waverley, and, no doubt, she should often be able to go there. he was an organist. her father's tone, half-pitying, half-disapproving, came back to her with the word. she tried to think of what she knew about organists. it was not much. there was an organist in the church in london to which she had gone every sunday with miss milverton, but he was always concealed behind red curtains, so that she did not even know what he looked like. the organist must certainly be an important person in a church. anna did not see how the service could get on without him. what a pity that her grandfather did not play the organ in her uncle john's church, instead of at dornton! she made a great many resolves as she sat there, with her mother's portrait in her hand: she would be very fond of her grandfather, and, of course, he would be very fond of her; and as he lived all alone, there would be a great many things she could do to make him happier. she pictured herself becoming very soon his chief comforter and companion, and began to wonder how he had done without her so long. lost in these thoughts, she hardly noticed that the train had begun to slacken its pace; presently, it stopped at a large station. the old lady roused herself, tied her bonnet strings, and evidently prepared for a move. "you're going farther, my dear," she said kindly. "dornton is the next station but one. you won't mind being alone a little while?" she nodded and smiled from the platform. anna handed out her numerous parcels and baskets: the train moved on, and she was now quite alone. she might really begin to look out for dornton, which must be quite near. it seemed a long time coming, however, and she had made a good many false starts, grasping her rugs and umbrella, before there was an unmistakable shout of "dornton!" she got out and looked up and down the platform, but it was easy to see that mrs forrest was not there. two porters, a newspaper boy, and one or two farmers, were moving about in the small station, but no one in the least like aunt sarah. anna stood irresolute. she had been so certain that aunt sarah would be there, that she had not even wondered what she should do in any other case. mrs forrest had promised to come herself, and anna could not remember that she had ever failed to carry out her arrangements at exactly the time named. "if it had been father, now," she said to herself in her perplexity, "he would perhaps have forgotten, but aunt sarah--" "any luggage, miss?" asked the red-faced young porter. "oh yes, please," said anna; "and i expected some one to meet me--a lady." she looked anxiously at him. "do 'ee want to go into the town?" he asked, as anna pointed out her trunks. "there's a omnibus outside." "no; i want to go to waverley vicarage," said anna, feeling very deserted. "how can i get there?" she followed the porter as he wheeled the boxes outside the station, where a small omnibus was waiting, and also a high spring-cart, in which sat a well-to-do-looking farmer. "you ain't seen no one from waverley, mr oswald?" said the porter. "this 'ere young lady expects some one to meet her." the farmer looked thoughtfully at anna. "waverley, eh," he repeated, "vicarage?" "ah," said the porter, nodding. another long gaze. "well, i'm going by the gate myself," he said at last. "i reckon molly wouldn't make much odds of the lot," glancing at the luggage, "if the young lady would like a lift." "perhaps," said anna, hesitatingly, "i'd better have a cab, as mrs forrest is not here." "i could order you a fly at the blue boar," said the porter. "'twouldn't be ready, not for a half-hour or so. mr oswald 'd get yer over a deal quicker." no cabs! what a strange place, and how unlike london! anna glanced uncertainly at the high cart, the tall strawberry horse stamping impatiently, and the good-natured, brown face of the farmer. it would be an odd way of arriving at waverley, and she was not at all sure that aunt sarah would approve of it; but what was she to do? it was very kind of the farmer; would he expect to be paid? "better come along, missie," said mr oswald, as these thoughts passed rapidly through her mind. "you'll be over in a brace of shakes.--hoist them things in at the back, jim." almost before she knew it, anna had taken the broad hand held out to help her, had mounted the high step, and was seated by the farmer's side. "any port in a storm, eh?" he said, good-naturedly, as he put the rug over her knees.--"all right at the back, jim?" a shake of the reins, and molly dashed forward with a bound that almost threw anna off her seat, and whirled the cart out of the station-yard at what seemed to her a fearful pace. "she'll quiet down directly," said mr oswald; "she's fretted a bit standing at the station. don't ye be nervous, missie; there's not a morsel of harm in her." nevertheless, anna felt obliged to grasp the side of the cart tightly as molly turned into the principal street of dornton, which was wide, and, fortunately, nearly empty. what a quiet, dull-looking street it was, after the noisy rattle of london, and how low and small the shops and houses looked! if only molly would go a little slower! "yonder's the church," said mr oswald, pointing up a steep side-street with his whip; "and yonder's the river," waving it in the opposite direction. anna turned her head quickly, and caught a hurried glimpse of a grey tower on one side, and a thin white streak in the distant, low-lying meadows on the other. "and here's the new bank," continued mr oswald, with some pride, as they passed a tall, red brick building which seemed to stare the other houses out of countenance; "and the house inside the double white gates is dr hunt's." "i suppose you know dornton very well?" anna said as he paused. "been here, man and boy, a matter of forty years--leastways, in the neighbourhood," replied the farmer. "then you know where mr goodwin lives, i suppose?" said anna. "which of 'em?" said the farmer. "there's mr goodwin, the baker; and mr goodwin, the organist at saint mary's." "oh, the organist," said anna. "to be sure i do. he lives in number back row. you can't see it from here; it's an ancient part of dornton, in between high street and market street. he's been here a sight of years--every one knows mr goodwin-- he's as well known as the parish church is." anna felt pleased to hear that. it convinced her that her grandfather must be an important person, although back row did not sound a very important place. "how fast your horse goes," she said, by way of continuing the conversation, for, after her long silence in the train, it was quite pleasant to talk to somebody. "ah, steps out, doesn't she?" said the farmer, with a gratified chuckle. "you won't beat her for pace _this_ side of the county. she was bred at leas farm, and she's a credit to it." they were now clear of the town, and had turned off the dusty high-road into a lane, with high hedges on either side. "oh, how pretty!" cried anna. she could see over these hedges, across the straggling wreaths of dog-roses and clematis, to the meadows on either hand, where the tall grass, sprinkled with silvery ox-eyed daisies, stood ready for hay. beyond these again came the deep brown of some ploughed land, and now and then bits of upland pasture, with cows and sheep feeding. the river dorn, which mr oswald had pointed out from the town, wound its zigzag course along the valley, which they were now leaving behind them. as they mounted a steep hill, molly had considerably slackened her speed, so that anna could look about at her ease and observe all this. "what a beautiful place this is!" she exclaimed with delight. "well enough," said the farmer; "nice open country. yonder pasture, where the cows are, belongs to me; if you're stopping at waverley, missie, i can show you a goodish lot of cows at leas farm." "oh, i should love to see them!" said anna. "my little daughter 'll be proud to show 'em yer; she's just twelve years old, daisy is. now, you wouldn't guess what i gave her as a birthday present?" "no," said anna; "i can't guess at all." "'twas as pretty a calf as you ever saw, with a white star on its forehead. nothing would do after that but i must buy her a collar for it. `puppa,' she says, `when you go into dornton, you must get me a collar and a bell, like there is in my picture-book.' my word!" said the farmer, slapping his knee, "how all the beasts carried on when they first heard that bell in the farmyard! you never saw such antics! it was like as if they were clean mad!" he threw back his head and gave a jolly laugh at the bare recollection; it was so hearty and full of enjoyment, that anna felt obliged to laugh a little too. "here you are, my lass," he said, touching molly lightly with the whip as they reached the top of the hill. "all level ground now between here and waverley.--now, what are you shying at?" as molly swerved away from a stile in the hedge. it was at an old man who was climbing slowly over it into the steep lane. he wore shabby, black clothes: his shoulders were bent, and his grey hair rather long; in his hand he carried a violin-case. "that's the mr goodwin you were asking after, missie," said the farmer, touching his hat with his whip, as they passed quickly by. "looks tired, poor old gentleman; hot day for a long walk." anna started and looked eagerly back, but molly's long stride had already placed a good distance between herself and the figure which was descending the hill. that her grandfather! was it possible? he looked so poor, so dusty, so old, such a contrast to the merry june evening, as he tramped wearily down the flowery lane, a little bent to one side by the weight of his violin-case. not an important or remarkable person, such as she had pictured to herself, but a tired old man, of whom the farmer spoke in a tone of pity. her father had done so too, she remembered. did every one pity her grandfather? there was all the more need, certainly, that she should help and cheer him, yet anna felt vaguely disappointed, she hardly knew why. these thoughts chased away her smiles completely, and such a grave expression took their place that the farmer noticed the change. "tired, missie, eh?" he inquired. "well, we're there now, so to speak. yonder's the spire of waverley church, and the vicarage is close against it--steady then, lass," as molly objected to turning in at a white gate. "it's a terrible business is travelling by rail," he continued, "to take the spirit out of you; i'd sooner myself ride on horseback for a whole day, than sit in a train half a one." a long, narrow road, with iron railings on either side, dividing it from broad meadows, brought them to another gate, which the farmer got down to open, and then led molly up to the porch of the vicarage. a boy running out from the stable-yard close by stood at the horse's head while mr oswald carefully helped anna down from her high seat, took out her trunks from the back of the cart, and rang the bell. again the question of payment troubled her, but he did not leave her long to consider it. "well, you're landed now, missie," he said with his good-natured smile, as he took the reins and turned the impatient molly towards the gate; "so i'll say good-day to you, and my respects to mr and mrs forrest." molly seemed to anna to make but one bound from the door to the gate, and to carry the cart and the farmer out of sight, while she was still murmuring her thanks. she turned to the maid-servant, who had opened the door and was gazing at her and her boxes with some surprise. "yes, miss," she said, in answer to anna's inquiry; "mrs forrest is at home; she's in the garden, if you'll please to come this way; we didn't expect you till to-morrow." through the door opposite, anna could see a lawn, a tea-table under a large tree, a gentleman in a wicker chair, and a lady, in a broad-brimmed hat, sauntering about with a watering-pot in her hand. when she saw anna following the maid, the lady dropped her watering-pot, and stood rooted to the ground in an attitude of intense surprise. "why, anna!" she exclaimed. "didn't you expect me, aunt sarah?" said anna. "father said you would meet me to-day." "now," said mrs forrest, turning round to her husband in the wicker chair, "isn't that exactly like your brother bernard?" "well, in the meantime, here is anna, safe and sound," he replied; "so there's no harm done.--come and sit down in the shade, my dear; you've had a hot journey." "where's your luggage?" continued mrs forrest, as she kissed her niece. "did you walk up from the station, and leave it there?" "oh no, aunt; i didn't know the way," said anna. she began to feel afraid she had done quite the wrong thing in coming with mr oswald. "oh, you had to take a fly," said mrs forrest. "it's a most provoking thing altogether." "it doesn't really matter much, my dear, does it?" said mr forrest, as he placed a chair for his niece. "she's managed to get here without any accident, although you did not meet her.--suppose you give us some tea." "i took the trouble to make a note of the train and day," continued mrs forrest, "and i repeated them twice to bernard, so that there should be no mistake." "well, you couldn't have done more," said mr forrest, soothingly. "bernard always was a forgetful fellow, you know." "such a very unsuitable thing for the child to arrive quite alone at the station, and no one to meet her there! and i had made all my arrangements for to-morrow so carefully." as anna drank her tea, she listened to all this, and intended every moment to mention that mr oswald had driven her from the station, but she was held back by a mixture of shyness and fear of what her aunt would say; perhaps she had done something very silly, and what mrs forrest would call unsuitable! at any rate, it was easier just now to leave her under the impression that she had taken a fly; but, of course, directly she got a chance, she would tell her all about it. for some time, however, mrs forrest continued to lament that her arrangements had not been properly carried out, and when the conversation did change, anna had a great many questions to answer about her father and his intended journey. then a message was brought out to her uncle, over which he and mrs forrest bent in grave consultation. she had now leisure to look about her. how pretty it all was! the long, low front of the vicarage stood facing her, with the smooth green lawn between them, and up the supports of the veranda there were masses of climbing plants in full bloom. the old part of the house had a very deep, red-tiled roof, with little windows poking out of it here and there, and the wing which the present vicar had built stood at right angles to it. anna thought her father was right in not admiring the new bit as much as the old, but, nevertheless, with the evening light resting on it, it all looked very pretty and peaceful just now. "and how do you like the look of waverley, anna?" asked mrs forrest. anna could answer with great sincerity that she thought it was a lovely place, and she said it so heartily that her aunt was evidently pleased. she kissed her. "i hope you will be happy whilst you are with us, my dear," she said, "and that waverley may always be full of pleasant recollections to you." anna was wakened next morning from a very sound sleep by a little tapping noise at her window, which she heard for some time in a sort of half-dream, without being quite roused by it; it was so persistent, however, that at last she felt she must open her eyes to find out what it was. where was she? for the first few minutes she looked round the room in puzzled surprise, and could not make out at all. it was so quiet, and clear, and bright, with sunbeams dancing about on the walls, so different altogether from the dingy, grey colour of a morning in london. soon, however, she remembered she was in the country at waverley; and her mother's picture on the toilet-table brought back to her mind all that had passed yesterday--her journey, her drive with the farmer, her grandfather in the lane. there were two things she must certainly do to-day, she told herself, as she watched the quivering shadows on the wall. first, she must ask her aunt to let her go at once and see her grandfather; and then she must tell her all about her arrival at the station yesterday, and how kindly farmer oswald had come to her help. it was strange that, now she had actually got to waverley, and was only two miles away from her grandfather, that she did not feel nearly so eager to talk to him as she had while she was on her journey. however, she need not think about that now. here she was at waverley, where it was all sunny and delightful; she should not see smoky london, or have any more walks in the park with her governess, for a long while, perhaps never again. she meant to enjoy herself, and be very happy, and nothing disagreeable or tiresome could happen in this beautiful place. there was the little tapping noise again! what could it be? anna jumped out of bed, went softly to the window, and drew up the blind. her bedroom was over the veranda, up which some cluster-roses had climbed, flung themselves in masses on the roof, and reached out some of their branches as far as the window-sill. one bold little bunch had pressed itself close up against the pane, and the tight pink buds clattered against it whenever they were stirred by the breeze. the tapping noise was fully accounted for, but anna could not turn away, it was all so beautiful and so new to her. she pushed up the window, and leaned out. what a lovely smell! there was a long bed of mignonette and heliotrope just below, but, besides the fragrance from this, the air was full of all the sweet scents which belong to an early summer morning in the country. what nice, curious noises, too, all mixed up together! the bees buzzing in the flowers beneath, the little winds rustling in the leaves, the cheerful chirps and scraps of song from the birds, the crow of a distant cock, the deep, low cooing of the pigeons in the stable-yard near. anna longed to be out-of-doors, among these pleasant sights and sounds; she suddenly turned away, and began to dress herself quickly. the stable clock struck seven just as she was ready, and she ran down-stairs into the garden with a delightful sense of freedom. the sunshine was splendid; this was indeed different from walking in a london park; how happy she should be in this beautiful place! on exploring a little, she found that the garden was not nearly so large as it looked, for the end of it was hidden by a great walnut tree which stood on the lawn. behind this came a square piece of kitchen garden, divided from the fields by a sunk fence, with a little wooden foot-bridge across it. anna danced along by the side of the border, where the flowers stood in blooming luxuriance and the most perfect order. aunt sarah was justly proud of her garden, and at present it was in brilliant perfection. anna knew hardly any of their names, and indeed, except the roses, they were strange to her; she had not thought there could be so many kinds, and all so beautiful. reaching the kitchen garden, however, she found some old friends--a long row of sweet-peas, fluttering on their stems, like many-coloured butterflies poised for flight; these were familiar, for she had seen them in greengrocers' shops in london, tied up in tight, close bunches. how different they looked at waverley! the colours were twice as bright. "i like these best of all," she said aloud, and as she spoke, a step sounded on the gravel, and there was aunt sarah, in her garden hat, with a basket, and scissors in her hand. "you admire my sweet-peas, anna," she said, kissing her. "i came out to gather some. i find it is so much better to get my flowers before the sun is too hot. now, you can help me." they walked slowly along the hedge of sweet-peas together, picking them as they went. "what a beautiful garden yours is, aunt sarah," cried anna. mrs forrest looked pleased. "there are many larger ones about here," she said, "but i certainly think my flowers do me credit. i attend to them a great deal myself, but, of course, i cannot give them as much time as i should like. now you are come, we shall be busier than ever, because we must give some time every day to your studies." "miss milverton said she would write to you about the lessons i have been doing, aunt," said anna. "i have arranged," continued aunt sarah, "to read with you for an hour every morning; it is difficult to squeeze it in, but i have managed it. and then i am hoping that you will join in some lessons with the palmers--girls of your own age, who live near. if their governess will allow you to learn french and german with them, it would be a good plan, and would give you companions besides.--by the way, anna, miss milverton says in her letter that you don't make any progress in your music. how is that?" "i don't care very much for music," said anna. "i would much rather not go on with it, unless you want me to." she thought that her aunt looked rather relieved, as she remarked that it was useless for people who were not musical to waste their time in learning to play, and that she should not make a point of music-lessons at present. "now i must cut some roses," added mrs forrest, as she put the glowing bunches of sweet-peas into her basket. "come this way." anna followed to a little nursery of standard rose-trees near the foot-bridge. "what are those chimneys i can just see straight over the fields?" she asked her aunt. "leas farm," she replied. "it belongs to mr oswald, a very respectable farmer, who owns a good deal of land round here. we have our milk and butter from him. your uncle used to keep his own cows, but he found them a trouble, and mrs oswald is an excellent dairy woman." here was an opportunity for anna's explanation. the words were on her lips, when they were interrupted by the loud sound of a bell from the house. "the breakfast bell!" said mrs forrest, abruptly turning away from her roses, and beginning to hasten towards the house, without pausing a moment. "i hope you will always be particular in one point, my dear anna, and that is punctuality. more hangs upon it than most people recognise: the comfort of a household certainly does. if you are late for one thing, you are late for the next, and so on, until the whole day is thrown into disorder. i am obliged to map my day carefully out to get through my business, and i expect others to do the same. i speak seriously, because your father is one of the most unpunctual men i ever knew; and if you have inherited his failing, you cannot begin to struggle against it too soon." anna had not been many days at the vicarage before she found that punctuality was aunt sarah's idol, and that nothing offended her more than want of respect to it from others. certainly everything went like clockwork at waverley, and though anna fancied that mr forrest inwardly rebelled a little, he was outwardly quite submissive. all aunt sarah's arrangements and plans were so neatly fitted into each other that the least transgression in one upset the next, and the effect of this was that she had no odds and ends of leisure to spare. anna even found it difficult to put all the questions she had in her mind. "not now, my dear, i am engaged," was the frequent reply. she managed to learn, however, that a visit to her grandfather had already been planned for that week, and that mrs forrest intended to leave her at his house at dornton and fetch her again after driving farther on to make a call. with this she was obliged to be satisfied, and it was quite strange how, after a few days, the new surroundings and rules and pleasures of waverley seemed to make much that had filled her mind on her arrival fade and grow less important. she still wished to see her grandfather again; but the idea of being his chief comforter and support now seemed impossible, and rather foolish, and she would not have hinted it to aunt sarah on any account. neither did it seem necessary, as the days went on, to mention her drive with mr oswald and the accident of passing her grandfather in the lane. chapter four. the professor. ...i have heard a grave divine say that god has two dwellings--one in heaven, and the other in a meek and thankful heart.--_izaak walton_. "del, my love," said mrs hunt, "i feel one of my worst headaches coming on. will you go this afternoon to see mrs winn, instead of me?" delia stood under the medlar tree on the lawn, ready to go out, with a bunch of roses in her hand, and her violin-case. she looked at her mother inquiringly, for mrs hunt had not just then any appearance of discomfort. she was sitting in an easy canvas chair, a broad-brimmed hat upon her head, and a newspaper in her hands; her slippered feet rested on a little wooden stool, and on a table by her side were a cup of tea, a nicely buttered roll, and a few very ripe strawberries. "hadn't you better wait," said delia, after a moment's pause, "until you can go yourself? mrs winn would much rather see you. besides--it is my music afternoon." mrs hunt was looking up and down the columns of the paper while her daughter spoke: she did not answer at once, and when she did, it was scarcely an answer so much as a continuation of her own train of thoughts. "she has had a tickling cough for so many nights. she can hardly sleep for it, and i promised her a pot of my own black currant jelly." "it's a great deal out of my way," said delia. "if you go," continued mrs hunt, without raising her eyes, "you will find the row of little pots on the top shelf of the storeroom cupboard." delia bit her lip. "if i go," she said, "i must shorten my music-lesson." mrs hunt said nothing, but looked as amiable as ever. a frown gathered on delia's forehead: she stood irresolute for a minute, and then, with a sudden effort, turned and went quickly into the house. mrs hunt stirred her tea, tasted a strawberry, and leant back in her chair with a gentle sigh of comfort. in a few minutes delia reappeared hurriedly. "there is _no_ black currant jelly in the storeroom," she said, with an air of exasperation. mrs hunt looked up in mild surprise. "how strange!" she said. "could i have moved those pots? ah, now i remember! i had a dream that all the jam was mouldy, and so i moved it into that cupboard in the kitchen. that was why cook left. she didn't like me to use that cupboard for the jam." "and, meanwhile, where is it?" said delia. "such a wicked mother to give you so much trouble!" murmured mrs hunt, with a sweet smile. "but, del, my love, you must try not to look so morose for trifles--it gives _such_ an ugly turn to the features. you'll find the jelly in that nice corner cupboard in the kitchen. here's the key"--feeling in her pocket--"no; it is not here--where did i leave my keys? oh, you'll find them in the pocket of my black serge dress--and if they're not there, they are sure to be in the pocket of my gardening apron. my kind love to mrs winn. tell her to take it constantly in the night. and don't hurry, love, it's _so_ warm; you look heated already." in spite of this last advice, it was almost at a run that delia, having at last found the keys and the jam, set forth on her errand. perhaps, if she were very quick, she need not lose much time with the professor, after all, but she felt ruffled and rather cross at the delay. it was not an unusual frame of mind, for she was not naturally of a patient temper, and did not bear very well the little daily frets and jars of her life. she chafed inwardly as she went quickly on her way, that her music, which seemed to her the most important thing in the world, should be sacrificed to anything so uninteresting and dull as mrs winn's black currant jam. it was all the more trying this afternoon, because, since anna forrest's arrival, she had purposely kept away from the professor, and had not seen him for a whole fortnight. a mixed feeling of jealousy and pride had made her determined that anna should have every opportunity of making mr goodwin's acquaintance without any interference from herself. it was only just and right that his grandchild should have the first place in his affections, the place which hitherto had been her own. well, now she must take the second place, and if anna made the professor happier, it would not matter. at any rate, no one should know, however keenly she felt it. mrs winn, who was a widow, lived in an old-fashioned, red brick house facing the high street; it had a respectable, dignified appearance, suggesting solid comfort, like the person of its owner. mrs winn, however, was a lady not anxious for her own well-being only, but most charitably disposed towards others who were not so prosperous as herself. she was the vicar's right hand in all the various methods for helping the poor of his parish: clothing clubs, dorcas meetings, coal clubs, lending library, were all indebted to mrs winn for substantial aid, both in the form of money and personal help. she was looked up to as a power in dornton, and her house was much frequented by all those interested in parish matters, so that she was seldom to be found alone. perhaps, also, the fact that the delightful bow-window of her usual up-stairs sitting-room looked straight across to appleby's, the post-office and stationer, increased its attractions. "it makes it so lively," mrs winn was wont to observe. "i seldom pass a day, even if i don't go out, without seeing mr field, or mr hurst, or some of the country clergy, going in and out of appleby's. i never feel dull." to-day, to her great relief, delia found mrs winn quite alone. she was sitting at a table drawn up into the bow-window, busily engaged in covering books with whitey-brown paper. on her right was a pile of gaily bound volumes, blue, red, and purple, which were quickly reduced to a pale brown, unattractive appearance in her practised hands, and placed in a pile on her left. delia thought mrs winn looked whitey-brown as well as the books, for there was no decided colour about her: her eyes were pale, as well as the narrow line of hair which showed beneath the border of her white cap; and her dresses were always of a doubtful shade, between brown and grey. she welcomed delia kindly, but with the repressed air of severity which she always reserved for her. "how like your dear mother!" she exclaimed, on receiving the pot of jelly.--"yes; my cough is a little better, tell her, but i thought i would keep indoors to-day--and, you see, i've all these books to get through, so it's just as well. mr field got them in london for the library the other day." "what a pity they must be covered," said delia, glancing from one pile to the other; "the children would like the bright colours so much better." "a nice state they would be in, in a week," said mrs winn, stolidly, as she folded, and snipped, and turned a book about in her large, capable hands. "besides, it's better to teach the children not to care for pretty things." "is it?" said delia. "i should have thought that was just what they ought to learn." "the love of pretty things," said mrs winn, sternly, "is like the love of money, the root of all evil; and has led quite as many people astray.--all these books have to be labelled and numbered," she added, after a pause. "you might do some, delia, if you're not in a hurry." "oh, but i am," said delia, glancing at the clock. "i am going to mr goodwin for a lesson, and i am late already." mrs winn had, however, some information to give about mr goodwin. julia gibbins, who had just looked in, had met him on the way to give a lesson at pynes. "so," she added, "he can't possibly be home for another half-hour at least, you know; and you may just as well spend the time in doing something useful." with a little sigh of disappointment, delia took off her gloves and seated herself opposite to mrs winn. everything seemed against her to-day. "and how," said that lady, having supplied her with scissors and paper, "do you get on with anna forrest? you're with mr goodwin so much, i suppose you know her quite well by this time." "indeed, i don't," said delia. "i haven't even seen her yet; have you?" "i've seen her twice," said mrs winn. "she's pretty enough, though not to be compared to her mother; more like the forrests, and has her father's pleasant manners. if _looks_ were the only things to consider, she would do very well." "what's the matter with her?" asked delia, bluntly, for mrs winn spoke as though she knew much more than she expressed. "why, i've every reason to suppose," she began deliberately--then breaking off--"take care, delia," she exclaimed; "you're cutting that cover too narrow. let me show you. you must leave a good bit to tuck under, don't you see, or it will be off again directly." delia had never in her life been so anxious for mrs winn to finish a sentence, but she tried to control her impatience, and bent her attention to the brown paper cover. "it only shows," continued mrs winn, when her instructions were ended, "that i was right in what i said the other day about mr bernard forrest's marriage. that sort of thing never answers. that child has evidently been brought up without a strict regard for truth." "what has she done?" asked delia. "not, of course," said mrs winn, "that poor prissy could have had anything to do with that." the book delia held slipped from her impatient fingers, and fell to the ground flat on its face. "my _dear_ delia," said mrs winn, picking it up, and smoothing the leaves, with a shocked look, "the books get worn out quite soon enough, without being tossed about like that." "i'm very sorry," said delia, humbly.--"but do tell me what it is you mean about anna forrest." "it's nothing at all pleasant," said mrs winn, "but as you're likely to see something of her, you ought to know that i've every reason to believe that she's not quite straightforward. now, with all your faults, delia--and you've plenty of them--i never found you untruthful." she fixed her large, round eyes on her companion for a moment, but as delia made no remark, resumed-- "on the evening of your last working party but one, julia gibbins and i saw mr oswald of leas farm driving anna forrest from the station. of course, we didn't know her then. but julia felt sure it was anna, and it turned out she was right. curiously enough, we met mrs forrest and the child in appleby's shortly after, and mrs forrest said how unlucky it had been that there was a confusion about the day of her niece's arrival, and no one to meet her at the station; but, fortunately, she said, anna was sensible enough to take a fly, so that was all right. now, you see, my dear delia, she _didn't_ take a fly," added mrs winn, solemnly, "so she must have deceived her aunt." mrs winn's most important stories had so often turned out to be founded on mistakes, that delia was not much impressed by this one, nor disposed to think worse of anna because of it. "oh, i daresay there's a mistake somewhere," she said, lightly, rising and picking up her flowers and her violin-case. "i must go now, mrs winn; the professor will be back by the time i get there--good-bye." she hurried out of the room before mrs winn could begin another sentence; for long experience had taught her that the subject would not be exhausted for a long while, and that a sudden departure was the only way of escape. a quarter of an hour's quick walk brought her to number back row, and looking in at the sitting-room window, as her custom was, she saw that the professor had indeed arrived before her. his dwelling was a contrast in every way to that of mrs winn. for one thing, instead of standing boldly out before the world of dornton high street, it was smuggled away, with a row of little houses like itself, in a narrow sort of passage, enclosed between two wide streets. this passage ended in a blank wall, and was, besides, too narrow for any but foot-passengers to pass up it, so that it would have been hard to find a quieter or more retired spot. the little, old houses in it were only one storey high, and very solidly built, with thick walls, and the windows in deep recesses; before each a strip of garden, and a gravel walk stretched down to a small gate. back row was the very oldest part of dornton, and though the houses were small, they had always been lived in by respectable people, and preserved a certain air of gentility. without waiting to knock, delia hurried in at the door of number , which led straight into the sitting-room. the professor was leaning back in his easy-chair, his boots white with dust, and an expression of fatigue and dejection over his whole person. "oh, professor," was her first remark, as she threw down her violin-case, "you _do_ look tired! have you had your tea?" "i believe, my dear," he replied, rather faintly, "mrs cooper has not come in yet." mrs cooper was a charwoman, who came in at uncertain intervals to cook the professor's meals and clean his rooms: as he was not exacting, the claims of her other employers were always satisfied first, and if she were at all busier than usual, he often got scanty attention. without waiting to hear more, delia made her way to the little kitchen, and set about her preparations in a very business-like manner. she was evidently well acquainted with the resources of the household, for she bustled about, opening cupboards, and setting tea-things on a tray, as though she were quite at home. in a wonderfully short time she had prepared a tempting meal, and carried it into the sitting-room, so that, when the professor came back from changing his boots, he found everything quite ready. his little round table, cleared of the litter of manuscripts and music-books, was drawn up to the open window, and covered with a white cloth. on it there was some steaming coffee, eggs, and bread and butter, a bunch of roses in the middle, and his arm-chair placed before it invitingly. he sank into it with a sigh of comfort and relief. "how very good your coffee smells, delia!" he said; "quite different from mrs cooper's." "i daresay, if the truth were known," said delia, carefully pouring it out, "that you had no dinner to speak of before you walked up to pynes and back again." "i had a sandwich," answered mr goodwin, meekly, for delia was bending a searching and severe look upon him. "then mrs cooper didn't come!" she exclaimed. "really we ought to look out for some one else: i believe she does it on purpose." "now i beg of you, delia," said the professor, leaning forward earnestly, "not to send mrs cooper away. she's a very poor woman, and would miss the money. she told me only the last time she was here that the doctor had ordered cod-liver oil for the twins, and she couldn't afford to give it them." "oh, the twins!" said delia, with a little scorn. "well, my dear, she _has_ twins; she brought them here once in a perambulator." "but that's no reason at all she should not attend properly to you," said delia. mr goodwin put down his cup of coffee, which he had begun to drink with great relish, and looked thoroughly cast down. delia laughed a little. "well, i won't, then," she said. "mrs cooper shall stay, and neglect her duties, and spoil your food as long as you like." "thank you, my dear," said the professor, brightening up again, "she really does extremely well, though, of course, she doesn't"--glancing at the table--"make things look so nice as you do." delia blamed herself for staying away so long, when she saw with what contented relish her old friend applied himself to the simple fare she had prepared; it made her thoroughly ashamed to think that he should have suffered neglect through her small feelings of jealousy and pride. he should not be left for a whole fortnight again to mrs cooper's tender mercies. "we are to have a lesson to-night, i hope," said mr goodwin presently; "it must be a long time since we had one, delia, isn't it?" "a whole fortnight," she answered, "but"--glancing wistfully at her violin-case--"you've had such hard work to-day, i know, if you've been to pynes; perhaps it would be better to put it off." but mr goodwin would not hear of this: it would refresh him; it would put the other lessons out of his head; they would try over the last sonata he had given delia to practise. "did you make anything of it?" he asked. "it is rather difficult." delia's face, which until now had been full of smiles and happiness, clouded over mournfully. "oh, professor," she cried, "i'm in despair about my practising. if i could get some more clear time to it, i know i could get on. but it's always the same; the days get frittered up into tiny bits with things which don't seem to matter, and i feel i don't make any way; just as i am getting a hard passage right, i have to break off." this was evidently not a new complaint to mr goodwin. "well, well, my dear," he said, kindly, "we will try it over together, and see how we get on; i daresay it is better than you think." delia quickly collected the tea-things and carried them into the kitchen, to prevent any chance of mrs cooper clattering and banging about the room during the lesson; then she took out her violin, put her music on the stand, and began to play, without more ado; the professor leaning back in his chair meanwhile, with closed eyes, and ears on the alert to detect faults or passages wrongly rendered. as he sat there, perfectly still, a calm expression came into his face, which made him for the time look much younger than was usually the case. he was not a very old man, but past troubles had left their traces in deep lines and wrinkles, and his hair was quite white; only his eyes preserved that look of eternal youth which is sometimes granted to those whose thoughts have always been unselfish, kindly, and generous. delia played on, halting a little over difficult passages, and as she played, the professor's face changed with the music, showing sometimes an agony of anxiety during an intricate bit, and relaxing into a calm smile when she got to smooth water again. once, as though urged by some sudden impulse, he rose and began to stride up and down the room; but when she saw this, delia dropped her bow, and said in a warning voice, "now, professor!" when he at once resumed his seat, and waited patiently until she had finished. "it won't do, delia," he said; "you've got the idea, but you can't carry it out." "oh, i know," she replied, mournfully. "i know how bad it is, and the worst of it is, that i can hear how it ought to be all the time." "no," he said, quickly, "that's not the worst of it; that's the best of it. if you were satisfied with it as it is, you would be a hopeless pupil. but you've something of the true artist in you, delia. the true artist, you know, is never satisfied." "i believe, though," said delia, "that if i could shut myself up alone somewhere for a time with my violin, and no one to disturb me, i should be able to do something. i might not be satisfied, but oh, how happy i should be! as it is--" "as it is, you must do as greater souls have done before you," put in the professor--"win your way towards your ideal through troubles and hindrances." "i don't get far, though," said delia, mournfully. "do you think you would get far by shutting yourself away from the common duties of your life?" said mr goodwin, in a kind voice. "it's a very poor sort of talent that wants petting and coaxing like that. those great souls in the past who have taught us most, have done it while reaching painfully up to their vision through much that thwarted and baffled them. their lives teach us as well as their art, and believe me, delia, when the artist's life fails in duty and devotion, his art fails too in some way." "it is so hard to remember that all those dusty, little, everyday things matter," said delia. "but if you think of what they stand for, they do matter very much. call them self-discipline, and patience, and they are very important, above all, to an artist. i have heard people say," continued mr goodwin, reflectively, "that certain failings of temper and self-control are to be excused in artists, because their natures are sensitive. now, that seems to me the very reason that they should be better than other people--more open to good influences. and i believe, when this has not been so, it has been owing rather to a smallness of character than to their artistic temperament." delia smiled. "i don't know," she said, "if i have anything of an artist in me, but i have a small character, for i am always losing my temper--except when i am with you, professor. if i talked to you every day, and had plenty of time to practise, i should have the good temper of an angel." "but not of a human being. that must come, not from outward things being pleasant, but from inward things being right. believe an old man, my dear, who has had some trials and disappointments in his life, the best sort of happiness is his-- "whose high endeavours are an inward light which makes the path before him always bright. "those endeavours may not bring fame or success, but they do bring light to shine on all those everyday things you call dusty, and turn them to gold." delia stood by her music-stand, her eyes fixed with a far-away gaze on the window, and a rebellious little frown on her brow. "but i should _love_ to be famous," she suddenly exclaimed, reaching up her arms and clasping her hands behind her head. "professor, i should _love_ it! fancy being able to play so as to speak to thousands of people, and make them hear what you say; to make them glad one moment and sorry the next; to have it in your power to move a whole crowd, as some musicians have! it must be a splendid life. shouldn't _you_ like it?" mr goodwin's glance rested on his enthusiastic pupil with a little amusement. "it's rather late in the day for me to consider the question, isn't it?" he said. "didn't you ever want to go away from dornton and play to people who understand what you mean," asked delia, impatiently. "instead of playing the organ in saint mary's and teaching me, you might be a famous musician in london, with crowds of people flocking to hear you." "perhaps," said the professor, quietly; "who knows?" "then," she continued, dropping her arms and turning to him with sudden determination, "then, oh, professor, why _didn't_ you go?" the question had been in her mind a very long time: now it was out, and she was almost frightened by her own rashness. mr goodwin, however, seemed neither surprised nor annoyed. "well, delia," he answered, with a gentle shake of the head, "i suppose two things have kept me in dornton--two very strong things--poverty and pride. i had my chance once, but it came in a shape i couldn't bring myself to accept. `there is a tide in the affairs of men,' you know, and if one neglects it--" he broke off and bent over his violin, which he had taken up from the ground. "of course," said delia, looking at him with great affection, "i'm glad you didn't go, for my own sake. you and music make dornton bearable." "you always speak so disdainfully of poor dornton," said mr goodwin, drawing his bow softly across his violin. "now, i've known it longer than you, and really, when i look back, i've been very happy. dornton has given me the best any place has to give--people to love and care for. after prissy's marriage, there were some lonely days, to be sure. i could not feel very happy about that, for she seemed to be taken out of my life altogether, and there came sadder days still when she died. you were only a little toddling child then, delia, and yet it seemed a short while before we began to be friends; and"--holding out his hand to her--"we've been friends ever since, haven't we? so, you see, i ought not to be ungrateful to dornton." "and now," added delia, with an effort, "there is anna, your grandchild; perhaps you will make her famous, though you wouldn't be famous yourself." mr goodwin shook his head. "anna will never be famous in that way," he said. "she has a sweet, affectionate manner, but there's nothing that reminds me of her mother at all, or of our family. it's quite an effort to realise that she is prissy's child. it's a very curious feeling." "have you seen her often?" asked delia. "only twice. i don't at all suppose, as matters stand, that i shall ever see much of her. i am so busy, you see, and she tells me her aunt has all sorts of plans for her--lessons, and so on." "but," said delia, rather indignantly, "she _ought_ to come and see you often." "i shall not complain if she doesn't, and i shall not be surprised. there was a matter, years ago, in which i differed from mrs forrest, and i have never been to waverley since: we are quite friendly when we meet, but there can never be really cordial relations between us." "if i were anna," began delia, impetuously-- "but you are _not_ anna," interrupted mr goodwin, with a smile; "you are delia hunt, and you are made of different materials. if i am not mistaken, anna is affectionate and yielding, and will be influenced by those she is with. and then she's very young, you see; she could not oppose her aunt and uncle, and i'm sure i do not wish it. i shall not interfere with her life at waverley: the forrests are kind people, and i feel sure she will be very happy there. she will do very well without me." he turned towards his pupil and added, rather wistfully, "i should like _you_ to be friends with her, though, delia; it would be a comfort to me." "indeed, i will try my best, professor," she exclaimed, earnestly. her jealousy of anna seemed very small and mean, and she felt anxious to atone for it. "that's well," said mr goodwin, with a contented air. "i know you will do what you promise; and now it's my turn to play the sonata, and yours to listen." as the first plaintive notes of the violin filled the little room, delia threw herself into the window-seat, leaned back her head, and gave herself up to enjoyment. the professor's playing meant many things to her. it meant a journey into another country where all good and noble things were possible; where vexations and petty cares could not enter, nor anything that thwarted and baffled. it meant a sure refuge for a while from the small details of her life in dornton, which she sometimes found so wearisome. the warning tones of the church clock checked her flight through these happy regions, and brought her down to earth just as the professor's last note died away. "oh, how late it is?" she exclaimed, as she started up and put on her hat. "good-bye, professor. oh, if i could only make it speak like that!" "patience, patience," he said, with his kind smile; "we all hear and see better things than we can express, you know, but that will come to us all some day." chapter five. anna makes friends. sweet language will multiply friends; and a fair-speaking tongue will increase kind greetings.--_ecclesiasticus_. delia kept her promise in mind through all the various duties and occupations of the next few days, and wondered how she should carry it out. she began, apart from the wish to please the professor, to have a great desire to know anna for her own sake. would they be friends? and what sort of girl was she? mr goodwin had told her so very little. affectionate, sweet-tempered, yielding. she might be all that without being very interesting. still she hoped they might be able to like each other; for although the hunts had a wide acquaintance, delia had few friends of her own age, nor any one with whom she felt in entire sympathy, except the professor. delia was not popular in dornton, and people regretted that such a "sweet" woman as mrs hunt should have a daughter who was often so blunt in her manners, and so indisposed to make herself pleasant. her life, therefore, though full of busy matters, was rather lonely, and she would have made it still more so, if possible, by shutting herself up with her violin and her books. the bustling sociabilities of her home, however, prevented this, and she was constantly obliged, with inward revolt, to leave the things she loved for some social occasion, or to pick up the dropped stitches of mrs hunt's household affairs. there were endless little matters from morning till night for delia to attend to, and it was only by getting up very early that she found any time at all for her studies and her music. in winter this was hard work, and progress with her violin almost impossible for stiff, cold fingers; but no one at her home took delia's music seriously: it was an accomplishment, a harmless amusement, but by no means to be allowed to take time from more important affairs. it did not matter whether she practised or not, but it did matter that she should be ready to make calls with her mother, or to carry soup to someone in mrs hunt's district who had been overlooked. she would have given up her music altogether if her courage had not been revived from time to time by mr goodwin, and her ambition rekindled by hearing him play; as it was, she always came back to it with fresh heart and hope after seeing him. for nearly a week after her last visit, delia awoke every morning with a determination to walk over to waverley, and each day passed without her having done so. at last, however, chance arranged her meeting with anna. coming into the drawing-room one afternoon in search of her mother, she found, not mrs hunt, but a tall girl of fourteen, with light yellow hair, sitting in the window, with a patient expression, as though she had been waiting there some time. delia advanced uncertainly: she knew who it was; there was only one stranger likely to appear just now. it must be anna forrest. but it was so odd to find her there, just when she had been thinking of her so much, that for a moment she hardly knew what to say. the girl, however, was quite at her ease. "i am anna forrest," she said; "mrs hunt asked me to come in--she went to find you. you are delia, are you not?" she had a bright, frank manner, with an entire absence of shyness, which attracted delia immediately. she found, on inquiry, that mrs hunt had met anna in the town with her aunt, and had asked her to come in. mrs forrest had driven home, and anna was to walk back after tea. "and have you been waiting long?" asked delia. "it must have been an hour, i think," said anna, "because i heard the church clock. but it hasn't seemed long," she added, hastily; "i've been looking out at the pigeons in the garden." delia felt no doubt whatever that mrs hunt had been called off in some other direction, and had completely forgotten her guest. however, here was anna at last. "come up-stairs and take off your hat in my room," she said. delia's room was at the top of the house--a garret with a window looking across the red-tiled roofs of the town to the distant meadows, through which glistened the crooked silver line of the river dorn. she was fond of standing at this window in her few idle moments, with her arms crossed on the high ledge, and her gaze directed far-away: to it were confided all the hopes, and wishes, and dreams, which were, as a rule, carefully locked up in her own breast, and of which only one person in dornton even guessed the existence. anna glanced curiously round as she entered. the room had rather a bare look, after the bright prettiness of waverley, though it contained all delia's most cherished possessions--a shelf of books, a battered old brown desk, her music-stand, and her violin. "oh," she exclaimed, as her eye fell on the last, "can you play the violin? will you play to me?" delia hesitated: she was not fond of playing to people who did not care for music, though she was often obliged to do so; but anna pressed her so earnestly that she did not like to be ungracious, and, taking up her violin, played a short german air, which she thought might please her visitor. anna meanwhile paid more attention to her new acquaintance than to her performance, and looked at her with great interest. there was something about delia's short, compact figure; her firm chin; the crisp, wavy hair which rose from her broad, low forehead like a sort of halo, which gave an impression of strength and reliability not unmingled with self-will. this last quality, however, was not so marked while she was playing. her face then was at its best, and its usual somewhat defiant air softened into a wistfulness which was almost beauty. before the tune was finished, anna was quite ready to rush into a close friendship, if delia would respond to it, but of this she felt rather in doubt. "how beautifully you play!" she exclaimed, as delia dropped her bow, and shut up her music-book. a very little smile curled delia's lips. "that shows one thing," she answered, "you don't know much about music, or you would not call my playing beautiful." "well, it sounds so to me," said anna, a little abashed by this directness of speech, "but i certainly don't know much about music; aunt sarah says i need not go on with it while i am here." "i play very badly," said delia; "if you wish to hear beautiful playing, you must listen to your grandfather." "must i?" said anna, vaguely. "i thought," she added, "that he played the organ in dornton church." "so he does," said delia, "but he plays the violin too. and he gives lessons. he taught me." she looked searchingly at her companion, whose fair face reddened a little. "i owe everything to him," continued delia; "without what he has done for me my life would be dark. he brought light into it when he taught me to play and to love music." "did he?" said anna, wonderingly. she began to feel that she did not understand delia; she was speaking a strange language, which evidently meant something to her, for her eyes sparkled, and her brown cheek glowed with excitement. "we ought to be proud in dornton," delia went on, "to have your grandfather living here, but we're not worthy of him. his genius would place him in a high position among people who could understand him. here it's just taken for granted." anna grew more puzzled and surprised still. delia's tone upset the idea she began to have that her grandfather was a person to be pitied. this was a different way of speaking of him, and it was impossible to get used to it all at once. at waverley he was hardly mentioned at all, and she had come to avoid doing so also, from a feeling that her aunt disliked it. she could not suddenly bring herself to look upon him as a genius, and be proud of him, though she had every wish to please delia. "what a pity," she said, hesitatingly, "that he is so poor, and has to live in such a very little house, if he is so clever!" "poor?" exclaimed delia, indignantly; then, checking herself, she added, quietly, "it depends on what you call poor. what the professor possesses is worth all the silver and gold and big houses in the world. and that's just what the dornton people don't understand. why, the rich ones actually _patronise_ him, and think he is fortunate in giving their children music-lessons." delia began to look so wrathful as she went on, that anna longed to change the subject to one which might be more soothing. she could not at all understand why her companion was so angry. it was certainly a pity that mr goodwin was obliged to give lessons, but if he must, it was surely a good thing that people were willing to employ him. while she was pondering this in silence, she was relieved by a welcome proposal from delia that they should go down-stairs, and have tea in the garden. "afterwards," she added, "i will show you the way to waverley over the fields." in the garden it was pleasant and peaceful enough. tea was ready, under the shade of the medlar tree. the pigeons whirled and fluttered about over the red roofs all around, settling sometimes on the lawn for a few moments, bowing and cooing to each other. mrs hunt, meanwhile, chatted on in a comfortable way, hardly settling longer on one spot in her talk than the pigeons; from the affairs of her district to the affairs of the nation, from an anecdote about the rector to a receipt for scones, she rambled gently on; but at last coming to a favourite topic, she made a longer rest. anna was glad of it, for it dealt with people of whom she had been wishing to hear--her mother and her grandfather. mrs hunt had much to tell of the former, whom she had known from the time when she had been a girl of anna's age until her marriage with mr bernard forrest. she became quite enthusiastic as one recollection after the other followed. "a sweeter face and a sweeter character than prissy goodwin's could not be imagined," she said. "we were all sorry when she left dornton, and every one felt for mr goodwin. poor man, he's aged a great deal during the last few years. i remember him as upright as a dart, and always in such good spirits!" "i have a portrait of my mother," said anna, "a miniature, painted just after her marriage. it's very pretty indeed." "it should be, if it's a good likeness," said mrs hunt. "there's never been such a pretty girl in dornton since your mother went away. i should like to see that portrait. when you come over again, which i hope will be soon, you must bring it with you, and then we will have some more talk about your dear mother." anna readily promised, and as she walked up the high street by delia's side, her mind was full of all that she had heard that afternoon. it had interested and pleased her very much, but somehow it was difficult to connect mr goodwin and his dusty, little house with the picture formed in her mind of her beautiful mother. if only she were alive now! "i suppose you were a baby when my mother married," she said, suddenly turning to her companion. "i was two years old," replied delia, smiling, "but though i can't remember your mother, i can remember your grandfather when i was quite a little girl. he was always so good to me. long before he began to teach me to play, i used to toddle by his side to church, and wait there while he practised on the organ. i think it was that which made me first love music." "it seems so odd," said anna, hesitatingly, "that i should be his grandchild, and yet that he should be almost a stranger to me; while you--" "but," put in delia, quickly, for she thought that anna was naturally feeling jealous, "you won't be strangers long now; you will come over often, and soon you will feel as though you'd known him always. to tell you the truth," she added, lightly, "i felt dreadfully jealous of you when i first heard you were coming." jealous! how strange that sounded to anna; she glanced quickly at her companion, and saw that she was evidently in earnest. "i don't know, i'm sure, about coming to dornton often," she said, "because, you see, aunt sarah is so tremendously busy, and she likes to do certain things on certain days; but, of course, i shall come as often as i can. i do hope," she added, earnestly, "i shall be able to see you sometimes, and that you will often come over to waverley." delia was silent. "you see," continued anna, "i like being at waverley very much, and they're very kind indeed; but it _is_ a little lonely, and if you don't mind, i should be _so_ glad to have you for a friend." she turned to her companion with a bright blush, and an appealing look that was almost humble. delia was touched. she had begun to think anna rather cold and indifferent in the way she had talked about coming to dornton; but, after all, it was unreasonable to expect her to feel warm affection for a grandfather who was almost a stranger. when she knew him she would not be able to help loving him, and, meanwhile, she herself must not forget that she had promised the professor to be anna's friend; no doubt she had said truly that, she was lonely at waverley. she met anna's advances cordially, therefore, and by the time they had turned off the high-road into the fields, the two girls were chatting gaily, and quite at their ease with each other. everything in this field-walk was new and delightful to anna, and her pleasure increased by feeling that she had made a friend of her own age. the commonest wild-flowers on her path were wonderful to her unaccustomed eyes. delia must tell their names. she must stop to pick some. they were prettier even than aunt sarah's flowers at waverley. what were those growing in the hedge? she ran about admiring and exclaiming until, near the end of the last field, the outbuildings of leas farm came in sight, which stood in a lane dividing the farmer's property from mr forrest's. "there's mr oswald," said delia, suddenly. anna looked up. across the field towards them, mounted on a stout, grey cob, came the farmer at a slow jog-trot. so much had happened since her arrival at waverley, that she had now almost forgotten the events of that first evening, and all idea of telling her aunt of her acquaintance with mr oswald had passed from her mind. as he stopped to greet the girls, however, and make a few leisurely remarks about the weather, it all came freshly to her memory. "not been over to see my cows yet, missie," he said, checking his pony again, after he had started, and leaning back in his saddle. "my daisy's been looking for you every day. you'd be more welcome than ever, now i know who 'twas i had the pleasure of driving the other day-- for your mother's sake, as well as your own." delia turned an inquiring glance on her companion, as they continued their way. would she say anything? recollecting mrs winn's story, she rather hoped she would. but anna, her gay spirits quite checked, walked soberly on in perfect silence. it made her uncomfortable to remember that she had never undeceived aunt sarah about that fly. what a stupid little mistake it had been! nothing wrong in what she had done at all, if she had only been quite open about it. what would delia think of it, she wondered. she glanced sideways at her. what a very firm, decided mouth and chin she had: she looked as though she were never afraid of anything, and always quite sure to do right. perhaps, if she knew of this, she would look as scornful and angry as she had that afternoon, in speaking of the dornton people. that would be dreadful. anna could not risk that. she wanted delia to like and admire her very much, and on no account to think badly of her. so she checked the faint impulse she had had towards the confession of her foolishness, and was almost relieved when they reached the point where delia was to turn back to dornton. they parted affectionately, with many hopes and promises as to their meeting again soon, and anna stood at the white gate watching her new friend until she was out of sight. then she looked round her. she was in quite a strange land, for although she had now been some weeks at waverley, she had not yet explored the fields between the village and dornton. on her right, a little way down the grassy lane, stood mr oswald's house, a solid, square building, of old, red brick, pleasantly surrounded by barns, cattle-sheds, and outbuildings, all of a substantial, prosperous appearance. it crossed anna's mind that she should very much like to see the farmer's cows, as he had proposed, but she had not the courage to present herself at the house and ask for daisy. she must content herself by looking in at the farmyard gate as she passed it. a little farther on, delia had pointed out another gate, on the other side of the lane, which led straight into the vicarage field, and towards this she now made her way. she was unusually thoughtful as she sauntered slowly down the lane, for her visit to dornton had brought back thoughts of her mother and grandfather, which had lately been kept in the background. she had to-day heard them spoken of with affection and admiration, instead of being passed over in silence. waverley was very pleasant. aunt sarah was kind, and her uncle john indulgent, but about her relations in dornton there was scarcely a word spoken. it was strange. she remembered delia's sparkling eyes as she talked of mr goodwin. that was stranger still. in the two visits anna had paid to him, she had not discovered much to admire, and she had not been pleased with the appearance of number back row. it had seemed to her then that people called him "poor mr goodwin" with reason: he was poor, evidently, or he would not live all alone in such a very little house, with no servants, and work so hard, and get so tired and dusty as he had looked on that first evening she had seen him. yet, perhaps, when she knew him as well as delia did, she should be able to feel proud of him; and, at any rate, he stood in need of love and attention. she felt drawn to the hunts and the dornton people, who had known and loved her mother, and she resolved to make more efforts to go there frequently, and to risk displeasing aunt sarah and upsetting her arrangements. it would be very disagreeable, for she knew well that neither mr goodwin nor dornton were favourite subjects at waverley; and when things were going smoothly and pleasantly, it was so much nicer to leave them alone. however, she would try, and just then arriving at the farmyard gate, she dismissed those tiresome thoughts, and leaned over to look with great interest at the creatures within. as she did so, a little girl came out of the farmhouse and came slowly down the lane towards her. she was about twelve years old, very childish-looking for her age, and dressed in a fresh, yellow cotton frock, nearly covered by a big, white pinafore. her little, round head was bare, and her black hair closely cropped like a boy's. she came on with very careful steps, her whole attention fixed on a plate she held firmly with both hands, which had a mug on it full of something she was evidently afraid to spill. her eyes were so closely bent on this, that until she was near anna she did not see her; and then, with a start, she came suddenly to a stand-still, not forgetting to preserve the balance of the mug and plate. it was a very nice, open, little face she raised towards anna, with a childish and innocent expression, peppered thickly with freckles like a bird's egg, especially over the blunt, round nose. "did you come from the vicarage?" she inquired, gravely. "i'm staying there," replied anna, "but i came over the fields just now from dornton." "those are puppa's fields," said the child, "and this is puppa's farm." "you are daisy oswald, i suppose?" said anna. "your father asked me to come and see your cows." the little girl nodded. "i know what your name is," she said. "you're miss anna forrest. puppa fetched you over from the station. you came quick. puppa was driving strawberry molly that day. no one can do it as quick as her." then, with a critical glance, "i can ride her. can you ride?" "no, indeed, i can't," replied anna. "but won't you show me your cows?" "why, it isn't milking-time!" said daisy, lifting her brows with a little surprise; "they're all out in the field." she considered anna thoughtfully for a moment, and then added, jerking her head towards the next gate, "won't you come and sit on that gate? i often sit on that gate. most every evening." the invitation was made with so much friendliness that anna could not refuse it. "i can't stay long," she said, "but i don't mind a little while." arrived at the gate, daisy pushed mug and plate into anna's hands. "hold 'em a minute," she said, as she climbed nimbly up and disposed herself comfortably on the top bar. "now"--smoothing her pinafore tightly over her knees--"give 'em to me, and come up and sit alongside, and we'll have 'em together. that'll be fine." anna was by no means so active and neat in her movements as her companion, for she was not used to climbing gates; but after some struggles, watched by daisy with a chuckle of amusement, she succeeded in placing herself at her side. in this position they sat facing the vicarage garden at the end of the field. it looked quite near, and anna hoped that aunt sarah might not happen to come this way just at present. "how nice it is to sit on a gate!" she said; "i never climbed a gate before." daisy stared. "never climbed a gate before!" she repeated; "why ever not?" "well, you see, i've always lived in a town," said anna, "where you don't need to climb gates." daisy nodded. "i know," she said, "like dornton. now there's two lots of bread and butter, one for me and one for you, and we must take turns to drink. you first." "but i've had tea, thank you," said anna. "i won't take any of yours." daisy looked a little cast down at this refusal, but soon set to work heartily on her simple meal alone, stopping in the intervals of her bites and sups to ask and answer questions. "was the town you lived in _nicer_ than dornton?" she asked. "it was not a bit like it," replied anna. "much, much larger. and always full of carts, and carriages, and people." "my!" exclaimed daisy. "any shops?" "lots and lots. and at night, when they were all lighted up, and the lamps in the streets too, it was as light as day." "that must have been fine," said daisy, "i like shops. were you sorry to come away?" anna shook her head. "do you like being at waverley?" pursued the inquiring daisy, tilting up the mug so that her brown eyes came just above the rim; "there's no one to play with there, but i s'pose you don't mind. i haven't any brothers and sisters either. there's only me. but then there's all the animals. do you like animals?" "i think i should very much," answered anna, "but you can't have many animals in london." "well," said daisy, who had now finished the last crumb of bread and the last drop of milk, "if you like, i'll show you my very own calf!" "i'm afraid it's getting late," said anna, hesitatingly. "'twon't take you not five minutes altogether," said daisy, scrambling hastily down from the gate. "come along." anna followed her back to the farmyard, where she pushed open the door of a shed, and beckoned her companion in. all was dim and shadowy, and there was a smell of new milk and hay. at first anna could see nothing, but soon she made out, penned into a corner, a little, brown calf, with a white star on its forehead; it turned its dewy, dark eyes reproachfully upon them as they entered. "you can stroke its nose," said its owner, patronisingly. "shall you call it daisy?" asked anna, reaching over the hurdles to pat the soft, velvety muzzle. "mother says we mustn't have no more daisies," said its mistress, shaking her little, round head gravely. "you see puppa called all the cows daisy, after me, for ever so long. there was old daisy, and young daisy, and red daisy, and white daisy, and big daisy, and little daisy, and a whole lot more. so this one is to be called something different. mother say stars would be best." as she spoke, a distant clock began to tell out the hour. anna counted the strokes with anxiety. actually seven! the dinner hour at waverley, and whatever haste she made, she must be terribly late. "ah, i must go," she said, "i ought not to have stayed so long. good-bye. thank you." "come over again," said daisy, calling after her as she ran to the gate. "come at milking-time, and i'll show you all the lot." anna nodded and smiled, and ran off as fast as she could. this was her first transgression at the vicarage. what would aunt sarah say? chapter six. difficulties. no man can serve two masters. anna found her life at waverley bright and pleasant as the time went on, in spite of aunt sarah's strict rules and regulations. there was only one matter which did not become easy, and that was her nearer acquaintance with her grandfather. somehow, when she asked to go to dornton, there was always a difficulty of some kind--mrs forrest could not spare the time to go with her, or the pony-cart to take her, or a maid to walk so far, and she must not go alone. at first, mindful of her resolves, she made efforts to overcome those objections, but being always repulsed, she soon ceased them, and found it easier and far more pleasant to leave her aunt to arrange the visits herself. in this way they became very rare, and when they did take place, they were not very satisfactory, for anna and her grandfather were seldom left alone. she did not, therefore, grow to be any fonder of back row, or to associate her visits there with anything pleasant. indeed, few as they were, she soon began to find them rather irksome, and to be relieved when they were over. this was the only subject on which she was not perfectly confidential to her new friend, delia, who was now her constant companion, for although anna went very seldom to dornton, mrs forrest made no objection to their meeting often elsewhere. so delia would run over to the vicarage whenever she could spare time, or join anna in long country rambles, and on these occasions it was she who listened, and anna who did most of the talking. delia heard all about her life in london, and how much better she liked the country; all about aunt sarah's punctuality, and how difficult it was to go to dornton; but about the professor she heard very little. always on the lookout for slights on his behalf, and jealous for his dignity, she soon began to feel a little sore on his account, and to have a suspicion that anna's heart was not in the matter. for her own part, she knew that not all the aunts and rules in the world would have kept her from paying him the attention that was his due. as the visits became fewer this feeling increased, and sometimes gave a severity to her manner which anna found hard to bear, and it finally led to their first disagreement. "can you come over to church at dornton with me this evening?" asked delia one afternoon, as she and anna met at the stile half-way across the fields. "i should like to," said anna, readily, "very much indeed, if aunt sarah doesn't mind." "i'll walk back with you as far as this afterwards," said delia. "you would see your grandfather. you've never heard him play the organ yet." "i don't _suppose_ aunt would mind," said anna, hesitatingly, her fair face flushing a little. "well," said delia, "you can run back and ask her. i'll wait for you here. you will just have time." the bells of saint mary's church began to sound as she spoke. "only you must go at once," she added, "or we shall be too late." still anna hesitated. she hated the idea of asking aunt sarah, and seeing her mouth stiffen into that hard line which was so disagreeable; but it was almost as bad to face delia, standing there, bolt upright, with her dark eyes fixed so unflinchingly upon her. "i know," she said, appealingly, "that aunt sarah _has_ arranged for me to go to dornton next week." "oh," said delia, coldly. "and," pursued anna, turning away from her companion and stooping to pick a flower, "she does like me, you know, to go to the service at waverley with her. she says uncle prefers it." delia's glance rested for a moment in silence on the bending figure, with the pale yellow hair outspread on the shoulders gleaming in the sunshine; then she said in rather a hard voice: "the fact is, i suppose, you don't _want_ to go. if so, you had better have said so at first." anna rose quickly, and faced her friend: "it's unkind, delia," she exclaimed, "to say that. i _do_ want to go. you know i like to be with you--and i should like to go to dornton church much better than waverley." "then why don't you ask mrs forrest?" said delia, calmly. "she can't mind your going if i walk back with you. it's worth the trouble, if you want to see your grandfather." anna cast down her eyes and fidgeted with the flowers in her belt. "you don't understand," she began, rather nervously, "how difficult it is to ask aunt sarah some things--" "but this is quite a right, reasonable thing," interrupted delia; "there's nothing wrong in wishing to see your grandfather sometimes. of course, if you never ask mrs forrest, she thinks you don't care about it." "i do ask," said anna. "i have often asked; but, you know i told you, delia, aunt sarah never likes me to go to dornton." "then you mean to give it up, i suppose," said delia, coldly. "if i'm staying with aunt sarah, i suppose i ought to do as she wishes," said anna; "but, of course, i shan't give it up entirely. she doesn't wish me to do that." delia stood for a moment in silence, her eyes fixed on anna's pretty, downcast face. the sound of the church bells came softly to them over the fields from dornton, and "well," she said, with a little sigh, "i mustn't stay, or i shall be late, and i promised to meet the professor after church. he half expects to see you with me. what shall i say to him?" "oh, delia!" cried anna, looking up into her companion's face, "i _do_ wish i could go with you." "it's too late now," said delia, turning away. "good-bye." anna lingered at the stile. would not delia turn round once and nod kindly to her, as she always did when they parted? no. her compact figure went steadily on its way, the shoulders very square, the head held high and defiantly. anna could not bear it. she jumped over the stile and ran after her friend. "delia!" she called out. delia turned and waited. "don't be cross with me," pleaded anna. "after all, it isn't my fault; and i _should_ like to go with you so much. and--and give my love to grandfather, please. i'm going to see him next week." she took hold of delia's reluctant hand and kissed her cheek. delia allowed the embrace, but did not return it. her heart was hot within her. mrs winn had said that anna was not straightforward. was it true? anna had not much time for any sort of reflection, for she had to get back to waverley as fast as she could, and, in spite of her haste, the bell stopped just as she reached the garden gate, and she knew that her aunt would have started for church without her. it was barely five minutes' walk, but she had to smooth her hair, and find some gloves, and make herself fit for mrs forrest's critical eye, and all this took some time. when she pushed open the heavy door and entered timidly, her footfall sounding unnaturally loud, the usual sprinkling of evening worshippers was already collected, and her uncle had begun to read the service. anna crept into a seat. she knew that she had committed a very grave fault in mrs forrest's sight, and she half wished that she had made up her mind to go to dornton with delia. she wanted to please every one, and she had pleased no one; it was very hard. as she walked back to the vicarage with her aunt after service, she was quite prepared for the grave voice in which she began to speak. "how was it you were late this evening, anna?" "i'm very sorry, aunt," she answered. "i was talking to delia hunt in the field, and until we heard the bell, we didn't know how late it was." "if you must be unpunctual at all," said mrs forrest--"and i suppose young people will be thoughtless sometimes--i must beg that you will at least be careful not to let it occur at church time. nothing displeases your uncle more than the irreverence of coming in late as you did to-day. it is a bad example to the whole village, besides being very wrong in itself. as a whole," she continued, after a pause, "i have very little fault to find with your behaviour; you try to please me, i think, in every respect, but in this matter of punctuality, anna, there is room for improvement. now, you were a quarter of an hour late for dinner one night. you had been with delia hunt then too. i begin to think you run about too much with her: it seems to make you forgetful and careless." "but," said anna, impulsively, "my being late had nothing at all to do with delia this time. i was with daisy oswald." "daisy oswald!" repeated mrs forrest, in a tone of surprise. "when did you make daisy oswald's acquaintance?" she turned sharply to her niece with a searching glance. anna blushed and hesitated a little. "i--we--delia and i met her father as we were walking home from dornton. he asked me to go and see his cows; and then, after delia had left me, i met his little girl in the lane just near the farm." mrs forrest was silent. she could not exactly say that there was anything wrong in all this, but she highly disapproved of it. it was most undesirable that her niece should be running about the fields and lanes, and picking up acquaintances in this way. daisy oswald was a very nice little girl, and there was no harm done at present, but it must not continue. the thing to do, she silently concluded, was to provide anna with suitable occupations and companions which would make so much liberty impossible for the future. to her relief, anna heard no more of the matter, but it was easy to see that aunt sarah had not liked the idea of her being with daisy. it was uncomfortable to remember that she had not been quite open about it. somehow, since that first foolish concealment, she had constantly been forced into little crooked paths where she could not walk quite straight, but she consoled herself by the reflection that she had not told any untruth. a few days later mrs forrest, returning from a drive with her face full of satisfaction, called anna to her in her sitting-room. she had been able, she said, to make a very nice arrangement for her to have some lessons in german and french with the palmers. miss wilson, their governess, had been most kind about it, and it was settled that anna should go to pynes twice every week for a couple of hours. "it will be an immense advantage to you," concluded mrs forrest, "to learn with other girls, and i hope, beside the interest of the lessons, that you will make friendships which will be both useful and pleasant. isabel palmer is about your own age, and her sister a little older. they will be nice companions for you, and i hope you will see a good deal of them." from this time anna's life was very much altered. gradually, as her interests and amusements became connected with the palmers and all that went on at their house, she saw less and less of delia, and it was now mrs forrest who had to remind her when a visit to dornton was due. there were no more country rambles, or meetings at the stile, and no more confidential chats. anna had other matters to attend to, and if she were not occupied with lessons, there was always some engagement at pynes which must be kept. and yet, she often thought, with a regretful sigh, there was really no one like delia! isabel palmer was very pleasant, and there was a great deal she enjoyed very much at pynes, but in her heart she remained true to her first friend. if only it had been possible to please every one! if only delia would be kind and agreeable when they did meet, instead of looking so cold and proud! by degrees anna grew to dread seeing her, instead of looking forward to it as one of her greatest pleasures at waverley. everything connected with pynes, on the contrary, was made so easy and pleasant. aunt sarah's lips never looked straight and thin when she asked to go there, and isabel palmer was sure of a welcome at any time. the pony-cart could nearly always be had if it were wanted in that direction, though it seemed so inconvenient for it to take the road to dornton. and then, with the palmers there was no chance of severe looks on the subject of mr goodwin. did they know, anna wondered, that he was her grandfather? perhaps not, for they had lived at pynes only a short time. there was no risk of meeting him there, for saturday, when he gave clara a music-lesson, was a specially busy day with mrs forrest, and she always wanted anna at the vicarage. it was strange that anna should have come to calling it a "risk" to meet her grandfather, but it was true. not all at once, but little by little, since her separation from delia, the habit of dismissing him from her thoughts, as well as keeping silence about him, had grown strong within her. at first delia's scornful face often seemed to flash before her in the midst of some gaiety or enjoyment. "you are not worthy of him," it seemed to say. but it had been so often driven away that it now came very seldom, and when it did, it looked so pale and shadowy that it had no reality about it. anna threw herself into the amusements which her new friends put in her way, and determined to be happy in spite of uncomfortable recollections. on her side, delia had now come to the swift decision natural to her age and character. anna was unworthy. she had been tried and found wanting. gold had been offered to her, and she had chosen tinsel. it was not surprising that the palmers should be preferred to herself, but that any one related to the professor, able to see and know him, should be capable of turning aside and neglecting him for others, was a thing she could neither understand nor bear with patience. she ceased to speak of it when she met anna, and preserved a haughty silence on the subject, but her manner and looks expressed disapproval plainly enough. the disapproval grew stronger as time went on, for although no word of complaint ever passed mr goodwin's lips, delia soon felt sure that he longed to see more of his grandchild. they often talked of anna, the professor listening eagerly to any news of her or account of her doings. no hint of disappointment was ever given, but affection has quick instincts, and delia was able to understand her old friend's silence as well as his speech. she ran in to number back row one afternoon, and found him looking rather uncertainly and nervously at his tea-table, which mrs cooper had just prepared in her usual hurried manner-- slapping down the cups and plates with a sort of spiteful emphasis, and leaving the cloth awry. he looked relieved to see delia. "you would perhaps put things a little straight, and make it look nicer," he said. "i don't know how it is, but mrs cooper seems to spoil the look of things so." "you expect a visitor?" said delia, as she began to alter the arrangement of the little meal, and noticed two cups and plates. "yes," said the professor, half shyly. "i got some water-cresses and some fresh eggs. and that kind mrs winn sent me some trout this morning. mrs cooper promised to come in presently and cook them." delia observed that the room had quite a holiday air of neatness. there was no dust to be seen anywhere, and a special, high-backed arm-chair, which was not in general use, was now drawn up to one side of the tea-table. "that was prissy's chair," he continued, looking at it affectionately; "she always sat there, and i thought i should like to see anna in it." "oh, is anna coming to tea with you?" exclaimed delia. "i _am_ glad. is she coming alone?" the professor nodded. there was a faint pink flush of excitement on his cheek. his hand trembled a little as he touched the bunch of mignonette which he had put on the table. "my flowers never do very well," he said, trying to speak in an off-hand tone; "they don't get enough sun. and then, the other day i had to pour my coffee out of the window, and i forgot that the border was just underneath. i daresay it didn't agree with them." "i suppose mrs cooper made it so badly that even you could not drink it?" said delia; "but it's certainly hard that she should poison your flowers as well. why don't you tell her about it?" "oh, she does her best, she does her best," said the professor, quickly; "i wouldn't hurt her feelings for the world." "well, she won't improve at that rate," said delia; "it's a good thing every one is not so patient as you are. now"--surveying her arrangements--"i think it all looks very nice, and as i go home i'll call in at mrs cooper's and remind her about the fish. perhaps i shall have time to bring you a few more flowers before anna comes." quite excited at the idea of the professor's pleasure at having anna all to himself for a little while, she quickly performed her errands, and finally left him in a state of complete preparation, with roses upon his table, and the trout cooking in the kitchen; he himself, stationed at the window, meanwhile pulling his watch out of his pocket every two or three minutes to see if it were time for his guest to arrive. during the week which followed, delia thought more kindly of anna than she had done for some time past. perhaps, after all, she had judged her too hastily; perhaps she had been hard and unjust; very likely this meeting would be the beginning of a happier state of things between mr goodwin and his grandchild. "did you have a pleasant evening on saturday?" she asked, when they next met. anna was sitting in the palmers' pony-cart, outside a shop in the town, waiting for isabel: she blushed brightly when she saw delia, and looked rather puzzled at her question. "where?" she said, vaguely. "oh, i remember. i was to have had tea with grandfather, but aunt made another engagement for me, and i didn't go." delia's face clouded over with the disapproving expression anna knew so well. "he didn't mind a bit," she said, leaning forward and speaking earnestly. "he said another evening would do just as well for him." "i daresay he did," replied delia, coldly. "and, you see, it was a cricket match at holmbury," anna continued, in an apologetic voice; "such a lovely place! and the palmers offered to drive me, and another day wouldn't have done for that, and aunt sarah thought--" "oh, naturally," said delia, lightly, "the cricket match was far more important. and, of course, the professor wouldn't mind. why should he?" she nodded and passed on, just as isabel came out of the shop. "wasn't that delia hunt?" said isabel, as she got into the pony-cart; "what is the matter? her face looked like the sky when thunder is coming." delia felt as she looked, as though a storm were rising within her. she thought of the professor's little feast prepared so carefully, the flowers, the high-backed chair standing ready for the guest who never came. she could not bear to imagine his disappointment. how could anna be so blind, so insensible? all her hard feelings towards her returned, and they were the more intense because she could speak of them to no one--a storm without the relief of thunder. she had a half-dread of her next meeting with mr goodwin, for with this resentment in her heart it would be difficult to talk about anna with patience, and yet the meeting must come very soon. the next day was wednesday, on which evening it was his custom to stay in the church after service and play the organ for some time. delia, who was generally his only listener, would wait for him, and they would either stroll home together, or, if it were warm weather, sit for a little while under a certain tree near the church. they both looked forward to those meetings, but this week, when the time came, and delia mounted the steep street which led up to the church, she almost wished that the professor might not be there. dornton church was perched upon a little hill, so that, though it was in the town, it stood high above it, and its tall, grey spire made a landmark for miles round. the churchyard, carefully planted with flowers, and kept in good order, sloped sharply down to old gabled houses on one side, and on the other to open meadows, across which the tower of waverley church could be just seen amongst the trees. on this side a wooden bench, shadowed by a great ash, had been let into the low wall, and it was to this that delia and the professor were in the habit of repairing after the wednesday evening services. mr goodwin's music had always power to soothe delia, and to raise her thoughts above her daily troubles; but to-night, as she sat listening to him in the empty church, she felt even more than usual as if a mighty and comforting voice were speaking to her. as long as the resounding notes of the organ continued, she forgot the little bustle of dornton, and her anger against anna, and even when the professor had finished and joined her in the porch, the calming influence remained. "can you stay a little this evening?" he asked, as they walked through the churchyard together; "if you can spare time i should like a talk. it's about anna," he continued, when they were seated under the flickering shadow of the ash tree; "i didn't see her the other evening, after all--" "so i heard," said delia. "no--i didn't see her," repeated mr goodwin, poking the ground reflectively with his stick. "she went to some cricket match with her friends; she's to come to me another time. it's very kind of mrs palmer to give her so much pleasure. i suppose anna enjoys it very much? i hear of her going about with them a good deal." "i think she does," said delia. "it's always such a comfort to me," he continued, his kind eyes beaming upon his companion from beneath the brim of his wide-awake, "to think that you are her friend. i don't see much of her. i told you i should not be able to, when she first came, but the next best thing is to know that you do." delia was silent. she did not meet his glance, but pressed her lips together and frowned a little. "anna wants a friend," pursued the professor, thoughtfully. "little as i see of her, i can tell that. she has the sort of nature which depends greatly on influence--every one does, i suppose, but some of us can stand alone better than others." "anna seems to get on very well," said delia. "people always like her." "yes, yes, yes," said the professor, nodding his head gently, "so i should think--so i should think. but when i say a `friend,' delia, i don't mean that sort of thing; i mean some one who's willing to take a little trouble." "i don't see how you can be a friend to a person that doesn't want you," said delia, impatiently. "if anna wanted me--" "you're not displeased with her about anything, i hope?" said the professor, anxiously; "she has not offended you?" delia hesitated. she could not bear to disappoint him, as he waited eagerly for her answer. "the fact is," she said at length, "i don't understand anna. she doesn't look at things in the same way as i do. she gets on better with the palmers than with me." "i'm sorry for that," said the professor, with a discouraged air, "but anna's very young, you know, in years and character too. i daresay she needs patience." "i'm afraid i've not been patient," said delia, humbly. mr goodwin was the only person in the world to whom she was always ready to own herself in the wrong. "oh, well, patience comes with years," he said; "you're too young yet to know much about it. it's often hard enough, even after a long life, to bear with the failings of others, and to understand our own. people are so different. some are strong, and some are weak. and the strong ones are always expecting the weak ones to stand upright as they do, and go straight on their way without earing for praise or blame. and, of course they can't--it's not in them--they stumble and turn aside at little things that the others wouldn't notice. and the weak ones, to whom, perhaps, it is natural to be sweet-tempered, and yielding, and forgiving, expect those virtues from the strong--and they don't find them--and then they wonder how it is that they find it hard to forgive and impossible to forget, and call them harsh and unbearable. and so we go on misunderstanding instead of helping each other." delia's face softened. perhaps she had been too hasty with anna--too quick to blame. "listen," said the professor, "i was reading this while i waited for service to begin this evening." he had taken out of his pocket a stumpy, and very shabby little brown volume of thomas a kempis, which was very familiar to her. "but now, god hath thus ordered it, that we may learn to bear one another's burdens, for no man is without fault; no man but hath his burden; no man is self-sufficient; no man has wisdom enough for himself alone. but we ought to bear with one another, comfort, help, instruct, and admonish one another." he shut the little book, and turned his eyes absently across the broad, green meadows. delia knew that absent look of the professor's well. it meant that he was travelling back into the past, seeing and hearing things of which she knew nothing. yet, though he did not seem to be speaking to her, every word he said sank into her mind. "it's very hard for strong people to bear with weakness. it's such a disappointing, puzzling thing to them. they are always expecting impossibilities. yet they are bound to help. it is a sin to turn aside. to leave weakness to trail along in the mire when they might be a prop for it to lean on and climb upwards by. the strong have a duty to the weak, and lessons to learn from them. but they are hard lessons--hard lessons." long after he had finished, mr goodwin sat with his eyes fixed musingly on the distance, and delia would not disturb his thoughts by a single word. even when they walked home together they had very little to say, and were both in a silent mood. when they parted at the turning to back row, delia spoke almost for the first time. "i'm not going to be cross to anna any more, professor. you may feel quite happy about that." chapter seven. the palmers' picnic. faithful are the wounds of a friend. one very hot afternoon a little later, there had been a glee-practising at the hunts' house, a meeting which, of all others, was most distasteful to delia. the last guest had taken leave, and her mother being on the edge of a comfortable nap in the shaded drawing-room, she was just stealing away to her garret, when the bell rang. "don't go away, my love," murmured mrs hunt, half-asleep, and as she spoke mrs winn's solid figure advanced into the room. delia resigned herself to listen to the disjointed chat which went on between the two ladies for a little while, but soon the visitor, taking pity on mrs hunt's brave efforts to keep her eyes from closing, turned her attention in another direction. "i'm afraid," she said, moving her chair nearer to delia, "that poor, old mr goodwin must be sadly disappointed about his grandchild, isn't he?" it always vexed delia to hear the professor called "poor and old." "why?" she asked, shortly. "well, because he evidently sees so little of her," said mrs winn. "it has turned out exactly as i said it would. i said from the very first, that sort of marriage never answers. it always creates discord. of course, it's a difficult position for mrs forrest, but she ought to remember that the child owes duties and respect to mr goodwin. `honour thy father and mother,' and, of course, that applies to a grandfather too." "i believe mr goodwin is quite satisfied," answered delia. "oh, i daresay," said mrs winn. "we all know he's a dear, meek, old man, who could never say boo to a goose. but that doesn't make it right. now, i know for a fact that he expected anna forrest to tea with him one evening, and she never came. i know all about it, because i happened to send him some trout that morning, and mrs cooper went in to cook them. mrs cooper chars for me, you know. `i was quite sorry, ma'am,' she said, when she came the next day, `to see the poor, old gentleman standing at the window with his watch in his hand, and the trout done to a turn, and his flowers and all. it's hard on the old to be disappointed.'" mrs winn rolled out these sentences steadily, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on delia all the while. now she waited for a reply. "i heard about it," she said. "anna was not able to go." "then she should have sent word sooner, or her aunt should have done so. it was a great want of respect. i'm surprised, delia, you should take it so coolly, when you think so much of mr goodwin. now, if _i_ should see anna forrest, i shall make a point of putting her conduct in a right light to her. i daresay no one has done so yet--and she is but a child." delia shivered inwardly. she knew that mrs winn was quite capable of doing as she said. how the professor would shrink from such interference! yet she did not feel equal to saying much against it, for mrs winn had always kept her and every one else in dornton in order. her right to rebuke and admonish was taken as a matter of course. "you don't know, you see," she began, "how it was that anna was prevented. perhaps--" mrs winn had now risen, and stood ready to depart, with her umbrella planted firmly on the ground. "my dear," she interrupted, raising one hand, "i know _this_. wrong is wrong, and right is right. that's enough for me, and always has been. now, i won't disturb your dear mother to say good-bye, for i think she's just dropped off. i'll go softly out." she moved with ponderous care out of the room, followed by delia, but came to a stand again in the hall. "you heard about this picnic of the palmers?" she said, inquiringly. "you're going, of course. it seems to be a large affair." "i'm not quite sure," said delia. "julia gibbins came in this morning," continued mrs winn, "quite excited about her invitation. she wanted to know what i meant to wear. julia's so absurdly frivolous, she thinks as much of her dress as a girl of sixteen. `at our age, my dear julia,' i said to her, `we need not trouble ourselves about that. you may depend on it, no one will notice what we have on. for myself, i shall put on my paisley shawl and my thickest boots. picnics are always draughty and damp.' i don't think she quite liked it. now, do you suppose the palmers have asked mr goodwin? anna forrest's so much there, that i should _almost_ think they would." "why not, as well as other people in dornton?" asked delia. "he never goes to waverley," said mrs winn. "that is by his own wish," said delia, quickly. "he has told me about that." "oh, indeed, by his own wish," repeated mrs winn, her wide open grey eyes resting thoughtfully upon delia; "that's strange, with his grandchild staying there. however," with a parting nod, as she moved slowly out, "we shall soon see about the picnic." delia smiled to herself as she watched her visitor's portly form out of sight. how very little it would matter to the professor whether the palmers sent him an invitation or not! he would not even notice the absence of one. he had never cultivated the habit of feeling himself injured, and was happily placed far above the miseries of fancied slights and neglect. nevertheless she resented, as she always did, the tone of condescension with which mrs winn had mentioned him, and returned to the drawing-room with a ruffled brow and a vexed spirit. mrs hunt still slumbered peacefully, quite undisturbed by the little agitations of dornton. as her daughter entered, she gently opened her eyes. "del, my love," she murmured, "i meant to ask you to go and inquire how mrs hurst's little boy is this morning. did i?" "no, mother," said delia. "there's a beautiful jelly made for him," said mrs hunt, closing her eyes again, and folding her hands in front of her comfortable person. "i thought you might take it." "i passed the door this morning," said delia. "i could easily have taken it if you had remembered to ask me. it's so late now." "it won't keep firm this hot weather," continued mrs hunt's sweet, low voice. "he ought to have it to-day." delia did not answer. she was tired. it was hot. mrs winn's visit had come at the close of a most irksome afternoon. she was longing for a little quiet time for her music. "poor mrs hurst!" pursued her mother. "so many children, and so few to help her. johnnie's been worse the last day or two." as usual on such occasions, delia shortly found herself, basket in hand, making her way along the dusty high street to mrs hurst's house. dornton and the dornton people seemed to her at that moment almost unbearable. should she ever get away from them? she wondered. would her life be spent within the hearing of mrs winn's sententious remarks, the tedious discussions of tiny details, the eternal chatter and gossip, which still seemed to buzz in her ears, from the meeting that afternoon? then her thoughts turned to their usual refuge, the professor, and she began to plan a visit to anna at waverley. since her last talk with him, she had made up her mind that she would do her very utmost to renew their old friendliness. she would not take offence so easily, or be so quick to resent it, when anna did not see things as she did. she would be patient, and she would keep her promise to the professor. she would try to understand. for his sake she would humble herself to make the first advance, and this, for delia's somewhat stubborn spirit, was a greater effort than might be supposed. anna, meanwhile, was quite as much interested as the dornton people about the picnic which the palmers intended to give. all country pleasures were new to her, and her companions at pynes were _very_ much amused to hear that she had never been to a picnic in her life, and had most confused ideas as to what it meant. "it will be a very large one," said isabel palmer to her one morning. "mother thinks it will be such a good way of entertaining the dornton people. we thought of a garden-party, but if it's fine a picnic will be much more fun." the three girls were alone in the schoolroom, their lessons just over, and anna was lingering for a chat before going back to waverley. "have you settled on the place yet?" she asked. "alderbury," replied isabel, "because it's near, and there's a jolly little wood to make the fire in." "how delightful it will be!" exclaimed anna. "how i wish it was going to be to-morrow, i'm so afraid something will prevent it." "bother this list!" put in clara's voice, from the table where she sat writing; "you might help me, isabel." "what do you want?" asked her sister. "well--mr goodwin, for instance--am i to put him down?" anna gave a little start, and gazed earnestly out of the window at which she stood, as isabel went up to the table and looked over clara's shoulder. then they did not know! aunt sarah had not told them. how strange it seemed! "w-well, i don't know," said isabel, reflectively. "we never have asked him to anything; but a picnic's different. he's a very nice old man, isn't he?" "he's an old dear," replied her sister, heartily, "but he's an organist. we shouldn't ask the organist of the church here." "mr goodwin's different, somehow," said isabel; "he's so clever, and then he's a great friend of the hunts, you know, and, of course, we shall ask them." "well, what am i to do?" repeated clara. "put him down, and put a query against him," decided isabel, "and when mother sees the list, she can alter it if she likes." anna expected every moment during this discussion that her opinion would be asked. she stood quite still, her back turned to her companions, a bright flush on her cheek, her heart beating fast. when all chance of being appealed to was over, and the girls had gone on to other names, she drew a deep breath, as if she had escaped a danger. "i must go now," she said, turning towards them, "aunt sarah wants me early to-day;" and in a few moments she was out of the house and on the way home. it was not until she was half-way down the long hill which led from pynes to waverley, that she began to realise what difficulties she had prepared for herself by her silence. if mr goodwin were asked, and if he came to the picnic, the relationship between them must be known. that would not matter so much, but it would matter that she had seemed to be ashamed of it. why had she not told them long ago? why had she not spoken just now, at the first mention of his name? what a foolish, foolish girl she had been! what should she do now? turning it over in her mind, she came to the conclusion that she must make some excuse to her aunt, and stay away from the picnic. she could not face what might happen there. the palmers' surprise, delia's scorn. why did you not tell us? she heard them saying, and what could she answer? as she thought of how much she had looked forward to this pleasure, a few tears rolled down anna's cheek, but they were not tears of repentance. she was only sorry for her own disappointment, and because things did not go smoothly. it was very hard, she said to herself, and the hardest part was that she was forced continually into crooked ways. she did not want to be deceitful; she would much rather be brave and open like delia, only things were too strong for her. as she thought this, delia's face seemed suddenly to appear before her: it did not look angry or scornful, but had a gentle, almost pleading expression on it: she was speaking, and what she said sounded quite clearly in anna's ears: "go back and tell them now. go back and tell them now," over and over again. anna stopped uncertainly, and turned her head to where, over the tops of the trees, she could still catch a glimpse of the chimneys of pynes: she even took two or three steps up the hill again, the voice still sounding entreatingly and loud. but now it was joined by another, louder and bolder, which tried to drown it. this one told her that, after all, there was no need. things would go well. the palmers might never know. soon they would go to scotland, and after that--well, that was a long way off. anna turned again, this time with decision, and finished the rest of her journey to waverley almost at a run, without stopping to think any more. as the days went on without any further mention of mr goodwin, she began to hope that, after all, she might be able to go to the picnic. how should she find out? she had not courage to ask the palmers, and though it would have been a simple matter to ask her grandfather himself, she shrank from facing him and his gentle kindliness just now. if only some visitor from dornton would come over! this wish was at last realised in a very unexpected way, and one which was not altogether pleasant. it was the day on which her visit to mr goodwin was usually made, and she had begged her aunt to allow her to remain at home. the heat had given her a headache, and she would rather go to dornton some other day. mrs forrest received the excuse indulgently. "i will call in and leave a message with mr goodwin," she said, "and you had better lie down quietly in your own room. by the time i get back you will be better, i hope." but aunt sarah had hardly been gone ten minutes before there was a knock at anna's door: "mrs winn would like to speak to you, miss. i told her you were not well, but she says she will only keep you a few minutes." anna did not know much of mrs winn, and thought, as she went down-stairs, that she had most likely some message for mrs forrest to leave with her. would she say anything about the picnic, or the people who were going to it? mrs winn had taken up a determined position on a stiff, straight-backed chair in the middle of the room. there was severity in her glance as she replied to anna's greeting, and remarked that she was sorry to miss mrs forrest. "aunt sarah's only just started to drive into dornton," said anna; "i wonder you did not meet her." "i came by the fields," replied mrs winn shortly. "you were not well enough to go out, i hear?" "i had a headache," said anna, with her pretty blush; "aunt thought i had better stay at home." "you don't look much the worse for it," said mrs winn, without removing her unblinking gaze. "girls in my young days didn't have headaches, or if they did, they put up with them, and did their duty in spite of them. things are turned topsy-turvy now, and it's the old who give way to the young." surprised at this tone of reproof, for which she was quite unprepared, anna's usually ready speech deserted her. she said nothing, and hoped that mrs winn would soon go away. but that was evidently not her intention just yet: she had come prepared to say what was on her mind, and she would sit there until it was said. "but, perhaps," she continued, "it's just as well you didn't go out, for i've been wanting an opportunity to speak to you for some days." "to me?" said anna, faintly. "i never shrink from my duty," went on mrs winn, "whether it's unpleasant or not, and i don't like to see other people doing so. now, you're only a child, and when you neglect to do what's right, you ought to be told of it." anna gazed in open-eyed alarm at her visitor. what could be coming? "i don't suppose you know, and, therefore, i think it my duty to tell you, that your grandfather, old mr goodwin, was extremely disappointed the other day when you failed to keep your promise. i hear that he waited for you until quite late." "aunt sarah wished me to go out with the palmers," said anna. "grandfather said he didn't mind at all--" "i knew your mother well," proceeded mrs winn, rolling on her way without noticing this remark, "and a sweet, young creature she was, though she made one mistake that i always regretted. and i know mr goodwin, of course, and respect him, though he's not made of the stuff that gets on in the world. still, whatever his position is, you owe him duty and reverence; and let me tell you, young lady, there may come a time when you'll be sorry you've not given it. it's all very well, and very natural, i daresay, to enjoy frolicking about with your gay young friends now. but youth passes, and pleasure passes, and then we all have time to remember the duties we didn't stoop to pick up when they lay at our door." anna sat in sulky silence during this long speech, with her eyes cast down, and a pout on her lips. what right had mrs winn to scold her? sullen looks, however, had no sort of effect on that lady, and when she had taken breath, she proceeded to finish her lecture: "i keep my eyes open, and my ears too, and i know very well, that though your grandfather says nothing, and is the sort of man to bear any neglect without complaint, that he feels hurt at your going so seldom to see him. and, knowing this, it was my duty to come and tell you, as there was no one else to do it. your aunt and uncle are not intimate with him, and delia hunt's too young to speak with any weight.--there's another thing, too, i wanted to mention. up to yesterday mr goodwin had received no invitation to the palmers' picnic." anna's heart gave a sudden leap of joy. then she could go to the picnic! "i fancy, if she knew this, that mrs forrest would neither go herself nor allow you to do so," continued mrs winn. "considering his connection with this family, it's a slight to her and her husband as well as to him. it's extremely strange of the palmers, when they take so much notice of you. i almost feel inclined to go on to pynes this afternoon and point it out to them!" she waited, looking at anna for a reply, but none came, for she was partly stunned by the force and suddenness of mrs winn's attack, and also filled with alarm at the idea of her going to pynes. that would spoil everything. so she sat in silence, nervously twisting her fingers in her lap, her downcast face strangely unlike that of the usually bright, self-possessed anna. "after all," concluded mrs winn, "i'm rather tired, and it's a good mile farther, so i'll go back over the fields as i came, though the stiles do try me a good deal. you know how matters stand now, and you can't say you've not been openly dealt with. so we'll shake hands, and bear no malice." anna went with her visitor as far as the garden door, and watched her until she was hidden from sight by the great walnut tree on the lawn. what a tiresome, interfering old lady she was, and how angry aunt sarah would be! her head really ached now. it felt as though some one had been battering it on each side with large, strong hands, and she was quite confused and giddy; but through it all one triumphant thought came uppermost. she could go to the picnic! presently she strolled out into the garden, fanning her hot face with her hat, as she turned things over in her mind. on the whole, she would not mention mrs winn's visit to her aunt, and, of course, she must not know that mr goodwin had not been asked to the picnic. it was very near now, and as mrs forrest was not fond of listening to dornton gossip, she was not likely to hear of it in any other way. to go to the picnic had now taken such full possession of anna's mind that nothing else seemed of much importance. she was ready to bend and twist everything that came in her way to make the road to it straight. a small reproving voice, which still sounded sometimes, was getting less and less troublesome. "afterwards," anna said to it, "after the picnic, i will behave differently. i will never conceal anything, and i will go often to see grandfather--but i _must_ go to the picnic." the stable clock sounding five disturbed her reflections. aunt sarah would be home soon without fail, for at a quarter past there would be a mothers' meeting at the schoolroom, at which she always presided. anna went too, sometimes, and helped to measure out calico and flannel, but she hoped she should be excused this afternoon. the schoolroom was hot, and she did not find the books aunt sarah read aloud to the mothers very interesting. there was the pony-cart in the distance! but who was the second figure sitting beside mrs forrest? could it be delia? anna ran through the house and into the porch, from which she could see the long approach to the rectory gate. there had been a time when delia's coming had meant unmixed rejoicing, but that was over. she seemed to come now not so much as a friend as a severe young judge, whose looks condemned, even when she did not speak. mrs winn had only put into words what delia's face had said for some time past, and, with the sound of them still in her ears, anna felt more alarmed than pleased, as she saw that it really was her old friend. had she, too, come to point out her duty? with the mothers' meeting on her mind, mrs forrest descended quickly from the pony-cart, and passed anna in the porch without looking at her. "is your headache better?" she said, as she went straight into the drawing-room, where tea was ready. "i overtook delia on her way to see you, and brought her on with me. you must take care of yourselves, for i must start almost immediately. please pour me out a cup of tea at once." when mrs forrest had drunk her tea, and set forth at a leisurely pace for the schoolroom, provided with work-basket and book, the two girls were alone together. there was a pause of embarrassment, which delia was the first to break. "i was coming over," she said, "to ask if you would care to go and get water-lilies down at the river this evening. you said you would like some rushes too." her voice sounded kind, almost as it used to long ago, although there was a sort of shyness in her manner. anna was greatly relieved. surely delia would not have begun like this if she intended to reprove her. "mrs forrest said you might go, if your head was better," continued delia. anna replied eagerly that her headache was nearly gone, a walk would do it good, she should like it immensely; and a few minutes later the girls started on their expedition. it was one which had been planned in the first days of their acquaintance, when anna had thought no pleasure could compare to a ramble in the country with delia. fresh from the rattle and noise of london, its stony pavements, and the stiff brilliancy of the flowers in the parks, it had been a sort of rapture to her to wander freely over the fields and through the woods. aunt sarah's garden was beautiful, but this was better still. all the flowers found here might be gathered, and delia knew exactly where they all grew in their different seasons, and the best way of getting to them. anna had begun, under her guidance, to make a collection of wild-flowers, but though started with great energy, it had not gone far. it had ceased, together with the walks, shortly after her acquaintance with the palmers had filled her mind with other things. yet those rambles with delia had never been forgotten. anna thought of them often, and knew in her heart that she had never been so really happy since. this evening, as she walked along swinging her basket, she felt as though the old days had come back, and the old delia too. it could not be so, really. if she knew--but she did not know. meanwhile the sky was blue, delia was kind, the meadows were gay and pleasant, she would forget everything disagreeable, and enjoy herself. their way lay for a short distance along the high-road, then over a stile, and down through the rich flat water-meadows which spread out on each side of the river. the dorn was neither a rapid nor a majestic stream, but took its leisurely course between its sloping banks, with a contented ripple, disturbing no one. this course was a very winding one, making all kinds of little creeks, and shallows, and islands on its way, and these were full of delightful plants for any one who cared to gather them. tall families of bulrushes and reeds swaying to the wind whistling through them; water-lilies, holding up their flat, green hands to make a table for their white blossoms; forests of willow-herb on the banks, wild peppermint and comfrey, and the blue eyes of forget-me-nots peeping out here and there with modest confidence. "there's an old punt fastened just about here," said delia, as they reached the river, "so we can get right out amongst the lilies, and then we can reach the rushes too." delia was always the leader on such occasions, and anna was used to following her with perfect confidence, but when they came to the old punt, a little higher up, she eyed it with some misgivings. it looked very insecure, and shaky, and rotten. "oh, delia," she cried, as her companion jumped lightly on to it and waited for her to follow, "it's leaking--i can see the water through it. do you think it will bear us both?" delia laughed as anna crept cautiously down the bank. it reminded her of the time when she had had to encourage and help her to climb gates and scramble through hedges. "come along," she said, holding out her hand, "it's as safe as dry land. why, i've seen four great boys on it at once." "how beautiful!" cried anna, as, after a little more encouragement, she found herself safely on the punt by delia's side, surrounded by water-lilies and bulrushes. they set to work to fill their basket with these, and when it was done there were always finer ones still almost out of reach. these must be had at any cost. delia would lie flat on the punt, and while anna held the skirt of her dress, would manage to get hold of them with the handle of a stick. there was both excitement and triumph in these captures, and while they were going on the girls forgot that any coolness had come between them, or that the world held much beyond water-lilies and bulrushes. when, however, they climbed out of the punt with their dripping prizes, and sat down on the bank to rest a little, recollections returned. "what a pity," thought anna, with a sigh, "that things are not always pleasant. delia is nicer than any one when she is kind." delia, on her side, as she packed the lilies into the basket, reminded herself that there was something she had to say to anna, and wondered how she should begin. as usual, she plunged straight into the matter of which her mind was full, and said suddenly: "do you ever meet your grandfather at pynes?" here was the tiresome subject again! all pleasure was over now. "no, never," replied anna. "he gives clara lessons on saturdays, and aunt sarah always wants me at home then." "you are going to this picnic, i suppose?" said delia. "does mrs forrest know that the professor has not been asked?" "i don't know," murmured anna. she glanced quickly at her companion, and saw the severe look coming back which she always dreaded. "of course," continued delia. "it does not in the least matter, as far as he is concerned, for he would not, in any case, go; but i should have thought his relations would have felt it a slight; and i can't understand mrs palmer." anna was silent. she wished now that delia had not come, though she had enjoyed the walk so much. "but i didn't mean to talk about that," resumed delia, with an effort. "what i wanted to say has nothing to do with the picnic. it's about you, anna, and myself." "about me?" repeated anna. after all, delia _was_ going to be angry, yet her voice sounded quite soft and kind. "yes. at first i didn't mean to say anything to you, because i thought you ought to be able to see it for yourself. and when you didn't, i was angry, and that kept me silent. but i know now, it was wrong. people can't see things just alike, and i ought to have been kinder, and tried to help you more." at this new tone of humility anna's heart softened at once to her friend. when she spoke like that, she felt for the moment that she would do anything she asked--even give up the picnic. "oh, delia," she exclaimed, impulsively, "you've always been very kind. kinder than i deserve." "that's nothing to do with it," answered delia. "people can do without friends when they deserve them. the thing is, that i promised the professor to be your friend, and i haven't carried it out." "it's been my fault," said anna, in a penitent voice, "but really and truly, delia, you may not believe me, but i _do_ like you better than isabel palmer--or any one. i do indeed." she spoke the truth. at that moment she felt that she would rather have delia for a friend than any one in the world. yet she was conscious that, if delia knew all, she would find it hard to forgive her. what a pity it all was! "so, what i want to tell you," continued delia, "and what i ought to have told you before, is this. i've let you think that your grandfather doesn't mind your going so seldom to see him--but i know that he does." she paused and looked earnestly at anna. "grandfather never says anything about it," anna murmured. "that's just it," said delia. "he's so unselfish and good, he wouldn't let you or any one know it for the world. he thinks so little of himself, it would be impossible to offend him. it's not what he _says_. oh, anna, if you really knew, and loved him, you _couldn't_ let anything else come before him! not all the palmers, and waverleys, and aunt sarahs in the world. you _couldn't_ give him a minute's pain or disappointment." she was so moved by her subject, that the tears stood in her dark eyes as she turned them upon anna. "i'll try, delia; i really will," said the latter, "but it _is_ hard. harder than you think. it makes aunt sarah different for days afterwards." delia snapped off the head of a water-lily in her impatient fingers. "aunt sarah!" she repeated. then more gently: "you see, anna, you must choose whether you'll pain the professor or displease mrs forrest. you can't possibly please both of them. you must choose which you think right, and stick to it. you can't serve god and mammon." how dreadfully earnest delia was! it almost frightened anna to hear her talk like that. "i will try," she repeated. "i will do my best, delia, if only you won't be angry any longer." she put her hand softly into her companion's, and delia's fingers closed over it in a warm clasp. for the time, the old feelings of confidence and affection had returned, and when, a little later, anna walked back to the vicarage alone, she was full of good resolves. she would try to deserve delia's friendship. she would go often to dornton, and be very loving to her grandfather. she would turn over a new leaf. "my dear anna," cried mrs forrest, meeting her in the porch with her basket of wet, shining river-plants, "do you know the time? miss stiles has been waiting to try on your dress for the picnic. dear me! what dripping things! let mary take them." the picnic! anna had really for the moment forgotten the picnic. all the good resolves trooped into the background again while she tried on the new dress. but only till _after_ the picnic! when that was over she would make a fresh start, and never, never, conceal anything again. chapter eight. the best things. a rose which falleth from the hand, which fadeth in the breast, until in grieving for the worst, we learn what is the best. mrs browning. everything went on quite smoothly until the day fixed for the picnic came. aunt sarah gave no hint of any objection; the weather was gloriously hot and fine; anna's new white dress was very pretty--there was nothing wanting to her long-desired enjoyment. she stood amongst the nodding roses in the porch, waiting for the palmers to call for her in their carriage, on the way to alderbury. aunt sarah was, perhaps, to drive over and join the party later. anna had dismissed all troublesome thoughts. she felt sure she was going to be very happy, and that nothing unlucky would happen to spoil her pleasure. she was in gay spirits, as she fastened a bunch of the little cluster-roses in her dress. isabel had once told her that she looked very pretty in white, and she was glad to feel that she suited the beauty of the bright summer day. "anna!" said mrs forrest's voice from the hall within. anna turned. the hall looked dark and shadowy after the sunshine, but it was easy to see that there was vexation on her aunt's face as she studied the letter in her hand. "i have just had a note from dr hunt," she said. "mr goodwin, your grandfather, is not very well." "what is the matter?" asked anna. she left the porch and went up to her aunt's side. "why, i can't quite make out. dr hunt talks of fever, but says there is nothing infectious. brought on by over-exertion in the heat, he thinks. he says you may safely go to see him--" there was a pause. mrs forrest and anna looked at each other: each waited for the other to speak. must i give up the picnic after all? thought anna. "i don't gather that it's anything serious," said mrs forrest at length. "i think the best plan will be for me to go over to dornton, after you've started, and see dr hunt. then, if there's really no danger of infection, you can go there early to-morrow," she looked inquiringly at anna, as though half-expecting her to make some other suggestion. the sound of wheels on the gravel, and the tramp of horses, told that the palmers were approaching: the wagonette, full of gay young people, drove up to the porch. "are you ready, anna?" called out isabel's voice. "will that satisfy you?" said mrs forrest; "you must decide now." "we're late, anna," said isabel again, "why don't you come?" anna hesitated. she looked out at the bright sunshine, where her companions called her to gaiety and pleasure, and then at the letter in her aunt's hand. "here's your cloak, miss anna," said the maid waiting at the door. in another moment, it seemed almost without any will of her own, she was squeezed into the carriage amongst her laughing companions, had waved a farewell to mrs forrest standing smiling in the porch, and was whirled away to the picnic. the hours of the sunny day, filled with delight for anna amongst the pleasant woods of alderbury, did not pass so quickly at number back row. the professor was ill. he had had a slight feverish attack to begin with, which passed off, and seemed of no importance, but it had left him in a state of nervous weakness and prostration, at which dr hunt looked grave. mr goodwin must have been over-exerting himself for some time past, he declared, and this breakdown was the result. it would probably be some time before he could do any work. perfect rest, and freedom from all care and agitation, were the only remedies. "don't let him know, delia," he said to his daughter as he left the house, "that he's likely to be laid up long. keep him as quiet and cheerful as possible. i'll send a line to mrs forrest, and let her know that his grandchild may be with him as much as she likes." delia prepared to spend the rest of the day with her old friend, and having persuaded him to lie down on the hard little couch, and made him as comfortable as she could with pillows, she sat down in the window with her sewing. from here she could watch the little gate, and prevent any one from entering too suddenly. of course anna would come soon. the professor was very quiet, but she thought he turned his eyes towards the door now and then, as though looking for some one. was it anna? at last she was thankful to see him fall into a doze which lasted some while, and she was just thinking for the hundredth time that anna _must_ come now, when she was startled by his voice: "prissy," it said, quite clearly. delia went up to the sofa. mr goodwin gazed at her for a moment without recognition. "you've had a nice sleep, professor," she said, smiling, "and now you are going to have some tea with me." but in spite of his sleep, the professor's face looked anxious, and he hardly tasted the tea which delia prepared. as she took his cup, he said wistfully: "did dr hunt write to mrs forrest?" delia nodded. "did--did anna happen to come while i was asleep?" was his next question. "she's not been yet," said delia, "but they may not have had the letter till late. she will come soon." "i should like to see her," said the professor. why did not anna come? as the weary hours went by, and the sun got lower and lower, he became very restless, looked first at his watch and then at the door, and no longer tried to conceal how much he wanted to see his grandchild. delia tried in vain to divert his mind by reading his favourite books, but it was evident that he was not listening to her. he was listening for the click of the gate, and the footsteps outside. every subject in which she tried to interest him came back to the same thing, anna, and anna's doings. delia could not help one throb of jealous pain, as she recognised how powerless she was to take her place, a place she seemed to value so little. but it was only for one moment; the next she put all thought of herself aside. anna belonged to the dearest memories of the professor's life. she had a place in his heart which would always be kept for her, whatever she had done or left undone. to bring peace and comfort into his face again, delia would have been willing at that moment to give up her own place in his affections entirely. if only anna would come! "i suppose it's too late to expect her now, my dear, isn't it?" said the patient voice again. delia could not bear it any longer. "i think," she said, as cheerfully as she could, "if you don't mind being alone a little while, i'll just run over to waverley. mrs cooper's here, if you want anything, you know." "will you really?" said the professor, with hope in his voice. "there's perhaps been some mistake about that letter," said delia. "you'd like to see anna to-night, wouldn't you?" "well, i _should_," said mr goodwin. "it's very absurd, i know, but i had such a strange dream just now about her and prissy, and i can't get it out of my head. i suppose being not quite up to the mark makes one unreasonable, but i really don't think i could sleep without seeing her. it's very good of you to go, my dear." "i'll be back in no time, and bring her with me," said delia. she spoke with confidence, but half-way across the fields she stopped her rapid pace, checked by a sudden thought--the picnic! in her anxiety she had forgotten it. anna might have started before dr hunt's note got to waverley. even then, though, she said to herself, she must be home by now. so she ran on again, and half an hour later she was on her way back over the darkening fields--without anna. she had gone to the picnic, and she knew the professor was ill! once delia would have felt angry; now there was only room in her heart for one thought: "he will be disappointed, and he will not sleep to-night." the church clock struck nine as she entered the high street in dornton, and the same sound fell faintly on anna's ears on her way back from alderbury. the picnic had been over long ago, but, shortly after the party started to return, one of the horses lost a shoe; the carriage in which anna was had to proceed at a slow walk for the rest of the distance, and it would be very late before she could reach waverley. no accident, however, could damp her spirits, or those of her companions. it was all turned into amusement and fun. the whole day had been more delightful than any anna had known. it was over now, that delightful day, and she gave a little sigh of regret to think that she was at the end of it instead of at the beginning. the one shadow which had fallen across the brightness of it, had been cast by the substantial figure of mrs winn, whom she had seen in the distance now and then. once she had noticed her in earnest conversation with mrs palmer, and thought that they had both looked in her direction, but it had been easy to avoid contact with her amongst so many people. it had not spoiled her enjoyment then; but now, her excitement a little cooled down, unpleasant thoughts began to make themselves heard. here was the rectory at last! anna burst into the drawing-room, her fair hair falling in confusion over her shoulders, a large bundle of foxgloves in her arms, her cheeks bright with the cool night breeze. "oh, aunt!" she exclaimed, "we've had such a lovely, lovely day. why didn't you come?" "you're very late, my dear anna," said mrs forrest, gravely. "i expected you more than an hour ago." anna explained the reason of her delay. "alderbury is the most perfect place," she repeated. "why didn't you come?" "it's very unlucky that you should be late," said mrs forrest. "delia has been over asking for you." anna's face fell. "oh!" she exclaimed. "my grandfather! is he worse?" "i don't think so. and from what i learned from dr hunt, he is not at all seriously ill. but he was restless, delia said, and wanted to see you to-night." "to see me," said anna. she let her flowers fall in a heap on the ground. "oh, aunt sarah, i wish i had not gone to the picnic!" "now, my dear anna, that is foolish. you shall go to dornton early to-morrow, and no doubt you will find mr goodwin better. remember that there is no cause for anxiety, and though the accident of your being late was very unfortunate, it could not be avoided." aunt sarah's composed words were reassuring. probably her grandfather was not very ill, anna thought; but oh, why had she gone to the picnic, and what would delia say? these last words were in her mind again next morning, as she arrived at number back row, and stood waiting to be let in. the little house looked very sad and silent, as though it knew its master was ill. presently the door opened a very little way, and the long, mournful face of mrs cooper appeared. when she saw who it was she put her finger on her lip, and then said in a loud, hoarse whisper, "i'll call miss delia." anna was left outside. she felt frightened. why did mrs cooper look so grave? perhaps grandfather was very ill after all! it seemed ages before the door opened again, and when it did, it was delia who stood there. she did not look at all angry, but her face was very sad. "he has had a very bad night," she whispered, "but now he is sleeping. he must not be disturbed. you had better come later." that was all. the door was gently shut again, and anna stood outside. as she turned away, her eyes filled with tears. yesterday her grandfather had wanted her, and she had not gone--to-day the door was shut. he must be very ill, she felt sure, whatever aunt sarah might say. his kind, gentle face came before her, as she made her way along-- always kind, never with any reproach in it. how could she have gone to the picnic, and left him to ask for her in vain? as she reached the place where the pony-cart waited for her, isabel palmer came out of a shop. she looked at her with a sort of cold surprise. "oh, anna," she said, "how is mr goodwin? we only heard yesterday he was ill. i was going to his house to ask after him." "dr hunt says there is no cause for anxiety," said anna, repeating the sentence she had so often heard from aunt sarah. "it was mrs winn who told mother he was ill," continued isabel, observing anna's downcast face curiously, "and--she said another thing which surprised us all very much. why didn't you tell us long ago that mr goodwin is your grandfather?" anna was silent. "we can't understand it at all," continued isabel. "mother says it might have caused great unpleasantness. she's quite vexed." she waited a moment with her eyes fixed on anna, and then said, with a little toss of her head: "well--good-bye. i suppose we shan't meet again before we go to scotland. mother has written to tell mrs forrest that we're not going on with lessons." they parted with a careless shake of the hands, and anna was driven away in the pony-cart. her friendship with isabel, her pleasant visits to pynes, were over now. she was humbled and disgraced before every one, and delia would know it too. it would have been a wounding thought once, but now there was no room in her heart for any feeling but dread of what might happen to mr goodwin. "oh, aunt sarah," she cried, when she reached waverley, and found her aunt in the garden, "i'm sure my grandfather is worse--i'm sure he's very ill. i did not see him." mrs forrest was tying up a rebellious creeper, which wished to climb in its own way instead of hers. she finished binding down one of the unruly tendrils before she turned to look at her niece. anna was flushed. her eyelids were red and swollen. "why didn't you see him?" she asked. "does dr hunt think him worse?" "i don't know," said anna. "i only saw delia for a minute. he was asleep. i am to go again. oh, aunt sarah," with a burst of sobs, "i do wish i had not gone to the picnic. i wish i had behaved better to my grandfather. i wish--" mrs forrest laid her hand kindly on anna's shoulder. "my dear," she said, "you distress yourself without reason. we can rely on dr hunt's opinion that your grandfather only needs rest. sleep is the very best thing for him. when you go this evening, you will see how foolish you have been. meanwhile, try to exercise some self-control; occupy yourself, and the time will soon pass." she turned to her gardening again, and anna wandered off alone. aunt sarah's calm words had no comfort in them. delia's severest rebuke, even mrs winn's plain speech, would have been better. she went restlessly up to her bedroom, seeking she hardly knew what. her eye fell on the little brown case, long unopened, which held her mother's portrait. words, long unthought of, came back to her as she looked at it. "if you are half as good and beautiful," her father had said; and on the same day what had been miss milverton's last warning? "try to value the best things." "oh," cried anna to herself as she looked at the pure, truthful eyes of the picture, "if i only could begin again! but now it's all got so wrong, it can never, never be put right!" after a while, she went into the garden again, and avoiding mrs forrest, crossed the little foot-bridge leading into the field, and sat down on the gate. the chimneys of leas farm in the distance made her think of daisy, and the old days when they had first met, and she had been so full of good resolves. daisy, and the good resolves, and delia too, seemed all to have vanished together. she had no friends now. every one had deserted her, and she had deserved it! she was sitting during those reflections with her face buried in her hands, and presently was startled by the sound of a little voice behind her. "what's the matter?" it said. it was daisy oswald, who had come through the garden, and now stood on the bridge close to her, a basket of eggs in her hand, and her childish, freckled face full of wonder and sympathy. generally, anna would have been ashamed to be seen in distress, and would have tried to hide it, but now she was too miserable to mind anything. she hid her face in her hands again, without answering daisy's question. "has some one been cross?" inquired daisy at last. anna shook her head. her heart ached for sympathy even from daisy, though she could not speak to her, and she hoped she would not go away just yet. "have you hurt yourself?" proceeded daisy. again the same sign. "have you done something naughty? i did something very naughty once." seeing that anna did not shake her head this time, she added, in her condescending little tone: "if you like, i'll come and sit beside you, and tell you all about it." she put her basket of eggs very carefully on the ground, and placed herself comfortably by anna's side. "it was a very naughty thing _i_ did," she began, in a voice of some enjoyment, "worse than yours, i expect. it was a year ago, and one of our geese was sitting, and mother said she wasn't to be meddled with nohow. and the white cochin-china hen was sitting too, and"--daisy paused to give full weight to the importance of the crime, and opened her eyes very wide, "and--i changed 'em! i carried the goose and put her on the hen's nest, and she forsook it, and the hen forsook hers, and the eggs were all addled! mother _was_ angry! she said it wasn't the eggs she minded so much as the disobedience. was yours worse than that?" "much, much worse," murmured anna. daisy made a click with her tongue to express how shocked she felt at this idea. "have you said you're sorry, and you won't do it any more?" she asked. "when you're sorry, people are kind." "i don't deserve that they should be kind," said anna, looking up mournfully at her little adviser. "father and mother were kind afterwards," said daisy. "i had to be punished though. i didn't have eggs for breakfast for a whole month after i changed the goose. i like eggs for breakfast," she added, thoughtfully. then glancing at her basket, as she got down from the gate, "mother sent those to mrs forrest. i came through the garden to find you, but i'm going back over the field. you haven't been to see star for ever so long. she's growing a real beauty." long after daisy was out of sight her simple words lingered in anna's mind. they had made her feel less miserable, though nothing was altered. "when you're sorry, people are kind," she repeated. if her grandfather knew the very worst, if he knew that she had actually been ashamed of him, would he possibly forgive her? would he ever look kindly at her again? anna sat up and dried her tears. she lifted her head with a sudden resolve. "i will tell him," she said to herself, "every bit about it, from the very beginning, and then i must bear whatever he says, and whatever delia says." it was easy to make this brave resolve, with no one to hear it but the quiet cows feeding in the field, but when the evening came, and she stood for the second time at number back row, her heart beat quickly with fear. when she thought of her grandfather's kind face her courage rose a little, but when she thought of what she had to tell him, it fell so low that she was almost inclined to run away. the door opened, but this time mrs cooper did not leave her outside. she flung open the door of the sitting-room with her other hand, and said in a loud voice, "miss forrest, sir." anna entered, half afraid as to what she should see, for she had made up her mind that her grandfather was really very ill. to her relief, the professor and his shabby little room looked unaltered. he was sitting in his arm-chair by the window, tired and worn, as she had often found him before, after one of his long walks, and held out his kind hand to welcome her as usual. "oh my dear anna," he said, "you've come to see me. that's right. come and sit here." there was a chair close to him, and as she took it, anna noticed a piece of half-finished knitting on the table, which she knew belonged to delia. "if delia comes in," she thought to herself, "i _can't_ do it." "are you better, grandfather?" she managed to ask, in a very subdued voice. "oh, i'm getting on splendidly!" he answered, "with such a good nurse, and so much care and attention, i shall soon be better than ever i was before." there was no mistaking the expression in his face as he turned it towards her. not only welcome and kindness, but love, shone from it brightly. in the midst of her confusion anna wondered how it was that she had never felt so sure of her grandfather's affection before. and now, perhaps, she was to lose it. "you can't think how wonderfully kind every one is," he continued. "i really might almost think myself an important person in dornton. they send messages and presents, and are ready to do anything to help me. mr hurst came in just now to tell me that he has arranged to fill my place as organist for a whole month, so that i may have a rest. they're very nice, good people in dornton. that kind mrs winn offered to come and read to me, and then delia is like another grand-daughter, you know." anna's heart was full as he chatted on. must she tell him? might she not put it off a little? "and so you went to a picnic yesterday?" he went on, as she sat silently by him. "was it very pleasant? let me see, did the sun shine? you must tell me all about it. i am to be an idle man now, you know, and shall want every one to amuse me with gossip." "grandfather," cried anna, with a sudden burst of courage, "i want to tell you--i've done something very wrong." the professor turned his gentle glance upon her. "we all have to say that, my dear," he answered, "very often. but i'm sure you're sorry for it, whatever it is." "it's something very bad," murmured anna, "delia knows. she won't forgive me, i know, but i thought perhaps you would." "is it to delia you have done wrong?" asked mr goodwin. "no. to you," replied anna, gaining courage as she went on, "i--" the professor stroked her fair hair gently. it was just the same colour as prissy's, he thought. "then i don't want to hear any more, my dear," he said, "for i know all about it already." the relief was so great, after the effort of speaking, that anna burst into tears, but they were tears full of comfort, and had no bitterness in them. "oh, grandfather," she sobbed, "you _are_ good. better than any one. i will never, never--" "hush, my dear, hush," said the professor, patting her hand gently, and trying to console her by all the means in his power. "i wonder where delia is!" he said at last, finding that his efforts were useless. anna sat up straight in her chair at the name, and dried her tears. she dreaded seeing delia, but it must be faced. "she was here the moment before you came in," he continued. "call her, my dear." it was not possible to be very far off in mr goodwin's house, and delia's voice answered from the kitchen, when anna opened the door and called her. a few minutes afterwards she came into the room carrying a tray full of tea-things; her quick glance rested first on anna's tear-stained face, and then on the professor. "anna and i have had a nice talk, my dear delia," he said, with an appealing look, "and now we should all like some tea." delia understood the look. she put down her tray, went promptly up to anna, and kissed her: "come and help me to get the tea ready," she said; "it's quite time the professor had something to eat." so anna was forgiven, and it was in this way that, during her visit to waverley, she began dimly to see what the best things are, and to see it through sorrow and failure. it was a lesson she had to go on learning, like the rest of us, all through her life--not an easy lesson, or one to be quickly known. sometimes we put it from us impatiently, and choose something which looks more enticing, and not so dull, and for a time we go on our way gaily--and then, a sorrow, or perhaps a sin, brings home to us that everything is worthless compared to love, truth, and faithfulness to duty, and that if we have been false to them, there is no comfort anywhere until we return to serve them with tears of repentance. the end. generously made available by the kentuckiana digital library) [illustration: "auntee, i'll think of something--i promise you i will."] second edition grandfather's love pie by miriam gaines illustrations by john edward whiting john p. morton & company incorporated louisville, kentucky copyright, , by miss miriam gaines. to the memory of my beloved father, john thomas gaines, this little volume is dedicated. grandfather's love pie i. "o, auntee, what is it?" the awed young voice paused at the threshold. it was a sight the little girl had never witnessed before--she had seen auntee sad at occasional intervals, and a few times had looked upon tears in the usually merry eyes of her beloved chum, but never before had she beheld auntee sobbing in such an abandonment of grief. there was a very tender tie of love between these two--alsie, the dear little twelve-year-old daughter of an older sister of the family, and alice, the only remaining unmarried child of a household of many sons and daughters. the family circle had never been broken, however, and it was a household where love prevailed, for although several members lived in far-away homes, the flame of affection burned as brightly and the cord of love bound them together as strongly as did ever the same ties bind their sturdy scotch ancestors into clans. auntee (for that was alsie's baby name for the aunt, with whom so many happy hours had been spent) rose half way up from the bed with a somewhat startled movement, but the sight of the stricken little face at her side seemed to bring back afresh the reminder of her pain, and she again buried her face in the pillow with a sob. after a few moments, however, the young woman put her arm tenderly around the little namesake and tried to explain. "i did not intend to burden you, alsie dear, with my grief, but i feel so sad and somehow i just couldn't keep it shut in any longer--it _had_ to come out. but i thought you were playing with your little friend margaret, and i knew mother had started for the drug store on an errand which would surely keep her an hour." "auntee, are you so sad because dear uncle james has gone away? you know grandma said he had been called to his heavenly home, and there are lots of us left to make you bright and happy." "so there are, alsie, and i will try to take courage in that thought, for surely god wouldn't take another loved one away from us so soon--so soon." the last two words were spoken pensively and as though she was unconscious of the presence of the child. little alsie's face became white. "o, auntee, you don't mean that dear grandfather"--her voice faltered and she finished in a whisper--"is worse?" auntee regained her self-possession in a moment and said hastily, "no, dear child, no worse. but sit down with me and i will tell you all about it. you must promise not to mention it to grandmother, however, for we will have to be brave together." then, sitting side by side in the pretty little blue bedroom where only a few months before so many joyous hours had been spent in fixing everything up daintily to meet the gaze of returned travelers, aunt alice related to young alice the story of her trip to the doctor's that very day, and how he had told her that the chances were against the recovery of the beloved father and grandfather, lying so patiently on his bed of pain in the south bedchamber. his health had begun to fail in the spring, but grandfather, with his broad shoulders, military bearing, and six feet of noble manhood, had never been sick within the memory of either of these two, and it was hard for them--or, indeed, any other--to conceive that it was more than a passing ailment, and would soon disappear. the family became vaguely uneasy as the spring merged into the summer, and a plan was proposed for the plump little five-foot "wifey" to take her big husband, the captain, on a long trip to the seashore and mountains. the trip had been taken, but captain gordon's condition did not show the improvement that the anxious members of his family had so earnestly hoped to see, and after the return the busy little wife immediately set about securing a couch for his office, for the invalid insisted that he was able to resume his duties. she explained that "the captain might rest a little now and then from his labors," for the sturdy old soldier would not for a moment entertain the thought of giving up his work--the loved, chosen profession which he had followed so faithfully and successfully since he came out--a gallant young officer of twenty-three--from the civil war, the sole survivor of the four members of his household who had gone forth to fight for what was to be the lost cause. everything at the office was made especially comfortable, for how willingly would every one have spared the quiet, kind professor, who combined so wonderfully strength and manliness with gentleness and lovableness of disposition. the experiment lasted one week--he came home at the close of the sixth day and said quietly, "i must get a substitute until i am well enough to attend to my work as it should be done." so the substitute was secured and a consultation of doctors followed, with the result that a new line of treatment had been adopted. a few weeks failed to bring good results, so other treatments had been tried, until, a few weeks before, a skilled specialist had ordered him off to the infirmary for a period of several weeks. the days spent here were days of great suffering, but grandfather was a man of monumental patience, and no word of complaint passed his lips. it was just at this time that a crushing blow had been dealt the hopeful, cheery little wifey, who had always been laughingly termed "boss of the ranch," "head of the house," and suchlike terms, but whose right to these titles had never been disputed by the indulgent husband or devoted sons and daughters, for her ready hand always carried with it relief, and her merry laugh brought cheer and sunshine. her only brother had been stricken, and died within a few days, but the brave little wife and mother had hidden her deep sorrow in her bosom, and after a few days, only a smiling face was presented about the house. when the allotted time at the infirmary had expired, the young doctor, who had studied the case with such zeal and attended his patient with the tender care of a son, brought him back to his home. after having put her father to bed, to rest from the weariness of the trip, alice turned around to the waiting physician, a foreboding anxiety in her heart, and tried to make her question quite natural: "well, doctor, how soon can your friend, the specialist, have father well again?" after a pause dr. emerson replied, "he will not continue on the case, miss gordon." "o, doctor, what do you mean? he has not given it up? i can not relinquish hope--i won't." "and i do not wish you to, miss gordon. dr. helm did not find your father's condition to be what he had expected, but we are going to begin at once a treatment that has been practiced with great success in germany, in cases like his." nothing more was said at that time between them, but the memory of that conversation was indelibly printed on alice's mind, and a long night of the keenest anguish she had ever experienced, followed. she thought, and thought, and thought, until the sounds from the sick-chamber near by, would bring a flood of tender memories and her pillow would be wet with tears. it was thus that most of the night was spent. toward morning she sank into a deep slumber, but, when she wakened, a terrible leaden weight seemed to oppress her, and it was several hours before the buoyant cheerfulness, with which she was by nature endowed, could again assert itself. after several days and nights spent thus, alice came to the wise conclusion that the situation _must_ be faced, for obvious reasons. after this decision was reached, she became more calm, and the next day, without consulting any member of the family, slipped away to the doctor's downtown office, and waited patiently until he was at leisure to see her. dr. emerson seemed a little surprised at her appearance, but said, "what is it, miss gordon--what can i do for you?" "i only came, dr. emerson, to say to you that i am now ready to hear what you have to tell about my father. i want to know just how much we may hope for--or how little." her voice faltered, but she continued, "i could not listen a few days ago when you suggested that dr. helm was not able to relieve him, but tell me all now." perhaps it was because the kind physician felt sorry for the sorrowing daughter, or perhaps it was because, personally, he cherished a deep affection for the scholarly old gentleman on whom he was expending his most earnest efforts, but whatever the reason, he told her in the gentlest, kindest manner, enough to make her understand that the chances were against her father's recovery. his concluding remarks, however, were reassuring. "please do not understand for a moment, miss gordon, that i have given up hope. i do not agree altogether with dr. helm, and i feel that we have good ground for expecting favorable results from the treatment that we have recently begun." after hearing the news, alice returned home, to find a letter in which was a small check from one of the loving family circle, to be spent in a christmas present for the dear sick one. it had come to be a sort of habit in the family for a few of the far-away members to send little sums to alice at christmas time, in order that the presents should be such as would give service as well as pleasure. the carrying out of these commissions had always been a source of delight to both big and little alice, for did _they_ not know best of all the individual needs and hopes of each member of the household? who, then, could so well plan and shop for the merry christmas, which was _always_ a success in the gordon household? yes, a merry, happy season it had always been for, while all the comforts of a refined home had ever been theirs, the provision of these comforts had required constant economy and management on the part of the busy little "wifey" of the house. as the former children had grown up and flitted away from the home nest to establish families for themselves, they had gradually come to realize that it was because of _not having_ so many things that they were enabled to get such a degree of pleasure from those gifts which just fitted the need, or perhaps those gifts, for which the ordinary craving might be counted an extravagance. it had always been the custom for each one of the family to hang up his or her stocking, and when the grandchildren began to appear upon the scene, grandfather's big sock always held a conspicuous place among the stockings of all sizes. it was the remembrance of all these established customs that had caused the entire breakdown of alice's walls of self-control (which she thought had been so well built), and when little alsie found her there, alone in her chamber, in such deep distress, it was not surprising that the little maid was frightened. this was the first time that alice had ever confided to the child anything that was, even, in a remote degree, depressing, but her heart was so overwrought that she had poured out the whole sad story to the little girl before time could be taken for consideration of the wisdom of such a course. a flicker of doubt, however, came to her as she saw the troubled look of the child deepen into an expression of pain and perplexity, and she continued, half apologetically, "i ought not to feel so discouraged, dearie, i know. i ought to be brave, but when i tried to think what i _could_ get for dear father with the checks that will surely be coming in to me, within the next two or three weeks, i felt so utterly broken-hearted that i could do nothing but cry." the child put her arms tenderly around the neck of her beloved aunt, and gave her message of sympathy in mute kisses. "i am completely at a loss to know what to do," said alice, with emphasis. "here is christmas, only a month distant--i have made no preparation, for i have had no heart for it; we can not hang up the stockings after the usual merry fashion, for it would be only a farce; we should cry instead of laugh when we see them, so i feel almost desperate to know _what_ to do. o, alsie, can't we think of some plan by which we may give dear grandfather a merry christmas, especially if it is to be his last with us?" "auntee, i'll _think_ of something--i promise you i will--and it will be soon, too--perhaps by to-morrow--but anyhow by the day after, so trust to me and let us both hope that grandfather will get better." "i will, dear--i will. there! i feel more hopeful already. don't you remember, when you were a wee tot, and would come in and ask me for a piece of cake? when i would say, 'well, now, i wonder where grandma has put that cake?' you would reply, so eagerly, 'fink hard, auntee--fink hard.' you knew well that a real hard _think_ would bring results. now we must both 'think hard' and see if we can't produce a little genuine christmas cheer." they parted with this compact, and when alice, half an hour later, walked into captain gordon's sick-chamber, a pleasant smile was on her lips and her voice had regained its usual composure. ii. a day or two passed with little change in the condition of affairs, in the gordon household, but on the third afternoon, following the conversation between the two alices, the younger one came in rather suddenly, and announced, in a whisper, that she had an idea. in a little while aunt alice had suggested a walk "for a breath of fresh air," with the result that they were soon out together, alone, walking in the lovely park which was close by. "you see, auntee," began alsie, "it was this way--i tried and tried to think of some celebration, which would make us all cheerful and happy at christmas, but the more i thought, the harder the problem seemed to get. we couldn't have plays, for that would tire grandfather; a christmas tree would remind us all of last christmas, when dear uncle james had such a beautiful one at his country place. it would make grandma cry--and perhaps the rest of us, too--to remember that _that_ home had been broken up by the loss of the father and husband. altogether, i was beginning to feel real discouraged. mamma took me down town to lunch with her to-day, and the waiter brought in such a big, luscious piece of pie. you know, auntee, i have always loved pie 'most as much as grandfather. i began to think how long it had been since he had had a single taste of pie, and yet he has never complained. i began to wish--o, so much--that grandfather could enjoy that delicious bit of pie. the tears came into my eyes, auntee, and i said to mamma, 'if grandfather could just eat this one piece of pie, mamma, i would be willing to do without pie for the rest of my life.' "it was then, auntee, that the idea came to me. couldn't we have a christmas pie for grandfather which, instead of having a filling of rich custards or fruits, would contain all the cunning little presents that we grandchildren could make for him?" "why, alsie, what an idea! i've heard of the jack horner pie and other varieties, perhaps, but who would have thought of the idea of a christmas pie of that kind! we'll certainly carry it out, for your pretty idea was the offspring of an unselfish impulse, and a sympathetic tear, and it surely will thrive and bear fruit." "let's see, auntee--a pie must always be round, mus'n't it?" "and this one will have to be big, too," replied alice, "for there are lots of us who want to have a finger in it. those dear co-workers with father, who have kept his sick-room so fragrant and beautiful with flowers, must each be allowed a little space for a card of greeting. in fact, alsie, i think it would be a good idea to invite all his most beloved circle of friends to send a little message of love, for only the other day he said to me, 'there is nothing so acceptable to a man lying on a bed of sickness as an offering of love--be it a message, a flower, a visit, or a delicacy--it is delightful to be remembered.'" "well, auntee, i'll see all the cousins within reach and write to the others, and you do the same with the grown folks of the family, and the rule must be that each is to put into the pie something that will please grandfather or make him laugh." "fine, alsie, fine. it's a good rule to make, for it's a '_merry christmas_' we are striving for, and i don't believe our efforts will fail if we put into them all the love and energy which the family say you and i possess, in a like degree." "we haven't much time to lose, either, auntee, for we have lots to do in the three weeks that remain to us. now, as to business, what are we going to make the pie-crust of--i mean what material will take the place of the pie-crust, which you know is what holds the goodies?" "it must be considerably stronger than the crisp, brittle crust which aunt bettie brings to _our_ table," replied aunt alice with a laugh. after a moment she continued, "i wonder if we couldn't get hold of one of those hat-boxes which are made to hold the enormous 'creations' we see every day in the milliners' shops, and on the heads of so many pretty girls. we can make the effort, anyhow, and if we don't succeed in finding just what we want, needles and cardboard are plentiful and we can make a box to suit ourselves, for it must be at least twenty-five or thirty inches in diameter and six inches high to hold the filling." they walked slowly homeward, discussing various little points which occurred to them along the way, until, when alice walked back into the front door of her home, what was her surprise and delight to feel that the weight of the sorrow, which had so oppressed her, was lightened. she felt almost buoyant in her eagerness for christmas to come. and now a busy season began. it was hard to think of anything suitable for the invalid, for had not the loving hands of his wife and children provided everything that might add to the comfort of the beloved head of the household? there was one little feature that had been overlooked, however--grandfather possessed no foot-warmers. so alsie's energies were at once set to work on these articles, which were destined to be "real comforts" in the weeks which followed christmas. the story of grandfather's pie was soon spread, not only through the family, but also to a large circle of friends. everybody was cautioned, however, to keep the secret from mrs. gordon, for it was decreed that the faithful little "wifey" (no one had ever heard the captain address his wife by any other name than _that_, which he had bestowed upon her during their honeymoon) should share the surprise and pleasure with her husband. "mr. doctor, what are you going to put in the christmas pie?" exclaimed alice merrily one morning, after telling the physician of the plan. "i think i'll contribute the turkey," he answered with a smile. "a turkey, of course, which won't take up too much space, and the dressing i'll put in that turkey will be calculated to make any sick man well. do you understand?" alice didn't quite understand, but was willing to leave the matter in his hands. little jack was quite worried that he could think of nothing to make grandfather laugh, and one day when he was in the sick-chamber he blurted out, "grandfather, what would you rather have me give you for christmas than anything else?" the laugh came then--before time--for it explained to grandfather the uneasy, doubtful expression which had enveloped the little lad's face just previous to the asking of the question. "well, i'll tell you, jack, what would please me more than anything else--a perfect report from your teacher. if you could bring me this, on christmas day, i would know that it meant hard work for a boy, who is as fond of play and mischief as you." nothing more was said on the subject, but little jack passed out of the room with a stern resolution that that report should be forthcoming, and when aunt alice was told of it she exclaimed enthusiastically, "o, jacky boy, you _must_ get that perfect report, even if it does mean hard work, and we'll lay it in the very center of the pie, sealed up in the prettiest christmas envelope that i can paint." iii. "aunt bettie, what are _you_ going to put in the pie? for you know everybody must put in something to please grandfather or make him laugh," asked alsie, after detailing the plan to the dear old black mammy, who had been grandmother's maid when she was a young lady in the long years ago. aunt bettie was considerably beyond sixty, but not many young "niggers" could get around as lively as she, and no one, who had ever dined in that household, could doubt her ability to cook the best meal ever brought to a table. "nevah you min', honey--aunt bettie'll have somethin' fur de occasion--it's a shame dat doctah won't let captain gordon hab no pie nor nuthin', but makes him eat jest dem beat biscuits, when he likes de soft ones so much de best. i'll be ready, chile, on de day 'fore christmas, so don' you worry yourse'f 'bout me." "but you mus'n't make him anything that is bad for him, aunt bettie. he can't eat the plum pudding, and other rich goodies like the rest of us, you know, because he is too ill and the doctor won't allow it," answered alsie anxiously. "i'll 'member _all_ dat," laughed aunt bettie reassuringly, as the child departed from the kitchen, but a feeling of sadness came to the faithful old soul as she recalled the festivities of the year before, when christmas dinner had been prepared for the whole family of children and grandchildren, and the thought of how the dear head of the family had enjoyed that occasion brought tears to her eyes. * * * * * such conversations were being held every day, and the days were passing, too, with astonishing rapidity, just as they always do when one is deeply interested in some absorbing project. aunt alice had been receiving, daily, numerous letters--several containing checks--and little alsie's correspondence had suddenly grown to enormous proportions. uncle dick came in one evening, and slipping a gold piece into his sister's hand remarked, "_i_ can't think of a thing for that pie, alice. i'm sorry to be so stupid, but i'll have to ask you to take this and see what your clever brain can do with it." "o, dick, it will make a grand 'plum' for the pie. i'll put it in, just in this form, for i want all the money entrusted to me, as agent, to go toward providing for father, comforts and luxuries, such as we might not be able to afford under ordinary circumstances. and yet, it's almost impossible to know exactly how to spend it just now," replied alice. after a little pause she added, "i believe i'll just put the gold pieces and checks into a little box and label it, 'fruit for the pie.' my biggest check may truly be termed a _peach_, and i can convert one or two others into plums and raisins." "i think i know of several plums that will be forthcoming if that's your idea, sis--it's a capital one, too," answered dick. "i confess i'm getting quite interested in the contents myself, and two or three times i've come near asking about the progress of the pie, before mother, forgetting that she's to share in the great surprise." "o, dick, _do_ be careful, for we have arranged it all so nicely, and in another week we'll be making up that pie, so don't spoil our plans now, for how much more father will enjoy it if his dear little 'wifey' shares the pleasure also. and, by the way, dick, that reminds me of something that must go in for mother. a few days ago, when i was sitting with father, he directed me to get a trifling gift for mother, but with his old-time humor he said, 'i believe the most acceptable gift that i could make wifey would be all the receipts of the bills that have come in, for the little woman has worried considerably over the number and amounts. i got in a pretty good check several days ago, but i'll not give any gifts this year--the money must go to pay these extra expenses that have been inevitable. i wish you'd see to it that wifey has as big a bunch as possible of receipted bills. it's the best i can do this year, and you all understand.'" "wasn't it dear of him, dick, and who but father would have thought of making a joke of something, which might seem to some, only a trying duty?" "it just shows us again the sort of manly man father has always been; but alice, i had an idea that it would be a nice thing to take that little poem father wrote to mother last christmas--the one he presented with his gift--and have an illuminated copy made of it for mother's gift this christmas. it pleased her so much at the time, and, in this form, it could be framed prettily and hung over her bed. you remember the lines--i have them in my pocket now." he unfolded the sheet of paper, and handed it to alice, who read aloud: my best christmas gift. some two score years, and more ago, a father gave his child away: it was a christmas gift, you know, because 'twas done on christmas day. that little maid was given to me; i took her then for weal or woe. the years have passed so happily it does not seem so long ago. no other gift in any year has e'er excelled, or equaled this; the others evanescent were while this has shed perennial bliss. for it has multiplied with time and added blessings, year by year; she came to me in youthful prime and still remains, though in the sere. her children, and their children, too, in number, just about a score,-- i count, as blessings, to her due: may god repeat his gift once more. my little wifey, always dear, when christmas comes, i think back then and greet you with increasing cheer, my christmas gift, returned again. "it's a beautiful idea, dick, but it won't do now. there's too much pathos in it for this occasion. when i read the lines myself, i am blinded with tears, for i realize all too keenly that we may not have him another christmas. some time, it may be a great comfort to mother to have it. keep the idea in mind and work it out some day." so the little poem was folded up and laid away for another year. iv. several days passed and grandfather seemed to improve. the spirit of christmas pervaded everything, and even the invalid playfully asked alsie if she could give him a hint as to what he might find in his sock on the eventful morning. uncle dick had been instructed to bring home all the santa claus posters that might be found in the newspaper office or bookshop, and there was already quite a stack of colored pictures on hand, showing santa claus in every stage of his wonderful yearly trip round the earth. both alices had spent some time selecting the little white santa and sleigh for the top of the pie. the reindeer were hitched, tandem style, to the sleigh, harnessed and reined with the gayest red ribbon. the packages and letters began to come, in considerable numbers, during the next few days, and several more "plums" were given into alice's care, not to mention the _dates_, raisins, currants, and the like, for every check or coin was classified with the _fruit_, for the _filling_ of the pie. it began to look as if that pie was to be a very rich one after all. one morning, several days before christmas, mrs. gordon came out of the sick-chamber, to the breakfast table, with a beaming face, saying: "captain gordon spent the best night he has had in months, and he feels so bright and well that he wants to be brought into the library and rest awhile on the couch there." what joy this announcement brought to them all! the rolling chair was drawn forth, and little alsie led the way from one room to another with feet that fairly danced. no ill effects followed the experiment, and it was repeated the next day with even greater success. it really appeared that some of the most persistent features of captain gordon's illness were yielding, perhaps, to the treatment--at any rate, the beloved invalid was better, and the leaden weight of apprehension, which had so burdened the hearts of each one of them, was disappearing and a wonderful joy was taking its place. a white-winged, invisible guest had arrived, before time, to spend the christmastide with them. it was the angel of hope, sent by the pitying hand of the father in heaven, and with it came peace, joy, love, and merriment. what a host of christmas cards came in, on the morning mail, just preceding christmas day. little alsie was almost wild to begin work on the pie. after breakfast, aunt alice said calmly, "alsie, come with me, for i have an important errand, and would like to have company." "o, auntee, how _can_ you be so composed when there's such a big pile of bundles in your bedroom closet, and have you seen the lovely palm sent to grandfather by the members of his literary club? it's a beauty, and so big that it looks almost like a small tree!" they wended their way to alice's room, and locked the door. going to the closet, alice brought forth the largest round hat-box that any of them had ever seen. it must have been two feet or more in diameter, but it was only seven or eight inches high. the christmas paper was next brought out, and what a wonderful variety there was--santa claus, in all phases of his yearly trip, was pictured on some rolls, while festoons of holly and ribbon were outlined against a background of white on others. after considerable discussion and comparing of effects, it was finally decided that the outside crust of the pie should be of white paper, decorated in holly and ribbon, so the needles and pastepot were both used in preparing the lower portion of the box. the top was treated in an entirely different fashion. it was covered over with the whitest of white cotton batting, and the glistening little sleigh was securely fastened to the center of the top. fragments of the cotton fell over the edges, and when alice sprinkled over this, the "diamond dust," it looked as if real icicles were dropping from a bank of glistening snow. "auntee, it's the prettiest thing i've ever seen!" exclaimed alsie enthusiastically, after the lining had been neatly pasted in. then began the work of fixing up the packages to fill the pie. aunt bettie's contribution was unique--a beaten-biscuit gentleman, some twelve inches tall, who was certainly most "fearfully and wonderfully" made. the eyes, which had been so carefully put in with a fork, were a little too close together, and the dough nose, which had been so anxiously applied, had risen unduly in the baking, to the great detriment of the biscuit gentleman's appearance. the mouth was all right, however--big and smiling. his legs looked very much like he had a bad case of locomotor ataxia, but the buttons on his coat were quite regular and his arms hung at his sides like ramrods. after careful inspection which occasioned considerable laughter, the beaten-biscuit man was rolled up in tissue paper and placed in a christmas box "just his size." on the card was this message: "the bible says, 'love your enemies'--here is an enemy for you to conquer," for it was a well-known fact that grandfather found it hard to overcome his dislike of the "hardtack," as he denominated the beaten biscuit prepared for him. [illustration: aunt bettie's contribution was unique--a beaten-biscuit gentleman, some twelve inches tall.] the doctor's turkey was next inspected--a nice little brown roasted fowl in appearance, but in reality one of the cunning little pasteboard devices that alsie had so often seen in the confectioners' shops. there was plenty of stuffing too, for dr. emerson had filled it full of pills and capsules. there were pink pills and blue pills and green pills and lavender pills, and hidden among them was the prescription, with one end sticking out of the opening. it read: "for captain gordon--pills of every color, size, and variety, warranted to cure every known pain or ache--to be taken with your christmas pie." the little turkey was carefully wrapped in tissue paper and garnished with a spray of holly. next came the tiny basket of fresh eggs from the merry little next-door neighbor, whose big, fine chickens had been coaxed to lay a dozen eggs for the christmas pie. the basket would not hold the dozen--o no! for its greatest capacity was four; but the remaining eight were set away in a safe corner of the pantry. the four eggs were laid in a perfect nest of red and white tissue paper, and holly and ribbon were twined round the edges and handle of the basket. on the card was written the following bit of rhyme: "now, what can be nicer than for folks to remember the friends that they love with _fresh eggs_ in december?" "we shall have to get help, alsie--just look at the books to be put in, and half the presents sent by the children must be wrapped and tied up, for you know every single thing must have a ribbon attached, by which it is to be pulled out of the pie." so alsie was cautiously sent out to get her cousin emily, the oldest granddaughter in the family, a quiet young girl of fourteen, who was exceedingly fond of reading. "for goodness sake, let's get the books all in the pie before emily gets here, auntee, for she will want to read a little out of each one to see what it is like, and we'll get no help from her," exclaimed alsie. aunt alice laughed, and replied, "well, we must get through this work somehow, for uncle dick is coming out early this afternoon with the cedar, holly, and mistletoe, and will help us decorate the library. speaking of cedar, let me show you what dear aunt cecile has sent in her christmas box, besides the gifts." taking off the top, alice lifted out a huge bunch of beautiful galax leaves and another of the daintiest sprays of evergreen. "just a suggestion of the bracing mountain air which you are to enjoy with me as soon as you are well enough to travel," was the message that came with it, for aunt cecile lived far away in a mountain climate, and was deeply disappointed at not being able to spend this holiday season at home, as she had intended. all sorts of curiously shaped packages were taken out and laid aside for the various members of the household, but the largest share was to go in the pie. tiny bess had made a big shaving-ball at kindergarten, and this was sent to grandfather with a christmas greeting. bobby's contribution was a highly decorated three-layer blotter with grandfather's name and address in red ink on the top layer. it was not a thing of beauty, being the work of his own clumsy little hands, but he felt sure it would be appreciated, for he had heard grandfather wish so often that "somebody" wouldn't take away the blotters from his desk. "i have such a cute little lemon that i want to put in the pie, auntee, and yet i don't know exactly _how_ to work it in. it would be too unkind to say that anybody would 'hand out a lemon' to dear, sick grandfather, but it's so tiny and cunning--hardly bigger than a lime. the groceryman found it in a box of lemons and gave it to me, asking if i needed anything that size for the pie--you know i told him all about it. he said there was nothing in his christmas stock too good for the captain, and he'd like to send something, but it really seemed like all his goodies were forbidden fruit." "we'll put the message in with the lemon, alsie, and that will make it both funny and kind." so the tiny specimen was done up in a dainty box and on the large card was written: "the groceryman offered his choice stock of figs, dates, confections, and fruits for captain gordon's christmas pie, but found nothing acceptable but a small-sized lemon, which he presents with the hope that it will furnish all the tartness necessary." "have you opened aunt margie's box yet?" was the question asked by alsie as the work of filling the pie was drawing to a close. "i opened that some days ago," replied alice, with a smile. "there were a good many things in that box for general distribution, and, by the way, alsie, this goes into the pie, but i think it will interest you as much as father." she had stepped to her dresser, and opened a drawer while speaking, and now held up to view what seemed to be simply an envelope. on turning it over, however, a pretty little border of holly was disclosed, painted around the edges. "a reminiscence" was written in the center. "what is it, auntee?" exclaimed alsie, reaching out her hand. "we'll let you guess awhile, dearie. i am going to drop it in the pie now, and _that_ will be one of the surprises that you will enjoy with grandpa." alsie was quite curious over the reminiscence, and wondered what it could contain to be of such interest to her. "well, i won't have to wait long, anyhow," she finally exclaimed, with a laugh. "one of the presents will have to stay on ice until to-morrow morning," explained alsie to emily, "but we'll show you the card. it's from mr. mcdonald, the druggist. he's been on a little hunting trip and this morning sent over the finest, fattest little quail you ever saw. on the card was written: 'dear captain: i filled this prescription for you myself, independent of the doctors, but i think they will approve. take it to-morrow at one o'clock and see if you don't feel better.' isn't it a cunning idea? it is to be the last thing put in before grandfather is brought into the library, emily, so don't let us forget it." "i won't," promised emily; "but where are you going to put all those bottles of wine and brandy, aunt alice? do you think the pie will hold them?" "if that problem puzzles you, just _how_ do you suppose we are going to get _this_ in the pie?" replied alice, lifting from its position behind the bed a box so huge that the pie itself seemed almost diminutive in comparison. "o, auntee," cried alsie in astonishment, "do tell us what it is!" for answer alice set the box on the bed, untied the string, and lifted off the top. a dainty and beautiful silken comfort was disclosed to the view of the admiring group. the background was of white, and scattered over it were clusters of the most exquisitely colored pink roses and green leaves. the edges were prettily bound with satin ribbon of an old-rose shade, and a huge bow adorned the center. "it is made of the warmest and softest wool, and every stitch was put in by hand," murmured alice softly, smoothing the comfort caressingly. "it is beautiful to look at, but by far the most beautiful part to father will be the thought that every one of his teachers wished to have a hand in the giving of his christmas gift, and to this end they came together, with needles and thimbles, and the stitches were veritably put in with love." "but the pie won't hold it, aunt alice--what are you going to do about it?" inquired practical little emily. "this big box goes behind the piano, and any other packages that can't be accommodated inside the pie, will be hidden around in various other little corners of the room. my plan is to have the _cards_ in the pie, however, and as they are drawn out, the directions as to where the packages they represent are deposited, can be followed. is that a good idea, alsie, or do you think of something better?" "it can't be improved upon, auntee--you always think of the best plans. but let's hurry up now and finish, for the pie is about as full as it will hold." a half hour more of work, and the pie was finished. v. the workers were all quite ready to do justice to the lunch spread out for them by aunt bettie. uncle dick came in during the meal, exclaiming, "o, do save me a sandwich, alsie, for i'm almost starved!" "where's the holly? did you get any mistletoe? are there any wreaths? is there plenty of cedar?" were the questions poured out upon him before he had opportunity to sit down. "yes, to all the questions, and i'll begin work just as soon as i rest a bit and eat a bite," laughingly answered uncle dick. "does that satisfy all parties?" uncle dick was a great favorite with the children in the family--he loved them and seemed to find genuine pleasure in playing, talking, and romping with the "small fry," so it was not surprising that they should take almost complete possession of him whenever he came. "your father's improvement continues," said mrs. gordon with a happy smile, in reply to her son's question as to how the invalid was feeling. "he seems so bright and well to-day and sat in the invalid chair this morning for more than an hour. i think he is surely gaining strength at last." "he's looking forward toward to-morrow with lots of pleasure, too," said alsie. "yesterday, when i was in his room, he asked what i expected to find in my stocking, and playfully suggested that he and i would have to be careful not to get our stockings mixed. do you know, uncle dick, i had hardly given a moment's thought to what i was going to get, for i have been so busy----" alsie caught herself just in time to keep from disclosing the secret to the busy little grandmother, who, a few moments later, hurried out of the dining room to resume once more her position in the sick-chamber. "look out the window, alsie!" exclaimed emily at this point, "it looks like our hopes for a white christmas are going to be realized." sure enough, the snow was falling fast and the ground already began to look white. "if it just keeps up, auntee, won't we have a beautiful christmas?" exclaimed alsie enthusiastically. alice had been looking out, too, and the shadow of doubt pulled at her heart-strings. _could_ it be the last christmas--o, surely such a terrible sorrow was not in store for them all! what would the merry season be without him? these were the thoughts that flashed through her mind, but at the sound of the clear little voice beside her, she dismissed them and answered cheerily, "i think we are going to have a beautiful christmas--in every way--but it's time to be about our work now. ask uncle dick if he left the cedar out on the porch." the cedar was brought in--likewise the holly and mistletoe--and oh, how pretty the red berries looked, and how pretty the garlands of evergreen looked when tied up with the crimson ribbons! "how do you like these?" called uncle dick as he smoothed out a great roll of posters. "i picked them up around the office, and thought they would help in the decorations." alsie and emily were filled with delight at sight of the great colored newspaper sheets, covered with all manner of pictures of the dear old saint. there he was just ready to climb down the chimney--another poster pictured him on his annual journey driving his reindeer over the snowy ground. and so on--it seemed as if every stage of the christmas trip had been photographed in colors. "i will pin this life-sized portrait of santa claus over the fireplace here," said uncle dick, "and you two girlies may get busy at once making garlands of evergreen to drape about him, and also over these others, for they must all have a touch of green; isn't that so, alice?" "by all means," answered his sister, with a laugh. "it's really a very clever idea, dick, to bring all these posters out, for they give a festive touch to our decorations." after two hours of hard work, in which hammer, nails, and stepladder played a considerable part, the library was almost transformed in appearance. every window and picture was festooned with christmas green, and the merry face of santa claus was visible from the bookcases, the desk, and many other nooks about the room. "what about the pie, auntee? aren't we ready for it now?" questioned alsie and emily with impatience, as a general survey of the room was taken. "this is just the time where we will have to be very careful," was the reply. "alsie, suppose you and emily offer to walk out with grandmother when she goes to meet aunt martha and little james, on the five o'clock train, and as soon as you get her safely out of the house uncle dick can bring the pie and other things into the library, where we can all have a hand in fixing it up later. of course i shall carry the key to the library the rest of the evening, for after keeping the secret this long, i am determined that mother shall have as much of the surprise and pleasure as father." seeing a look of disappointment on the two little faces at the idea of being banished just at the most interesting stage of the fun, alice continued reassuringly, "it is almost train time now, chicks, and you know i can't go with grandmother to-day, so practice the golden rule and run along. after your return from the station, you may come again to the library for, as you know, grandmother will want to have a good hour's conversation with aunt martha before tea-time." no further urging was necessary. the two girls skipped away cheerfully, and a few minutes later were out in the snowstorm with the little grandmother between them, all three being well bundled up in coats and overshoes. in less than an hour they had returned, the greetings were over, grandmother had taken aunt martha off to her room for the predicted chat, and the two little girls were taking their cousin james to the library. he had been told about the pie and was curious to know what it really looked like, for james was not gifted with a vivid imagination. he soon found out, however. aunt alice had covered over the entire top of the old mahogany library table with soft cotton, and hanging from the edges was a deep border of the lovely christmas paper which is used so much in these latter days for decorations. around the edges were laid sprays of the rarer and more delicate evergreen sent from the south by the loving daughter. in the center rose the pie, and over all was sprinkled the glistening powder, which gave the whole an appearance of real snow. it was, in truth, a wonderful creation, and the children gazed at the lovely vision in speechless delight. "the big box, containing the comfort, is behind the piano, james, and there are lots of other things, too big to go in the pie, stowed away in the various corners of the room, but the cards are all in the pie, and each tells just where to find a package. some lovely flowers and plants have been sent in this afternoon, but we'll wait until morning to bring them into the library. there is the couch close beside the fireplace, and if dear father is just able to be brought in to-morrow i think he will fully enjoy the christmas we have had so much pleasure in preparing for him. suppose we go out now, for it is tea-time, and, besides, almost everything has been done." so saying, alice turned to the door. the little party hastened out, and its members were soon engaged in a romp with uncle dick in the sitting room. vi. a more beautiful christmas day could scarcely have been imagined than dawned the next morning. the earth was covered with a carpet of snow, and the trees seemed to glisten with diamonds as the sun rose, although the air was crisp and frosty. "merry christmas!" sounded in alice's ears before she had fully wakened, and looking round with a somewhat sleepy expression she beheld the form of her beloved pet, arrayed in pink dressing-gown and slippers. a beaming smile adorned the face of the little girl, although the greeting had been so subdued as to be scarcely more than a whisper. "i just couldn't wait to show you how well i look in them!" exclaimed alsie as she jumped into bed with alice, and almost smothered her with hugs and kisses. "you can always think of the prettiest things for me, dear auntee, and i do love pink so dearly," she continued with an affectionate glance at the pretty slippers, adorned with the daintiest of ribbon rosettes. "did grandfather have a good night? do you think he will be able to come into the library?" "one question at a time, dear. i rather think father had a good rest, for i heard the nurse only once during the night, and that is a good indication. if he is as well as he was yesterday, i feel sure dick can bring him into the library, and the couch is there, so that he can lie down if he gets tired." almost an hour was spent in showing the contents of alsie's stocking and discussing plans for the day. "perhaps we had better get dressed now, and be ready for breakfast when it comes, but of course we mustn't disturb father, even though it _is_ christmas morning," said alice with a smile, and she began to make haste with her toilet. "have you ever noticed what a long wait people have for breakfast on christmas morning, auntee?" "that's because some people rise at such unearthly hours," answered alice with a laugh, "but run along now, alsie, and let's see which will be dressed first." an hour later found the family grouped around the breakfast table. each member had been in to the sick-room and given his greeting to the dear invalid, who had appeared so bright and cheerful that he seemed almost like his old merry self. when alsie was recounting to him all the pretty things she had found in her stocking, he said, teasingly, "now don't get into mine, too--i'm going to wait until uncle dick and his little tots come before i take my allotted hour in the library." by ten o'clock uncle dick's family had arrived, and the big, stalwart son went into the sick-room to assist the pale, weak father into the library. a pang came to the heart of the former as he thought of what a contrast was this christmas with the one of a year before, when the now wasted form had been so vigorous and handsome. a feeling of misgiving came as to what the next christmas would bring to them. when the chair was rolled into the library, what a sight was displayed to the wondering eyes of the astonished old gentleman! the room was almost transformed in appearance with the elaborate decorations, and, added to this feast for the eyes, was the perfume of fresh flowers, for several boxes of roses and carnations had come in with christmas greetings during the early hours of the morning. grandfather's breath was almost taken away. he looked at the eager faces gathered all round him, and said helplessly, "what does it mean? i don't exactly understand." "it's _your_ christmas pie, grandfather, for we couldn't let the day go by without your having a taste. when you find all the good things that are in that pie i don't think you'll feel slighted, even if aunt bettie's _mince_ pie is denied," exclaimed alsie enthusiastically. "yes, light in," added uncle dick, "and i'm here to help you, so we'll station ourselves around the fire and all assist _you_ to enjoy it, slice by slice." for a little while, however, it was only inspected, as alice told the story of how the idea had come to little alsie, and how all of them had assisted in working it out. uncle dick finally lifted off the top and a perfect network of narrow christmas ribbons was disclosed. "each ribbon holds a dainty morsel," said emily, as grandfather reached forth his hand to grasp one. the first "draw" was a fortunate one, for it proved to be a tender note of love and greeting from one of his most faithful and valued friends. the next brought forth aunt bettie's biscuit man, which looked so funny that every one burst into laughter. then books and presents of many varieties followed. every few minutes a card would be drawn out bearing a message from some dear relative or friend in a distant city or state. these tender reminders that so many of his friends were thinking of him with affection and sending him such cordial good wishes and hopes for recovery seemed to please captain gordon greatly. as for the little "wifey"--she just sat at her husband's side and enjoyed the same measure of surprise and pleasure. the package of receipted bills--gorgeously done up in christmas style--was not forgotten, and brought forth the predicted satisfaction, even if there was considerable laughing also. "handle this with care," laughed uncle dick, as he gayly lifted out the tiny basket of eggs. "this is one slice of the pie at least that you can eat." the lemon was pulled out in the course of time and proved not to be too sour for enjoyment. alsie waited patiently for the envelope containing the "reminiscence," and at last, when it came forth, she drew very close to grandfather to watch him open it. a puzzled look was on his face as he unfolded several yellow sheets of paper and recognized his own handwriting. he began to read a few lines, however, and a kindly smile spread over his countenance. "i rather think this will interest somebody else, too. suppose you read it aloud, dick," remarked grandfather. it was dated ten years before, and proved to be one of the vivid, interesting letters that none could write so well as captain gordon. it was written at the time of alice's memorable year's trip abroad with some friends. alsie was then a tiny girl of two years. the letter gave a detailed account of one of baby's escapades. it read as follows: "the old kentucky home. "my dear alice: "it pleases me greatly to know that my young daughter is having such a glorious time abroad with her friends, even though i do miss her sorely at home. the letter written by me a day or two ago, which will probably reach you along with this, informs you that we are all well at home, and it contains as much neighborhood gossip as wifey was able to think of at the hour of my writing, along with considerable instruction about certain points in sightseeing. your letter this morning, telling the amusing little story of the italian baby, made me wonder if you wouldn't like a 'baby letter' in return. so here is the answer: "last sunday morning your little namesake was dressed up in her prettiest white dress, with an abundance of blue ribbon adornment, and seated on the front porch, with careful instruction not to soil her clothes but to wait for mother to get ready to escort her to sunday-school. it developed later that the first part of the injunction seemed to make an impression to the exclusion of the last order. at any rate, alsie's mamma was somewhat delayed in her preparations, and when, twenty minutes or half an hour later, she appeared on the porch, no baby was in sight. a number of calls brought forth no response; a messenger was dispatched to the back lot, where the dandelions grow, another to the north side of the house, where the little maiden has been so occupied recently picking violets, while still other couriers were hastily despatched to all the neighbors. the report came back from all--no baby girl had been seen by anybody. the situation began to be a little alarming. the messengers were again started out, with instructions to go farther and report at once if any trace was found. "ten or fifteen minutes passed, and by this time alsie's mamma was in a most excited state of mind, as you may well imagine, and felt perfectly sure that the little curly-headed damsel had been kidnaped. she was reproaching herself roundly for putting such a tempting morsel of humanity right into the hands of the cruel villians, when a sharp ring of the telephone brought the remnant of the family, who were not on searching duty, flying to the table in the hall, which as you know holds the receiver. "being the least agitated member of the group, i boldly called 'hello,' and was asked by a masculine voice if mrs. stratton's little daughter didn't have blue eyes and brown hair and if she wore a white dress with blue---- "it was not necessary to finish the description. my informant then stated that the little lady in question was at that moment occupying a high seat on top of the counter at the drug store, which you know is some five blocks away, and was surrounded by an admiring group of men and boys, to whom she was affably chatting. he said that she refused to be led away, but was quite happy to eat the candy, chew the gum, and play with the various other offerings that were handed out by the amused group of auditors. "of course i started at once, and a few moments later i walked in on the baby, who was sitting, according to description, on the counter, explaining, 'must keep dress kean--mamma take me sunny sool.' when i entered she held out her little hands to me with such an innocent, happy smile that i had not the heart to scold; but it was some time before i could persuade her to return to poor mamma, to whom the scant hour's parting seemed almost a year. "you can imagine the rest of the story, but to relieve your misgivings i'll assure you that the cunning little tot escaped the well-merited punishment. "this is quite a letter, so i'll wait a few days to write again. as you're probably in france by this time, i'll close my letter with an _au revoir_. yours, &c., r. a. gordon." alsie's cheeks glowed with excitement during the reading of this letter, and at its close she exclaimed, "o, auntee, have you had it all these years and never showed it to me?" "it was among my foreign letters, dear, and i had not thought of it for some time, but i well remember what a pleasure it was to read that letter and hear of the escapade of the dear little baby namesake at home. i have always meant to show it to you when you were old enough to enjoy it," answered alice. after a good deal of laughter and comments among the various members of the family, the card bearing the order to look behind the piano on the left side was pulled out of the pie, and uncle dick was dispatched for the package. it proved to be the huge box containing the silken coverlet. grandmother's enthusiasm was awakened at the sight, and she commented many times on its softness, warmth, and beauty. books, cards, and gifts of all descriptions from the little tots, were taken out, inspected and complimented, to the immense satisfaction of the younger members of the family and the entertainment of the older ones of the group. it really seemed impossible to empty that pie, but after an hour or more had been spent in the occupation the ribbons began to grow thin. "this is to be the last one," said alice, slipping her hand over a ribbon that captain gordon was just about to pick up. "all right--just as you like. there have been so many goodies in this pie that i hardly see how it would be possible for anything better to be saved for the last," answered captain gordon with a loving smile. the last ribbon was finally drawn, and tied to the end was the "box of fruit" that alice had taken such pains to make attractive. captain gordon slowly untied the ribbon and took the top off the box. he picked up a small sealed envelope bearing the inscription, "a plum from dick," and in it was a shining gold piece. each little envelope (and there were quite a number) contained a peach, a plum, a raisin, a currant, or a date. the "plums" were all gold pieces, but the checks were put in under other names--according to their value--and the silver pieces and bright pennies were all in the raisin and currant envelopes. one envelope, bearing the name "date," when opened disclosed a small card on which was written: christmas day. when i "call to see" you, this "date" will be exchanged for a "plum." harold. this occasioned a laugh, and mrs. gordon began at once to sum up the total. "it's to buy you anything you want--a comfort and luxury fund," explained alice, "and all the members of the family join together in giving it." "grandfather, we hardly knew what to call your pie. it was not a chicken pie, even though it did contain a bird and a turkey. it was not a lemon pie, even if there was a lemon in it. it could not be called an apple, peach, cherry or mince pie, though there _was_ plenty of fruit in that box, wasn't there?" said alsie, with a laugh, when everything had been examined. "i think i shall call it my 'love pie,' for never was a pie so highly seasoned or delightfully flavored with love as this has been," answered grandfather softly, "and i want the dear little girl who thought of it to know that i have enjoyed it more than any pie that i have ever eaten." the invalid was a little wearied with the unusual excitement of the morning, and was soon ordered back to his bed for a little rest. in the afternoon alice went into the sick-room for a chat, while her mother went out for a little walk in the fresh, crisp air. she told her father of how the silken comfort had been planned and made, and captain gordon, after a long pause, turned to her with what seemed to alice the most beautiful expression she had ever seen on his face, and said, "bring it to me, daughter." she brought it forth and held it out to him that he might smooth its folds and look again at its rosy color. "spread it over me, dear, and let it cover me--as long as i need it." * * * * * and it covered him for the six weeks that it was needed, when it was replaced with a coverlet of roses and lilies provided by the same loving hands. collection of british authors tauchnitz edition. vol. queechy. by elizabeth wetherell . in two volumes. vol. i. tauchnitz edition by the same author, the wide wide world vol. the hills of the shatemuc vols. say and seal vols. the old helmet vols. queechy. by elizabeth wetherell author of "the wide, wide world." in two volumes. _author's edition_. in two volumes vol. i leipzig bernhard tauchnitz "i hope i may speak of woman without offence to the ladies." the guardian. contents of volume i. chapter i. curtain rises at queechy ii. things loom out dimly through the smoke iii. you amuse me and i'll amuse you iv. aunt miriam v. as to whether a flower can grow in the woods vi. queechy at dinner vii. the curtain falls upon one scene viii. the fairy leaves the house ix. how mr. carleton happened to be not at home x. the fairy and the englishman xi. a little candle xii. spars below xiii. the fairy peeps into an english house, but does not stay there xiv. two bibles in paris xv. very literary xvi dissolving view, ending with a saw-mill in the distance xvii. rain and water-cresses for breakfast xviii. mr. rossitur's wits sharpened upon a ploughshare xix. fleda goes after help and finds dr. quackenboss xx. society in queechy xxi. "the sweetness of a man's friend by hearty counsel" xxii. wherein a great many people pay their respects, in form and substance xxiii. the captain out-generalled by the fairy xxiv. a breath of the world at queechy xxv. "as good a boy as you need to have" xxvi. pine knots xxvii. sweet � in its consequences queechy. vol. i chapter i. a single cloud on a sunny day, when all the rest of heaven is clear, a frown upon the atmosphere, that hath no business to appear, when skies are blue and earth is gay. byron. "come, dear grandpa! � the old mare and the wagon are at the gate � all ready." "well, dear! � responded a cheerful hearty voice, "they must wait a bit; i haven't got my hat yet." "o, i'll get that." and the little speaker, a girl of some ten or eleven years old, dashed past the old gentleman, and running along the narrow passage which led to his room soon returned with the hat in her hand. "yes, dear, � but that ain't all. i must put on my great-coat � and i must look and see if i can find any money �" "o yes � for the post-office. it's a beautiful day, grandpa. cynthy! � wont you come and help grandpa on with his great- coat? � and i'll go out and keep watch of the old mare till you're ready." a needless caution. for the old mare, though spirited enough for her years, had seen some fourteen or fifteen of them, and was in no sort of danger of running away. she stood in what was called the back meadow, just without the little paling fence that enclosed a small courtyard round the house. around this courtyard rich pasture-fields lay on every side, the high road cutting through them not more than a hundred or two feet from the house. the little girl planted herself on the outside of the paling, and setting her back to it, eyed the old mare with great contentment; for besides other grounds for security as to her quiet behaviour, one of the men employed about the farm, who had harnessed the equipage, was at the moment busied in putting some clean straw in the bottom of the vehicle. "watkins," said the child presently to this person, "here is a strap that is just ready to come unbuckled." "what do you know about straps and buckles?" said the man rather grumly. but he came round, however, to see what she meant; and while he drew the one and fastened the other, took special good care not to let fleda know that her watchful eyes had probably saved the whole riding party from ruin; as the loosing of the strap would of necessity have brought on a trial of the old mare's nerves, which not all her philosophy could have been expected to meet. fleda was satisfied to see the buckle made fast, and that watkins, roused by her hint, or by the cause of it, afterwards took a somewhat careful look over the whole establishment. in high glee then she climbed to her seat in the little wagon, and her grandfather coming out coated and hatted, with some difficulty mounted to his place beside her. "i think watkins might have taken the trouble to wash the wagon, without hurting himself," said fleda; "it is all speckled with mud since last time." "ha'n't he washed it!" said the old gentleman in a tone of displeasure. "watkins!"" "well." "why didn't you wash the wagon as i told you?" "i did." "it's all over slosh." "that's mr. didenhover's work � he had it out day 'fore yesterday; and if you want it cleaned, mr. ringgan, you must speak to him about it. mr. didenhover may file his own doings; it's more than i'm a going to." the old gentleman made no answer, except to acquaint the mare with the fact of his being in readiness to set out. a shade of annoyance and displeasure for a moment was upon his face; but the gate opening from the meadow upon the high road had hardly swung back upon its hinges after letting them out, when he recovered the calm sweetness of demeanour that was habitual with him, and seemed as well as his little granddaughter to have given care the go-by for the time. fleda had before this found out another fault in the harness, or rather in mr. didenhover, which like a wise little child she kept to herself. a broken place which her grandfather had ordered to be properly mended, was still tied up with the piece of rope which had offended her eyes the last time they had driven out. but she said not a word of it, because "it would only worry grandpa for nothing;" and forgetting it almost immediately, she moved on with him in a state of joyous happiness that no mud-stained wagon nor untidy rope-bound harness could stir for an instant. her spirit was like a clear still-running stream, which quietly and surely deposits every defiling and obscuring admixture it may receive from its contact with the grosser elements around; the stream might for a moment be clouded; but a little while, and it would run as clear as ever. neither fleda nor her grandfather cared a jot for the want of elegancies which one despised, and the other, if she had ever known, had well nigh forgotten. what mattered it to her that the little old green wagon was rusty and worn, or that years and service had robbed the old mare of all the jauntiness she had ever possessed, so long as the sun shone and the birds sang? and mr. ringgan, in any imaginary comparison, might be pardoned for thinking that he was the proud man, and that his poor little equipage carried such a treasure as many a coach and four went without. "where are we going first, grandpa? to the post-office?" "just there!" "how pleasant it is to go there always, isn't it, grandpa? you have the paper to get, and i � i don't very often get a letter, but i have always the _hope_ of getting one; and that's something. may be i'll have one to-day, grandpa?" "we'll see. it's time those cousins of yours wrote to you." "o _they_ don't write to me � it's only aunt lucy; i never had a letter from a single one of them, except once from little hugh, � don't you remember, grandpa? i should think he must be a very nice little boy, shouldn't you?" "little boy? why i guess he is about as big as you are, fleda � he is eleven years old, ain't he?" "yes, but i am past eleven, you know, grandpa, and i am a little girl." this reasoning being unanswerable, mr. ringgan only bade the old mare trot on. it was a pleasant day in autumn. fleda thought it particularly pleasant for riding, for the sun was veiled with thin, hazy clouds. the air was mild and still, and the woods, like brave men, putting the best face upon falling fortunes. some trees were already dropping their leaves; the greater part standing in all the varied splendour which the late frosts had given them. the road, an excellent one, sloped gently up and down across a wide arable country, in a state of high cultivation, and now showing all the rich variety of autumn. the reddish buckwheat patches, and fine wood-tints of the fields where other grain had been; the bright green of young rye or winter wheat, then soberer-coloured pasture or meadow lands, and ever and anon a tuft of gay woods crowning a rising ground, or a knot of the everlasting pines looking sedately and steadfastly upon the fleeting glories of the world around them; these were mingled and interchanged, and succeeded each other in ever- varying fresh combinations. with its high picturesque beauty, the whole scene had a look of thrift, and plenty, and promise, which made it eminently cheerful. so mr. ringgan and his little granddaughter both felt it to be. for some distance, the grounds on either hand the road were part of the old gentleman's farm; and many a remark was exchanged between him and fleda, as to the excellence or hopefulness of this or that crop or piece of soil; fleda entering into all his enthusiasm, and reasoning of clover leys and cockle, and the proper harvesting of indian corn, and other like matters, with no lack of interest or intelligence. "o grandpa," she exclaimed, suddenly, "wont you stop a minute and let me get out. i want to get some of that beautiful bittersweet." "what do you want that for?" said he. "you can't get out very well." "o yes, i can � please, grandpa! i want some of it very much � just one minute!' he stopped, and fleda got out and went to the roadside, where a bittersweet vine had climbed into a young pine tree, and hung it, as it were, with red coral. but her one minute was at least four before she had succeeded in breaking off as much as she could carry of the splendid creeper; for not until then could fleda persuade herself to leave it. she came back, and worked her way up into the wagon with one hand full as it could hold of her brilliant trophies. "now, what good 'll that do you?" inquired mr. ringgan, good- humouredly, as he lent fleda what help he could to her seat. "why, grandpa, i want it to put with cedar and pine in a jar at home; it will keep for ever so long, and look beautiful. isn't that handsome? � only it was a pity to break it." "why, yes, it's handsome enough," said mr. ringgan, "but you've got something just by the front door there, at home, that would do just as well � what do you call it � that flaming thing there?" "what, my burning bush? o grandpa! i wouldn't cut that for anything in the world! it's the only pretty thing about the house; and, besides," said fleda, looking up with a softened mien, "you said that it was planted by my mother. o grandpa! i wouldn't cut that for anything." mr. ringgan laughed a pleased laugh. "well, dear!" said he, "it shall grow till it's as big as the house, if it will." "it wont do that," said fleda. "but i am very glad i have got this bittersweet; this is just what i wanted. now, if i can only find some holly �" "we'll come across some, i guess, by and by," said mr. ringgan; and fleda settled herself again to enjoy the trees, the fields, the roads, and all the small handiwork of nature, for which her eyes had a curious intelligence. but this was not fated to be a ride of unbroken pleasure. "why, what are those bars down for?" she said, as they came up with a field of winter grain. "somebody's been in here with a wagon. o grandpa! mr. didenhover has let the shakers have my butternuts! � the butternuts that you told him they mustn't have." the old gentleman drew up his horse. "so he has!" said he. their eyes were upon the far end of the deep lot, where, at the edge of one of the pieces of woodland spoken of, a picturesque group of men and boys, in frocks and broad-brimmed white hats, were busied in filling their wagon under a clump of the now thin and yellow-leaved butternut trees. "the scoundrel!" said mr. ringgan, under his breath. "would it be any use, grandpa, for me to jump down and run and tell them you don't want them to take the butternuts? � i shall have so few". "no, dear � no," said her grandfather; "they have got �em about all by this time; the mischief's done. didenhover meant to let 'em have 'em unknown to me, and pocket the pay himself get up!" fleda drew a long breath, and gave a hard look at the distant wagon, where her butternuts were going in by handfuls. she said no more. it was but a few fields further on, that the old gentleman came to a sudden stop again. "ain't there some of my sheep over yonder there, fleda � along with squire thornton's?" "i don't know, grandpa," said fleda; "i can't see � yes, i do see � yes, they are, grandpa; i see the mark." "i thought so!" said mr. ringgan, bitterly; "i told didenhover, only three days ago, that if he didn't make up that fence the sheep would be out, or squire thornton's would be in; � only three days ago! ah, well!" said he, shaking the reins to make the mare move on again, � "it's all of a piece. everything goes � i can't help it." "why do you keep him, grandpa, if he don't behave right?" fleda ventured to ask, gently. " 'cause i can't get rid of him, dear," mr. ringgan answered, rather shortly. and till they got to the post-office, he seemed in a disagreeable kind of muse, which fleda did not choose to break in upon. so the mile and a half was driven in sober silence. "shall i get out and go in, grandpa?" said fleda, when he drew up before the house. "no, deary," said he, in his usual kind tone; "you sit still. holloa, there! � good-day, mr. sampion � have you got anything for me?" the man disappeared and came out again. "there's your paper, grandpa," said fleda. "ay, and something else," said mr. ringgan: "i declare! � 'miss fleda ringgan � care of e. ringgan, esq.' �there, dear, there it is." "paris!" exclaimed fleda, as she clasped the letter and both her hands together. the butternuts and mr. didenhover were forgotten at last. the letter could not be read in the jolting of the wagon, but, as fleda said, it was all the pleasanter, for she had the expectation of it the whole way home. "where are we going now, grandpa?" "to queechy run." "that will give us a nice long ride. i am very glad. this has been a good day. with my letter and my bittersweet i have got enough, haven't i, grandpa?" queechy run was a little village, a very little village, about half a mile from mr. ringgan's house. it boasted, however, a decent brick church of some size, a school-house, a lawyer's office, a grocery store, a dozen or two of dwelling-houses, and a post-office; though for some reason or other mr. ringgan always chose to have his letters come through the sattlersville post-office, a mile and a half further off at the door of the lawyer's office mr. ringgan again stopped, and again shouted "holloa!" � "good-day, sir. is mr. jolly within?" "he is, sir." "will you ask him to be so good as to step here a moment? i cannot very well get out." mr. jolly was a comfortable-looking little man, smooth and sleek, pleasant and plausible, reasonable honest, too, as the world goes; a nice man to have to do with; the world went so easy with his affairs that you were sure he would make no unnecessary rubs in your own. he came now fresh and brisk to the side of the wagon, with that uncommon hilarity which people sometimes assume when they have a disagreeable matter on hand that must be spoken of. "good-morning, sir! fine day, mr. jolly." "beautiful day, sir! splendid season! how do you do, mr. ringgan?" "why, sir, i never was better in my life, barring this lameness, that disables me very much. i can't go about and see to things any more as i used to. however � we must expect evils at my time of life. i don't complain. i have a great deal to be thankful for." "yes, sir, � we have a great deal to be thankful for," said mr. jolly, rather abstractedly, and patting the old mare with kind attention. "have you seen that fellow, mcgowan?" said mr. ringgan, abruptly, and in a lower tone. "i have seen him," said mr. jolly, coming back from the old mare to business. "he's a hard customer, i guess, aint he?" "he's as ugly a cur as ever was whelped!" "what does he say?" "says he must have it." "did you tell him what i told you?" "i told him, sir, that you had not got the returns from your farm that you expected this year, owing to one thing and 'nother; and that you couldn't make up the cash for him all at once; and that he would have to wait a spell, but that he'd be sure to get it in the long run. nobody ever suffered by mr. ringgan yet, as i told him." "well?" "well, sir, � he was altogether refractible; he's as pig- headed a fellow as i ever see." "what did he say?" "he gave me names, and swore he wouldn't wait a day longer � said he'd waited already six months." "he has so. i couldn't meet the last payment. there's a year's rent due now. i can't help it. there needn't have been an hour, if i could go about and attend to things myself. i have been altogether disappointed in that didenhover." "i expect you have." "what do you suppose he'll do, mr. jolly? � mcgowan, i mean." "i expect he'll do what the law 'll let him, mr. ringgan; i don't know what 'll hinder him." "it's a worse turn than i thought my infirmities would ever play me," said the old gentleman after a short pause � "first to lose the property altogether, and then not to be permitted to wear out what is left of life in the old place � there wont be much." "so i told him, mr. ringgan. i put it to him. says i, 'mr. mcgowan, it's a cruel hard business; there ain't a man in town that wouldn't leave mr. ringgan the shelter of his own roof as long as he wants any, and think it a pleasure, if the rent was anyhow.' " "well � well!" said the old gentleman, with a mixture of dignity and bitterness, � "it doesn't much matter. my head will find a shelter somehow, above ground or under it. � the lord will provide. � whey! stand still, can't ye! what ails the fool? the creature's seen years enough to be steady," he added, with a miserable attempt at his usual cheerful laugh. fleda had turned away her head and tried not to hear when the lowered tones of the speakers seemed to say that she was one too many in the company. but she could not help catching a few bits of the conversation, and a few bits were generally enough for fleda's wit to work upon; she had a singular knack at putting loose ends of talk together. if more had been wanting, the tones of her grandfather's voice would have filled up every gap in the meaning of the scattered words that came to her ear. her heart sank fast as the dialogue went on; and she needed no commentary or explanation to interpret the bitter little laugh with which it closed. it was a chill upon all the rosy joys and hopes of a most joyful and hopeful little nature. the old mare was in motion again, but fleda no longer cared or had the curiosity to ask where they were going. the bittersweet lay listlessly in her lap; her letter, clasped to her breast, was not thought of; and tears were quietly running one after the other down her cheeks and falling on her sleeve; she dared not lift her handkerchief nor turn her face towards her grandfather lest they should catch his eye. her grandfather? � could it be possible that he must be turned out of his old home in his old age? could it be possible? mr. jolly seemed to think it might be, and her grandfather seemed to think it must. leave the old house! but where would he go? � son or daughter he had none left; resources he could have none, or this need not happen. work he could not; be dependent upon the charity of any kin or friend she knew he would never; she remembered hearing him once say he could better bear to go to the almshouse than do any such thing. and then, if they went, he would have his pleasant room no more where the sun shone in so cheerfully, and they must leave the dear old kitchen where they had been so happy; and the meadows and hills would belong to somebody else, and she would gather her stores of butternuts and chestnuts under the loved old trees never again. but these things were nothing, though the image of them made the tears come hot and fast, these were nothing in her mind to the knowledge or the dread of the effect the change would have upon mr. ringgan. fleda knew him, and knew it would not be slight. whiter his head could not be, more bowed it well might; and her own bowed in anticipation as her childish fears and imaginings ran on into the possible future. of mcgowan's tender mercies she had no hope. she had seen him once, and being unconsciously even more of a physiognomist than most children are, that one sight of him was enough to verify all mr. jolly had said. the remembrance of his hard, sinister face sealed her fears. nothing but evil could come of having to do with such a man. it was, however, still not so much any foreboding of the future that moved fleda's tears as the sense of her grandfather's present pain, � the quick answer of her gentle nature to every sorrow that touched him. his griefs were doubly hers. both from his openness of character and her penetration, they could rarely be felt un- shared; and she shared them always in more than due measure. in beautiful harmony, while the child had forgotten herself in keen sympathy with her grandfather's sorrows, he, on the other hand, had half lost sight of them in caring for her. again, and this time not before any house but in a wild piece of woodland, the little wagon came to a stop. "aint there some holly berries that i see yonder?" said mr. ringgan, � "there, through those white birch stems? that's what you were wanting, fleda, aint it? give your bittersweet to me while you go get some, � and here, take this knife, dear, you can't break it. don't cut yourself." fleda's eyes were too dim to see white birch or holly, and she had no longer the least desire to have the latter; but with that infallible tact which assuredly is the gift of nature and no other, she answered, in a voice that she forced to be clear, "o yes! thank you, grandpapa;" � and stealthily dashing away the tears, clambered down from the rickety little wagon, and plunged with a _cheerful_ step at least, through trees and underbrush to the clump of holly. but if anybody had seen fleda's face! � while she seemed to be busied in cutting as large a quantity as possible of the rich shining leaves and bright berries. her grandfather's kindness, and her effort to meet it had wrung her heart; she hardly knew what she was doing, as she cut off sprig after sprig, and threw them down at her feet; she was crying sadly, with even audible sobs. she made a long job of her bunch of holly. but when at last it must come to an end, she choked back her tears, smoothed her face, and came back to mr. ringgan smiling and springing over the stones and shrubs in her way, and exclaiming at the beauty of her vegetable stores. if her cheeks were red, he thought it was the flush of pleasure and exercise, and she did not let him get a good look at her eyes. "why, you've got enough to dress up the front room chimney," said he. "that'll be the best thing you can do with 'em, wont it?" "the front room chimney! no, indeed i wont, grandpa. i don't want 'em where nobody can see them, and you know we are never in there now it is cold weather." "well, dear! anyhow you like to have it. but you ha'n't a jar in the house big enough for them, have you?" "o, i'll manage � i've got an old broken pitcher without a handle, grandpa, that'll do very well." "a broken pitcher! that isn't a very elegant vase," said he. "o you wouldn't know it is a pitcher when i have fixed it. i'll cover up all the broken part with green you know. are we going home now, grandpa?" "no, i want to stop a minute at uncle joshua's." uncle joshua was a brother-in-law of mr. ringgan, a substantial farmer, and very well to do in the world. he was found not in the house, but abroad in the field with his men, loading an enormous basket wagon with corn-stalks. at mr. ringgan's shout he got over the fence, and came to the wagon- side. his face showed sense and shrewdness, but nothing of the open nobility of mien which nature had stamped upon that of his brother. "fine morning, eh?" said he. "i'm getting in my corn-stalks." "so i see," said mr. ringgan. "how do you find the new way of curing them answer?" "fine as ever you see. sweet as a nut. the cattle are mad after them. how are you going to be off for fodder this winter?" "it's more than i can tell you," said mr. ringgan. "there ought to be more than plenty; but didenhover contrives to bring everything out at the wrong end. i wish i was rid of him." "he'll never get a berth with me, i can tell you," said uncle joshua, laughing. "brother," said mr. ringgan, lowering his tone again, "have you any loose cash you could let me have for six months or so?" uncle joshua took a meditative look down the road, turned a quid of tobacco in his cheek, and finally brought his eyes again to mr. ringgan and answered. "well, i don't see as i can," said he. "you see, josh is just a going to set up for himself at kenton, and he'll want some help of me; and i expect that'll be about as much as i can manage to lay my hands on." "do you know who has any that he would be likely to lend?" said mr. ringgan. "no, i don't. money is rather scarce. for your rent, eh?" "yes, for my rent! the farm brings me in nothing but my living. that didenhover is ruining me, brother joshua." "he's feathering his own nest, i reckon." "you may swear to that. there wa'n't as many bushels of grain, by one fourth, when they were threshed out last year, as i had calculated there would be in the field. i don't know what on earth he could have done with it. i suppose it'll be the same thing over this year." "may be he has served you as deacon travis was served by one of his help last season � the rascal bored holes in the granary floor and let out the corn so, and travis couldn't contrive how his grain went till the floor was empty next spring, and then he see how it was." "ha! � did he catch the fellow?" "not he � he had made tracks before that. a word in your ear � i wouldn't let didenhover see much of his salary till you know how he will come out at the end." "he has got it already!" said mr. ringgan, with a nervous twitch at the old mare's head; "he wheedled me out of several little sums on one pretence and another, � he had a brother in new york that he wanted to send some to, and goods that he wanted to get out of pawn, and so on, � and i let him have it! and then there was one of those fatting steers that he proposed to me to let him have on account, and i thought it was as good a way of paying him as any; and that made up pretty near the half of what was due to him." "i warrant you his'n was the fattest of the whole lot. well, keep a tight hold of the other half, brother elzevir, that's my advice to you." "the other half he was to make upon shares." "whew! � well � i wish you well rid of him; and don't make such another bargain again. good-day to ye!" it was with a keen pang that little fleda saw the down-hearted look of her grandfather as again he gave the old mare notice to move on. a few minutes passed in deep thought on both sides. "grandpa," said fleda, "wouldn't mr. jolly perhaps know of somebody that might have some money to lend?" "i declare!" said the old gentleman, after a moment, "that's not a bad thought. i wonder i didn't have it myself." they turned about, and without any more words measured back their way to queechy run. mr. jolly came out again, brisk and alert as ever; but after seeming to rack his brains in search of any actual or possible money-lender, was obliged to confess that it was in vain; he could not think of one. "but i'll tell you what, mr. ringgan," he concluded, "i'll turn it over in my mind to-night and see if i can think of anything that'll do, and if i can i'll let you know. if we hadn't such a nether millstone to deal with, it would be easy enough to work it somehow." so they set forth homewards again. "cheer up, dear!" said the old gentleman, heartily, laying one hand on his little granddaughter's lap; "it will be arranged somehow. don't you worry your little head with business. god will take care of us." "yes, grandpa!" said the little girl, looking up with an instant sense of relief at these words; and then looking down again immediately to burst into tears. chapter ii. have you seen but a bright lily grow, before rude hands have touched it? ha' you mark'd but the fall o' the snow, before the soil hath smutch'd it? ben jonson. where a ray of light can enter the future, a child's hope can find a way � a way that nothing less airy and spiritual can travel. by the time they reached their own door fleda's spirits were at par again. "i am very glad we have got home, aren't you, grandpa?" she said, as she jumped down; "i'm so hungry. i guess we are both of us ready for supper, don't you think so?" she hurried up stairs to take off her wrappings, and then came down to the kitchen, where, standing on the broad hearth and warming herself at the blaze, with all the old associations of comfort settling upon her heart, it occurred to her that foundations so established could not be shaken. the blazing fire seemed to welcome her home, and bid her dismiss fear; the kettle singing on its accustomed hook, looked as if quietly ridiculing the idea that they could be parted company; her grandfather was in his cushioned chair at the corner of the hearth, reading the newspaper, as she had seen him a thousand times; just in the same position, with that collected air of grave enjoyment, one leg crossed over the other, settled back in his chair but upright, and scanning the columns with an intent but most un-careful face. a face it was that always had a rare union of fineness and placidness. the table stood spread in the usual place, warmth and comfort filled every corner of the room, and fleda began to feel as if she had been in an uncomfortable dream, which was very absurd, but from which she was very glad she had awoke. "what have you got in this pitcher, cynthy?" said she. "muffins! � o let me bake them, will you? i'll bake them." "now, flidda," said cynthy, "just you be quiet. there ain't no place where you call bake 'em. i'm just going to clap 'em in the reflector � that's the shortest way i can take to do 'em. you keep yourself out o' muss." "they wont be muffins if you bake 'em in the reflector, cynthy; they aren't half so good. ah, do let me! i wont make a bit of muss." "where'll you do 'em? " "in grandpa's room � if you'll just clean off the top of the stove for me; now do, cynthy! i'll do 'em beautifully, and you wont have a bit of trouble. � come!" "it'll make an awful smoke, flidda; you'll fill your grandpa's room with the smoke, and he wont like that, i guess. " "o, he wont mind it," said fleda. "will you, grandpa?" "what, dear?" said mr. ringgan, looking up at her from his paper, with a relaxing face which indeed promised to take nothing amiss that she might do. "will you mind if i fill your room with smoke?" "no, dear!" said he, the strong heartiness of his acquiescence almost reaching a laugh; "no, dear! � fill it with anything you like!" there was nothing more to be said; and while fleda in triumph put on an apron and made her preparations, cynthy on her part, and with a very good grace, went to get ready the stove; which, being a wood stove, made of sheet iron, with a smooth, even top, afforded, in fleda's opinion, the very best possible field for muffins to come to their perfection. now fleda cared little in comparison for the eating part of the business; her delight was, by the help of her own skill and the stove-top, to bring the muffins to this state of perfection; her greatest pleasure in them was over when they were baked. a little while had passed. mr. ringgan was still busy with his newspaper, miss cynthia gall going in and out on various errands, fleda shut up in the distant room with the muffins and the smoke; when there came a knock at the door, and mr. ringgan's "come in!" was followed by the entrance of two strangers, young, welldressed, and comely. they wore the usual badges of seekers after game, but their guns were left outside. the old gentleman's look of grave expectancy told his want of enlightening. "i fear you do not remember me, mr. ringgan," said the foremost of the two, coming up to him, �"my name is rossitur � charlton rossitur � a cousin of your little granddaughter. i have only" � "o, i know you now!" said mr. ringgan, rising and grasping his hand heartily, � "you are very welcome, sir. how do you do? i recollect you perfectly, but you took me by surprise. � how do you do, sir? sit down � sit down." and the old gentleman had extended his frank welcome to the second of his visitors, almost before the first had time to utter, "my friend, mr. carleton." "i couldn't imagine what was coming upon me, "said mr. ringgan, cheerfully, "for you weren't anywhere very near my thoughts; and i don't often see much of the gay world that is passing by me. you have grown since i saw you last, mr. rossitur. you are studying at west point, i believe." "no, sir; i was studying there, but i had the pleasure of bringing that to an end last june." "ah! � well, what are you now? not a cadet any longer, i suppose." "no, sir; we hatch out of that shell lieutenants." "hum; and do you intend to remain in the army?" "certainly, sir, that is my purpose and hope." "your mother would not like that, i should judge. i do not understand how she ever made up her mind to let you become that thing which hatches out into a lieutenant. gentle creatures she and her sister both were; how was it, mr. rossitur? were you a wild young gentleman that wanted training?" "i have had it, sir, whether i wanted it or no." "hum! how is he, mr. carleton? � sober enough to command men?" "i have not seen him tried, sir," said this gentleman, smiling; "but from the inconsistency of the orders he issues to his dogs, i doubt it exceedingly." "why, carleton would have no orders issued to them at all, i believe," said young rossitur; "he has been saying 'hush' to me all day." the old gentleman laughed in a way that indicated intelligence with one of the speakers, � which, appeared not. "so you've been following the dogs to-day," said he. "been successful?" "not a bit of it," said rossitur. "whether we got on the wrong grounds, or didn't get on the right ones, or the dogs didn't mind their business, or there was nothing to fire at, i don't know; but we lost our patience, and got nothing in exchange." "speak for yourself," said the other. "i assure you i was sensible of no ground of impatience while going over such a superb country as this." "it is a fine country," said mr. ringgan � "all this tract � and i ought to know it, for i have hunted every mile of it for many a mile around. there used to be more game than partridges in these hills, when i was a young man; bears and wolves, and deer, and now and then a panther, to say nothing of rattlesnakes." "that last-mentioned is an irregular sort or game, is it not." said mr. carleton, smiling. "well, game is what you choose to make it," said the old gentleman. "i have seen worse days' sport than i saw once when we were out after rattlesnakes, and nothing else. there was a cave, sir, down under a mountain, a few miles to the south of this, right at the foot of a bluff some four or five hundred feet sheer down; it was known to be a resort of those creatures, and a party of us went out � it's many years ago, now � to see if we couldn't destroy the nest; exterminate the whole horde. we had one dog with us, a little dog, a kind of spaniel, a little white and yellow fellow, and he did the work! well, sir, how many of those vermin do you guess that little creature made a finish of that day? of large and small, sir, there were two hundred and twelve." "he must have been a gallant little fellow." "you never saw a creature, sir, take to a sport better; he just dashed in among them, from one to another, he would catch a snake by the neck and give it a shake, and throw it down and rush at another; poor fellow, it was his last day's sport, he died almost as soon as it was over; he must have received a great many bites. the place is known as the rattlesnakes' den to this day, though there are none there now, i believe." "my little cousin is well, i hope," said mr. rossitur. "she? yes, bless her! she is always well. where is she? fairy, where are you? cynthy, just call elfleda here." "she's just in the thick of the muffins, mr. ringgan." "let the muffins burn! call her." miss cynthia accordingly opened a little way the door of the passage, from which a blue stifling smoke immediately made its way into the room, and called out to fleda, whose little voice was heard faintly responding from the distance. "it's a wonder she can hear through all that smoke," remarked cynthia. "she," said mr. ringgan, laughing; "she's playing cook or housekeeper in yonder, getting something ready for tea. she's a busy little spirit, if ever there was one. ah! there she is. come here, fleda � here's your cousin rossitur from west point, and mr. carleton." fleda made her appearance flushed with the heat of the stove and the excitement of turning the muffins, and the little iron spatula she used for that purpose still in her hand; and a fresh and larger puff of the unsavoury blue smoke accompanied her entrance. she came forward, however, gravely, and without the slightest embarrassment, to receive her cousin's somewhat unceremonious "how do, fleda?" and, keeping the spatula still in one hand, shook hands with him with the other. but at the very different manner in which mr. carleton _rose_ and greeted her, the flush on fleda's cheek deepened, and she cast down her eyes and stepped back to her grandfather's side with the demureness of a young lady just undergoing the ceremony of presentation. "you come upon us out of a cloud, fleda," said her cousin. "is that the way you have acquired a right to the name of fairy?" "i am sure, no," said mr. carleton. fleda did not lift up her eyes, but her mounting colour showed that she understood both speeches. "because, if you are in general such a misty personage," mr. rossitur went on, half laughing, "i would humbly recommend a choice of incense." "o, i forgot to open the windows!" exclaimed fleda, ingenuously. "cynthy, wont you, please, go and do it! and take this with you," said she, holding out the spatula. " she is as good a fairy as _i_ want to see," said her grandfather, passing his arm fondly round her. "she carries a ray of sunshine in her right hand; and that's as magic-working a wand as any fairy ever wielded � hey, mr. carleton?" mr. carleton bowed. but whether the sunshine of affection in fleda's glance and smile at her grandfather, made him feel that she was above a compliment, or whether it put the words out of his head, certain it is that he uttered none. "so you've had bad success to-day," continued mr. ringgan, "where have you been? and what after? partridges?" "no, sir," said mr. carleton, "my friend rossitur promised me a rare bag of woodcock, which i understand to be the best of american feathered game; and, in pursuance of his promise, led me over a large extent of meadow and swamp land, this morning, with which, in the course of several hours, i became extremely familiar, without flushing a single bird." "meadow and swamp land!" said the old gentleman. "whereabouts?" "a mile or more beyond the little village over here, where we left our horses," said rossitur. "we beat the ground well, but there were no signs of them even." "we had not the right kind of dog," said mr. carleton. "we had the kind that is always used here," said rossitur; "nobody knows anything about a cocker in america." "ah, it was too wet," said mr. ringgan. "i could have told you that. there has been too much rain. you wouldn't find a woodcock in that swamp, after such a day as we had a few days ago. but speaking of game, mr. rossitur, i don't know anything in america equal to the grouse. it is far before woodcock. i remember, many years back, going a grouse shooting, i and a friend, down in pennsylvania; we went two or three days running, and the birds we got were worth a whole season of woodcock. but, gentlemen, if you are not discouraged with your day's experience, and want to try again, _i'll_ put you in a way to get as many woodcock as will satisfy you � if you'll come here to-morrow morning. i'll go out with you far enough to show you the way to the best ground _i_ know for shooting that game in all this country; you'll have a good chance for partridges, too, in the course of the day; and that aint bad eating, when you can't get better � is it, fairy?" he said, with a sudden smiling appeal to the little girl at his side. her answer again was only an intelligent glance. the young sportsmen both thanked him and promised to take advantage of his kind offer. fleda seized the opportunity to steal another look at the strangers; but meeting mr. carleton's eyes fixed on her with a remarkably soft and gentle expression, she withdrew her own again as fast as possible, and came to the conclusion that the only safe place for them was the floor. "i wish i was a little younger, and i'd take my gun and go along with you myself," said the old gentleman, pleasantly; "but," he added, sighing, "there is a time for everything, and my time for sporting is past." "you have no right to complain, sir," said mr. carleton, with a meaning glance and smile, which the old gentleman took in excellent good part. "well," said he, looking half proudly, half tenderly, upon the little demure figure at his side, "i don't say that i have. i hope i thank god for his mercies, and am happy. but in this world, mr. carleton, there is hardly a blessing but what draws a care after it. well � well � these things will all be arranged for us!" it was plain, however, even to a stranger, that there was some subject of care, not vague nor undefined pressing upon mr. ringgan's mind as he said this. "have you heard from my mother lately, fleda?" said her cousin. "why, yes," said mr. ringgan, � "she had a letter from her only to-day. you ha'n't read it yet, have you, fleda?" "no, grandpa," said the little girl; "you know i've been busy." "ay," said the old gentleman; "why couldn't you let cynthia bake the cakes, and not roast yourself over the stove till you're as red as a turkey-cock?" "this morning i was like a chicken," said fleda, laughing, "and now like a turkey-cock." "shall i tell mamma, fleda," said young rossitur, "that you put off reading her letter to bake muffins?" fleda answered without looking up, "yes, if he pleased." "what do you suppose she will think?" "i don't know." "she will think that you love muffins better than her." "no," said fleda, quietly, but firmly, � "she will not think that, because it isn't true." the gentlemen laughed, but mr. carleton declared that fleda's reasoning was unanswerable. "well, i will see you to-morrow," said mr. rossitur, "after you have read the letter, for i suppose you will read it some time. you should have had it before, � it came enclosed to me, � but i forgot unaccountably to mail it to you till a few days ago." "it will be just as good now, sir," said mr. ringgan. "there is a matter in it, though," said rossitur, "about which my mother has given me a charge. we will see you to-morrow. it was for that partly we turned out of our way this evening." "i am very glad you did," said mr. ringgan. "i hope your way will bring you here often. wont you stay and try some of these same muffins before you go?" but this was declined, and the gentlemen departed; fleda, it must be confessed, seeing nothing in the whole leave-taking but mr. carleton's look and smile. the muffins were a very tame affair after it. when supper was over, she sat down fairly to her letter, and read it twice through before she folded it up. by this time the room was clear both of the tea equipage and of cynthia's presence, and fleda and her grandfather were alone in the darkening twilight with the blazing wood fire; he in his usual place at the side, and she on the hearth directly before it; both silent, both thinking, for some time. at length mr. ringgan spoke, breaking as it were the silence and his seriousness with the same effort. "well, dear!" said he, cheerfully, � "what does she say?" "o, she says a great many things, grandpa; shall i read you the letter?" "no, dear, i don't care to hear it; only tell me what she says." "she says they are going to stay in paris yet a good while longer." "hum!" � said mr. ringgan. "well � that aint the wisest thing i should like to hear of her doing." "oh, but it's because uncle rossitur likes to stay there, i suppose, isn't it, grandpa?" "i don't know, dear. maybe your aunt's caught the french fever. she used to be a good sensible woman; but when people will go into a whirligig, i think some of their wits get blown away before they come out. well � what else?" "i am sure she is very kind," said fleda. "she wants to have me go out there and live with her very much. she says i shall have everything i like, and do just as i please, and she will make a pet of me, and give me all sorts of pleasant things. she says she will take as good care of me as ever i took of the kittens. and there's a long piece to you about it, that i'll give you to read as soon as we have a light. it is very good of her, isn't it, grandpa? i love aunt lucy very much." "well," said mr. ringgan, after a pause, "how does she propose to get you there?" "why," said fleda, � "isn't it curious? � she says there is a mrs. carleton here, who is a friend of hers, and she is going to paris in a little while, and aunt lucy asked her if she wouldn't bring me, if you would let me go, and she said she would with great pleasure, and aunt lucy wants me to come out with her." "carleton! � hum �" said mr. ringgan; " that must be this young man's mother?'" "yes, aunt lucy says she is here with her son, � at least she says they were coming." "a very gentlemanly young man, indeed," said mr. ringgan. there was a grave silence. the old gentleman sat looking on the floor; fleda sat looking into the fire with all her might. "well," said mr. ringgan after a little, "how would you like it, fleda?" "what, grandpa?" "to go out to paris to your aunt, with this mrs. carleton?" "i shouldn't like it at all," said fleda, smiling and letting her eyes go back to the fire. but looking, after the pause of a minute or two, again to her grandfather's face, she was struck with its expression of stern anxiety. she rose instantly, and coming to him, and laying one hand gently on his knee, said in tones that fell as light on the ear as the touch of a moonbeam on the water, "_you_ do not want me to go, do you, grandpa?" "no, dear!" said the old gentleman, letting his hand fall upon hers, � "no, dear! � that is the last thing i want!" but fleda's keen ear discerned not only the deep affection, but something of _regret_ in the voice, which troubled her. she stood, anxious and fearing while her grandfather lifting his hand again and again, let it fall gently upon hers; and amid all the fondness of the action, fleda somehow seemed to feel in it the same regret. "you'll not let aunt lucy, nor anybody else, take me away from you, will you, grandpa?" said she after a little, leaning both arms affectionately on his knee, and looking up into his face. "no, indeed, dear!" said he, with an attempt at his usual heartiness, � "not as long as i have a place to keep you. while i have a roof to put my head under, it shall cover yours." to fleda's hope that would have said enough; but her grandfather's face was so moved from its wonted expression of calm dignity, that it was plain _his_ hope was tasting bitter things. fleda watched in silent grief and amazement the watering eye and unnerved lip; till her grandfather, indignantly dashing away a tear or two, drew her close to his breast and kissed her. but she well guessed that the reason why he did not for a minute or two say anything, was because he could not. neither could she. she was fighting with her woman's nature to keep it down, � learning the lesson early! "ah well," � said mr. ringgan at length, in a kind of tone that might indicate the giving up a struggle which he had no means of carrying on, or the endeavour to conceal it from the too keen-wrought feelings of his little grand-daughter, � "there will be a way opened for us somehow. we must let our heavenly father take care of us." "and he will, grandpa," whispered fleda. "yes, dear! we are selfish creatures. your father's and your mother's child will not be forgotten." "nor you either, dear grandpa," said the little girl, laying her soft cheek alongside of his, and speaking by dint of a great effort. "no," said he, clasping her more tenderly, � "no � it would be wicked in me to doubt it. he has blessed me all my life long with a great many more blessings than i deserved; and if he chooses to take away the sunshine of my last days, i will bow my head to his will, and believe that he does all things well, though i cannot see it." "don't, dear grandpa," said fleda, stealing her other arm round his neck and hiding her face there, � "please don't!" he very much regretted that he had said too much. he did not, however, know exactly how to mend it. he kissed her, and stroked her soft hair, but that and the manner of it only made it more difficult for fleda to recover herself, which she was struggling to do; and when he tried to speak in accents of cheering, his voice trembled. fleda's heart was breaking, but she felt that she was making matters worse, and she had already concluded, on a mature review of circumstances, that it was her duty to be cheerful. so, after a few very heartfelt tears which she could not help, she raised her head and smiled, even while she wiped the traces of them away. "after all, grandpa," said she, "perhaps mr. jolly will come here in the morning with some good news, and then we should be troubling ourselves just for nothing." "perhaps he will," said mr. ringgan, in a way that sounded much more like "perhaps he wont!" but fleda was determined now not to _seem_ discouraged again. she thought the best way was to change the conversation. "it is very kind in aunt lucy, isn't it, grandpa, what she has written to me?" "why, no," said mr. ringgan, decidedly; "i can't say i think it is any very extraordinary manifestation of kindness in anybody to want you." fleda smiled her thanks for this compliment. "it might be a kindness in me to give you to her." "it wouldn't be a kindness to me, grandpa." "i don't know about that," said he, gravely. they were getting back to the old subject. fleda made another great effort at a diversion. "grandpa, was my father like my uncle rossitur in anything?" the diversion was effected. "not he, dear!" said mr. ringgan. "your father had ten times the man in him that ever your uncle was." "why, what kind of a man is uncle rossitur, grandpa?" "ho dear! i can't tell. i ha'n't seen much of him. i wouldn't judge a man without knowing more of him than i do of mr. rossitur. he seemed an amiable kind of man. but no one would ever have thought of looking at him, no more than at a shadow, when your father was by." the diversion took effect on fleda herself now. she looked up pleased. "you remember your father, fleda." "yes, grandpa, but not very well always. i remember a great many things about him, but i can't remember exactly how he looked, except once or twice." "ay, and he wa'n't well the last time you remember him. but he was a noble-looking man � in form and face too � and his looks were the worst part of him. he seemed made of different stuff from all the people around," said mr. ringgan, sighing, "and they felt it too, i used to notice, without knowing it. when his cousins were 'sam,' and 'johnny,' and 'bill,' he was always, that is after he grew up, '_mr. walter_.' i believe they were a little afeard of him. and with all his bravery and fire he could be as gentle as a woman." "i know that," said fleda, whose eyes were dropping soft tears and glittering at the same time with gratified feeling. "what made him be a soldier, grandpa? " "oh, i don't know, dear! � he was too good to make a farmer of � or his high spirit wanted to rise in the world � he couldn't rest without trying to be something more than other folks. i don't know whether people are any happier for it." "did _he_ go to west point, grandpa?" "no, dear! � he started without having so much of a push as that; but he was one of those that don't need any pushing; he would have worked his way up, put him anywhere you would, and he did, � over the heads of west pointers and all, and would have gone to the top, i verily believe, if he had lived long enough. he was as fine a fellow as there was in all the army. _i_ don't believe there's the like of him left in it." "he had been a major a good while, hadn't be, grandpa?" "yes. it was just after he was made captain that he went to albany, and there he saw your mother. she and her sister, your aunt lucy, were wards of the patroon. i was in albany, in the legislature, that winter, and i knew them both very well; but your aunt lucy had been married some years before. she was staying there that winter without her husband � he was abroad somewhere." fleda was no stranger to these details, and had learned long ago what was meant by "wards" and "the patroon." "your father was made a major some years afterwards," mr. ringgan went on, "for his fine behaviour out here at the west � what's the name of the place? � i forget it just now � fighting the indians. there never was anything finer done." "he was brave, wasn't he, grandpa?" "brave! � he had a heart of iron sometimes, for as soft as it was at others. and he had an eye, when he was roused, that i never saw anything that would stand against. but your father had a better sort of courage than the common sort � he had enough of _that_ � but this is a rarer thing � he never was afraid to do what in his conscience he thought was right. moral courage i call it, and it is one of the very noblest qualities a man can have." "that's a kind of courage a woman may have," raid fleda. "yes � you may have that; and i guess it's the only kind of courage you'll ever be troubled with," said her grandfather, looking laughingly at her. "however, any man may walk up to the cannon's mouth, but it is only one here and there that will walk out against men's opinions because he thinks it is right. that was one of the things i admired most in your father." "didn't my mother have it too?" said fleda. "i don't know � she had about everything that was good. a sweet pretty creature she was as ever i saw." "was she like aunt lucy?" "no, not much. she was a deal handsomer than your aunt is or ever could have been. she was the handsomest woman, i think, that ever i set eyes upon; and a sweet, gentle, lovely creature. _you_'ll never match her," said mr. ringgan, with a curious twist of his head and sly laughing twist of his eyes at fleda; � "you may be as _good_ as she was, but you'll never be as good-looking." fleda laughed, nowise displeased. "you've got her hazel eyes though," remarked mr. ringgan, after a minute or two, viewing his little grand-daughter with a sufficiently satisfied expression of countenance. "grandpa," said she, "don't you think mr. carleton has handsome eyes?" "mr. carleton? � hum � i don't know; i didn't look at his eyes. a very well-looking young man though � very gentlemanly too." fleda had heard all this and much more about her parents some dozens of times before; but she and her grandfather were never tired of going it over. if the conversation that recalled his lost treasures had of necessity a character of sadness and tenderness, it yet bespoke not more regret that he had lost them than exulting pride and delight in what they had been, � perhaps not so much. and fleda delighted to go back and feed her imagination with stories of the mother whom she could not remember, and of the father whose fair bright image stood in her memory as the embodiment of all that is high and noble and pure. a kind of guardian angel that image was to little fleda. these ideal likenesses of her father and mother, the one drawn from history and recollection, the other from history only, had been her preservative from all the untoward influences and unfortunate examples which had surrounded her since her father's death, some three or four years before, had left her almost alone in her grandfather's house. they had created in her mind a standard of the true and beautiful in character, which nothing she saw around her, after, of course, her grandfather and one other exception, seemed at all to meet; and partly from her own innate fineness of nature, and partly from this pure ideal always present with her, she had shrunk almost instinctively from the few varieties of human nature the country-side presented to her, and was in fact a very isolated little being, living in a world of her own, and clinging with all her strong out-goings of affection to her grandfather only; granting to but one other person any considerable share in her regard or esteem. little fleda was not in the least misanthropical; she gave her kindly sympathies to all who came in her way on whom they could possibly be bestowed; but these people were nothing to her; her spirit fell off from them, even in their presence; there was no affinity. she was in truth what her grandfather had affirmed of her father, made of different stuff from the rest of the world. there was no tincture of pride in all this; there was no conscious feeling of superiority; she could merely have told you that she did not care to hear these people talk, that she did not love to be with them; though she _would_ have said so to no earthly creature but her grandfather, if even to him. "it must be pleasant," said fleda, after looking for some minutes thoughtfully into the fire, � "it must be a pleasant thing to have a father and mother." "yes, dear!" said her grandfather, sighing, � "you have lost a great deal! but there is your aunt lucy � you are not dependent altogether on me." "oh, grandpa!" said the little girl, laying one hand again pleadingly on his knee; � "i didn't mean � i mean � i was speaking in general � i wasn't thinking of myself in particular." "i know, dear!" said he, as before taking the little hand in his own, and moving it softly up and down on his knee. but the action was sad, and there was the same look of sorrowful stern anxiety. fleda got up and put her arm over his shoulder, speaking from a heart filled too full. "i don't want aunt lucy � i don't care about aunt lucy, i don't want anything but you, grandpa. i wish you wouldn't talk so." "ah well, dear," said he, without looking at her, � he couldn't bear to look at her, � "it's well it is so. i sha'n't last a great while � it isn't likely � and i am glad to know there is some one you can fall back upon when i am gone." fleda's next words were scarce audible, but they contained a reproach to him for speaking so. "we may as well look at it, dear," said he, gravely; "it must come to that �- sooner or later � but you mustn't distress yourself about it beforehand. don't cry � don't dear!" said he, tenderly kissing her. "i didn't mean to trouble you so. there � there � look up, dear � let's take the good we have and be thankful for it. god will arrange the rest, in his own good way. fleda! � i wouldn't have said a word if i had thought it would have worried you so." he would not indeed. but he had spoken as men so often speak, out of the depths of their own passion or bitterness, forgetting that they are wringing the chords of a delicate harp, and not knowing what mischief they have done till they find the instrument all out of tune, � more often not knowing it ever. it is pity, � for how frequently a discord is left that jars all life long; and how much more frequently still the harp, though retaining its sweetness and truth of tone to the end, is gradually unstrung. poor fleda could hardly hold up her head for a long time, and recalling bitterly her unlucky innocent remark which had led to all this trouble, she almost made up her mind, with a certain heroine of miss edgeworth's, that "it is best never to mention things". mr. ringgan, now thoroughly alive to the wounds he had been inflicting, held his little pet in his arms, pillowed her head on his breast, and by every tender and soothing action and word endeavoured to undo what he had done. and after a while the agony was over, the wet eyelashes were lifted up, and the meek sorrowful little face lay quietly upon mr. ringgan's breast, gazing out into the fire as gravely as if the panorama of life were there. she little heeded at first her grandfather's cheering talk, she knew it was for a purpose. "aint it most time for you to go to bed?" whispered mr. ringgan, when he thought the purpose was effected. "shall i tell cynthy to get you your milk, grandpa?" said the little girl, rousing herself. "yes dear. � stop, � what if you and me were to have some roast apples? � wouldn't you like it?" "well � yes, i should, grandpa," said fleda, understanding perfectly why he wished it, and wishing it herself for that same reason and no other. "cynthy, let's have some of those roast apples," said mr. ringgan, "and a couple of bowls of milk here." "no, i'll get the apples myself, cynthy," said fleda. "and you needn't take any of the cream off, cynthy," added mr. ringgan. one corner of the kitchen table was hauled up to the fire, to be comfortable, fleda said, and she and her grandfather sat down on the opposite sides of it to do honour to the apples and milk; each with the simple intent of keeping up appearances and cheating the other into cheerfulness. there is, however, deny it who can, an exhilarating effect in good wholesome food taken when one is in some need of it; and fleda at least found the supper relish exceeding well. every one furthermore knows the relief of a hearty flow of tears when a secret weight has been pressing on the mind. she was just ready for anything reviving. after the third mouthful she began to talk, and before the bottom of the bowls was reached, she had smiled more than once. so her grandfather thought no harm was done, and went to bed quite comforted; and fleda climbed the steep stairs that led from his door to her little chamber just over his head. it was small and mean, immediately under the roof, with only one window. there were plenty of better rooms in the house, but fleda liked this because it kept her near her grandfather; and indeed she had always had it ever since her father's death, and never thought of taking any other. she had a fashion, this child, in whom the simplicity of practical life and the poetry of imaginative life were curiously blended, � she had a fashion of going to her window every night when the moon or stars were shining, to look out for a minute or two before she went to bed; and sometimes the minutes were more than any good grandmother or aunt would have considered wholesome for little fleda in the fresh night air. but there was no one to watch or reprimand; and whatever it was that fleda read in earth or sky, the charm which held her one bright night was sure to bring her to her window the next. this evening a faint young moon lighted up but dimly the meadow and what was called the "east-hill," over against which the window in question looked. the air was calm and mild; there was no frost to-night; the stillness was entire, and the stars shone in a cloudless sky. fleda set open the window, and looked out with a face that again bore tokens of the experiences of that day. she wanted the soothing speech of nature's voice; and child as she was, she could hear it. she did not know, in her simplicity, what it was that comforted and soothed her, but she stood at her window enjoying. it was so perfectly still, her fancy presently went to all those people who had hushed their various work and were now resting, or soon would be, in the unconsciousness and the helplessness of sleep. the _helplessness_, � and then that eye that never sleeps; that hand that keeps them all, that is never idle, that is the safety and the strength alike of all the earth, and of them that wake or sleep upon it, � "and if he takes care of them all, will he not take care of poor little me?" thought fleda. "oh, how glad i am i know there is a god! � how glad i am i know he is such a god! and that i can trust in him; and he will make everything go right. how i forget this sometimes! but jesus does not forget his children. oh, i am a happy little girl! � grandpa's saying what he did don't make it so � perhaps i shall die the first � but i hope not, for what would become of him! � but this and everything will all be arranged right, and i have nothing to do with it but to obey god and please him, and he will take care of the rest. he has forbidden _us_ to be careful about it too." with grateful tears of relief fleda shut the window and began to undress herself, her heart so lightened of its burden, that her thoughts presently took leave to go out again upon pleasure excursions in various directions; and one of the last things in fleda's mind before sleep surprised her was, what a nice thing it was for any one to bow and smile so as mr. carleton did! chapter iii. i know each lane, and every alley green, dingle or bushy dell of this wild wood, and every bosky bourne from side to side; my daily walks and ancient neighbourhood. milton. fleda and her grandfather had but just risen from a tolerably early breakfast the next morning, when the two young sportsmen entered the room. "ha!" said mr. ringgan, "i declare! you're stirring betimes. come five or six miles this morning a'ready. well � that's the stuff to make sportsmen of. off for the woodcock, hey? and i was to go with you and show you the ground? i declare i don't know how in the world i can do it this morning, i'm so very stiff � ten times as bad as i was yesterday. i had a window open in my room last night, i expect that must have been the cause. i don't see how i could have overlooked it; but i never gave it a thought, till this morning i found myself so lame i could hardly get out of bed. i am very sorry, upon my word!" "i am very sorry we must lose your company, sir," said the young englishman, "and for such a cause; but as to the rest, i dare say your directions will guide us sufficiently." "i don't know about that," said the old gentleman. " it is pretty hard to steer by a chart that is only laid down in the imagination. i set out once to go in new york from one side of the city over into the other, and the first thing i knew i found myself travelling along half a mile out of town. i had to get in a stage and ride back, and take a fresh start. out at the west they say, when you are in the woods you can tell which is north by the moss growing on that side of the trees; but if you're lost, you'll be pretty apt to find the moss grows on _all_ sides of the trees. i couldn't make out any waymarks at all, in such a labyrinth of brick corners. well, let us see � if i tell you now it is so easy to mistake one hill for another � fleda, child, you put on your sun-bonnet, and take these gentlemen back to the twenty-acre lot, and from there you can tell 'em how to go, so i guess they wont mistake it." "by no means!" said mr. carleton; "we cannot give her so much trouble; it would be buying our pleasure at much too dear a rate." "tut, tut," said the old gentleman; "she thinks nothing of trouble, and the walk 'll do her good. she'd like to be out all day, i believe, if she had any one to go along with; but i'm rather a stupid companion for such a spry little pair of feet. fleda, look here; when they get to the lot, they can find their own way after that. you know where the place is � where your cousin seth shot so many woodcock last year, over in mr. hurlbut's land; when you get to the big lot you must tell these gentlemen to go straight over the hill, not squire thornton's hill, but mine, at the back of the lot. they must go straight over it, till they come to cleared land on the other side; then they must keep along by the edge of the wood, to the right, till they come to the brook; they must _cross the brook_, and follow up the opposite bank, and they'll know the ground when they come to it; or they don't deserve to. do you understand? now run and get your hat, for they ought to be off." fleda went, but neither her step nor her look showed any great willingness to the business. "i am sure, mr. ringgan," said mr. carleton, "your little granddaughter has some reason for not wishing to take such a long walk this morning. pray allow us to go without her." "pho, pho," said the old gentleman, "she wants to go." "i guess she's skeered o' the guns," said cynthy, happy to get a chance to edge in a word before such company; "it's that ails her." "well, well; she must get used to it," said mr. ringgan. "here she is!" fleda had it in her mind to whisper to him a word of hope about mr. jolly; but she recollected that it was at best an uncertain hope, and that if her grandfather's thoughts were off the subject it was better to leave them so. she only kissed him for good-by, and went out with the two gentlemen. as they took up their guns, mr. carleton caught the timid shunning glance her eye gave at them. "do you dislike the company of these noisy friends of ours, miss fleda?" said he. fleda hesitated, and finally said, "she didn't much like to be very near them when they were fired." "put that fear away then," said he, " for they shall keep a respectful silence so long as they have the honour to be in your company. if the woodcock come about us as tame as quails our guns shall not be provoked to say anything till your departure gives them leave." fleda smiled her thanks, and set forward, privately much confirmed in her opinion that mr. carleton had handsome eyes. at a little distance from the house fleda left the meadow for an old apple-orchard at the left, lying on a steep side hill. up this hill-side they toiled; and then found themselves on a ridge of tableland, stretching back for some distance along the edge of a little valley or bottom of perfectly flat smooth pasture-ground. the valley was very narrow, only divided into fields by fences running from side to side. the table-land might be a hundred feet or more above the level of the bottom, with a steep face towards it. a little way back from the edge the woods began; between them and the brow of the hill the ground was smooth and green, planted as if by art with flourishing young silver pines, and once in a while a hemlock, some standing in all their luxuriance alone, and some in groups. with now and then a smooth grey rock, or large boulderstone, which had somehow inexplicably stopped on the brow of the hill instead of rolling down into what at some former time no doubt was a bed of water, � all this open strip of the table-land might have stood with very little coaxing for a piece of a gentleman's pleasure-ground. on the opposite side of the little valley was a low rocky height, covered with wood, now in the splendour of varied red and green and purple and brown and gold; between, at their feet, lay the soft quiet green meadow; and off to the left, beyond the far end of the valley, was the glory of the autumn woods again, softened in the distance. a true october sky seemed to pervade all, mildly blue, transparently pure, with that clearness of atmosphere that no other month gives us; a sky that would have conferred a patent of nobility on any landscape. the scene was certainly contracted and nowise remarkable in any of its features, but nature had shaken out all her colours over the land, and drawn a veil from the sky, and breathed through the woods and over the hill-side the very breath of health, enjoyment, and vigour. when they were about over-against the middle of the valley, mr. carleton suddenly made a pause and stood for some minutes silently looking. his two companions came to a halt on either side of him, one not a little pleased, the other a little impatient. "beautiful!" mr. carleton said, at length. "yes," said fleda, gravely, "i think it's a pretty place. i like it up here." "we sha'n't catch many woodcock among these pines," said young rossitur. "i wonder," said mr. carleton, presently, "how any one should have called these 'melancholy days.' " "who has?" said rossitur. "a countryman of yours," said his friend, glancing at him. "if he had been a countryman of mine there would have been less marvel. but here is none of the sadness of decay � none of the withering � if the tokens of old age are seen at all it is in the majestic honours that crown a glorious life � the graces of a matured and ripened character. this has nothing in common, rossitur, with those dull moralists who are always dinning decay and death into one's ears; this speaks of life. instead of freezing all one's hopes and energies, it quickens the pulse with the desire to _do_. � 'the saddest of the year' � bryant was wrong." "bryant? � oh!" � said young rossitur; "i didn't know who you were speaking of." "i believe, now i think of it, he was writing of a somewhat later time of the year, � i don't know how all this will look in november." "i think it is very pleasant in november," said little fleda, sedately. "don't you know bryant's 'death of the flowers,' rossitur?" said his friend, smiling. "what have you been doing all your life?" "not studying the fine arts at west point, mr. carleton." "then sit down here, and let me mend that place in your education. sit down! and i'll give you something better than woodcock. you keep a game-bag for thoughts, don't you?" mr. rossitur wished mr. carleton didn't. but he sat down, however, and listened with an unedified face; while his friend, more to please himself, it must be confessed, than for any other reason, and perhaps with half a notion to try fleda, repeated the beautiful words. he presently saw they were not lost upon one of his hearers; she listened intently. "it is very pretty," said rossitur, when he had done. "i believe i have seen it before somewhere." "there is no 'smoky light' to-day," said fleda. "no," said mr. carleton, smiling to himself. "nothing but that could improve the beauty of all this, miss fleda." "_i_ like it better as it is," said fleda. "i am surprised at that," said young rossitur. "i thought you lived on smoke." there was nothing in the words, but the tone was not exactly polite. fleda granted him neither smile nor look. "i am glad you like it up here," she went on, gravely doing the honours of the place. "i came this way because we shouldn't have so many fences to climb." "you are the best little guide possible, and i have no doubt would always lead one the right way," said mr. carleton. again the same gentle, kind, _appreciating_ look. fleda unconsciously drew a step nearer. there was a certain undefined confidence established between them. "there's a little brook down there in spring," said she, pointing to a small, grass-grown water-course in the meadow, hardly discernible from the height, � "but there's no water in it now. it runs quite full for a while after the snow breaks up; but it dries away by june or july." "what are those trees so beautifully tinged with red and orange, down there by the fence in the meadow?" "i am not woodsman enough to inform you," replied rossitur. "those are maples," said fleda � "sugar maples. the one all orange is a hickory." "how do you know?" said mr. carleton, turning to her. "by your wit as a fairy?" "i know by the colour," said fleda, modestly; "and by the shape too." "fairy," said mr. rossitur, "if you have any of the stuff about you, i wish you would knock this gentleman over the head with your wand, and put the spirit of moving into him. he is going to sit dreaming here all day." "not at all," said his friend, springing up; "i am ready for you; but i want other game than woodcock just now, i confess." they walked along in silence, and had near reached the extremity of the table-land, which, towards the end of the valley, descended into ground of a lower level covered with woods; when mr. carleton, who was a little ahead, was startled by fleda's voice, exclaiming, in a tone of distress, "oh, not the robins!" and turning about, perceived mr. rossitur standing still with levelled gun, and just in the act to shoot. fleda had stopped her ears. in the same instant, mr. carleton had thrown up the gun, demanding of rossitur, with a singular change of expression � "what he meant!" "mean?" said the young gentleman, meeting with an astonished face the indignant fire of his companion's eyes � "why, i mean not to meddle with other people's guns, mr. carleton. what do _you_ mean?" "nothing, but to protect myself." "protect yourself!" said rossitur, heating as the other cooled � "from what, in the name of wonder?" "only from having my word blown away by your fire," said carleton, smiling. "come, rossitur, recollect yourself � remember our compact." "compact! one isn't bound to keep compacts with unearthly personages," said rossitur, half sulkily and half angrily; "and besides, i made none." mr. carleton turned from him very coolly, and walked on. they left the table-land and the wood, entered the valley again, and passed through a large orchard, the last of the succession of fields which stretched along it. beyond this orchard the ground rose suddenly, and on the steep hill-side there had been a large plantation of indian corn. the corn was harvested, but the ground was still covered with numberless little stacks of the cornstalks. halfway up the hill stood three ancient chestnut-trees; veritable patriarchs of the nut tribe they were, and respected and esteemed as patriarchs should be. "there are no 'dropping nuts' to-day, either," said fleda, to whom the sight of her forest friends in the distance probably suggested the thought, for she had not spoken for some time. "i suppose there hasn't been frost enough yet." "why, you have a good memory, fairy," said mr. carleton. "do you give the nuts leave to fall of themselves?" "oh, sometimes grandpa and i go a nutting," said the little girl, getting lightly over the fence � "but we haven't been this year." "then it is a pleasure to come yet?" "no," said fleda, quietly; "the trees near the house have been stripped; and the only other nice place there is for us to go to, mr. didenhover let the shakers have the nuts. i sha'n't get any this year." "live in the woods and not get any nuts! that wont do, fairy. here are some fine chestnuts we are coming to � what should hinder our reaping a good harvest from these?" "i don't think there will be any on them," said fleda; "mr. didenhover has been here lately with the men getting in the corn; i guess they have cleared the trees." "who is mr. didenhover?" "he is grandpa's man." "why didn't you bid mr. didenhover let the nuts alone?" "oh, he wouldn't mind if he was told," said fleda. "he does everything just as he has a mind to, and nobody can hinder him. yes, they've cleared the trees � i thought so." "don't you know of any other trees that are out of this mr. didenhover's way?" "yes," said fleda; "i know a place where there used to be beautiful hickory trees, and some chestnuts too, i think; but it is too far off for grandpa, and i couldn't go there alone. this is the twenty-acre lot," said she, looking, though she did not say it, "here i leave you." "i am glad to hear it," said her cousin. "now give us our directions, fleda, and thank you for your services." "stop a minute," said mr. carleton. "what if you and i should try to find those same hickory-trees, miss fleda? will you take me with you � or is it too long a walk?" "for me? � oh no!" said fleda, with a face of awakening hope; "but," she added, timidly, "you were going a shooting, sir?" "what on earth are you thinking of, carleton?" said young rossitur." let the nuts and fleda alone, do!" "by your leave, mr. rossitur," said carleton. "my murderous intents have all left me, miss fleda; i suppose your wand has been playing about me, and i should like nothing better than to go with you over the hills this morning. i have been a nutting many a time in my own woods at home, and i want to try it for once in the new world. will you take me?" "oh, thank you, sir!" said fleda; " but we have passed the turning a long way; we must go back ever so far the same way we came to get to the place where we turn off to go up the mountain." "i don't wish for a prettier way � if it isn't so far as to tire you, fairy?" "oh, it wont tire me!" said fleda, overjoyed. "carleton!" exclaimed young rossitur. "can you be so absurd! lose this splendid day for the woodcock, when we may not have another while we are here!" "you are not a true sportsman, mr. rossitur," said the other, coolly, "or you would know what it is to have some sympathy with the sports of others. but _you_ will have the day for the woodcock, and bring us home a great many, i hope. miss fleda, suppose we give this impatient young gentleman his orders and despatch him." "i thought you were more of a sportsman," said the vexed west pointer, � "or your sympathy would be with me." "i tell you the sporting mania was never stronger on me," said the other, carelessly. "something less than a rifle, however, will do to bring down the game i am after. we will rendezvous at the little village over yonder, unless i go home before you, which i think is more probable. au revoir!" with careless gracefulness he saluted his disconcerted companion, who moved off with ungraceful displeasure. fleda and mr. carleton then began to follow back the road they had come, in the highest good humour both. her sparkling face told him with even greater emphasis than her words, "i am so much obliged to you, sir." "how you go over fences!" said he, � "like a sprite, as you are." "oh, i have climbed a great many," said fleda, accepting, however, again with that infallible instinct, the help which she did not need. � "i shall be so glad to get some nuts, for i thought i wasn't going to have any this year; and it is so pleasant to have them to crack in the long winter evenings." "you must find them long evenings indeed, i should think." "oh no, we don't," said fleda. "i didn't mean they were long in _that_ way. grandpa cracks the nuts, and i pick them out, and he tells me stories; and then you know he likes to go to bed early. the evenings never seem long." "but you are not always cracking nuts." "oh no, to be sure not; but there are plenty of other pleasant things to do. i dare say grandpa would have bought some nuts, but i had a great deal rather have those we get ourselves, and then the fun of getting them, besides, is the best part." fleda was tramping over the ground at a furious rate. "how many do you count upon securing to-day?" said mr. carleton, gravely. "i don't know," said fleda, with a business face, � "there are a good many trees, and fine large ones, and i don't believe anybody has found them out � they are so far out of the way; there ought to be a good parcel of nuts." "but," said mr. carleton, with perfect gravity, "if we should be lucky enough to find a supply for your winter's store, it would be too much for you and me to bring home, miss fleda, unless you have a broomstick in the service of fairydom." "a broomstick!" said fleda. "yes, � did you never hear of the man who had a broomstick that would fetch pails of water at his bidding?" "no," said fleda, laughing. "what a convenient broomstick! i wish we had one. but i know what i can do, mr. carleton, � if there should be too many nuts for us to bring home, i can take cynthy afterwards and get the rest of them. cynthy and i could go � grandpa couldn't, even if he was as well as usual, for the trees are in a hollow away over on the other side of the mountain. it's a beautiful place." "well," said mr. carleton, smiling curiously to himself, "in that case i shall be even of more use than i had hoped. but shan't we want a basket, miss fleda?" "yes, indeed," said fleda, � "a good large one � i am going to run down to the house for it as soon as we get to the turning- off place, if you'll be so good as to sit down and wait for me, sir, � i wont be long after it." "no," said he; "i will walk with you and leave my gun in safe quarters. you had better not travel so fast, or i am afraid you will never reach the hickory-trees." fleda smiled, and said there was no danger, but she slackened her pace, and they proceeded at a more reasonable rate till they reached the house. mr. carleton would not go in, placing his gun in an outer shelter. fleda dashed into the kitchen, and after a few minutes' delay came out again with a huge basket, which mr. carleton took from her without suffering his inward amusement to reach his face, and a little tin pail which she kept under her own guardianship. in vain mr. carleton offered to take it with the basket, or even to put it in the basket, where he showed her it would go very well; it must go nowhere but in fleda's own hand. fleda was in restless haste till they had passed over the already twice-trodden ground and entered upon the mountain road. it was hardly a road; in some places a beaten track was visible, in others mr. carleton wondered how his little companion found her way, where nothing but fresh-fallen leaves and scattered rocks and stones could be seen, covering the whole surface. but her foot never faltered, her eye read way- marks where he saw none; she went on, he did not doubt unerringly, over the leaf-strewn and rock-strewn way, over ridge and hollow, with a steady light swiftness that he could not help admiring. once they came to a little brawling stream of spring water, hardly three inches deep anywhere, but making quite a wide bed for itself in its bright way to the lowlands. mr. carleton was considering how he should contrive to get his little guide over it in safety, when quick, � over the little round stones which lifted their heads above the surface of the water, on the tips of her toes, fleda tripped across before he had done thinking about it. he told her he had no doubt now that she was a fairy, and had powers of walking that did not belong to other people. fleda laughed, and on her little demure figure went picking out the way, always with that little tin pail hanging at her side, like � mr. carleton busied himself in finding out similes for her. it wasn't very easy. for a long distance their way was through a thick woodland, clear of underbrush and very pleasant walking, but permitting no look at the distant country. they wound about, now up hill and now down, till at last they began to ascend in good earnest; the road became better marked, and mr. carleton came up with his guide again. both were obliged to walk more slowly. he had overcome a good deal of fleda's reserve, and she talked to him now quite freely, without however losing the grace of a most exquisite modesty in everything she said or did. "what do you suppose i have been amusing myself with all this while, miss fleda?" said he, after walking for some time alongside of her in silence. "i have been trying to fancy what you looked like as you travelled on before me with that mysterious tin pail." "well, what _did_ i look like?" said fleda, laughing. "little red riding-hood, the first thing, carrying her grandmother the pot of butter." "ah, but i haven't got any butter in this, as it happens," said fleda; "and i hope you are not anything like the wolf, mr. carleton?" "i hope not," said he, laughing. "well, then, i thought you might be one of those young ladies the fairy-stories tell of, who set out over the world to seek their fortune. that might hold, you know, a little provision to last for a day or two till you found it." "no," said fleda, � "i should never go to seek my fortune." "why not, pray?" "i don't think i should find it any the sooner." mr. carleton looked at her, and could not make up his mind whether or not she spoke wittingly. well, but after all, are we not seeking our fortune?" said he. "we are doing something very like it. now up here on the mountain-top perhaps we shall find only empty trees � perhaps trees with a harvest of nuts on them." "yes, but that wouldn't be like finding a fortune," said fleda; � "if we were to come to a great heap of nuts all picked out ready for us to carry away, _that_ would be a fortune; but now if we find the trees full, we have got to knock them down, and gather them up, and shuck them." "make our own fortunes, eh?" said mr. carleton, smiling. "well! people do say those are the sweetest nuts. i don't know how it may be. ha! that is fine. what an atmosphere!" they had reached a height of the mountain that cleared them a view, and over the tops of the trees they looked abroad to a very wide extent of country undulating with hill and vale, � hill and valley alike far below at their feet. fair and rich, � the gently swelling hills, one beyond another, in the patchwork dress of their many-coloured fields, � the gay hues of the woodland softened and melted into a rich autumn glow, � and far away, beyond even where this glow was sobered and lost in the distance, the faint blue line of the catskill � faint, but clear and distinct, through the transparent air. such a sky! � of such etherialized purity as if made for spirits to travel in, and tempting them to rise and free themselves from the soil; and the stillness, � like nature's hand laid upon the soul, bidding it think. in view of all that vastness and grandeur, man's littleness does bespeak itself. and yet, for every one, the voice of the scene is not more humbling to pride than rousing to all that is really noble and strong in character. not only "what thou art," � but "what thou mayest be!" what place thou oughtest to fill � what work thou hast to do, � in this magnificent world. a very extended landscape, however genial, is also sober in its effect on the mind. one seems to emerge from the narrowness of individual existence, and take a larger view of life as well as of creation. perhaps mr. carleton felt it so, for, after his first expression of pleasure, he stood silently and gravely looking for a long time. little fleda's eye loved it too, but she looked her fill, and then sat down on a stone to await her companion's pleasure, glancing now and then up at his face, which gave her no encouragement to interrupt him. it was gravely, and even gloomily thoughtful. he stood so long without stirring, that poor fleda began to have sad thoughts of the possibility of gathering all the nuts from the hickory- trees, and she heaved a very gentle sigh once or twice; but the dark blue eye which she with reason admired, remained fixed on the broad scene below, as if it were reading, or trying to read there a difficult lesson. and when at last he turned and began to go up the path again, he kept the same face, and went moodily swinging his arm up and down, as if in disturbed thought. fleda was too happy to be moving to care for her companion's silence; she would have compounded for no more conversation, so they might but reach the nut-trees. but before they had got quite so far, mr. carleton broke the silence, speaking in precisely the same tone and manner he had used the last time. "look here, fairy," said he, pointing to a small heap of chestnut burs piled at the foot of a tree � "here's a little fortune for you already." "that's a squirrel!" said fleda, looking at the place very attentively. "there has been nobody else here. he has put them together, ready to be carried off to his nest." "we'll save him that trouble," said mr. carleton. "little rascal! he's a didenhover in miniature." "oh, no!" said fleda; "he had as good a right to the nuts, i am sure, as we have, poor fellow. � mr. carleton �" mr. carleton was throwing the nuts into the basket. at the anxious and undecided tone in which his name was pronounced, he stopped, and looked up at a very wistful face. "mightn't we leave these nuts till we come back? if we find the trees over here full, we shan't want them; and if we don't, these would be only a handful �" "and the squirrel would be disappointed?" said mr. carleton, smiling. "you would rather we should leave them to him!" fleda said yes, with a relieved face, and mr. carleton, still smiling, emptied his basket of the few nuts he had put in, and they walked on. in a hollow, rather a deep hollow, behind the crest of the hill, as fleda had said, they came at last to a noble group of large hickory-trees, with one or two chestnuts standing in attendance on the outskirts. and, also, as fleda had said, or hoped, the place was so far from convenient access, that nobody had visited them; they were thick hung with fruit. if the spirit of the game had been wanting or failing in mr. carleton, it must have roused again into full life at the joyous heartiness of fleda's exclamations. at any rate, no boy could have taken to the business better. he cut, with her permission, a stout long pole in the woods; and swinging himself lightly into one of the trees, showed that he was a master in the art of whipping them. fleda was delighted, but not surprised; for, from the first moment of mr. carleton's proposing to go with her, she had been privately sure that he would not prove an inactive or inefficient ally. by whatever slight tokens she might read this, in whatsoever fine characters of the eye, or speech, or manner, she knew it; and knew it just as well before they reached the hickory-trees as she did afterwards. when one of the trees was well stripped, the young gentleman mounted into another, while fleda set herself to hull and gather up the nuts under the one first beaten. she could make but little headway, however, compared with her companion; the nuts fell a great deal faster than she could put them in her basket. the trees were heavy laden, and mr. carleton seemed determined to have the whole crop; from the second tree he went to the third. fleda was bewildered with her happiness; this was doing business in style. she tried to calculate what the whole quantity would be, but it went beyond her; one basketful would not take it, nor two, nor three, � it wouldn't _begin to_, fleda said to herself. she went on hulling and gathering with all possible industry. after the third tree was finished, mr. carleton threw down his pole, and resting himself upon the ground at the foot, told fleda he would wait a few moments before he began again.. fleda thereupon left off her work too, and going for her little tin pail, presently offered it to him temptingly stocked with pieces of apple-pie. when he had smilingly taken one, she next brought him a sheet of white paper, with slices of young cheese. "no, thank you," said he. "cheese is very good with apple-pie," said fleda, competently. "is it?" said he laughing. "well � upon that � i think you would teach me a good many things, miss fleda, if i were to stay here long enough." "i wish you would stay and try, sir," said fleda, who did not know exactly what to make of the shade of seriousness which crossed his face. it was gone almost instantly. "i think anything is better eaten out in the woods than it is at home," said fleda. "well, i don't know," said her friend. "i have no doubt that is the case with cheese and apple-pie, and especially under hickory trees which one has been contending with pretty sharply. if a touch of your wand, fairy, could transform one of these shells into a goblet of lafitte, or amontillado, we should have nothing to wish for." 'amontillado' was hebrew to fleda, but 'goblet' was intelligible. "i am sorry!" she said; "i don't know where there is any spring up here, but we shall come to one going down the mountain." "do you know where all the springs are?" "no, not all, i suppose," said fleda; "but i know a good many. i have gone about through the woods so much, and i always look for the springs." "and who roams about through the woods with you?" "oh, nobody but grandpa," said fleda. "he used to be out with me a great deal, but he can't go much now � this year or two." "don't you go to school?" "o no!" said fleda, smiling. "then your grandfather teaches you at home?" "no," said fleda; father used to teach me; grandpa doesn't teach me much." "what do you do with yourself all day long?" "o, plenty of things," said fleda, smiling again. "i read, and talk to grandpa, and go riding, and do a great many things." "has your home always been here, fairy?" said mr. carleton, after a few minutes' pause. fleda said, "no, sir," and there stopped; and then seeming to think that politeness called upon her to say more, she added � "i have lived with grandpa ever since father left me here, when he was going away among the indians; i used to be always with him before." "and how long ago is that?" "it is � four years, sir; more, i believe. he was sick when he came back, and we never went away from queechy again." mr. carleton looked again silently at the child, who had given him these pieces of information with a singular, grave propriety of manner; and even as it were reluctantly. "and what do you read, fairy?" he said, after a minute. "stories of fairy-land?" "no," said fleda; "i haven't any. we haven't a great many books � there are only a few up in the cupboard, and the encyclopaedia; father had some books, but they are locked up in a chest. but there is a great deal in the encyclopaedia." "the encyclopaedia!" said mr. carleton; � "what do you read in that? what can you find to like there?" "i like all about the insects, and birds, and animals; and about flowers, � and lives of people, and curious things. there are a great many in it." "and what are the other books in the cupboard, which you read?" "there's quentin durward," said fleda, � "and rob roy, and guy mannering in two little bits of volumes; and the knickerbocker, and the christian's magazine, and an odd volume of redgauntlet, and the beauties of scotland." "and have you read all these, miss fleda?" said her companion, commanding his countenance with difficulty. "i haven't read quite all of the christian's magazine, nor all of the beauties of scotland." "all the rest." "o yes," said fleda, � "and two or three times over. and there are three great red volumes besides, robertson's history of something, i believe. i haven't read that either." "and which of them all do you like the best?" "i don't know," said fleda, � "i don't know but i like to read the encyclopaedia as well as any of them. and then i have the newspapers to read too." "i think, miss fleda," said mr. carleton, a minute after, "you had better let me take you with my mother over the sea, when we go back again, � to paris." "why, sir?" "you know," said he, half smiling, "your aunt wants you, and has engaged my mother to bring you with her, if she can." "i know it," said fleda. "but i am not going." it was spoken not rudely, but in a tone of quiet determination. "aren't you too tired, sir?" said she gently, when she saw mr. carleton preparing to launch into the remaining hickory trees. "not i!" said he. "i am not tired till i have done, fairy. and besides, cheese is working man's fare, you know, isn't it?" "no," said fleda, gravely, � "i don't think it is." "what then?" said mr. carleton, stopping as he was about to spring into the tree, and looking at her with a face of comical amusement. "it isn't what our men live on," said fleda, demurely eyeing the fallen nuts, with a head full of business. they set both to work again with renewed energy, and rested not till the treasures of the trees had been all brought to the ground, and as large a portion of them as could be coaxed and shaken into fleda's basket, had been cleared from the hulls and bestowed there. but there remained a vast quantity. these with a good deal of labour, mr. carleton and fleda gathered into a large heap in rather a sheltered place by the side of a rock, and took what measures they might to conceal them. this was entirely at fleda's instance "you and your maid cynthia will have to make a good many journeys, miss fleda, to get all these home, unless you can muster a larger basket." "o _that_'s nothing," said fleda. "it will be all fun. i don't care how many times we have to come. you are _very_ good, mr. carleton." "do you think so?" said he. "i wish i did. i wish you would make your wand rest on me, fairy." "my wand?" said fleda. "yes � you know your grandfather says you are a fairy, and carry a wand. what does he say that for, miss fleda?" fleda said she supposed it was because he loved her so much; but the rosy smile with which she said it would have let her hearer, if he had needed enlightening, far more into the secret than she was herself. and if the simplicity in her face had not been equal to the wit, mr. carleton would never have ventured the look of admiration he bestowed on her. he knew it was safe. _approbation_ she saw, and it made her smile the rosier; but the admiration was a step beyond her; fleda could make nothing of it. they descended the mountain now with a hasty step, for the day was wearing well on. at the spot where he had stood so long when they went up, mr. carleton paused again for a minute. in mountain scenery every hour makes a change. the sun was lower now, the lights and shadows more strongly contrasted, the sky of a yet calmer blue, cool and clear towards the horizon. the scene said still the same that it had said a few hours before, with a touch more of sadness; it seemed to whisper, "all things have an end � thy time may not be for ever � do what thou wouldest do � 'while ye have light, believe in the light, that ye may be children of the light.' " whether mr. carleton read it so or not, he stood for a minute motionless, and went down the mountain looking so grave, that fleda did not venture to speak to him till they reached the neighbourhood of the spring. "what are you searching for, miss fleda?" said her friend. she was making a busy quest here and there by the side of the little stream. "i was looking to see if i could find a mullein leaf," said fleda. "a mullein leaf? what do you want it for?" "i want it � to make a drinking-cup of," said fleda, her intent bright eyes peering keenly about in every direction. "a mullein leaf! that is too rough; one of these golden leaves � what are they? � will do better, wont it?" "that is hickory," said fleda. " no; the mullein leaf is the best because it holds the water so nicely. � here it is." and folding up one of the largest leaves into a most artist- like cup, she presented it to mr. carleton. "for me was all that trouble?" said he. "i don't deserve it." "you wanted something, sir," said fleda. "the water is very cold and nice." he stooped to the bright little stream, and filled his rural goblet several times. "i never knew what it was to have a fairy for my cup-bearer before," said he. "that was better than anything bordeaux or xeres ever sent forth." he seemed to have swallowed his seriousness, or thrown it away with the mullein leaf. it was quite gone. "this is the best spring in all grandpa's ground," said fleda. "the water is as good as can be." how come you to be such a wood and water spirit? you must live out of doors. do the trees ever talk to you? i sometimes think they do to me." "i don't know � i think _i_ talk to _them_," said fleda. "it's the same thing," said her companion, smiling. "such beautiful woods!" "were you never in the country before in the fall, sir?" "not here � in my own country often enough; but the woods in england do not put on such a gay face, miss fleda, when they are going to be stripped of their summer dress � they look sober upon it � the leaves wither and grow brown, and the woods have a dull russet colour. your trees are true yankees � they 'never say die.' " "why are the americans more obstinate than the english?" said fleda. "it is difficult to compare unknown quantities," said mr. carleton laughing, and shaking his head. "i see you have good ears for the key-note of patriotism." fleda looked a little hard at him, but he did not explain; and indeed they were hurrying along too much for talking; leaping from stone to stone, and running down the smooth orchard slope. when they reached the last fence, but a little way from the house, fleda made a resolute pause. "mr. carleton," � said she. mr. carleton put down his basket, and looked in some surprise at the hesitating anxious little face that looked up at him. "wont you please not say anything to grandpa about my going away?" "why not, fairy?" said he, kindly. "because i don't think i ought to go." "but may it not be possible," said he, "that your grandfather can judge better in the matter than you can do?" "no," said fleda, "i don't think he can. he would do anything he thought would be most for my happiness; but it wouldn't be for my happiness," she said, with an unsteady lip, � "i don't know what he would do if i went!" "you think he would have no sunshine if your wand didn't touch him?" said mr. carleton, smiling. "no, sir," said fleda, gravely, "i don't think that, � but wont you please, mr. carleton, not to speak about it?" "but are you sure," he said, sitting down on a stone hard by, and taking one of her hands, � "are you sure that you would not like to go with us? i wish you would change your mind about it. my mother will love you very much, and i will take the especial charge of you till we give you to your aunt in paris; � if the wind blows a little too rough i will always put myself between it and you," he added, smiling. fleda smiled faintly, but immediately begged mr. carleton "not to say anything to put it into her grandfather's head." "it must be there already, i think, miss fleda; but at any rate you know my mother must perform her promise to your aunt mrs. rossitur; and she would not do that without letting your grandfather know how glad she would be to take you." fleda stood silent a moment, and then with a touching look of waiting patience in her sweet face suffered mr. carleton to help her over the fence; and they went home. to fleda's unspeakable surprise it was found to be past four o'clock, and cynthy had supper ready. mr. ringgan with great cordiality invited mr. carleton to stay with them, but he could not; his mother would expect him to dinner. "where is your mother?" "at montepoole, sir; we have been to niagara, and came this way on our return, partly that my mother might fulfil the promise she made mrs. rossitur � to let you know, sir, with how much pleasure she will take charge of your little granddaughter, and convey her to her friends in paris, if you can think it best to let her go." "hum! � she is very kind," said mr. ringgan, with a look of grave and not unmoved consideration which fleda did not in the least like; � "how long will you stay at montepoole sir?" "it might be several days," mr. carleton said. "hum � you have given up this day to fleda, mr. carleton, � suppose you take to-morrow for the game, and come here and try our country fare when you have got through shooting? � you and young mr. rossitur? � and i'll think over this question and let you know about it." fleda was delighted to see that her friend accepted this invitation with apparent pleasure. "you will be kind enough to give my respects to your mother," mr. ringgan went on, "and thanks for her kind offer. i may perhaps � i don't know � avail myself of it. if anything should bring mrs. carleton this way we should like to see her. i am glad to see my friends," he said, shaking the young gentleman's hand, � "as long as i have a house to ask 'em to!" "that will be for many years, i trust," said mr. carleton, respectfully, struck with something in the old gentleman's manner. "i don't know, sir!" said mr. ringgan, with again the dignified look of trouble: � " it may not be! � i wish you good day, sir." chapter iv. a mind that in a calm angelic mood of happy wisdom, meditating good, beholds, of all from her high powers required, much done, and much designed, and more desired. � wordsworth. "i've had such a delicious day, dear grandpa," said little fleda, as they sat at supper; "you can't think how kind mr. carleton has been." "has he? well, dear, i'm glad on't; he seems a very nice young man." "he's a smart-looking feller," said cynthy, who was pouring out the tea. "and we have got the greatest quantity of nuts!" fleda went on; "enough for all winter. cynthy and i will have to make ever so many journeys to fetch 'em all; and they are splendid big ones. don't you say anything to mr. didenhover, cynthy." "i don't desire to meddle with mr. didenhover unless i've got to," said cynthy, with an expression of considerable disgust. "you needn't give no charges to me." "but you'll go with me, cynthy?" "i s'pose i'll have to," said miss gall, drily, after a short interval of sipping tea and helping herself to sweet-meats. this lady had a pervading acidity of face and temper, but it was no more. to take her name as standing for a fair setting forth of her character would be highly injurious to a really respectable composition, which the world's neglect (there was no other imaginable cause) had soured a little. almost fleda's first thought on coming home had been about mr. jolly. but she knew very well, without asking, that he had not been there; she would not touch the subject. "i haven't had such a fine day of nutting in a great while, grandpa," she said again; "and you never saw such a good hand as mr. carleton is at whipping the trees." "how came he to go with you?" "i don't know; i suppose it was to please me, in the first place; but i am sure he enjoyed it himself; and he liked the pie and cheese, too, cynthy." "where did your cousin go?" "o, he went off after the woodcock. i hope he didn't find any." "what do you think of those two young men, fairy?" "in what way, grandpa?" "i mean, which of them do you like the best?" "mr. carleton." "but t'other one's your cousin," said mr. ringgan, bending forward and examining his little granddaughter's face with a curious, pleased look, as he often did when expecting an answer from her. "yes," said fleda; "but he isn't so much of a gentleman." "how do you know that?" "i don't think he is," said fleda, quietly. "but why, fairy?" "he doesn't know how to keep his word as well, grandpa." "ay, ay? let's hear about that," said mr. ringgan. a little reluctantly, for cynthia was present, fleda told the story of the robins, and how mr. carleton would not let the gun be fired. "wa'n't your cousin a little put out by that?" "they were both put out," said fleda; "mr. carleton was very angry for a minute, and then mr. rossitur was angry, but i think he could have been angrier if he had chosen." mr. ringgan laughed, and then seemed in a sort of amused triumph about something. "well, dear!" he remarked after a while; "you'll never buy wooden nutmegs, i expect." fleda laughed, and hoped not, and asked him why he said so. but he didn't tell her. "mr. ringgan," said cynthy, "hadn't i better run up the hill after supper, and ask mis' plumfield to come down and help to- morrow? i s'pose you'll want considerable of a set-out; and if both them young men comes, you'll want some more help to entertain 'em than i can give you, it's likely." "do so � do so," said the old gentleman. "tell her who i expect, and ask her if she can come and help you, and me too." "o, and i'll go with you, cynthy," said fleda. "i'll get aunt miriam to come, i know." "i should think you'd be run off your legs already, flidda," said miss cynthia; " what ails you to want to be going again?" but this remonstrance availed nothing. supper was hurried through, and leaving the table standing, cynthia and fleda set off to "run up the hill." they were hardly a few steps from the gate when they heard the clatter of horses' hoofs behind them, and the two young gentlemen came riding hurriedly past, having joined company and taken their horses at queechy run. rossitur did not seem to see his little cousin and her companion; but the doffed cap and low inclination of the other rider as they flew by called up a smile and blush of pleasure to fleda's face; and the sound of their horses' hoofs had died away in the distance, before the light had faded from her cheeks, or she was quite at home to cynthia's observations. she was possessed with the feeling, what a delightful thing it was to have people do things in such a manner. "that was your cousin, wa'n't it?" said cynthy, when the spell was off. "no," said fleda, "the other one was my cousin." "well � i mean one of them fellers that went by. he's a soldier, ain't he?" "an officer," said fleda. "well, it does give a man an elegant look to be in the militie, don't it? i should admire to have a cousin like that. it's dreadful becoming to have that � what is it they call it? � to let the beard grow over the mouth. i s'pose they can't do that without they be in the army, can they?" "i don't know," said fleda. "i hope not. i think it is very ugly." "do you? oh! i admire it. it makes a man look so spry!" a few hundred yards from mr. ringgan's gate the road began to wind up a very long heavy hill. just at the hill's foot, it crossed by a rude bridge the bed of a noisy brook that came roaring down from the higher grounds turning sundry mill and factory wheels in its way. about half-way up the hill one of these was placed, belonging to a mill for sawing boards. the little building stood alone, no other in sight, with a dark background of wood rising behind it on the other side of the brook; the stream itself running smoothly for a small space above the mill, and leaping down madly below, as if it disdained its bed, and would clear at a bound every impediment in its way to the sea. when the mill was not going, the quantity of water that found its way down the hill was indeed very small, enough only to keep up a pleasant chattering with the stones; but as soon as the stream was allowed to gather all its force and run free, its loquacity was such that it would prevent a traveller from suspecting his approach to the mill, until, very near, the monotonous hum of its saw could be heard. this was a place fleda dearly loved. the wild sound of the waters, and the lonely keeping of the scene, with the delicious smell of the new-sawn boards, and the fascination of seeing the great logs of wood walk up to the relentless, tireless, up-and-down-going steel; as the generations of men in turn present themselves to the course of those sharp events which are the teeth of time's saw; until all of a sudden the master spirit, the man regulator of this machinery, would perform some conjuration on lever and wheel, and at once, as at the touch of an enchanter, the log would be still and the saw stay its work; the business of life came to a stand, and the romance of the little brook sprang up again. fleda never tired of it � never. she would watch the saw play and stop, and go on again; she would have her ears dinned with the hoarse clang of the machinery, and then listen to the laugh of the mill-stream; she would see with untiring patience one board after another cut and cast aside, and log succeed to log; and never turned weary away from that mysterious image of time's doings. fleda had, besides, without knowing it, the eye of a painter. in the lonely hill-side, the odd-shaped little mill, with its accompaniments of wood and water, and the great logs of timber lying about the ground in all directions and varieties of position, there was a picturesque charm for her, where the country people saw nothing but business and a place fit for it. their hands grew hard where her mind was refining. where they made dollars and cents, she was growing rich in stores of thought and associations of beauty. how many purposes the same thing serves! "that had ought to be your grandpa's mill this minute," observed cynthy. "i wish it was!" sighed fleda. "who's got it now, cynthy?" "o, it's that chap mcgowan, i expect; he's got pretty much the hull of everything. i told mr. ringgan i wouldn't let him have it if it was me, at the time. your grandpa 'd be glad to get it back now, i guess." fleda guessed so too; but also guessed that miss gall was probably very far from being possessed of the whole rationale of the matter. so she made her no answer. after reaching the brow of the hill, the road continued on a very gentle ascent towards a little settlement half a quarter of a mile off; passing, now and then, a few scattered cottages, or an occasional mill or turner's shop. several mills and factories, with a store and a very few dwelling- houses, were all the settlement; not enough to entitle it to the name of a village. beyond these and the millponds, of which in the course of the road there were three or four, and with a brief intervening space of cultivated fields, a single farmhouse stood alone; just upon the borders of a large and very fair sheet of water, from which all the others had their supply; so large and fair, that nobody cavilled at its taking the style of a lake, and giving its own pretty name of deepwater both to the settlement and the farm that half embraced it. this farm was seth plumfield's. at the garden gate fleda quitted cynthy, and rushed forward to meet her aunt, whom she saw coming round the corner of the house, with her gown pinned up behind her, from attending to some domestic concern among the pigs, the cows, or the poultry. "o, aunt miriam," said fleda, eagerly, "we are going to have company to tea to-morrow � wont you come and help us?" aunt miriam laid her hands upon fleda's shoulders, and looked at cynthy. "i came up to see if you wouldn't come down to-morrow, mis' plumfield," said that personage, with her usual dry, business tone, always a little on the wrong side of sweet; "your brother has taken a notion to ask two young fellers from the pool to supper, and they're grand folks, i s'pose, and have got to have a fuss made for 'em. i don't know what mr. ringgan was thinkin' of, or whether he thinks i have got anything to do or not; but anyhow, they're a comin', i s'pose, and must have somethin' to eat; and i thought the best thing i could do would be to come and get you into the works, if i could. i should feel a little queer to have nobody but me to say nothin' to them at the table." "ah, do come, aunt miriam!" said fleda; "it will be twice as pleasant if you do; and besides, we want to have everything very nice, you know." aunt miriam smiled at fleda, and inquired of miss gall what she had in the house. "why, i don't know, mis' plumfield," said the lady, while fleda threw her arms round her aunt, and thanked her; "there ain't nothin' particler � pork and beef, and the old story. i've got some first-rate pickles. i calculated to make some sort o' cake in the morning." "any of those small hams left?" "not a bone of 'em, these six weeks. _i_ don't see how they've gone, for my part. i'd lay any wager there were two in the smoke-house when i took the last one out. if mr. didenhover was a little more like a weasel i should think he'd been in." "have you cooked that roaster i sent down." "no, mis' plumfield, i ha'n't; it's such a plaguy sight of trouble!" said cynthy, with a little apologetic giggle; "i was keepin' it for some day when i hadn't much to do." "i'll take the trouble of it. l'll be down bright and early in the morning, and we'll see what's best to do. how's your last churning, cynthy?" "well, i guess it's pretty middlin', mis' plumfield." " 't isn't anything very remarkable, aunt miriam," said fleda, shaking her head. "well, well," said mrs. plumfield, smiling; "run away down home now, and i'll come to-morrow, and i guess we'll fix it. but who is it that grandpa has asked?" fleda and cynthy both opened at once. "one of them is my cousin, aunt miriam, that was at west point, and the other is the nicest english gentleman you ever saw; you will like him very much; he has been with me getting nuts all to-day." "they're a smart enough couple of chaps," said cynthia; "they look as if they lived where money was plenty." "well, i'll come to-morrow," repeated mrs. plumfield, "and we'll see about it. good night, dear!" she took fleda's head in both her hands, and gave her a most affectionate kiss; and the two petitioners set off homewards again. aunt miriam was not at all like her brother, in feature, though the moral characteristics suited the relationship sufficiently well. there was the expression of strong sense and great benevolence; the unbending uprightness of mind and body at once; and the dignity of an essentially noble character, not the same as mr. ringgan's, but such as well became his sister. she had been brought up among the quakers, and though now, and for many years, a staunch presbyterian, she still retained a tincture of the calm efficient gentleness of mind and manner that belongs so inexplicably to them. more womanly sweetness than was in mr. ringgan's blue eye, a woman need not wish to have; and perhaps his sister's had not so much. there was no want of it in her heart, nor in her manner, but the many and singular excellences of her character were a little overshadowed by super-excellent housekeeping. not a taint of the littleness that sometimes grows therefrom, � not a trace of the narrowness of mind that over-attention to such pursuits is too apt to bring; � on every important occasion aunt miriam would come out, free and unshackled, from all the cobweb entanglements of housewifery; she would have tossed housewifery to the winds, if need were, (but it never was, for in a new sense she always contrived to make both ends meet). it was only in the unbroken everyday course of affairs that aunt miriam's face showed any tokens of that incessant train of _small cares_ which had never left their impertinent footprints upon the broad high brow of her brother. mr. ringgan had no affinity with small cares; deep serious matters received his deep and serious consideration; but he had as dignified a disdain of trifling annoyances or concernments as any great mastiff or newfoundlander ever had for the yelping of a little cur. chapter v. ynne london citye was i borne, of parents of grete note; my fadre dydd a nobile arms emblazon onne hys cote. chatterton. in the snuggest and best private room of the house at montepoole, a party of ladies and gentlemen were gathered, awaiting the return of the sportsmen. the room had been made as comfortable as any place could be in a house built for "the season," after the season was past. a splendid fire of hickory logs was burning brilliantly and making amends for many deficiencies; the closed wooden shutters gave the reality if not the look of warmth, for though the days might be fine and mild, the mornings and evenings were always very cool up there among the mountains; and a table stood at the last point of readiness for having dinner served. they only waited for the lingering woodcock hunters. it was rather an elderly party, with the exception of one young man whose age might match that of the absent two. he was walking up and down the room with somewhat the air of having nothing to do with himself. another gentleman, much older, stood warming his back at the fire, feeling about his jaws and chin with one hand, and looking at the dinner-table in a sort of expectant reverie. the rest, three ladies, sat quietly chatting. all these persons were extremely different from one another in individual characteristics, and all had the unmistakable mark of the habit of good society; as difficult to locate, and as easy to recognise, as the sense of _freshness_ which some ladies have the secret of diffusing around themselves; � no definable sweetness, nothing in particular, but making a very agreeable impression. one of these ladies, the mother of the perambulating young officer, (he was a class-mate of rossitur's,) was extremely plain in feature, even more than _ordinary_. this plainness was not, however, devoid of sense, and it was relieved by an uncommon amount of good-nature and kindness of heart. in her son the sense deepened into acuteness, and the kindness of heart retreated, it is to be hoped, into some hidden recess of his nature; for it very rarely showed itself in open expression; that is, to an eye keen in reading the natural signs of emotion; for it cannot be said that his manner had any want of amenity or politeness. the second lady, the wife of the gentleman on the hearth-rug, or rather on the spot where the hearth-rug should have been, was a strong contrast to this mother and son; remarkably pretty, delicate, and even lovely; with a black eye, however, that though in general soft, could show a mischievous sparkle upon occasion; still young, and one of those women who always were and always will be pretty and delicate at any age. the third had been very handsome, and was still a very elegant woman, but her face had seen more of the world's wear and tear. it had never known placidity of expression, beyond what the habitual command of good-breeding imposed. she looked exactly what she was, a perfect woman of the world. a very good specimen, � for mrs. carleton had sense and cultivation, and even feeling enough, to play the part very gracefully; yet her mind was bound in the shackles of "the world's" tyrannical forging, and had never been free; and her heart bowed submissively to the same authority. "here they are! welcome home," exclaimed this lady, as her son and his friend at length made their appearance; � "welcome home � we are all famishing; and i don't know why in the world we waited for you, for i am sure you don't deserve it. what success? what success, mr. rossitur?" "faith, ma'am, there's little enough to boast of, as far as i am concerned. mr. carleton may speak for himself." "i am very sorry, ma'am, you waited for me," said that gentleman. "i am a delinquent, i acknowledge. the day came to an end before i was at all aware of it." "it would not do to flatter you so far as to tell you why we waited," said mrs. evelyn's soft voice. and then perceiving that the gentleman at whom she was looking gave her no answer, she turned to the other. "how many woodcock, mr. rossitur?" "nothing to show, ma'am," he replied. "didn't see a solitary one. i heard some partridges, but i didn't mean to have room in my bag for them." "did you find the right ground, rossitur?" "i had a confounded long tramp after it if i didn't," said the discomfited sportsman, who did not seem to have yet recovered his good humour. "were you not together?" said mrs. carleton. - "where were you, guy?" "following the sport another way, ma'am; i had very good success, too." "what's the total?" said mr. evelyn. "how much game did you bag?" "really, sir, i didn't count. i can only answer for a bagful." "ladies and gentlemen!" cried rossitur, bursting forth, � "what will you say when i tell you that mr. carleton deserted me and the sport in a most unceremonious manner, and that he, � the cynical philosopher, the reserved english gentleman, the gay man of the world, � you are all of 'em by turns, aren't you, carleton? � _he!_ � has gone and made a very cavaliero servente of himself to a piece of rusticity, and spent all to- day in helping a little girl pick up chestnuts." "mr. carleton would be a better man if he were to spend a good many more days in the same manner," said that gentleman, drily enough. but the entrance of dinner put a stop to both laughter and questioning for a time, all of the party being well disposed to their meat. when the pickerel from the lakes, and the poultry and half- kept joints had had their share of attention, and a pair of fine wild ducks were set on the table, the tongues of the party found something to do besides eating. "we have had a very satisfactory day among the shakers, guy," said mrs. carleton; "and we have arranged to drive to kenton to-morrow � i suppose you will go with us?" "with pleasure, mother, but that i am engaged to dinner about five or six miles in the opposite direction." "engaged to dinner! � what with this old gentleman where you went last night? and you too, mr. rossitur?" "i have made no promise, ma'am; but i take it i must go." "vexatious! is the little girl going with us, guy?" "i don't know yet � i half apprehend, yes; there seems to be a doubt in her grandfather's mind, not whether he can let her go, but whether he can keep her, and that looks like it." "is it your little cousin who proved the successful rival of the woodcock to-day, charlton?" said mrs. evelyn. "what is she?" "i don't know, ma'am, upon my word. i presume carleton will tell you she is something uncommon and quite remarkable." "is she, mr. carleton?" "what, ma'am?" "uncommon?" "very." "come? that _is_ something, from _you_," said rossitur's brother officer, lieut. thorn. "what's the uncommonness?" said mrs. thorn, addressing herself rather to mr. rossitur as she saw mr. carleton's averted eye; � "is she handsome, mr. rossitur?" "i can't tell you, i am sure, ma'am. i saw nothing but a nice child enough, in a calico frock, just such as one would see in any farm-house. she rushed into the room when she was first called to see us, from somewhere in distant regions, with an immense iron ladle a foot and a half long in her hand, with which she had been performing unknown feats of housewifery; and they had left her head still encircled with a halo of kitchen smoke. if, as they say, 'coming events cast their shadows before,' she was the shadow of supper." "o, charlton, charlton!" said mrs. evelyn, but in a tone of very gentle and laughing reproof, � "for shame! what a picture! and of your cousin!" "is she a pretty child, guy?" said mrs. carleton, who did not relish her son's grave face. "no, ma'am �something more than that." "how old?" "about ten or eleven." "that's an ugly age." "she will never be at an ugly age." "what style of beauty?" "the highest � that degree of mould and finish which belongs only to the finest material." "that is hardly the kind of beauty one would expect to see in such a place," said mrs. carleton. "from one side of her family, to be sure, she has a right to it." "i have seen very few examples of it anywhere," said her son. "who were her parents?" said mrs. evelyn. "her mother was mrs. rossitur's sister � her father" � "amy charlton!" exclaimed mrs. evelyn, � "oh, i knew her! was amy charlton her mother? o, i didn't know whom you were talking of. she was one of my dearest friends. her daughter may well be handsome � she was one of the most lovely persons i ever knew; in body and mind both. o, i loved amy charlton very much. i must see this child." "i don't know who her father was," mrs. carleton went on. "oh, her father was major ringgan," said mrs. evelyn. "i never saw him, but i have heard him spoken of in very high terms. i always heard that amy married very well." "major ringgan!" said mrs. thorn; "his name is very well known; he was very distinguished." "he was a self-made man, entirely," said mrs. evelyn, in a tone that conveyed a good deal more than the simple fact. "yes, he was a self-made man," said mrs. thorn, "but i should never think of that where a man distinguishes himself so much; he was very distinguished." "yes, and for more than officer-like qualities," said mrs. evelyn. "i have heard his personal accomplishments as a gentleman highly praised." "so that little miss ringgan's right to be a beauty may be considered clearly made out," said mr. thorn. "it is one of those singular cases," said mr. carleton, "where purity of blood proves itself, and one has no need to go back to past generations to make any inquiry concerning it." "hear him!" cried rossitur; "and for the life of me i could see nothing of all this wonder. her face is not at all striking." "the wonder is not so much in what it is, as in what it indicates," said mr. carleton. "what does it indicate?" said his mother. "suppose you were to ask me to count the shades of colour in a rainbow," answered he. "hear him!" cried thorn, again. "well, i hope she will go with us, and we shall have a chance of seeing her," said mrs. carleton. "if she were only a few years older, it is my belief you would see enough of her, ma'am," said young rossitur. the haughty coldness of mr. carleton's look, at this speech, could not be surpassed. "but she has beauty of feature, too, has she not?" mrs. carleton asked again of her son. "yes, in very high degree. the contour of the eye and brow i never saw finer." "it is a little odd," said mrs. evelyn, with the slightest touch of a piqued air, (she had some daughters at home) � "that is a kind of beauty one is apt to associate with high breeding, and certainly you very rarely see it anywhere else; and major ringgan, however distinguished and estimable, as i have no doubt he was, � and this child must have been brought up with no advantages, here in the country." "my dear madam," said mr. carleton, smiling a little, "this high breeding is a very fine thing, but it can neither be given nor bequeathed; and we cannot entail it." "but it can be taught, can't it?" "if it could be taught, it is to be hoped it would be oftener learned," said the young man, drily. "but what do we mean, then, when we talk of the high breeding of certain classes � and families? and why are we not disappointed when we look to find it in connection with certain names and positions in society?" "i do not know," said mr. carleton. "you don't mean to say, i suppose, mr. carleton," said thorn, bridling a little, "that it is a thing independent of circumstances, and that there is no value in blood?" "very nearly � answering the question as you understand it." "may i ask how you understand it?" "as you do, sir." "is there no high breeding then in the world?" asked good- natured mrs. thorn, who could be touched on this point of family. "there is very little of it. what is commonly current under the name, is merely counterfeit notes which pass from hand to hand of those who are bankrupt in the article." "and to what serve, then," said mrs. evelyn, colouring, "the long lists of good old names which even you, mr. carleton, i know, do not disdain?" "to endorse the counterfeit notes," said mr. carleton, smiling. "guy, you are absurd!" said his mother. "i will not sit at the table and listen to you if you talk such stuff. what do you mean?" "i beg your pardon, mother, you have misunderstood me," said he, seriously. "mind, i have been talking, not of ordinary conformity to what the world requires, but of that fine perfection of mental and moral constitution, which, in its own natural necessary acting, leaves nothing to be desired, in every occasion or circumstance of life. it is the pure gold, and it knows no tarnish; it is the true coin, and it gives what it proffers to give; it is the living plant ever blossoming, and not the cut and art-arranged flowers. it is a thing of the mind altogether; and where nature has not curiously prepared the soil, it is in vain to try to make it grow. _this_ is not very often met with!" "no, indeed," said mrs. carleton; " but you are so fastidiously nice in all your notions! � at this rate nothing will ever satisfy you." "i don't think it is so very uncommon," said mrs. thorn. "it seems to me one sees as much of it as can be expected, mr. carleton." mr. carleton pared his apple with an engrossed air. "o no, mrs. thorn," said mrs. evelyn, "i don't agree with you � i don't think you often see such a combination as mr. carleton has been speaking of � very rarely! but, mr. carleton, don't you think it is generally found in that class of society where the habits of life are constantly the most polished and refined?" "possibly," answered he, diving into the core of his apple. "no, but tell me; i want to know what you think." "cultivation and refinement have taught people to recognize and analyze and imitate it; the counterfeits are most current in that society; but as to the reality, i don't know; it is nature's work, and she is a little freaky about it." "but, guy!" said his mother, impatiently, "this is not selling but giving away one's birthright. where is the advantage of birth if breeding is not supposed to go along with it? where the parents have had intelligence and refinement, do we not constantly see them inherited by the children? and in an increasing degree from generation to generation?" "very extraordinary!" said mrs. thorn. "i do not undervalue the blessings of inheritance, mother, believe me, nor deny the general doctrine; though intelligence does not always descend, and manners die out, and that invaluable legacy, a name, may be thrown away. but this delicate thing we are speaking of is not intelligence nor refinement, but comes rather from a happy combination of qualities, together with a peculiarly fine nervous constitution; the _essence_ of it may consist with an omission, even with an awkwardness, and with a sad ignorance of conventionalities." "but even if that be so, do you think it can ever reach its full development but in the circumstances that are favourable to it?" said mrs. evelyn. "probably not often; the diamond in some instances wants the graver; � but it is the diamond. nature seems now and then to have taken a princess's child and dropped it in some odd corner of the kingdom, while she has left the clown in the palace." "from all which i understand," said mr. thorn, "that this little chestnut girl is a princess in disguise." "really, carleton!" � rossitur began. mrs. evelyn leaned back in her chair, and quietly eating a piece of apple, eyed mr. carleton with a look half amused and half discontented, and behind all that, keenly attentive. "take for example those two miniatures you were looking at last night, mrs. evelyn," the young man went on; � "louis xvi. and marie antoinette � what would you have more unrefined, more heavy, more _animal_, than the face of that descendant of a line of kings?" mrs. evelyn bowed her head acquiescingly, and seemed to enjoy her apple. "_he_ had a pretty bad lot of an inheritance, sure enough, take it all together," said rossitur. "well," said thorn, � "is this little stray princess as well- looking as t'other miniature?" "better, in some respects," said mr. carleton, coolly. "better!" cried mrs. carleton. "not in the brilliancy of her beauty, but in some of its characteristics; � better in its promise." "make yourself intelligible, for the sake of my nerves, guy," said his mother. "better looking than marie antoinette!" "my unhappy cousin is said to be a fairy, ma'am," said mr. rossitur; "and i presume all this may be referred to enchantment." "that face of marie antoinette's," said mr. carleton, smiling, "is an undisciplined one � uneducated." "uneducated!" exclaimed mrs. carleton. "don't mistake me, mother, � i do not mean that it shows any want of reading or writing, but it does indicate an untrained character � a mind unprepared for the exigencies of life." "she met those exigencies indifferently well, too," observed mr. thorn. "ay � but pride, and the dignity of rank, and undoubtedly some of the finer qualities of a woman's nature, might suffice for that, and yet leave her utterly unfitted to play wisely and gracefully a part in ordinary life." "well, she had no such part to play," said mrs. carleton. "certainly, mother � but i am comparing faces." "well � the other face?" "it has the same style of refined beauty of feature, but � to compare them in a word, marie antoinette looks to me like a superb exotic that has come to its brilliant perfection of bloom in a hothouse � it would lose its beauty in the strong free air � it would change and droop if it lacked careful waiting upon and constant artificial excitement; � the other," said mr. carleton, musingly, � "is a flower of the woods, raising its head above frost and snow and the rugged soil where fortune has placed it, with an air of quiet patient endurance; a storm wind may bring it to the ground, easily, � but if its gentle nature be not broken, it will look up again, unchanged, and bide its time in unrequited beauty and sweetness to the end." "the exotic for me!" cried rossitur, � "if i only had a place for her. i don't like pale elegancies." "i'd make a piece of poetry of that if i was you, carleton," said mr. thorn. "mr. carleton has done that already," said mrs. evelyn, smoothly. "i never heard you talk so before, guy," said his mother, looking at him. his eyes had grown dark with intensity of expression while he was speaking, gazing at visionary flowers or beauties through the dinner-table mahogany. he looked up and laughed as she addressed him, and rising, turned off lightly with his usual air. "i congratulate you, mrs. carleton," mrs. evelyn whispered as they went from the table, "that this little beauty is not a few years older." "why?" said mrs. carleton, "if she is all that guy says, i would give anything in the world to see him married." "time enough," said mrs. evelyn, with a knowing smile. "i don't know," said mrs. carleton, � "i think he would be happier. he is a restless spirit � nothing satisfies him. � nothing fixes him. he cannot rest at home � he abhors politics � he flits away from country to country and doesn't remain long anywhere." "and you with him." "and i with him. i should like to see if a wife could not persuade him to stay at home." "i guess you have petted him too much," said mrs. evelyn, slyly. "i cannot have petted him too much, for he has never disappointed me." "no, of course not; but it seems you find it difficult to lead him." "no one ever succeeded in doing that," said mrs. carleton, with a smile, that was anything but an ungratified one. "he never wanted driving, and to lead him is impossible. you may try it; and while you think you are going to gain your end, if he thinks it worth while, you will suddenly find that he is leading you. it is so with everybody � in some inexplicable way." mrs. evelyn thought the mystery was very easily explicable, as far as the mother was concerned; and changed the conversation. chapter vi. to them life was a simple art of duties to be done, a game where each man took his part, a race where all must run; a battle whose great scheme and scope they little cared to know, content, as men-at-arms, to cope each with his fronting foe. milnes. on so great and uncommon an occasion as mr. ringgan's giving a dinner-party, the disused front parlour was opened and set in order; the women-folks, as he called them, wanting the whole back part of the house for their operations. so when the visitors arrived, in good time, they were ushered into a large square, bare-looking room � a strong contrast even to their dining-room at the pool � which gave them nothing of the welcome of the pleasant farm-house kitchen, and where nothing of the comfort of the kitchen found its way but a very strong smell of roast pig. there was the cheerless air of a place where nobody lives, or thinks of living. the very chairs looked as if they had made up their minds to be forsaken for a term of months; it was impossible to imagine that a cheerful supper had ever been laid upon the stiff, cold-looking table, that stood with its leaves down so primly against the wall. all that a blazing fire could do to make amends for deficiencies, it did; but the wintry wind that swept round the house shook the paper window-shades in a remorseless way; and the utmost efforts of said fire could not prevent it from coming in, and giving disagreeable, impertinent whispers at the ears of everybody. mr. ringgan's welcome, however, was, and would have been the same thing anywhere � genial, frank, and dignified; neither he nor it could be changed by circumstances. mr. carleton admired anew, as he came forward, the fine presence and noble look of his old host; a look that it was plain had never needed to seek the ground; a brow that in large or small things had never been crossed by a shadow of shame. and to a discerning eye the face was not a surer index of a lofty than of a peaceful and pure mind; too peace-loving and pure, perhaps, for the best good of his affairs in the conflict with a selfish and unscrupulous world. at least, now, in the time of his old age and infirmity; in former days, his straightforward wisdom, backed by an indomitable courage and strength, had made mr. ringgan no safe subject for either braving or over- reaching. fleda's keen-sighted affection was heartily gratified by the manner in which her grandfather was greeted by at least one of his guests, and that the one about whose opinion she cared the most. mr. carleton seemed as little sensible of the cold room as mr. ringgan himself. fleda felt sure that her grandfather was appreciated; and she would have sat delightedly listening to what the one and the other were presently saying, if she had not taken notice that her cousin looked _astray_. he was eyeing the fire with a profound air, and she fancied he thought it poor amusement. little as fleda in secret really cared about that, with an instant sacrifice of her own pleasure, she quietly changed her position for one from which she could more readily bring to bear upon mr. rossitur's distraction the very light artillery of her conversation; and attacked him on the subject of the game he had brought home. her motive and her manner both must have been lost upon the young gentleman. he forthwith set about amusing himself in a way his little entertainer had not counted upon, namely, with giving a chase to her wits; partly to pass away the time, and partly to gratify his curiosity, as he said, "to see what fleda was made of." by a curious system of involved, startling, or absurd questions, he endeavoured to puzzle, or confound, or entrap her. fleda, however, steadily presented a grave front to the enemy, and would every now and then surprise him with an unexpected turn or clever doubling, and sometimes when he thought he had her in a corner, jump over the fence and laugh at him from the other side. mr. rossitur's respect for his little adversary gradually increased, and finding that she had rather the best of the game, he at last gave it up, just as mr. ringgan was asking mr. carleton if he was a judge of stock? mr. carleton saying with a smile, "no, but he hoped mr. ringgan would give him his first lesson," � the old gentleman immediately arose with that alacrity of manner he always wore when he had a visitor that pleased him, and taking his hat and cane led the way out; choosing, with a man's true carelessness of housewifery etiquette, the kitchen route, of all others. not even admonished by the sight of the bright dutch oven before the fire, that he was introducing his visitors somewhat too early to the pig, he led the whole party through, cynthia scuttling away in haste across the kitchen with something that must not be seen, while aunt miriam looked out at the company through the crack of the pantry door, at which fleda ventured a sly glance of intelligence. it was a fine though a windy and cold afternoon; the lights and shadows were driving across the broad upland and meadows. "this is a fine arable country," remarked mr. carleton. "capital, sir, capital, for many miles round, if we were not so far from a market. i was one of the first that broke ground in this township, � one of the very first settlers � i've seen the rough and the smooth of it, and i never had but one mind about it from the first. all this � as far as you can see � i cleared myself; most of it with my own hand." "that recollection must attach you strongly to the place, i should think, sir." "hum, perhaps i cared too much for it," he replied, "for it is taken away from me. well, it don't matter now." "it is not yours?" "no, sir! it was mine a great many years; but i was obliged to part with it, two years ago, to a scoundrel of a fellow � mcgowan, up here � he got an advantage over me. i can't take care of myself any more as i used to do, and i don't find that other people deal by me just as i could wish �" he was silent for a moment and then went on � "yes, sir! when i first set myself down here, or a little further that way, my first house was, � a pretty rough house, too, � there wa'n't two settlers beside within something like ten miles round. � i've seen the whole of it cleared, from the cutting of the first forest trees till this day." "you have seen the nation itself spring up within that time," remarked his guest. "not exactly � that question of our nationality was settled a little before i came here. i was born rather too late to see the whole of that play � i saw the best of it, though � boys were men in those days. my father was in the thick of it from beginning to end." "in the army, was he?" "ho, yes, sir! he and every child he had that wasn't a girl � there wasn't a man of the name that wa'n't on the right side. i was in the army myself when i was fifteen. i was nothing but a fifer � but i tell you, sir! there wasn't a general officer in the country that played his part with a prouder heart than i did mine!" "and was that the general spirit of the ranks?" "not altogether," replied the old gentleman, passing his hand several times abstractedly over his white hair, a favourite gesture with him, � "not exactly that � there was a good deal of mixture of different materials, especially in this state; and where the feeling wasn't pretty strong, it was no wonder if it got tired out; but the real stuff, the true yankee blood, was pretty firm! ay, and some of the rest! there was a good deal to try men in those days. sir, i have seen many a time when i had nothing to dine upon but my fife, and it was more than that could do to keep me from feeling very empty!" "but was this a common case? did this happen often?" said mr. carleton. "pretty often � pretty often, sometimes," answered the old gentleman. "things were very much out of order, you see, and in some parts of the country it was almost impossible to get the supplies the men needed. nothing would have kept them together, � nothing under heaven � but the love and confidence they had in one name. their love of right and independence wouldn't have been strong enough, and besides a good many of them got disheartened. a hungry stomach is a pretty stout arguer against abstract questions. i have seen my father crying like a child for the wants and sufferings he was obliged to see, and couldn't relieve." "and then you used to relieve yourselves, grandpa," said fleda. "how was that, fairy?" fleda looked at her grandfather, who gave a little preparatory laugh, and passed his hand over his head again. "why, yes," said he, � "we used to think the tories, king george's men, you know, were fair game; and when we happened to be in the neighbourhood of some of them that we knew were giving all the help they could to the enemy, we used to let them cook our dinners for us once in a while." "how did you manage that, sir?" "why, they used to have little bake-ovens to cook their meats and so on, standing some way out from the house, � did you never see one of them? � raised on four little heaps of stone; the bottom of the oven is one large flat stone, and the arch built over it; � they look like a great beehive. well � we used to watch till we saw the good woman of the house get her oven cleverly heated, and put in her batch of bread, or her meat-pie, or her pumpkin and apple pies! � whichever it was � there didn't any of 'em come much amiss � and when we guessed they were pretty nigh done, three or four of us would creep in and whip off the whole � oven and all! � to a safe place. i tell you," said he, with a knowing nod of his head at the laughing fleda, � "those were first-rate pies!" "and then did you put the oven back again afterwards, grandpa?" "i guess not often, dear!" replied the old gentleman. "what do you think of such lawless proceedings, miss fleda?" said mr. carleton, laughing at or with her. "o, i like it," said fleda. "you liked those pies all the better, didn't you, grandpa, because you had got them from the tories?" "that we did! if we hadn't got them, maybe king george's men would, in some shape. but we weren't always so lucky as to get hold of an oven full. i remember one time several of us had been out on a foraging expedition � there, sir, what do you think of that for a two-and-a-half year old?" they had come up with the chief favourite of his barnyard, a fine deep-coloured devon bull. "i don't know what one might see in devonshire," he remarked, presently, "but i know _this_ county can't show the like of him?" a discussion followed of the various beauties and excellencies of the animal; a discussion in which mr. carleton certainly took little part, while mr. ringgan descanted enthusiastically upon "hide" and "brisket" and "bone," and rossitur stood in an abstraction � it might be scornful, it might be mazed. little fleda quietly listening and looking at the beautiful creature, which from being such a treasure to her grandfather was in a sort one to her, more than half understood them all; but mr. ringgan was too well satisfied with the attention of one of his guests to miss that of the other. "that fellow don't look as if _he_ had ever known short commons," was rossitur's single remark as they turned away. "you did not give us the result of your foraging expedition, sir," said mr. carleton, in a different manner. "do, grandpa," said fleda, softly. "ha! � oh, it is not worth telling," said the old gentleman, looking gratified; � "fleda has heard my stories till she knows them by heart � she could tell it as well herself. what was it? � about the pig? � we had been out, several of us, one afternoon, to try to get up a supper � or a dinner, for we had had none � and we had caught a pig. it happened that i was the only one of the party that had a cloak, and so the pig was given to me to carry home, because i could hide it the best. well, sir! � we were coming home, and had set our mouths for a prime supper, when just as we were within a few rods of our shanty, who should come along but our captain! my heart sank as it never has done at the thought of a supper before or since, i believe! i held my cloak together as well as i could, and kept myself back a little, so that if the pig showed a cloven foot behind me, the captain might not see it. but i almost gave up all for lost when i saw the captain going into the hut with us. there was a kind of a rude bedstead standing there; and i set myself down upon the side of it, and gently worked and eased my pig off under my cloak till i got him to roll down behind the bed. i knew," said mr. ringgan, laughing, "i knew by the captain's eye, as well as i knew anything, that he smelt a rat; but he kept our counsel, as well as his own; and when he was gone we took the pig out into the woods behind the shanty and roasted him finely, and we sent and asked capt. sears to supper; and he came and helped us eat the pig with a great deal of appetite, and never asked no questions how we came by him!" "i wonder your stout-heartedness did not fail, in the course of so long a time," said mr. carleton "never, sir!'" said the old gentleman. "i never doubted for a moment what the end would be. my father never doubted for a moment. we trusted in god and in washington!" "did you see actual service yourself?" "no, sir � i never did. i wish i had. i should like to have had the honour of striking one blow at the rascals. however, they were hit pretty well. i ought to be contented. my father saw enough of fighting � he was colonel of a regiment � he was at the affair of burgoyne. _that_ gave us a lift in good time. what rejoicing there was everywhere when that news came! i could have fifed all day upon an empty stomach and felt satisfied. people reckoned everywhere that the matter was settled when that great piece of good fortune was given us. and so it was! � wa'n't it, dear?" said the old gentleman, with one of those fond, pleased, sympathetic looks to fleda with which he often brought up what he was saying. "general gates commanded there?" said mr. carleton. "yes, sir. gates was a poor stick � i never thought much of him. that fellow arnold distinguished himself in the actions before burgoyne's surrender. he fought like a brave man. it seems strange that so mean a scamp should have had so much blood in him!" "why; are great fighters generally good men, grandpa?" said fleda. not exactly, dear!" replied her grandfather; � "but such little-minded rascality is not just the vice one would expect to find in a gallant soldier." "those were times that made men," said mr. carleton, musingly. "yes," answered the old gentleman, gravely, � "they were times that called for men, and god raised them up. but washington was the soul of the country, sir!" "well, the time made him," said mr. carleton. "i beg your pardon," said the old gentleman, with a very decided little turn of his head. � "i think he made the time. i don't know what it would have been, sir, or what it would have come to, but for him. after all, it is rather that the things which try people show what is in them; � i hope there are men enough in the country yet, though they haven't as good a chance to show what they are." "either way," said his guest, smiling, "it is a happiness, mr. ringgan, to have lived at a time when there was something worth living for." "well � i don't know �" said the old gentleman; � "those times would make the prettiest figure in a story or a romance, i suppose; but i've tried both, and on the whole," said he, with another of his looks at fleda, "i think i like these times the best!" fleda smiled her acquiescence. his guest could not help thinking to himself that however pacific might be mr. ringgan's temper, no man in those days that tried men could have brought to the issue more stern inflexibility and gallant fortitude of bearing. his frame bore evidence of great personal strength, and his eye, with all its mildness, had an unflinching dignity that _could_ never have quailed before duty or danger. and now, while he was recalling with great animation and pleasure the scenes of his more active life, and his blue eye was shining with the fire of other days, his manner had the self-possession and quiet sedateness of triumph that bespeak a man always more ready to do than to say. perhaps the contemplation of the noble roman-like old figure before him did not tend to lessen the feeling, even the sigh, of regret with which the young man said, "there was something then for a man to do!" "there is always that," said the old gentleman, quietly. "god has given every man his work to do; and 'tain't difficult for him to find out what. no man is put here to be idle." "but," said his companion, with a look in which not a little haughty reserve was mingled with a desire to speak out his thoughts, "half the world are busy about humdrum concerns, and the other half doing nothing, or worse." "i don't know about that," said mr. ringgan; � "that depends upon the way you take things. 'tain't always the men that make the most noise that are the most good in the world. humdrum affairs needn't be humdrum in the doing of 'em. it is my maxim," said the old gentleman, looking at his companion with a singularly open, pleasant smile, � "that a man may be great about a'most anything � chopping wood, if he happens to be in that line. i used to go upon that plan, sir. whatever i have set my hand to do, i have done it as well as i knew how to; and if you follow that rule out you'll not be idle nor humdrum neither. many's the time that i have mowed what would be a day's work for another man, before breakfast." rossitur's smile was not meant to be seen. but mr. carleton's, to the credit of his politeness and his understanding both, was frank as the old gentleman's own, as he answered, with a good-humoured shake of his head, "i can readily believe it, sir; and honour both your maxim and your practice. but i am not exactly in that line." "why don't you try the army?" said mr. ringgan, with a look of interest. "there is not a cause worth fighting for," said the young man, his brow changing again. "it is only to add weight to the oppressor's hand, or throw away life in the vain endeavour to avert it. i will do neither." "but all the world is open before such a young man as you," said mr. ringgan. "a large world," said mr. carleton, with his former mixture of expression, � "but there isn't much in it." "politics?" said mr. ringgan. "it is to lose oneself in a seething-pot, where the scum is the most apparent thing." "but there is society?" said rossitur. "nothing better or more noble than the succession of motes that flit through a sunbeam into oblivion." "well, why not, then, sit down quietly on one's estates and enjoy them, one who has enough?" "and be a worm in the heart of an apple." "well, then," said rossitur, laughing, though not knowing exactly how far he might venture, "there is nothing left for you, as i don't suppose you would take to any of the learned professions, but to strike out some new path for yourself � hit upon some grand invention for benefiting the human race and distinguishing your own name at once." but while he spoke, his companion's face had gone back to its usual look of imperturbable coolness; the dark eye was even haughtily unmoved, till it met fleda's inquiring and somewhat anxious glance. he smiled. "the nearest approach i ever made to that," said he, "was when i went chestnuting the other day. can't you find some more work for me, fairy?" taking fleda's hand with his wonted graceful lightness of manner, he walked on with her, leaving the other two to follow together. "you would like to know, perhaps, "observed mr. rossitur, in rather a low tone, "that mr. carleton is an englishman." "ay, ay?" said mr. ringgan. "an englishman, is he? well, sir, what is it that i would like to know?" "_that_," said rossitur. "i would have told you before if i could. i supposed you might not choose to speak quite so freely, perhaps, on american affairs before him." "i haven't two ways of speaking, sir, on anything," said the old gentleman, a little dryly. "is your friend very tender on that chapter?" "o, not that i know of at all," said rossitur; "but you know there is a great deal of feeling still among the english about it � they have never forgiven us heartily for whipping them; and i know carleton is related to the nobility, and all that, you know; so i thought �" "ah, well!" said the old gentleman � "we don't know much about nobility and such gimcracks in this country. i'm not much of a courtier. i am pretty much accustomed to speak my mind as i think it. he's wealthy, i suppose?" "he's more than that, sir. enormous estates! he's the finest fellow in the world � one of the first young men in england." "you have been there yourself, and know?" said mr. ringgan, glancing at his companion. "if i have not, sir, others have told me that do." "ah, well," said mr. ringgan, placidly; "we sha'n't quarrel, i guess. what did he come out here for � eh?" "only to amuse himself. they are going back again in a few weeks, and i intend accompanying them to join my mother in paris. will my little cousin be of the party?" they were sauntering along towards the house. a loud calling of her name the minute before, had summoned fleda thither at the top of her speed; and mr. carleton turned to repeat the same question. the old gentleman stopped, and striking his stick two or three times against the ground, looked sorrowfully undetermined. "well, i don't know!" he said, at last � "it's a pretty hard matter � she'd break her heart about it, i suppose �" "i dare urge nothing, sir," said mr. carleton. "i will only assure you that if you entrust your treasure to us, she shall be cherished as you would wish, till we place her in the hands of her aunt." "i know that, sir, � i do not doubt it," said mr. ringgan; "but, i'll tell you by and by what i conclude upon," he said, with evident relief of manner, as fleda came bounding back to them. "mr. rossitur, have you made your peace with fleda?" "i was not aware that i had any to make, sir," replied the young gentleman. "i will do it with pleasure, if my little cousin will tell me how. but she looks as if she needed enlightening as much as myself." "she has something against you, i can tell you," said the old gentleman, looking amused, and speaking as if fleda were a curious little piece of human mechanism which could hear its performances talked of with all the insensibility of any other toy. "she gives it as her judgment that mr. carleton is the most of a gentleman, because he keeps his promise." "oh, grandpa!" poor fleda's cheek was hot with a distressful blush. rossitur coloured with anger. mr. carleton's smile had a very different expression. "if fleda will have the goodness to recollect," said rossitur, "i cannot be charged with breaking a promise, for i made none." "but mr. carleton did," said fleda. "she is right, mr. rossitur, she is right," said that gentleman; "a fallacy might as well elude ithuriel's spear as the sense of a pure spirit � there is no need of written codes. make your apologies, man, and confess yourself in the wrong." "pho, pho," said the old gentleman, � "she don't take it very much to heart, i guess _i_ ought to be the one to make the apologies," he added, looking at fleda's face. but fleda commanded herself, with difficulty, and announced that dinner was ready. "mr. rossitur tells me, mr. carleton, you are an englishman," said his host. "i have some notion of that's passing through my head before, but somehow i had entirely lost sight of it when i was speaking so freely to you a little while ago, about our national quarrel � i know some of your countrymen owe us a grudge yet." "not i, i assure you," said the young englishman. "i am ashamed of them for it. i congratulate you on being washington's countryman, and a sharer in his grand struggle for the right against the wrong." mr. ringgan shook his guest's hand, looking very much pleased; and having by this time arrived at the house, the young gentlemen were formally introduced at once to the kitchen, their dinner, and aunt miriam. it is not too much to say that the entertainment gave perfect satisfaction to everybody � better fate than attends most entertainments. even mr. rossitur's ruffled spirit felt the soothing influence of good cheer, to which he happened to be peculiarly sensible, and came back to its average condition of amenity. doubtless that was a most informal table, spread according to no rules that, for many generations at least, have been known in the refined world; an anomaly in the eyes of certainly one of the company. yet the board had a character of its own, very far removed from vulgarity, and suiting remarkably well with the condition and demeanour of those who presided over it � a comfortable, well-to-do, substantial look, that could afford to dispense with minor graces; a self-respect that was not afraid of criticism. aunt miriam's successful efforts deserve to be celebrated. in the middle of the table, the polished amber of the pig's arched back elevated itself � a striking object � but worthy of the place he filled, as the honours paid him by everybody abundantly testified. aunt miriam had sent down a basket of her own bread, made out of the new flour, brown and white, both as sweet and fine as it is possible for bread to be; the piled-up slices were really beautiful. the superb butter had come from aunt miriam's dairy, too, for on such an occasion she would not trust to the very doubtful excellence of miss cynthia's doings. every spare place on the table was filled with dishes of potatoes, and pickles, and sweetmeats, that left nothing to be desired in their respective kinds; the cake was a delicious presentment of the finest of material; and the pies, pumpkin pies, such as only aunt miriam could make, rich compounds of everything _but_ pumpkin, with enough of that to give them a name; fleda smiled to think how pleased aunt miriam must secretly be to see the homage paid her through them. and most happily mrs. plumfield had discovered that the last tea mr. ringgan had brought from the little queechy store was not very good, and there was no time to send up on "the hill" for more, so she made coffee. verily, it was not mocha, but the thick yellow cream with which the cups were filled, really made up the difference. the most curious palate found no want. everybody was in a high state of satisfaction, even to miss cynthia gall; who, having some lurking suspicion that mrs. plumfield might design to cut her out of her post of tea- making, had slipped herself into her usual chair behind the tea-tray, before anybody else was ready to sit down. no one at table bestowed a thought upon miss cynthia, but as she thought of nothing else, she may be said to have had her fair share of attention. the most unqualified satisfaction, however, was no doubt little fleda's. forgetting, with a child's happy readiness, the fears and doubts which had lately troubled her, she was full of the present, enjoying, with a most unselfish enjoyment, everything that pleased anybody else. she was glad that the supper was a fine one, and so approved, because it was her grandfather's hospitality, and her aunt miriam's housekeeping; little beside was her care for pies or coffee. she saw with secret glee the expression of both her aunt's and mr. ringgan's face; partly from pure sympathy, and partly because, as she knew, the cause of it was mr. carleton, whom, privately, fleda liked very much. and after all, perhaps, he had directly more to do with her enjoyment than all other causes together. certainly that was true of him with respect to the rest of the dinner-table. none at that dinner-table had ever seen the like. with all the graceful charm of manner with which he would have delighted a courtly circle, he came out from his reserve and was brilliant, gay, sensible, entertaining, and witty, to a degree that assuredly has very rarely been thrown away upon an old farmer in the country and his unpolite sister. they appreciated him though, as well as any courtly circle could have done, and he knew it. in aunt miriam's strong sensible face, when not full of some hospitable care, he could see the reflection of every play of his own; the grave practical eye twinkled and brightened, giving a ready answer to every turn of sense or humour in what he was saying. mr. ringgan, as much of a child for the moment as fleda herself, had lost everything disagreeable, and was in the full genial enjoyment of talk, rather listening than talking, with his cheeks in a perpetual dimple of gratification, and a low laugh of hearty amusement now and then rewarding the conversational and kind efforts of his guest with a complete triumph. even the subtle charm which they could not quite recognise wrought fascination. miss cynthia declared afterwards, half admiring and half vexed, that he spoiled her supper, for she forgot to think how it tasted. rossitur � his good humour was entirely restored; but whether even mr. carleton's power could have achieved that without the perfect seasoning of the pig and the smooth persuasion of the richly- creamed coffee, it may perhaps be doubted. he stared, mentally, for he had never known his friend condescend to bring himself out in the same manner before; and he wondered what he could see in the present occasion to make it worth while. but mr. carleton did not think his efforts thrown away. he understood and admired his fine old host and hostess; and with all their ignorance of conventionalities and absence of what is called _polish_ of manner, he could enjoy the sterling sense, the good feeling, the true, hearty hospitality, and the dignified courtesy, which both of them showed. no matter of the outside; this was in the grain. if mind had lacked much opportunity, it had also made good use of a little; his host, mr. carleton found, had been a great leader, was well acquainted with history, and a very intelligent reasoner upon it; and both he and his sister showed a strong and quick aptitude for intellectual subjects of conversation. no doubt aunt miriam's courtesy had not been taught by a dancing- master, and her brown satin gown had seen many a fashion come and go since it was made, but a _lady_ was in both; and while rossitur covertly smiled, mr. carleton paid his sincere respect where he felt it was due. little fleda's quick eye hardly saw, but more than half felt, the difference. mr. carleton had no more eager listener now than she, and perhaps none whose unaffected interest and sympathy gave him more pleasure. when they rose from the table mr. ringgan would not be _insinuated_ into the cold front room again. "no, no," said he, "what's the matter? the table? push the table back, and let it take care of itself, � come, gentlemen, sit down � draw up your chairs round the fire, and a fig for ceremony! comfort, sister miriam, against politeness, any day in the year; don't you say so too, fairy? come here by me." "miss fleda," said mr. carleton, "will you take a ride with me to montepoole to-morrow? i should like to make you acquainted with my mother." fleda coloured, and looked at her grandfather. "what do you say, deary?" he inquired fondly; "will you go? � i believe, sir, your proposal will prove a very acceptable one. you will go, wont you, fleda?" fleda would very much rather not! but she was always exceedingly afraid of hurting people's feelings; she could not bear that mr. carleton should think she disliked to go with him, so she answered yes, in her usual sober manner. just then the door opened, and a man unceremoniously walked in, his entrance immediately following a little sullen knock that had made a mockery of asking permission. an ill-looking man, in the worst sense; his face being a mixture of cunning, meanness, and insolence. he shut the door, and came with a slow, leisurely step into the middle of the room, without speaking a word. mr. carleton saw the blank change in fleda's face. she knew him. "do you wish to see me, mr. mcgowan?" said mr. ringgan, not without something of the same change. "i guess i ha'n't come here for nothing," was the gruff retort. "wouldn't another time answer as well?" "i don't mean to find you here another time," said the man, chuckling; "i have given you notice to quit, and now i have come to tell you you'll clear out. i ain't a going to be kept out of my property for ever. if i can't get my money from you, elzevir ringgan, i'll see you don't get no more of it in your hands." "very well, sir," said the old gentleman. "you have said all that is necessary." "you have got to hear a little more, though," returned the other; "i've an idee that there's a satisfaction in speaking one's mind. i'll have that much out of you! mr. ringgan, a man hadn't ought to make an agreement to pay what he doesn't _mean_ to pay; and what he has made an agreement to pay, he ought to meet and be up to, if he sold his soul for it! you call yourself a christian, do you, to stay in another man's house, month after month, when you know you ha'n't got the means to give him the rent for it! that's what _i_ call stealing; and it's what i'd live in the county house before i'd demean myself to do! and so ought you." "well, well! neighbour," said mr. ringgan, with patient dignity; "it's no use calling names. you know as well as i do how all this came about. i hoped to be able to pay you, but i haven't been able to make it out, without having more time." "time!" said the other. "time to cheat me out of a little more houseroom. if i was agoing to live on charity, mr. ringgan, i'd come out and say so, and not put my hand in a man's pocket this way. you'll quit the house by the day after to-morrow, or if you don't i'll let you hear a little more of me that you wont like." he stalked out, shutting the door after him with a bang. mr. carleton had quitted the room a moment before him. nobody moved or spoke at first, when the man was gone, except miss cynthia, who, as she was taking something from the table to the pantry, remarked, probably for mr. rossitur's benefit, that "mr. ringgan had to have that man punished for something he did a few years ago, when he was justice of the peace, and she guessed likely that was the reason he had a grudge agin him ever since." beyond this piece of dubious information nothing was said. little fleda stood beside her grandfather, with a face of quiet distress; the tears silently running over her flushed cheeks, and her eyes fixed upon mr. ringgan with a tender, touching look of sympathy, most pure from self- recollection. mr. carleton presently came in to take leave of the disturbed family. the old gentleman rose, and returned his shake of the hand with even a degree more than usual of his manly dignity, or mr. carleton thought so. "good day to you, sir!" he said, heartily. "we have had a great deal of pleasure in your society, and i shall always be very happy to see you � wherever i am." and then following him to the door, and wringing his hand with a force he was not at all aware of, the old gentleman added in a lower tone, "i shall let her go with you." mr. carleton read his whole story in the stern self-command of brow, and the slight convulsion of feature, which all the self-command could not prevent. he returned warmly the grasp of the hand, answering merely, "i will see you again." fleda wound her arms round her grandfather's neck when they were gone, and did her best to comfort him, assuring him that "they would be just as happy somewhere else." and aunt miriam earnestly proffered her own home. but fleda knew that her grandfather was not comforted. he stroked her head, with the same look of stern gravity and troubled emotion which had grieved her so much the other day. she could not win him to a smile, and went to bed at last, feeling desolate. she had no heart to look out at the night. the wind was sweeping by in wintry gusts; and fleda cried herself to sleep, thinking how it would whistle round the dear old house when their ears would not be there to hear it. chapter vii. he from his old hereditary nook must part; the summons came, � our final leave we took. wordsworth. mr. carleton came the next day, but not early, to take fleda to montepoole. she had told her grandfather that she did not think he would come, because after last night he must know that she would not want to go. about twelve o'clock, however, he was there, with a little wagon, and fleda was fain to get her sunbonnet and let him put her in. happily it was her maxim never to trust to uncertainties, so she was quite ready when he came, and they had not to wait a minute. though fleda had a little dread of being introduced to a party of strangers, and was a good deal disappointed at being obliged to keep her promise, she very soon began to be glad. she found her fear gradually falling away before mr. carleton's quiet kind reassuring manner; he took such nice care of her; and she presently made up her mind that he would manage the matter so that it would not be awkward. they had so much pleasant talk, too. fleda had found before that she could talk to mr. carleton, nay, she could not help talking to him; and she forgot to think about it. and besides, it was a pleasant day, and they drove fast, and fleda's particular delight was driving; and though the horse was a little gay she had a kind of intuitive perception that mr. carleton knew how to manage him. so she gave up every care and was very happy. when mr. carleton asked after her grandfather, fleda answered with great animation, "o, he's very well! and such a happy thing. you heard what that man said last night, mr. carleton, didn't you?" "yes." "well, it is all arranged; � this morning mr. jolly � he's a friend of grandpa's that lives over at queechy run and knew about all this � he's a lawyer � he came this morning and told grandpa that he had found some one that could lend him the money he wanted, and there was no trouble about it; and we are so happy, for we thought we should have to go away from where we live now, and i know grandpa would have felt it dreadfully. if it hadn't been for that, � i mean, for mr. jolly's coming, � i couldn't have gone to montepoole to-day." "then i am very glad mr. jolly made his appearance," said mr. carleton. "so am i," said fleda; � "but i think it was a little strange that mr. jolly wouldn't tell us who it was that he had got the money from. grandpa said he never saw mr. jolly so curious." when they got to the pool, fleda's nervousness returned a little; but she went through the dreaded introduction with great demureness and perfect propriety. and throughout the day mr. carleton had no reason to fear rebuke for the judgment which he had pronounced upon his little paragon. all the flattering attention which was shown her, and it was a good deal, could not draw fleda a line beyond the dignified simplicity which seemed natural to her; any more than the witty attempts at raillery and endeavours to amuse themselves at her expense, in which some of the gentlemen showed their wisdom, could move her from her modest self-possession. _very_ quiet, _very_ modest, as she invariably was, awkwardness could not fasten upon her; her colour might come and her timid eye fall � it often did; but fleda's wits were always in their place and within a call. she would shrink from a stranger's eye, and yet when spoken to her answers were as ready and acute as they were marked for simplicity and gentleness. she was kept to dinner; and though the arrangement and manner of the service must have been strange to little fleda, it was impossible to guess from word or look that it was the first time within her recollection that she had ever seen the like. her native instincts took it all as quietly as any old liberalized traveller looks upon the customs of a new country. mr. carleton smiled as he now and then saw a glance of intelligence or admiration pass between one and another of the company; and a little knowing nod from mrs. evelyn, and many a look from his mother, confessed he had been quite right. those two, mrs. evelyn and mrs. carleton, were by far the most kind and eager in their attention to fleda. mrs. thorn did little else but look at her. the gentlemen amused themselves with her. but mr. carleton, true to the hopes fleda had founded upon his good-nature, had stood her friend all the day, coming to her help if she needed any, and placing himself easily and quietly between her and anything that threatened to try or annoy her too much. fleda felt it with grateful admiration. yet she noticed, too, that he was a very different person at this dinner-table from what he had been the other day at her grandfather's. easy and graceful always, he filled his own place, but did not seem to care to do more; there was even something bordering on haughtiness in his air of grave reserve. he was not the life of the company here; he contented himself with being all that the company could possibly require of him. on the whole fleda was exceedingly well pleased with her day, and thought all the people in general very kind. it was quite late before she set out to go home again; and then mrs. evelyn and mrs. carleton were extremely afraid lest she should take cold; and mr. carleton, without saying one word about it, wrapped her up so very nicely after she got into the wagon, in a warm cloak of his mother's. the drive home, through the gathering shades of twilight, was to little fleda thoroughly charming. it was almost in perfect silence, but she liked that; and all the way home her mind was full of a shadowy beautiful world that seemed to lie before and around her. it was a happy child that mr. carleton lifted from the wagon when they reached queechy. he read it in the utter lightheartedness of brow and voice, and the spring to the ground which hardly needed the help of his hands. "thank you, mr. carleton," she said, when she had reached her own door; (he would not go in) "i have had a very nice time!" he smiled. "good night," said he. "tell your grandfather i will come to- morrow to see him about some business." fleda ran gaily into the kitchen. only cynthia was there. "where is grandpa, cynthy?" "he went off into his room a half an hour ago. i believe he's layin' down. he ain't right well, i s'pect. what's made you so late?" "o, they kept me," said fleda. her gayety suddenly sobered, she took off her bonnet and coat, and throwing them down in the kitchen, stole softly along the passage to her grandfather's room. she stopped a minute at the door, and held her breath to see if she could hear any movement which might tell her he was not asleep. it was all still, and pulling the iron latch with her gentlest hand, fleda went on tiptoe into the room. he was lying on the bed, but awake, for she had made no noise, and the blue eyes opened and looked upon her as she came near. "are you not well, dear grandpa?" said the little girl. nothing made of flesh and blood ever spoke words of more spirit-like sweetness, � not the beauty of a fine organ, but such as the sweetness of angel-speech might be; a whisper of love and tenderness that was hushed by its own intensity. he did not answer, or did not notice her first question; she repeated it. "don't you feel well?" "not exactly, dear!" he replied. there was the shadow of somewhat in his tone, that fell upon his little granddaughter's heart and brow at once. her voice next time, though not suffered to be anything but clear and cheerful still, had in part the clearness of apprehension. "what is the matter?" "oh � i don't know, dear!" she felt the shadow again, and he seemed to say that time would show her the meaning of it. she put her little hand in one of his which lay outside the coverlets, and stood looking at him; and presently said, but in a very different key from the same speech to mr. carleton, � "i have had a very nice time, dear grandpa." her grandfather made her no answer. he brought the dear little hand to his lips and kissed it twice, so earnestly that it was almost passionately; then laid it on the side of the bed again, with his own upon it, and patted it slowly and fondly, and with an inexpressible kind of sadness in the manner. fleda's lip trembled, and her heart was fluttering, but she stood so that he could not see her face in the dusk, and kept still till the rebel features were calm again, and she had schooled the heart to be silent. mr. ringgan had closed his eyes, and perhaps was asleep, and his little granddaughter sat quietly down on a chair by the bedside to watch by him, in that gentle sorrowful patience which women often know, but which hardly belongs to childhood. her eye and thoughts, as she sat there in the dusky twilight, fell upon the hand of her grandfather which still fondly held one of her own; and fancy travelled fast and far, from what it was to what it had been. rough, discoloured, stiff, as it lay there now, she thought how it had once had the hue, and the freshness, and the grace of youth, when it had been, the instrument of uncommon strength, and wielded an authority that none could stand against. her fancy wandered over the scenes it had known; when it had felled trees in the wild forest; and those fingers, then supple and slight, had played the fife to the struggling men of the revolution; how its activity had outdone the activity of all other hands in clearing and cultivating those very fields where her feet loved to run; how, in its pride of strength, it had handled the scythe, and the sickle, and the flail, with a grace and efficiency that no other could attain; and how, in happy manhood, that strong hand had fondled, and sheltered, and led, the little children that now had grown up and were gone! � strength and activity, ay, and the fruits of them, were passed away; � his children were dead; his race was run; � the shock of corn was in full season, ready to be gathered. poor little fleda! her thought had travelled but a very little way before the sense of these things entirely overcame her, her head bowed on her knees, and she wept tears that all the fine springs of her nature were moving to feed � many, many, � but poured forth as quietly as bitterly; she smothered every sound. that beautiful shadowy world with which she had been so busy a little while ago, � alas! she had left the fair outlines and the dreamy light, and had been tracking one solitary path through the wilderness, and she saw how the traveller, foot-sore and weather-beaten, comes to the end of his way. and, after all, he comes to _the end_. ''yes, and i must travel through life, and come to the end, too," thought little fleda; "life is but a passing through the world; my hand must wither and grow old too, if i live long enough; and whether or no, i must come to _the end_. oh, there is only one thing that ought to be very much minded in this world!" that thought, sober though it was, brought sweet consolation. fleda's tears, if they fell as fast, grew brighter, as she remembered, with singular tender joy, that her mother and her father had been ready to see the end of their journey, and were not afraid of it; that her grandfather and her aunt miriam were happy in the same quiet confidence, and she believed she herself was a lamb of the good shepherd's flock. "and he will let none of his lambs be lost," she thought. "how happy i am! how happy we all are!" her grandfather still lay quiet, as if asleep, and gently drawing her hand from under his, fleda went and got a candle and sat down by him again to read, carefully shading the light so that it might not awake him. he presently spoke to her, and more cheerfully. "are you reading, dear?" "yes, grandpa!" said the little girl, looking up brightly. "does the candle disturb you?" "no, dear! � what have you got there'? "i just took up this volume of newton that has the hymns in it." "read out." fleda read mr. newton's long beautiful hymn, "the lord will provide;" but with her late thoughts fresh in her mind it was hard to get through the last verses; � 'no strength of our own, or goodness we claim; but since we have known the saviour's great name, in this, our strong tower, for safety we hide; the lord is our power, the lord will provide. 'when life sinks apace, and death is in view, this word of his grace shall comfort us through. no fearing nor doubting, � with christ on our side, we hope to die shouting, the lord will provide !' the little reader's voice changed, almost broke, but she struggled through, and then was quietly crying behind her hand. "read it again," said the old gentleman, after a pause. there is no "cannot" in the vocabulary of affection. fleda waited a minute or two to rally her forces, and then went through it again, more steadily than the first time. "yes," said mr. ringgan, calmly, folding his hands, "that will do! that trust wont fail, for it is founded upon a rock. 'he is a rock; and he knoweth them that put their trust in him!' i have been a fool to doubt ever that he would make all things work well � 'the lord will provide!" "grandpa," said fleda, but in an unsteady voice, and shading her face with her hand still, "i can remember reading this hymn to my mother once when i was so little that 'suggestions' was a hard word to me." "ay, ay � i dare say," said the old gentleman; "your mother knew that rock, and rested her hope upon it, � where mine stands now. if ever there was a creature that might have trusted to her own doings, i believe she was one, for i never saw her do anything wrong, as i know. but she knew christ was all. will you follow him, as she did, dear?" fleda tried in vain to give an answer. "do you know what her last prayer for you was, fleda?" "no, grandpa." "it was that you might be kept 'unspotted from the world.' i heard her make that prayer myself." and stretching out his hand, the old gentleman laid it tenderly upon fleda's bowed head, saying with strong earnestness and affection, even his voice somewhat shaken, "god grant that prayer! � whatever else he do with her, keep my child from the evil! � and bring her to join her father and mother in heaven! � and me!" he said no more; but fleda's sobs said a great deal. and when the sobs were hushed, she still sat shedding quiet tears, sorrowed and disturbed by her grandfather's manner. she had never known it so grave, so solemn; but there was that shadow of something else in it besides, and she would have feared if she had known what to fear. he told her at last that she had better go to bed, and to say to cynthy that he wanted to see her. she was going, and had near reached the door, when he said, "elfleda!" she hastened back to the bedside. "kiss me." he let her do so twice, without moving, and then holding her to his breast he pressed one long earnest passionate kiss upon her lips, and released her. fleda told cynthy that her grandfather wished her to come to him, and then mounted the stairs, to her little bedroom. she went to the window, and opening it, looked out at the soft moonlit sky; the weather was mild again, and a little hazy, and the landscape was beautiful. but little fleda was tasting realities, and she could not go off upon dream-journeys to seek the light food of fancy through the air. she did not think to-night about the people the moon was shining on; she only thought of one little sad anxious heart, � and of another down stairs, more sad and anxious still, she feared; what could it be about? now that mr. jolly had settled all that troublesome business with mcgowan? as she stood there at the window, gazing out aimlessly into the still night, � it was very quiet, � she heard cynthy at the back of the house, calling out, but as if she were afraid of making too much noise, "watkins! watkins!" the sound had business, if not anxiety, in it. fleda instinctively held her breath to listen. presently she heard watkins reply; but they were round the corner, she could not easily make out what they said. it was only by straining her ears that she caught the words. "watkins, mr. ringgan wants you to go right up on the hill to mis' plumfield's, and tell her he wants her to come right down � he thinks" � the voice of the speaker fell, and fleda could only make out the last words � "dr. james." more was said, but so thick and low that she could understand nothing. she had heard enough. she shut the window, trembling, and fastened again the parts of her dress she had loosened; and softly and hastily went down the stairs into the kitchen. "cynthy! � what is the matter with grandpa!" "why aint you in bed, flidda?" said cynthy, with some sharpness. "that's what you had ought to be. i am sure your grandpa wants you to be abed." "but tell me," said fleda, anxiously. "i don't know as there's anything the matter with him," said cynthy. "nothing much, i suppose. what makes you think anything is the matter?" "because i heard you telling watkins to go for aunt miriam." fleda could not say, �- "and the doctor." "well, your grandpa thought he'd like to have her come down, and he don't feel right well, � so i sent watkins up; but you'd better go to bed, flidda; you'll catch cold if you sit up o' night." fleda was unsatisfied, the more because cynthy would not meet the keen searching look with which the little girl tried to read her face. she was not to be sent to bed, and all cynthy's endeavours to make her change her mind were of no avail. fleda saw in them but fresh reason for staying, and saw besides, what cynthy could not hide, a somewhat of wandering and uneasiness in her manner which strengthened her resolution. she sat down in the chimney corner, resolved to wait till her aunt miriam came; there would be satisfaction in her, for aunt miriam always told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. it was a miserable three quarters of an hour. the kitchen seemed to wear a strange desolate look, though seen in its wonted bright light of fire and candles, and in itself nice and cheerful as usual. fleda looked at it also through that vague fear which casts its own lurid colour upon everything. the very flickering of the candle blaze seemed of ill omen, and her grandfather's empty chair stood a signal of pain to little fleda whenever she looked at it. she sat still, in submissive patience, her cheek pale with the working of a heart too big for that little body. cynthia was going in and out of her grandfather's room, but fleda would not ask her any more questions, to be disappointed with word-answers; she waited, but the minutes seemed very long, � and very sad. the characteristic outward calm which fleda had kept, and which belonged to a nature uncommonly moulded to patience and fortitude, had yet perhaps heightened the pressure of excited fear within. when at last she saw the cloak and hood of aunt miriam coming through the moonlight to the kitchen door, she rushed to open it, and quite overcome for the moment, threw her arms around her and was speechless. aunt miriam's tender and quiet voice comforted her. "you up yet, fleda! hadn't you better go to bed? 'tisn't good for you." "that's what i've been a-telling her," said cynthy, "but she wa'n't a mind to listen to me." but the two little arms embraced aunt miriam's cloak and wrappers, and the little face was hid there still, and fleda's answer was a half smothered ejaculation. "i am _so_ glad you are come, dear aunt miriam!" aunt miriam kissed her again, and again repeated her request. "o no � i can't go to bed," said fleda, crying; � "i can't till i know � i am sure something is the matter, or cynthy wouldn't look so. _do_ tell me, aunt miriam!" "i can't tell you anything, dear, except that grandpa is not well � that is all i know � i am going in to see him. i will tell you in the morning how he is." "no," said fleda, "i will wait here till you come out. i couldn't sleep." mrs. plumfield made no more efforts to persuade her, but rid herself of cloak and hood and went into mr. ringgan's room. fleda placed herself again in her chimney corner. burying her face in her hands, she sat waiting more quietly; and cynthy, having finished all her business, took a chair on the hearth opposite to her. both were silent and motionless, except when cynthy once in a while got up to readjust the sticks of wood on the fire. they sat there waiting so long that fleda's anxiety began to quicken again. "don't you think the doctor is a long time coming, cynthy?" said she, raising her head at last. her question, breaking that forced silence, sounded fearful. "it seems kind o' long," said cynthy. "i guess watkins ha'n't found him to hum." watkins indeed presently came in and reported as much, and that the wind was changing and it was coming off cold; and then his heavy boots were heard going up the stairs to his room overhead; but fleda listened in vain for the sound of the latch of her grandfather's door, or aunt miriam's quiet foot- fall in the passage; listened and longed, till the minutes seemed like the links of a heavy chain which she was obliged to pass over from hand to hand, and the last link could not be found. the noise of watkins' feet ceased overhead, and nothing stirred or moved but the crackling flames and cynthia's elbows, which took turns each in resting upon the opposite arm, and now and then a tell-tale gust of wind in the trees. if mr. ringgan was asleep, why did not aunt miriam come out and see them, � if he was better, why not come and tell them so. he had been asleep when she first went into his room, and she had come back for a minute then to try again to get fleda to bed; why could she not come out for a minute once more. two hours of watching and trouble had quite changed little fleda; the dark ring of anxiety had come under each eye in her little pale face; she looked herself almost ill. aunt miriam's grave step was heard coming out of the room at last, � it did not sound cheerfully in fleda's ears. she came in, and stopping to give some direction to cynthy, walked up to fleda. her face encouraged no questions. she took the child's head tenderly in both her hands, and told her gently, but it was in vain that she tried to make her voice quite as usual, that she had better go to bed � that she would be sick. fleda looked up anxiously in her face. "how is he?" but her next word was the wailing cry of sorrow, � "oh grandpa!" the old lady took the little child in her arms, and they both sat there by the fire until the morning dawned. chapter viii. patience and sorrow strove who should express her goodliest. king lear. when mr. carleton knocked at the front door the next day, about two o'clock, it was opened to him by cynthy. he asked for his late host. "mr. ringgan is dead." "dead!" exclaimed the young man, much shocked; � "when � how?" "wont you come in, sir?" said cynthy; � "maybe you'll see mis' plumfield." "no, certainly," replied the visitor. "only tell me about mr. ringgan." "he died last night." "what was the matter with him?" "i don't know," said cynthy in a business-like tone of voice, � "i s'pose the doctor knows, but he didn't say nothing about it. he died very sudden." "was he alone?" "no � his sister was with him; he had been complaining all the evening that he didn't feel right, but i didn't think nothing of it, and i didn't know as he did; and towards evening he went and laid down, and flidda was with him a spell, talking to him; and at last he sent her to bed, and called me in and said he felt mighty strange, and he didn't know what it was going to be, and that he had as lieve i should send up and ask mis' plumfield to come down, and perhaps i might as well send for the doctor, too. and i sent right off, but the doctor wa'n't to hum, and didn't get here till long after. mis' plumfield, she come; and mr. ringgan was asleep then, and i didn't know as it was going to be anything more after all than just a turn, such as anybody might take; and mis' plumfield went in and sot by him; and there wa'n't no one else in the room; and after a while he come to, and talked to her, she said, a spell; but he seemed to think it was something more than common ailed him; and all of a sudden he just riz up half way in bed, and then fell back and died, � with no more warning than that." "and how is the little girl?" "why," said cynthy, looking off at right angles from her visitor, "she's middling now, i s'pose, but she wont be before long, or else she must be harder to make sick than other folks. we can't get her out of the room," she added, bringing her eyes to bear, for an instant, upon the young gentleman, � "she stays in there the hull time since morning, � i've tried, and mis' plumfield's tried, and everybody has tried, and there can't none of us manage it; she will stay in there, and it's an awful cold room when there aint no fire." cynthy and her visitor were both taking the benefit of the chill blast which rushed in at the open door. "_the room?_" said mr. carleton. "the room where the body lies?" "yes � it's dreadful chill in there when the stove aint heated, and she sits there the hull time. and she ha'n't got much to boast of now; she looks as if a feather would blow her away." the door at the further end of the hall opened about two inches, and a voice called out through the crack, "cynthy! � mis' plumfield wants to know if that is mr. carleton?" "yes. " "well, she'd like to see him. ask him to walk into the front room, she says." cynthy upon this showed the way, and mr. carleton walked into the same room where a very few days before he had been so kindly welcomed by his fine old host. cold indeed it was now, as was the welcome he would have given. there was no fire in the chimney, and even all the signs of the fire of the other day had been carefully cleared away; the clean empty fireplace looked a mournful assurance that its cheerfulness would not soon come back again. it was a raw disagreeable day; the paper window-shades fluttered uncomfortably in the wind, which had its way now; and the very chairs and tables seemed as if they had taken leave of life and society for ever. mr. carleton walked slowly up and down, his thoughts running perhaps somewhat in the train where poor little fleda's had been so busy last night; and wrapped up in broadcloth as he was to the chin, he shivered when he heard the chill wind moaning round the house and rustling the paper hangings, and thought of little fleda's delicate frame, exposed as cynthia had described it. he made up his mind it must not be. mrs. plumfield presently came in, and met him with the calm dignity of that sorrow which needs no parade, and that truth and meekness of character which can make none. yet there was nothing like stoicism, no affected or proud repression of feeling; her manner was simply the dictate of good sense, borne out by a firm and quiet spirit. mr. carleton was struck with it; it was a display of character different from any he had ever before met with; it was something he could not quite understand. for he wanted the key. but all the high respect he had felt for this lady from the first was confirmed and strengthened. after quietly receiving mr. carleton's silent grasp of the hand, aunt miriam said, "i troubled you to stop, sir, that i might ask you how much longer you expect to stop at montepoole." not more than two or three days, he said. "i understood," said aunt miriam, after a minute's pause, "that mrs. carleton was so kind as to say she would take care of elfleda to france, and put her in the hands of her aunt." "she would have great pleasure in doing it," said mr. carleton. "i can promise for your little niece that she shall have a mother's care so long as my mother can render it." aunt miriam was silent, and he saw her eyes fill. "you should not have had the pain of seeing me to-day," said he gently, "if i could have known it would give you any; but since i am here, may i ask, whether it is your determination that fleda shall go with us?" "it was my brother's," said aunt miriam, sighing; � "he told me � last night � that he wished her to go with mrs. carleton � if she would still be so good as to take her." "i have just heard about her from the housekeeper," said mr. carleton, "what has disturbed me a good deal. will you forgive me, if i venture to propose that she should come to us at once. of course we will not leave the place for several days � till you are ready to part with her." aunt miriam hesitated, and again the tears flushed to her eyes. "i believe it would be best, " she said, � "since it must be � i cannot get the child away from her grandfather � i am afraid i want firmness to do it � and she ought not to be there � she is a tender little creature �" for once self-command failed her, � she was obliged to cover her face. "a stranger's hands cannot be more tender of her than ours will be," said mr. carleton, his warm pressure of aunt miriam's hand repeating the promise. "my mother will bring a carriage for her this afternoon, if you will permit." "if you please, sir, �since it must be, it does not matter a day sooner or later," repeated aunt miriam � "if she can be got away � i don't know whether it will be possible." mr. carleton had his own private opinion on that point. he merely promised to be there again in a few hours, and took his leave. he came, with his mother, about five o'clock in the afternoon. they were shown this time into the kitchen, where they found two or three neighbours and friends with aunt miriam and cynthy. the former received them with the same calm simplicity that mr. carleton had admired in the morning, but said she was afraid their coming would be in vain; she had talked with fleda about the proposed plan, and could not get her to listen to it. she doubted whether it would be possible to persuade her. and yet � aunt miriam's self-possession seemed to be shaken when she thought of fleda; she could not speak of her without watering eyes. "she's fixing to be sick as fast as ever she can," remarked cynthia, dryly in a kind of aside meant for the audience; � "there wa'n't a grain of colour in her face when i went in to try to get her out a little while ago; and mis' plumfield ha'n't the heart to do anything with her, nor nobody else." "mother, will you see what you can do?" said mr. carleton. mrs. carleton went, with all expression of face that her son, nobody else, knew meant that she thought it a particularly disagreeable piece of business. she came back after the lapse of a few minutes, in tears. "i can do nothing with her," she said hurriedly; "i don't know what to say to her, and she looks like death. go yourself, guy; you can manage her, if any one can." mr. carleton went immediately. the room into which a short passage admitted him was cheerless indeed. on a fair afternoon the sun's rays came in there pleasantly, but this was a true november day; a grey sky and a chill raw wind that found its way in between the loose window- sashes and frames. one corner of the room was sadly tenanted by the bed which held the remains of its late master and owner. at a little table between the windows, with her back turned towards the bed, fleda was sitting, her face bowed in her hands upon the old quarto bible that lay there open; a shawl round her shoulders. mr. carleton went up to the side of the table and softly spoke her name. fleda looked up at him for an instant, and then buried her face in her hands on the book as before. that look might have staggered him, but that mr. carleton rarely was staggered in any purpose when he had once made up his mind. it did move him � so much that he was obliged to wait a minute or two before he could muster firmness to speak to her again. such a look, so pitiful in its sorrow, so appealing in its helplessness, so imposing in its purity, � he had never seen, and it absolutely awed him. many a child's face is lovely to look upon for its innocent purity, but more commonly it is not like this; it is the purity of snow, unsullied, but not unsulliable; there is another kind more ethereal, like that of light, which you feel is from another sphere and will not know soil. but there were other signs in the face that would have nerved mr. carleton's resolution if he had needed it. twenty- four hours had wrought a sad change. the child looked as if she had been ill for weeks. her cheeks were colourless; the delicate brow would have seemed pencilled on marble but for the dark lines which weeping and watching, and still more sorrow, had drawn underneath; and the beautiful moulding of the features showed under the transparent skin like the work of the sculptor. she was not crying then, but the open pages of the great bible had been wet with very many tears since her head had rested there. "fleda," said mr. carleton, after a moment, "you must come with me." the words were gently and tenderly spoken, yet they had that tone which young and old instinctively know it is vain to dispute. fleda glanced up again, a touching imploring look it was very difficult to bear, and her "oh no � i cannot," went to his heart. it was not resistance, but entreaty; and all the arguments she would have urged seemed to lie in the mere tone of her voice. she had no power of urging them in any other way, for even as she spoke her head went down again on the bible with a burst of sorrow. mr. carleton was moved, but not shaken in his purpose. he was silent a moment, drawing back the hair that fell over fleda's forehead with a gentle caressing touch; and then he said, still lower and more tenderly than before, but without flinching, "you must come with me, fleda." "mayn't i stay," said fleda, sobbing, while he could see in the tension of the muscles a violent effort at self-control which he did not like to see, � "mayn't i stay till � till � the day after to-morrow?" "no, dear fleda," said he, still stroking her head kindly, "i will bring you back, but you must go with me now. your aunt wishes it, and we all think it is best. i will bring you back." she sobbed bitterly for a few minutes. then she begged, in smothered words, that he would leave her alone a little while. he went immediately. she checked her sobs when she heard the door close upon him, or as soon as she could, and rising went and knelt down by the side of the bed. it was not to cry, though what she did could not be done without many tears, � it was to repeat with equal earnestness and solemnity her mother's prayer, that she might be kept pure from the world's contact. there, beside the remains of her last dear earthly friend, as it were before going out of his sight for ever, little fleda knelt down to set the seal of faith and hope to his wishes, and to lay the constraining hand of memory upon her conscience. it was soon done; and then there was but one thing more to do. but, oh, the tears that fell as she stood there! before she could go on; how the little hands were pressed to the bowed face, as if _they_ would have borne up the load they could not reach; the convulsive struggle, before the last look could be taken, the last good-by said! but the sobs were forced back, the hands wiped off the tears, the quivering features were bidden into some degree of calmness; and she leaned forward, over the loved face that in death had kept all its wonted look of mildness and placid dignity. it was in vain to try to look through fleda's blinded eyes; the hot tears dropped fast, while her trembling lips kissed, and kissed, those cold and silent that could make no return; and then feeling that it was the last, that the parting was over, she stood again by the side of the bed as she had done a few minutes before, in a convulsion of grief, her face bowed down and her little frame racked with feeling too strong for it; shaken visibly, as if too frail to bear the trial to which it was put. mr. carleton had waited and waited, as he thought, long enough, and now at last came in again, guessing how it was with her. he put his arm round the child and gently drew her away, and sitting down took her on his knee; and endeavoured rather with actions than with words to soothe and comfort her; for he did not know what to say. but his gentle delicate way, the soft touch with which he again stroked back her hair or took her hand, speaking kindness and sympathy, the loving pressure of his lips once or twice to her brow, the low tones in which he told her that she was making herself sick; that she must not do so; that she must let him take care of her; were powerful to soothe or quiet a sensitive mind, and fleda felt them. it was a very difficult task, and if undertaken by any one else, would have been more likely to disgust and distress her. but his spirit had taken the measure of hers, and he knew precisely how to temper every word and tone so as just to meet the nice sensibilities of her nature. he had said hardly any thing, but she had understood all he meant to say, and when he told her at last, softly, that it was getting late, and she must let him take her away, she made no more difficulty, rose up, and let him lead her out of the room without once turning her head to look back. mrs. carleton looked relieved that there was a prospect of getting away, and rose up with a happy adjusting of her shawl round her shoulders. aunt miriam came forward to say good-by, but it was very quietly said. fleda clasped her round the neck convulsively for an instant, kissed her as if a kiss could speak a whole heartful, and then turned submissively to mr. carleton, and let him lead her to the carriage. there was no fault to be found with mrs. carleton's kindness when they were on the way. she held the forlorn little child tenderly in her arm, and told her how glad she was to have her with them, how glad she should be if she were going to keep her always; but her saying so only made fleda cry, and she soon thought it best to say nothing. all the rest of the way fleda was a picture of resignation; transparently pale, meek and pure, and fragile seemingly as the delicatest wood-flower that grows. mr. carleton looked grieved, and leaning forward he took one of her hands in his own and held it affectionately, till they got to the end of their journey. it marked fleda's feeling towards him that she let it lie there without making a motion to draw it away. she was so still for the last few miles, that her friends thought she had fallen asleep; but when the carriage stopped and the light of the lantern was flung inside, they saw the grave hazel eyes broad open and gazing intently out of the window. "you will order tea for us in your dressing-room, mother?" said mr. carleton. "_us_ � who is _us?_" "fleda and me, unless you will please to make one of the party." "certainly i will, but perhaps fleda might like it better down stairs. wouldn't you, dear?" "if you please, ma'am," said fleda. "wherever you please." "but which would you rather, fleda?" said mr. carleton. "i would _rather_ have it up-stairs," said fleda, gently, "but it's no matter." "we will have it up-stairs," said mrs. carleton. "we will be a nice little party up there by ourselves. you shall not come down till you like." "you are hardly able to walk up," said mr. carleton, tenderly. "shall i carry you?" the tears rushed to fleda's eyes, but she said no, and managed to mount the stairs, though it was evidently an exertion. mrs. carleton's dressing-room, as her son had called it, looked very pleasant when they got there. it was well lighted and warmed, and something answering to curtains had been summoned from its obscurity in storeroom or garret and hung up at the windows, � "them air fussy english folks had made such a pint of it," the landlord said. truth was, that mr. carleton as well as his mother wanted this room as a retreat for the quiet and privacy which travelling in company as they did they could have nowhere else. everything the hotel could furnish in the shape of comfort had been drawn together to give this room as little the look of a public-house as possible. easy chairs, as mrs. carleton remarked with a disgusted face, one could not expect to find in a country inn; there were instead as many as half-a-dozen of "those miserable substitutes", as she called rocking-chairs, and sundry fashions of couches and sofas, in various degrees of elegance and convenience. the best of these, a great chintz-covered thing, full of pillows, stood invitingly near the bright fire. there mr. carleton placed little fleda, took off her bonnet and things, and piled the cushions about her just in the way that would make her most easy and comfortable. he said little, and she nothing, but her eyes watered again at the kind tenderness of his manner. and then he left her in peace till the tea came. the tea was made in that room for those three alone. fleda knew that mr. and mrs. carleton stayed up there only for her sake, and it troubled her, but she could not help it. neither could she be very sorry so far as one of them was concerned. mr. carleton was too good to be wished away. all that evening his care of her never ceased. at tea, which the poor child would hardly have shared but for him � and after tea, when in the absence of bustle she had leisure to feel more fully her strange circumstances and position, he hardly permitted her to feel either, doing everything for her ease and pleasure, and quietly managing at the same time to keep back his mother's more forward and less happily adapted tokens of kind feeling. though she knew he was constantly occupied with her, fleda could not feel oppressed; his kindness was as pervading and as unobtrusive as the summer air itself; she felt as if she was in somebody's hands that knew her wants before she did, and quietly supplied or prevented them, in a way she could not tell how. it was very rarely that she even got a chance to utter the quiet and touching "thank you," which invariably answered every token of kindness or thoughtfulness that permitted an answer. how greatly that harsh and sad day was softened to little fleda's heart by the good feeling and fine breeding of one person. she thought when she went to bed that night, thought seriously and gratefully, that since she must go over the ocean and take that long journey to her aunt, how glad she was, how thankful she ought to be, that she had so very kind and pleasant people to go with. kind and pleasant she counted them both; but what more she thought of a mr. carleton it would be hard to say. her admiration of him was very high, appreciating as she did to the full all that charm of manner which she could neither analyze nor describe. her last words to him that night, spoken with a most wistful anxious glance into his face, were, "you will take me back again, mr. carleton?" he knew what she meant. "certainly i will. i promised you, fleda." "whatever guy promises you may be very sure he will do," said his mother, with a smile. fleda believed it. but the next morning it was very plain that this promise he would not be called upon to perform; fleda would not be well enough to go to the funeral. she was able indeed to get up, but she lay all day upon the sofa in the dressing-room. mr. carleton had bargained for no company last night; to-day female curiosity could stand it no longer, and mrs. thorn and mrs. evelyn came up to look and gossip openly, and to admire and comment privately, when they had a chance. fleda lay perfectly quiet and still, seeming not much to notice or care for their presence; they thought she was tolerably easy in body and mind, perhaps tired and sleepy, and like to do well enough after a few days. how little they knew! how little they could imagine the assembly of thought which was holding in that child's mind; how little they deemed of the deep, sad, serious look into life which that little spirit was taking. how far they were from fancying while they were discussing all manner of trifles before her, sometimes when they thought her sleeping, that in the intervals between sadder and weightier things her nice instincts were taking the gauge of all their characters � unconsciously, but surely; how they might have been ashamed if they had known that while they were busy with all affairs in the universe but those which most nearly concerned them, the little child at their side, whom they had almost forgotten, was secretly looking up to her father in heaven, and asking to be kept pure from the world! "not unto the wise and prudent;" � how strange it may seem in one view of the subject, � in another, how natural, how beautiful, how reasonable. fleda did not ask again to be taken to queechy. but as the afternoon drew on she turned her face away from the company and shielded it from view among the cushions, and lay in that utterly motionless state of body which betrays a concentrated movement of the spirits in some hidden direction. to her companions it betrayed nothing. they only lowered their tones a little lest they should disturb her. it had grown dark, and she was sitting up again, leaning against the pillows, and in her usual quietude, when mr. carleton came in. they had not seen him since before dinner. he came to her side, and taking her hand made some gentle inquiry how she was. "she has had a fine rest," said mrs. evelyn. "she has been sleeping all the afternoon," said mrs. carleton, � "she lay as quiet as a mouse, without stirring; � you were sleeping, weren't you, dear?" fleda's lips hardly formed the word "no," and her features were quivering sadly. mr. carleton's were impenetrable. "dear fleda," said he, stooping down and speaking with equal gravity and kindliness of manner, � "you were not able to go." fleda's shake of the head gave a meek acquiescence. but her face was covered, and the gay talkers around her were silenced and sobered by the heaving of her little frame with sobs that she could not keep back. mr. carleton secured the permanence of their silence for that evening. he dismissed them the room again, and would have nobody there but himself and his mother. instead of being better the next day fleda was not able to get up; she was somewhat feverish and exceedingly weak. she lay like a baby, mrs. carleton said, and gave as little trouble. gentle and patient always, she made no complaint, and even uttered no wish, and whatever they did made no objection. though many a tear that day and the following paid its faithful tribute to the memory of what she had lost, no one knew it; she was never seen to weep; and the very grave composure of her face, and her passive unconcern as to what was done or doing around her, alone gave her friends reason to suspect that the mind was not as quiet as the body. mr. carleton was the only one who saw deeper; the only one that guessed why the little hand often covered the eyes so carefully, and read the very, very grave lines of the mouth that it could not hide. as soon as she could bear it he had her brought out to the dressing-room again, and laid on the sofa; and it was several days before she could be got any further. but there he could be more with her, and devote himself more to her pleasure; and it was not long before he had made himself necessary to the poor child's comfort in a way beyond what he was aware of. he was not the only one who showed her kindness. unwearied care and most affectionate attention were lavished upon her by his mother and both her friends; they all thought they could not do enough to mark their feeling and regard for her. mrs. carleton and mrs. evelyn nursed her by night and by day. mrs. evelyn read to her. mrs. thorn would come often to look and smile at her and say a few words of heartfelt pity and sympathy. yet fleda could not feel quite at home with any one of them. they did not see it. her manner was affectionate and grateful, to the utmost of their wish; her simple natural politeness, her nice sense of propriety, were at every call; she seemed after a few days to be as cheerful and to enter as much into what was going on about her as they had any reason to expect she could; and they were satisfied. but while moving thus smoothly among her new companions, in secret her spirit stood aloof; there was not one of them that could touch her, that could understand her, that could meet the want of her nature. mrs. carleton was incapacitated for it by education; mrs. evelyn by character; mrs. thorn by natural constitution. of them all, though by far the least winning and agreeable in personal qualifications, fleda would soonest have relied on mrs. thorn, could soonest have loved her. her homely sympathy and kindness made their way to the child's heart; fleda felt them and trusted them. but there were too few points of contact. fleda thanked her, and did not wish to see her again. with mrs. carleton fleda had almost nothing at all in common. and that notwithstanding all this lady's politeness, intelligence, cultivation, and real kindness towards herself. fleda would readily have given her credit for them all; and yet, the nautilus may as soon compare notes with the navigator, the canary might as well study mälzel's metronome, as a child of nature and a woman of the world comprehend and suit each other. the nature of the one must change or the two must remain the world wide apart. fleda felt it, she did not know why. mrs. carleton was very kind, and perfectly polite; but fleda had no pleasure in her kindness, no trust in her politeness; or if that be saying too much, at least she felt that for some inexplicable reason both were unsatisfactory. even the tact which each possessed in an exquisite degree was not the same in each; in one it was the self-graduating power of a clever machine, � in the other, the delicateness of the sensitive-plant. mrs. carleton herself was not without some sense of this distinction; she confessed, secretly, that there was something in fleda out of the reach of her discernment, and consequently beyond the walk of her skill; and felt, rather uneasily, that more delicate hands were needed to guide so delicate a nature. mrs. evelyn came nearer the point. she was very pleasant, and she knew how to do things in a charming way; and there were times, frequently, when fleda thought she was everything lovely. but yet, now and then a mere word, or look, would contradict this fair promise, a something of _hardness_ which fleda could not reconcile with the soft gentleness of other times; and on the whole mrs. evelyn was unsure ground to her; she could not adventure her confidence there. with mr. carleton alone fleda felt at home. he only, she knew, completely understood and appreciated her. yet she saw also that with others he was not the same as with her. whether grave or gay there was about him an air of cool indifference, very often reserved, and not seldom haughty; and the eye which could melt and glow when turned upon her, was sometimes as bright and cold as a winter sky. fleda felt sure, however, that she might trust him entirely, so far as she herself was concerned; of the rest she stood in doubt. she was quite right in both cases. whatever else there might be in that blue eye, there was truth in it when it met hers; she gave that truth her full confidence and was willing to honour every draught made upon her charity for the other parts of his character. he never seemed to lose sight of her. he was always doing something for which fleda loved him; but so quietly and happily that she could neither help his taking the trouble, nor thank him for it. it might have been matter of surprise that a gay young man of fashion should concern himself like a brother about the wants of a little child; the young gentlemen down stairs who were not of the society in the dressing-room, did make themselves very merry upon the subject, and rallied mr. carleton with the common amount of wit and wisdom about his little sweetheart; a raillery which met the most flinty indifference. but none of those who saw fleda ever thought strange of anything that was done for her; and mrs. carleton was rejoiced to have her son take up the task she was fain to lay down. so he really, more than any one else, had the management of her; and fleda invariably greeted his entrance into the room with a faint smile, which even the ladies who saw agreed was well worth working for. chapter ix. "if large possessions, pompous titles, honourable charges, and profitable commissions, could have made this proud man happy, there would have been nothing wanting." l'estrange. several days had passed. fleda's cheeks had gained no colour, but she had grown a little stronger, and it was thought the party might proceed on their way without any more tarrying; trusting that change and the motion of travelling would do better things for fleda than could be hoped from any further stay at montepoole. the matter was talked over in an evening consultation in the dressing-room, and it was decided that they would set off on the second day thereafter. fleda was lying quietly on her sofa, with her eyes closed, having had nothing to say during the discussion. they thought she had perhaps not heard it. mr. carleton's sharper eyes, however, saw that one or two tears were glimmering just under the eyelash. he bent down over her and whispered, � "i know what you are thinking of fleda, do i not?" "i was thinking of aunt miriam," fleda said in an answering whisper, without opening her eyes. "i will take care of that." fleda looked up and smiled most expressively her thanks, and in five minutes was asleep. mr. carleton stood watching her, querying how long those clear eyes would have nothing to hide, � how long that bright purity could resist the corrosion of the world's breath; and half thinking that it would be better for the spirit to pass away, with its lustre upon it, than stay till self-interest should sharpen the eye, and the lines of diplomacy write themselves on that fair brow. "better so, � better so." "what are you thinking of so gloomily, guy?" said his mother. "that is a tender little creature to struggle with a rough world." "she wont have to struggle with it," said mrs. carleton. "she will do very well," said mrs. evelyn. "i don't think she'd find it a rough world, where you were, mr. carleton," said mrs. thorn. "thank you, ma'am," he said, smiling. "but unhappily, my power reaches very little way." "perhaps," said mrs. evelyn, with a sly smile, "that might be arranged differently; mrs. rossitur, i have no doubt, would desire nothing better than a smooth world for her little niece, and mr. carleton's power might be unlimited in its extent." there was no answer, and the absolute repose of all the lines of the young gentleman's face bordered too nearly on contempt to encourage the lady to pursue her jest any further. the next day fleda was well enough to bear moving. mr. carleton had her carefully bundled up, and then carried her down stairs and placed her in the little light wagon which had once before brought her to the pool. luckily it was a mild day, for no close carriage was to be had for love or money. the stage-coach in which fleda had been fetched from her grandfather's was in use, away somewhere. mr. carleton drove her down to aunt miriam's, and leaving her there he went off again; and whatever he did with himself it was a good two hours before he came back. all too little yet they were for the tears and the sympathy which went to so many things both in the past and in the future. aunt miriam had not said half she wished to say, when the wagon was at the gate again, and mr. carleton came to take his little charge away. he found her sitting happily in aunt miriam's lap. fleda was very grateful to him for leaving her such a nice long time, and welcomed him with even a brighter smile than usual. but her head rested wistfully on her aunt's bosom after that; and when he asked her if she was almost ready to go, she hid her face there and put her arms about her neck. the old lady held her close for a few minutes, in silence. "elfleda," said aunt miriam gravely, and tenderly, � "do you know what was your mother's prayer for you?" "yes," � she whispered. "what was it?" "that i � might be kept �" "unspotted from the world!" repeated aunt miriam, in a tone of tender and deep feeling. "my sweet blossom! � how wilt thou keep so? will you remember always your mother's prayer?" "i will try." "how will you try, fleda?" "i will pray." aunt miriam kissed her again and again, fondly repeating, "the lord hear thee! � the lord bless thee! � the lord keep thee! � as a lily among thorns, my precious little babe; � though in the world, not of it." "do you think that is possible?" said mr. carleton, significantly when a few moments after they had risen and were about to separate. aunt miriam looked at him in surprise, and asked, � "what, sir? " "to live in the world and not be like the world?" she cast her eyes upon fleda, fondly smoothing down her soft hair with both hands for a minute or two before she answered, � "by the help of one thing, sir, yes!" "and what is that?" said he, quickly. "the blessing of god, with whom all things are possible." his eyes fell, and there was a kind of incredulous sadness in his half smile which aunt miriam understood better than he did. she sighed as she folded fleda again to her breast, and whisperingly bade her "remember!" but fleda knew nothing of it; and when she had finally parted from aunt miriam, and was seated in the little wagon on her way home, to her fancy the best friend she had in the world was sitting beside her. neither was her judgment wrong, so far as it went. she saw true where she saw at all. but there was a great deal she could not see. mr. carleton was an unbeliever. not maliciously, � not wilfully, � not stupidly; � rather the fool of circumstance. his scepticism might be traced to the joint workings of a very fine nature and a very bad education � that is, education in the broad sense of the term; of course none of the means and appliances of mental culture had been wanting to him. he was an uncommonly fine example of what nature alone can do for a man. a character of nature's building is at best a very ragged affair, without religion's finishing hand; at the utmost a fine ruin � no more. and if that be the _utmost_ of nature's handiwork, what is at the other end of the scale? � alas! the rubble stones of the ruin; what of good and fair nature had reared there was not strong enough to stand alone. but religion cannot work alike on every foundation; and the varieties are as many as the individuals. sometimes she must build the whole, from the very ground; and there are cases where nature's work stands so strong and fair that religion's strength may be expended in perfecting and enriching and carrying it to an uncommon height of grace and beauty, and dedicating the fair temple to a new use. of religion, mr. carleton had nothing at all; and a true christian character had never crossed his path near enough for him to become acquainted with it. his mother was a woman of the world; his father had been a man of the world; and what is more, so deepdyed a politician, that to all intents and purposes, except as to bare natural affection, he was nothing to his son, and his son was nothing to him. both mother and father thought the son a piece of perfection, and mothers and fathers have very often indeed thought so on less grounds. mr. carleton saw, whenever he took time to look at him, that guy had no lack either of quick wit or manly bearing; that he had pride enough to keep him from low company and make him abhor low pursuits; if anything more than pride and better than pride mingled with it, the father's discernment could not reach so far. he had a love for knowledge too, that from a child made him eager in seeking it, in ways both regular and desultory; and tastes which his mother laughingly said would give him all the elegance of a woman, joined to the strong manly character which no one ever doubted he possessed. _she_ looked mostly at the outside, willing, if that pleased her, to take everything else upon trust; and the grace of manner which a warm heart and fine sensibilities, and a mind entirely frank and above-board, had given him, from his earliest years, had more than met all her wishes. no one suspected the stubbornness and energy of will which was in fact the back- bone of his character. nothing tried it. his father's death early left little guy to his mother's guardianship. contradicting him was the last thing she thought of, and of course it was attempted by no one else. if she would ever have allowed that he had a fault, which she never would, it was one that grew out of his greatest virtue, an unmanageable truth of character; and if she ever unwillingly recognised its companion virtue, firmness of will, it was when she endeavoured to combat certain troublesome demonstrations of the other. in spite of all the grace and charm of manner in which he was allowed to be a model, and which was as natural to him as it was universal, if ever the interests of truth came in conflict with the dictates of society, he flung minor considerations behind his back, and came out with some startling piece of bluntness at which his mother was utterly confounded. these occasions were very rare; he never sought them. always where it was possible he chose either to speak or be silent in an unexceptionable manner. but sometimes the barrier of conventionalities, or his mother's unwise policy, pressed too hard upon his integrity or his indignation; and he would then free the barrier and present the shut-out truth in its full size and proportions before his mother's shocked eyes. it was in vain to try to coax or blind him; a marble statue is not more unruffled by the soft airs of summer; and mrs. carleton was fain to console herself with the reflection that guy's very next act after one of these breaks would be one of such happy fascination that the former would be forgotten; and that in this world of discordances it was impossible, on the whole, for any one to come nearer perfection. and if there was inconvenience, there were also great comforts about this character of truthfulness. so nearly up to the time of his leaving the university, the young heir lived a life of as free and uncontrolled enjoyment as the deer on his grounds, happily led by his own fine instincts to seek that enjoyment in pure and natural sources. his tutor was proud of his success; his dependants loved his frank and high bearing; his mother rejoiced in his personal accomplishments, and was secretly well pleased that his tastes led him another way from the more common and less safe indulgences of other young men. he had not escaped the temptations of opportunity and example. but gambling was not intellectual enough, jockeying was too undignified, and drinking too coarse a pleasure for him. even hunting and coursing charmed him but for a few times; when he found he could out-ride and out-leap all his companions, he hunted no more; telling his mother, when she attacked him on the subject, that he thought the hare the worthier animal of the two upon a chase; and that the fox deserved an easier death. his friends twitted him with his want of spirit and want of manliness; but such light shafts bounded back from the buff suit of cool indifference in which their object was cased; and his companions very soon gave over the attempt either to persuade or annoy him, with the conclusion that "nothing could be done with carleton." the same wants that had displeased him in the sports soon led him to decline the company of those who indulged in them. from the low-minded, from the uncultivated, from the unrefined in mind and manner, � and such there are in the highest class of society, as well as in the less favoured, � he shrank away in secret disgust or weariness. there was no affinity. to his books, to his grounds, which he took endless delight in overseeing, to the fine arts in general, for which he had a great love, and for one or two of them a great talent, � he went with restless energy and no want of companionship; and at one or the other, always pushing eagerly forward after some point of excellence, or some new attainment not yet reached, and which sprang up after one another as fast as ever "alps on alps," he was happily and constantly busy. too solitary, his mother thought, � caring less for society than she wished to see him.; but that, she trusted, would mend itself. he would be through the university, and come of age, and go into the world, as a matter of necessity. but years brought a change � not the change his mother looked for. that restless active energy which had made the years of his youth so happy, became, in connection with one or two other qualities, a troublesome companion, when he had reached the age of manhood, and, obeying manhood's law, had "put away childish things." on what should it spend itself? it had lost none of its strength; while his fastidious notions of excellence, and a far-reaching clear-sightedness, which belonged to his truth of nature, greatly narrowed the sphere of its possible action. he could not delude himself into the belief that the oversight of his plantations, and the perfecting his park scenery, could be a worthy end of existence; or that painting and music were meant to be the stamina of life; or even that books were their own final cause. these things had refined and enriched him; � they might go on doing so to the end of his days; � but _for what?_ for what? it is said that everybody has his niche, failing to find which nobody fills his place or acts his part in society. mr. carleton could not find his niche, and he consequently grew dissatisfied everywhere. his mother's hopes from the university and the world were sadly disappointed. at the university he had not lost his time. the pride of character, which, joined with less estimable pride of birth, was a marked feature in his composition, made him look with scorn upon the ephemeral pursuits of one set of young men; while his strong intellectual tastes drew him in the other direction; and the energetic activity which drove him to do everything well that he once took in hand, carried him to high distinction. being there he would have disdained to be anywhere but at the top of the tree. but out of the university, and in possession of his estates, what should he do with himself and them? a question easy to settle by most young men! very easy to settle by guy, if he had had the clue of christian truth to guide him through the labyrinth. but the clue was wanting, and the world seemed to him a world of confusion. a certain clearness of judgment is apt to be the blessed hand- maid of uncommon truth of character; the mind that knows not what it is to play tricks upon its neighbours is rewarded by a comparative freedom from self-deception. guy could not sit down upon his estates and lead an insect-life like that recommended by rossitur. his energies wanted room to expend themselves. but the world offered no sphere that would satisfy him; even had his circumstances and position laid all equally open. it was a busy world; but to him people seemed to be busy upon trifles, or working in a circle, or working mischief; and his nice notions of what _ought to be_ were shocked by what he saw was, in every direction around him. he was disgusted with what he called the drivelling of some unhappy specimens of the church which had come in his way; he disbelieved the truth of what such men professed. if there had been truth in it, he thought they would deserve to be drummed out of the profession. he detested the crooked involvements and double- dealing of the law. he despised the butterfly life of a soldier; and as to the other side of a soldier's life, again he thought, what is it for? � to humour the arrogance of the proud, � to pamper the appetite of the full, � to tighten the grip of the iron hand of power; and though it be sometimes for better ends, yet the soldier cannot choose what letters of the alphabet of obedience he will learn. politics was the very shaking of the government sieve, where, if there were any solid result, it was accompanied with a very great flying about of chaff indeed. society was nothing but whip syllabub, � a mere conglomeration of bubbles, � as hollow and as unsatisfying. and in lower departments of human life, as far as he knew, he saw evils yet more deplorable. the church played at shuttlecock with men's credulousness; the law, with their purses; the medical profession, with their lives; the military, with their liberties and hopes. he acknowledged that in all these lines of action there was much talent, much good intention, much admirable diligence and acuteness brought out � but to what great general end? he saw, in short, that the machinery of the human mind, both at large and in particular, was out of order. he did not know what was the broken wheel, the want of which set all the rest to running wrong. this was a strange train of thought for a very young man; but guy had lived much alone, and in solitude one is like a person who has climbed a high mountain; the air is purer about him, his vision is freer; the eye goes straight and clear to the distant view which below on the plain a thousand things would come between to intercept. but there was some morbidness about it too. disappointment, in two or three instances, where he had given his full confidence and been obliged to take it back, had quickened him to generalize unfavourably upon human character, both in the mass and in individuals. and a restless dissatisfaction with himself and the world did not tend to a healthy view of things. yet, truth was at the bottom; truth rarely arrived at without the help of revelation. he discerned a want he did not know how to supply. his fine perceptions felt the jar of the machinery which other men are too busy or too deaf to hear. it seemed to him hopelessly disordered. this habit of thinking wrought a change very unlike what his mother had looked for. he mingled more in society, but mrs. carleton saw that the eye with which he looked upon it was yet colder than it wont to be. a cloud came over the light, gay spirited manner he had used to wear. the charm of his address was as great as ever where he pleased to show it, but much more generally now he contented himself with a cool reserve, as impossible to disturb as to find fault with. his temper suffered the same eclipse. it was naturally excellent. his passions were not hastily moved. he had never been easy to offend; his careless good-humour, and an unbounded proud self- respect, made him look rather with contempt than anger upon the things that fire most men; though when once moved to displeasure, it was stern and abiding in proportion to the depth of his character. the same good-humour and cool self- respect forbade him even then to be eager in showing resentment; the offender fell off from his esteem, and apparently from the sphere of his notice, as easily as a drop of water from a duck's wing, and could with as much ease regain his lost lodgment; but unless there were wrong to be righted, or truth to be vindicated, he was in general safe from any further tokens of displeasure. in those cases, mr. carleton was an adversary to be dreaded. as cool, as unwavering, as persevering there as in other things, he there, as in other things, no more failed of his end. and at bottom these characteristics remained the same; it was rather his humour than his temper that suffered a change. that grew more gloomy and less gentle. he was more easily irritated, and would show it more freely than in the old happy times had ever been. mrs. carleton would have been glad to have those times back again. it could not be. guy could not be content any longer in the happy valley of amhara. life had something for him to do beyond his park palings. he had carried manly exercises and personal accomplishments to an uncommon point of perfection; he knew his library well, and his grounds thoroughly, and had made excellent improvement of both; it was in vain to try to persuade him that seed-time and harvest were the same thing, and that he had nothing to do but to rest in what he had done; show his bright colours and flutter like a moth in the sunshine, or sit down like a degenerate bee in the summer time and eat his own honey. the power of action which he knew in himself could not rest without something to act upon. it longed to be doing. but what? conscience is often morbidly far-sighted. mr. carleton had a very large tenantry around him and depending upon him, in bettering whose condition, if he had but known it, all those energies might have found full play. it never entered into his head. he abhorred _business_, � the detail of business; and. his fastidious tastes especially shrank from having anything to do among those whose business was literally their life. the eye, sensitively fond of elegance, the extreme of elegance, in everything, and permitting no other around or about him, could not bear the tokens of mental and bodily wretchedness among the ignorant poor; he escaped from them as soon as possible; thought that poverty was one of the irregularities of this wrong-working machine of a world, and something utterly beyond his power to do away or alleviate; and left to his steward all the responsibility that of right rested on his own shoulders. and at last, unable to content himself in the old routine of things, he quitted home and england, even before he was of age, and roved from place to place, trying, and trying in vain, to soothe the vague restlessness that called for a very different remedy. "on change de ciel, � l'on ne change point de sol." chapter x faire christabelle, that ladye bright, was had forth of the towre: but ever she droopeth in her minde, as, nipt by an ungentle winde, doth some faire lillye flowre. syr cauline. that evening, the last of their stay at montepoole, fleda was thought well enough to take her tea in company. so mr. carleton carried her down, though she could have walked, and placed her on the sofa in the parlour. whatever disposition the young officers might have felt to renew their pleasantry on the occasion, it was shamed into silence. there was a pure dignity about that little pale face which protected itself. they were quite struck, and fleda had no reason to complain of want of attention from any of the party. mr. evelyn kissed her. mr. thorn brought a little table to the side of the sofa for her cup of tea to stand on, and handed her the toast most dutifully; and her cousin rossitur went back and forth between her and the tea-urn. all of the ladies seemed to take immense satisfaction in looking at her, they did it so much; standing about the hearth-rug with their cups in their hands, sipping their tea. fleda was quite touched with everybody's kindness, but somebody at the back of the sofa, whom she did not see, was the greatest comfort of all. "you must let me carry you upstairs when you go, fleda," said her cousin. "i shall grow quite jealous of your friend, mr. carleton." "no," said fleda, smiling a little, � "i shall not let any one but him carry me up, � if he will." "we shall all grow jealous of mr. carleton," said thorn. "he means to monopolize you, keeping you shut up there, upstairs." "he didn't keep me shut up," said fleda. mr. carleton was welcome to monopolize her, if it depended on her vote. "not fair play, carleton," continued the young officer, wisely shaking his head, � "all start alike, or there's no fun in the race. you've fairly distanced us � left us nowhere." he might have talked chinese, and been as intelligible to fleda, � and as interesting to guy, for all that appeared. "how are we going to proceed to-morrow, mr. evelyn?" said mrs. carleton. "has the missing stage-coach returned yet? or will it be forthcoming in the morning?" "promised, mrs. carleton. the landlord's faith stands pledged for it." "then it wont disappoint us, of course. what a dismal way of travelling!" "this young country hasn't grown up to post-coaches yet," said mrs. evelyn. "how many will it hold?" inquired mrs. carleton. "hum! � nine inside, i suppose." "and we number ten, with the servants." "just take us," said mr. evelyn. "there's room on the box for one." "it will not take me," said mr. carleton. "how will you go? ride?" said his mother. "i should think you would, since you have found a horse you like so well." "by george! i wish there was another that _i_ liked," said rossitur, "and i'd go on horseback too. such weather! the landlord says it's the beginning of indian summer." "it's too early for that," said thorn. "well, eight inside will do very well for one day," said mrs. carleton. "that will give little fleda a little more space to lie at her ease." "you may put fleda out of your calculations, too, mother," said mr. carleton. "i will take care of her." "how in the world," exclaimed his mother, � "if you are on horseback?" and fleda twisted herself round so as to give a look of bright inquiry at his face. she got no answer beyond a smile, which, however, completely satisfied her. as to the rest, he told his mother that he had arranged it, and they should see in the morning. mrs. carleton was far from being at ease on the subject of his arrangements, but she let the matter drop. fleda was secretly very much pleased. she thought she would a great deal rather go with mr. carleton in the little wagon than in the stage-coach with the rest of the people. privately she did not at all admire mr. thorn or her cousin rossitur. they amused her though; and feeling very much better and stronger in body, and at least quiet in mind, she sat in tolerable comfort on her sofa, looking and listening to the people who were gaily talking around her. in the gaps of talk she sometimes thought she heard a distressed sound in the hall. the buzz of tongues covered it up, � then again she heard it, � and she was sure at last that it was the voice of a dog. never came an appeal in vain from any four-footed creature to fleda's heart. all the rest being busy with their own affairs she quietly got up and opened the door and looked out, and finding that she was right, went softly into the hall. in one corner lay her cousin rossitur's beautiful black pointer, which she well remembered, and had greatly admired several times. the poor creature was every now and then uttering short cries, in a manner as if he would not but they were forced from him. "what is the matter with him?" asked fleda, stepping fearfully towards the dog, and speaking to mr. carleton, who had come out to look after her. as she spoke, the dog rose, and came crouching and wagging his tail to meet them. "oh, mr. carleton!" fleda almost screamed, � "look at him! oh, what is the matter with him! he's all over bloody! poor creature!" � "you must ask your cousin, fleda," said mr. carleton, with as much cold disgust in his countenance as it often expressed; and that is saying a good deal. fleda could speak in the cause of a dog, where she would have been silent in her own. she went back to the parlour, and begged her cousin, with a face of distress, to come out into the hall, � she did not say for what. both he and thorn followed her. rossitur's face darkened as fleda repeated her enquiry, her heart so full by this time, as hardly to allow her to make any. "why, the dog didn't do his duty, and has been punished," he said, gloomily. "punished!" said fleda. "shot," said mr. carleton, coolly. "shot!" exclaimed fleda, bursting into heartwrung tears � "shot! oh, how _could_ any one do it! oh, how could you, how could you, cousin charlton!" it was a picture. the child was crying bitterly, her fingers stroking the poor dog's head with a touch in which lay, oh what tender healing, if the will had but had magnetic power! carleton's eye glanced significantly from her to the young officers. rossitur looked at thorn. "it was not charlton � it was i, miss fleda," said the latter. "charlton lent him to me to-day, and he disobeyed me, and so i was angry with him, and punished him a little severely; but he'll soon get over it." but all fleda's answer was, "i am very sorry! � i am very sorry! � poor dog!" � and to weep such tears as made the young gentlemen for once ashamed of themselves. it almost did the child a mischief. she did not get over it all the evening. and she never got over it, as far as mr. thorn was concerned. mrs. carleton hoped, faintly, that guy would come to reason by the next morning, and let fleda go in the stage-coach with the rest of the people. but he was as unreasonable as ever, and stuck to his purpose. she had supposed, however, with fleda, that the difference would be only an open vehicle and his company instead of a covered one and her own. both of them were sadly discomfited when on coming to the hall door to take their carriages, it was found that mr. carleton's meaning was no less than to take fleda before him on horseback. he was busy even then in arranging a cushion on the pommel of the saddle for her to sit upon. mrs. carleton burst into indignant remonstrances; fleda silently trembled. but mr. carleton had his own notions on the subject, and they were not moved by anything his mother could say. he quietly went on with his preparations; taking very slight notice of the raillery of the young officers, answering mrs. evelyn with polite words, and silencing his mother as he came up with one of those looks out of his dark eyes to which she always forgave the wilfulness for the sake of the beauty and the winning power. she was completely conquered, and stepped back with even a smile. "but, carleton!" cried rossitur, impatiently; "you can't ride so! you'll find it deucedly inconvenient." "possibly," said mr. carleton. "fleda would be a great deal better off in the stage-coach." "have you studied medicine, mr. rossitur?" said the young man. "because i am persuaded of the contrary." "i don't believe your horse will like it," said thorn. "my horse is always of my mind, sir; or if he be not, i generally succeed in convincing him." "but there is somebody else that deserves to be consulted," said mrs. thorn. "i wonder how little fleda will like it." "i will ask her when we get to our first stopping-place," said mr. carleton, smiling. "come, fleda!" fleda would hardly have said a word if his purpose had been to put her under the horse's feet instead of on his back. but she came forward with great unwillingness, and a very tremulous little heart. he must have understood the want of alacrity in her face and manner, though he took no notice of it otherwise than by the gentle kindness with which he led her to the horse-block, and placed her upon it. then mounting, and riding the horse up close to the block, he took fleda in both hands, and bidding her spring, in a moment she was safely seated before him. at first it seemed dreadful to fleda to have that great horse's head so near her, and she was afraid that her feet touching him would excite his most serious disapprobation. however, a minute or so went by, and she could not see that his tranquillity seemed to be at all ruffled, or even that he was sensible of her being upon his shoulders. they waited to see the stage-coach off, and then gently set forward. fleda feared very much again when she felt the horse moving under her, easy as his gait was, and looking after the stage-coach in the distance, now beyond call, she felt a little as if she was a great way from help and dry land � cast away on a horse's back. but mr. carleton's arm was gently passed round her, and she knew it held her safely, and would not let her fall; and he bent down his face to her, and asked her so kindly and tenderly, and with such a look too, that seemed to laugh at her fears, whether she felt afraid? and with such a kind little pressure of his arm that promised to take care of her, that fleda's courage mounted twenty degrees at once. and it rose higher every minute; the horse went very easily, and mr. carleton held her so that she could not be tired, and made her lean against him; and before they had gone a mile fleda began to be delighted. such a charming way of travelling! such a free view of the country! and in this pleasant weather, too, neither hot nor cold, and when all nature's features were softened by the light veil of haze that hung over them, and kept off the sun's glare, mr. carleton was right. in the stage-coach fleda would have sat quiet in a corner, and moped the time sadly away; now she was roused, excited, interested, even cheerful; forgetting herself, which was the very thing of all others to be desired for her. she lost her fears; she was willing to have the horse trot or canter as fast as his rider pleased; but the trotting was too rough for her, so they cantered or paced along most of the time, when the hills did not oblige them to walk quietly up and down, which happened pretty often. for several miles the country was not very familiar to fleda. it was, however, extremely picturesque; and she sat silently and gravely looking at it, her head lying upon mr. carleton's breast, her little mind very full of thoughts and musings, curious, deep, sometimes sorrowful, but not unhappy. "i am afraid i tire you, mr. carleton!" said she, in a sudden fit of recollection, starting up. his look answered her, and his arm drew her back to her place again. "are _you_ not tired, elfie?" "oh no! � you have got a new name for me, mr. carleton," said she, a moment after, looking up and smiling. "do you like it?" "yes." "you are my good genius," said he, "so i must a peculiar title for you, different from what other people know you by." "what is a genius, sir?" said fleda. "well, a sprite, then," said he, smiling. "a sprite?" said fleda. "i have read a story of a lady, elfie, who had a great many little unearthly creatures, a kind of sprites, to attend upon her. some sat in the ringlets of her hair, and took charge of them; some hid in the folds of her dress and made them lie gracefully; another lodged in a dimple in her cheek, and another perched on her eyebrows, and so on." "to take care of her eyebrows?" said fleda, laughing. "yes; to smooth out all the ill-humoured wrinkles and frowns, i suppose." "but am i such a sprite?" said fleda. "something like it." "why, what do i do?" said fleda, rousing herself in a mixture of gratification and amusement that was pleasant to behold. "what office would you choose, elfie? what good would you like to do me?" it was a curious wistful look with which fleda answered this question, an innocent look, in which mr. carleton read perfectly that she felt something was wanting in him, and did not know exactly what. his smile almost made her think she had been mistaken. "you are just the sprite you would wish to be, elfie," he said. fleda's head took its former position, and she sat for some time musing over his question and answer, till a familiar waymark put all such thoughts to flight. they were passing deepwater lake, and would presently be at aunt miriam's. fleda looked now with a beating heart. every foot of ground was known to her. she was seeing it, perhaps, for the last time. it was with even an intensity of eagerness that she watched every point and turn of the landscape, endeavouring to lose nothing in her farewell view, to give her farewell look at every favourite clump of trees and old rock, and at the very mill-wheels, which for years ,whether working or at rest, had had such interest for her. if tears came to bid their good-by too, they were hastily thrown off, or suffered to roll quietly down; _they_ might bide their time; but eyes must look now or never. how pleasant, how pleasant, the quiet old country seemed to fleda as they went along! � in that most quiet light and colouring; the brightness of the autumn glory gone, and the sober warm hue which the hills still wore seen under that hazy veil. all the home-like peace of the place was spread out to make it hard going away. would she ever see any other so pleasant again? those dear old hills and fields, among which she had been so happy; they were not to be her home any more; would she ever have the same sweet happiness anywhere else? "the lord will provide!" thought little fleda with swimming eyes. it was hard to go by aunt miriam's. fleda eagerly looked, as well as she could, but no one was to be seen about the house. it was just as well. a sad gush of tears must come, then, but she got rid of them as soon as possible, that she might not lose the rest of the way, promising them another time. the little settlement on "the hill" was passed, the factories, and mills, and mill-ponds, one after the other; they made fleda feel very badly, for here she remembered going with her grandfather to see the work, and there she had stopped with him at the turner's shop to get a wooden bowl turned, and there she had been with cynthy when she went to visit an acquaintance; and there never was a happier little girl than fleda had been in those old times. all gone! it was no use trying to help it; fleda put her two hands to her face and cried, at last, a silent but not the less bitter, leave- taking, of the shadows of the past. she forced herself into quiet again, resolved to look to the last. as they were going down the hill, past the saw-mill, mr. carleton noticed that her head was stretched out to look back at it, with an expression of face he could not withstand. he wheeled about immediately, and went back and stood opposite to it. the mill was not working today. the saw was standing still, though there were plenty of huge trunks of trees lying about in all directions, waiting to be cut up. there was a desolate look of the place. no one was there; the little brook, most of its waters cut off, did not go roaring and laughing down the hill, but trickled softly and plaintively over the stones. it seemed exceeding sad to fleda. "thank you, mr. carleton," she said, after a little earnest fond-looking at her old haunt; "you needn't stay any longer." but as soon as they had crossed the little rude bridge at the foot of the hill, they could see the poplar trees which skirted the courtyard fence before her grandfather's house. poor fleda's eyes could hardly serve her. she managed to keep them open till the horse had made a few steps more and she had caught the well-known face of the old house looking at her through the poplars. her fortitude failed, and bowing her little head, she wept so exceedingly, that mr. carleton was fain to draw bridle, and try to comfort her. "my dear elfie! do not weep so," he said, tenderly. "is there anything you would like? can i do anything for you?" he had to wait a little. he repeated his first query. "oh, it's no matter," said fleda, striving to conquer her tears, which found their way again; "if i only could have gone into the house once more! � but it's no matter � you needn't wait, mr. carleton �" the horse, however, remained motionless. "do you think you would feel better, elfie, if you had seen it again?" "oh, yes! � but never mind, mr. carleton, you may go on." mr. carleton ordered his servant to open the gate, and rode up to the back of the house. "i am afraid there is nobody here, elfie," he said; "the house seems all shut up." "i know how i can get in," said fleda; "there's a window down stairs � i don't believe it is fastened; if you wouldn't mind waiting, mr. carleton; i wont keep you long." the child had dried her tears, and there was the eagerness of something like hope in her face. mr. carleton dismounted and took her off. "i must find a way to get in too, elfie; i cannot let you go alone." "oh, i can open the door when i get in," said fleda. "but you have not the key." "there's no key, it's only bolted on the inside, that door. i can open it." she found the window unfastened as she had expected: mr. carleton held it open while she crawled in, and then she undid the door for him. he more than half questioned the wisdom of his proceeding. the house had a dismal look; cold, empty, deserted; it was a dreary reminder of fleda's loss, and he feared the effect of it would be anything but good. he followed and watched her, as with an eager business step she went through the hall and up the stairs, putting her head into every room and giving an earnest wistful look all round it. here and there she went in and stood a moment, where associations were more thick and strong; sometimes taking a look out of a particular window, and even opening a cupboard door, to give that same kind and sorrowful glance of recognition at the old often-resorted-to hiding-place of her own or her grandfather's treasures and trumpery. those old corners seemed to touch fleda more than all the rest; and she turned away from one of them with a face of such extreme sorrow, that mr. carleton very much regretted he had brought her into the house. for her sake, for his own, it was a curious show of character. though tears were sometimes streaming, she made no delay, and gave him no trouble; with the calm steadiness of a woman she went regularly through the house, leaving no place unvisited, but never obliging him to hasten her away. she said not a word during the whole time; her very crying was still; the light tread of her little feet was the only sound in the silent empty rooms; and the noise of their footsteps in the halls, and of the opening and shutting doors echoed mournfully through the house. she had left her grandfather's room for the last. mr. carleton did not follow her in there, guessing that she would rather be alone. but she did not come back, and he was forced to go to fetch her. the chill desolateness of that room had been too much for poor little fleda. the empty bedstead, the cold stove, the table bare of books, only one or two lay upon the old bible; the forlorn order of the place that bespoke the master far away; the very sunbeams that stole in at the little windows, and met now no answering look of gladness or gratitude; it had struck the child's heart too heavily, and she was standing crying by the window. a second time in that room mr. carleton sat down and drew his little charge to his breast; and spoke words of soothing and sympathy. "i am very sorry i brought you here, dear elfie," he said kindly. "it was too hard for you." "oh, no!" even through her tears, fleda said, "she was very glad!" "hadn't we better try to overtake our friends?" he whispered, after another pause. she immediately, almost immediately, put away her tears, and with a quiet obedience that touched him, went with him from the room, fastened the door, and got out again at the little window. "oh, mr. carleton!" she said, with great earnestness, when they had almost reached the horses, "wont you wait for me one minute more? i just want a piece of the burning bush." drawing her hand from him she rushed round to the front of the house. a little more slowly mr. carleton followed, and found her under the burning bush, tugging furiously at a branch, beyond her strength to break off. "that's too much for you, elfie," said he, gently taking her hand from the tree; "let my hand try." she stood back and watched, tears running down her face, while he got a knife from his pocket and cut off the piece she had been trying for, nicely, and gave it to her. the first movement of fleda's head was down, bent over the pretty spray of red berries; but by the time she stood at the horse's side she looked up at mr. carleton and thanked him with a face of more than thankfulness. she was crying, however, constantly, till they had gone several miles on their way again, and mr. carleton doubted he had done wrong. it passed away, and she had been sitting quite peacefully for some time, when he told her they were near the place where they were to stop and join their friends. she looked up most gratefully in his face. "i am very much obliged to you, mr. carleton, for what you did!" "i was afraid i had made a mistake, elfie." "oh, no, you didn't." "do you think you feel any easier after it, elfie?" "oh, yes! � indeed i do," said she, looking up again, � "thank you, mr. carleton." a gentle kind pressure of his arm answered her thanks. "i ought to be a good sprite to you, mr. carleton," fleda said, after musing a little while, � "you are so very good to me!" perhaps mr. carleton felt too much pleasure at this speech to make any answer, for he made none. "it is only selfishness, elfie," said he, presently, looking down to the quiet sweet little face which seemed to him, and was, more pure than anything of earth's mould he had ever seen. � "you know i must take care of you for my own sake." fleda laughed a little. "but what will you do when we get to paris?" "i don't know. i should like to have you always, elfie." "you'll have to get aunt lucy to give me to you," said fleda. "mr. carleton," said she, a few minutes after, � "is that story in a book?" "what story ?" "about the lady and the little sprites that waited on her." "yes, it is in a book; you shall see it, elfie. � here we are!" and here it was proposed to stay till the next day, lest fleda might not be able to bear so much travelling at first. but the country inn was not found inviting; the dinner was bad, and the rooms were worse; uninhabitable, the ladies said; and about the middle of the afternoon they began to cast about for the means of reaching albany that night. none very comfortable could be had; however, it was thought better to push on at any rate than wear out the night in such a place. the weather was very mild; the moon at the full. "how is fleda to go this afternoon," said mrs. evelyn. "she shall decide herself," said mrs. carleton. "how will you go, my sweet fleda?" fleda was lying upon a sort of rude couch which had been spread for her, where she had been sleeping incessantly ever since she arrived, the hour of dinner alone excepted. mrs. carleton repeated her question. "i am afraid mr. carleton must be tired," said fleda, without opening her eyes. "that means that you are, don't it?" said rossitur. "no," said fleda, gently. mr. carleton smiled, and went out to press forward the arrangements. in spite of good words and good money there was some delay. it was rather late before the cavalcade left the inn; and a journey of several hours was before them. mr. carleton rode rather slowly, too, for fleda's sake, so the evening had fallen while they were yet a mile or two from the city. his little charge had borne the fatigue well, thanks partly to his admirable care, and partly to her quiet pleasure in being with him. she had been so perfectly still for some distance, that he thought she had dropped asleep. looking down closer, however, to make sure about it, he saw her thoughtful clear eyes most unsleepily fixed upon the sky. "what are you gazing at, elfie?" the look of thought changed to a look of affection as the eyes were brought to bear upon him, and she answered with a smile, "nothing, � i was looking at the stars." "what are you dreaming about?" "i wasn't dreaming," said fleda, � "i was thinking." "thinking of what?" "oh, of pleasant things." "mayn't i know them? � i like to hear of pleasant things." "i was thinking, �" said fleda, looking up again at the stars, which shone with no purer ray than those grave eyes sent back to them, � "i was thinking � of being ready to die." the words, and the calm thoughtful manner in which they were said, thrilled upon mr. carleton with a disagreeable shock. "how came you to think of such a thing?" said he, lightly. "i don't know," � said fleda, still looking at the stars," � i suppose � i was thinking �" "what?" said mr. carleton, inexpressibly curious to get at the workings of the child's mind, which was not easy, for fleda was never very forward to talk of herself; � "what were you thinking? i want to know how you could get such a thing into your head." "it wasn't very strange," said fleda. "the stars made me think of heaven, and grandpa's being there, and then i thought how he was ready to go there, and that made him ready to die �" "i wouldn't think of such things, elfie," said mr. carleton, after a few minutes. "why not, sir?" said fleda, quickly. "i don't think they are good for you." "but, mr. carleton," said fleda, gently, � "if i don't think about it, how shall i ever be ready to die?" "it is not fit for you," said he, evading the question, � "it is not necessary now, � there's time enough. you are a little body, and should have none but gay thoughts." "but, mr. carleton," said fleda, with timid earnestness, � "don't you think one could have gay thoughts better if one knew one was ready to die?" "what makes a person ready to die, elfie?" said her friend, disliking to ask the question, but yet more unable to answer hers, and curious to hear what she would say. "oh, to be a christian," said fleda. "but i have seen christians," said mr. carleton, "who were no more ready to die than other people." "then they were make-believe christians," said fleda, decidedly. "what makes you think so?" said her friend, carefully guarding his countenance from anything like a smile. "because," said fleda, "grandpa was ready, and my father was ready, and my mother, too; and i know it was because they were christians." "perhaps your kind of christians are different from my kind," said mr. carleton, carrying on the conversation half in spite of himself. "what do you mean by a christian, elfie?" "why, what the bible means," said fleda, looking at him with innocent earnestness. mr. carleton was ashamed to tell her he did not know what that was, or he was unwilling to say what he felt would trouble the happy confidence she had in him. he was silent; but as they rode on, a bitter wish crossed his mind that he could have the simple purity of the little child in his arms; and he thought he would give his broad acres, supposing it possible that religion could be true, � in exchange for that free happy spirit that looks up to all its possessions in heaven. chapter xi. starres are poore books, and oftentimes do misse; this book of starres lights to eternall blisse. george herbert. the voyage across the atlantic was not, in itself, at all notable. the first half of the passage was extremely unquiet, and most of the passengers uncomfortable to match. then the weather cleared; and the rest of the way, though lengthened out a good deal by the tricks of the wind, was very fair and pleasant. fifteen days of tossing and sea-sickness had brought little fleda to look like the ghost of herself. so soon as the weather changed, and sky and sea were looking gentle again, mr. carleton had a mattress and cushions laid in a sheltered corner of the deck for her, and carried her up. she had hardly any more strength than a baby. "what are you looking at me so for, mr. carleton?" said she, a little while after he had carried her up, with a sweet serious smile that seemed to know the answer to her question. he stooped down and clasped her little thin hand, as reverentially as if she really had not belonged to the earth. "you are more like a sprite than i like to see you just now," said he, unconsciously fastening the child's heart to himself with the magnetism of those deep eyes. � "i must get some of the sailors' salt beef and sea-biscuit for you � they say that is the best thing to make people well." "oh, i feel better already," said fleda; and settling her little face upon the cushion and closing her eyes, she added, "thank you, mr. carleton!" the fresh air began to restore her immediately; she was no more sick; her appetite came back; and from that time, without the help of beef and sea-biscuit, she mended rapidly. mr. carleton proved himself as good a nurse on the sea as on land. she seemed to be never far from his thoughts. he was constantly finding out something that would do her good or please her; and fleda could not discover that he took any trouble about it; she could not feel that she was a burden to him; the things seemed to come as a matter of course. mrs. carleton was not wanting in any show of kindness or care, and yet, when fleda looked back upon the day, it somehow was guy that had done everything for her; she thought little of thanking anybody but him. there were other passengers that petted her a great deal, or would have done so, if fleda's very timid, retiring nature had not stood in the way. she was never bashful, nor awkward; but yet it was only a very peculiar sympathetic style of address that could get within the wall of reserve which, in general, hid her from other people. hid what it could: for through that reserve a singular modesty, sweetness, and gracefulness of spirit would show themselves. but there was much more behind. there were no eyes, however, on board, that did not look kindly on little fleda, excepting only two pair. the captain showed her a great deal of flattering attention, and said she was a pattern of a passenger; even the sailors noticed and spoke of her, and let slip no occasion of showing the respect and interest she had raised. but there were two pair of eyes, and one of them fleda thought most remarkably ugly, that were an exception to the rest; these belonged to her cousin rossitur and lieutenant thorn. rossitur had never forgiven her remarks upon his character as a gentleman, and declared preference of mr. carleton in that capacity; and thorn was mortified at the invincible childish reserve which she opposed to all his advances; and both, absurd as it seems, were jealous of the young englishman's advantage over them. both not the less, because their sole reason for making her a person of consequence was that he had thought fit to do so. fleda would permit neither of them to do anything for her that she could help. they took their revenge in raillery, which was not always good-natured. mr. carleton never answered it in any other way than by his look of cold disdain, � not always by that; little fleda could not be quite so unmoved. many a time her nice sense of delicacy confessed itself hurt, by the deep and abiding colour her cheeks would wear after one of their ill- mannered flings at her. she bore them with a grave dignity peculiar to herself, but the same nice delicacy forbade her to mention the subject to any one; and the young gentlemen contrived to give the little child in the course of the voyage a good deal of pain. she shunned them at last as she would the plague. as to the rest, fleda liked her life on board ship amazingly. in her quiet way she took al the good that offered and seemed not to recognise the ill. mr. carleton had bought for her a copy of the rape of the lock, and bryant's poems. with these, sitting or lying among her cushions, fleda amused herself a great deal; and it was an especial pleasure when he would sit down by her and read and talk about them. still a greater was to watch the sea, in its changes of colour and varieties of agitation, and to get from mr. carleton, bit by bit, all the pieces of knowledge concerning it that he had ever made his own. even when fleda feared it she was fascinated; and while the fear went off the fascination grew deeper. daintily nestling among her cushions, she watched with charmed eyes the long rollers that came up in detachments of three to attack the good ship, that like a slandered character rode patiently over them; or the crested green billows, or sometimes the little rippling waves that showed old ocean's placidest face; while with ears as charmed as if he had been delivering a fairy tale, she listened to all mr. carleton could tell her of the green water where the whales feed, or the blue water where neptune sits in his own solitude, the furthest from land, and the pavement under his feet outdoes the very canopy overhead in its deep colouring; of the transparent seas where the curious mysterious marine plants and animals may be clearly seen many feet down, and in the north where hundreds of feet of depth do not hide the bottom; of the icebergs; and whirling great fields of ice, between which, if a ship get, she had as good be an almond in a pair of strong nut-crackers. how the water grows colder and murkier as it is nearer the shore; how the mountain waves are piled together; and how old ocean, like a wise man,. however roughened and tumbled outwardly by the currents of life, is always calm at heart. of the signs of the weather; the out- riders of the winds, and the use the seaman makes of the tidings they bring, and before mr. carleton knew where he was, he found himself deep in the science of navigation, and making a star-gazer of little fleda. sometimes kneeling beside him as he sat on her mattress, with her hand leaning on his shoulder, fleda asked, listened, and looked; as engaged, as rapt, as interested, as another child would be in robinson crusoe, gravely drinking in knowledge with a fresh healthy taste for it that never had enough. mr. carleton was about as amused and as interested as she. there is a second taste of knowledge that some minds get in imparting it, almost as sweet as the first relish. at any rate, fleda never felt that she had any reason to fear tiring him; and his mother, complaining of his want of sociableness, said she believed guy did not like to talk to any-body but that little pet of his, and one or two of the old sailors. if left to her own resources, fleda was never at a loss; she amused herself with her books, or watching the sailors, or watching the sea, or with some fanciful manufacture she had learned from one of the ladies on board, or with what the company about her were saying and doing. one evening she had been some time alone, looking out upon the restless little waves that were tossing and tumbling in every direction. she had been afraid of them at first, and they were still rather fearful to her imagination. this evening, as heir musing eye watched them rise and fall, her childish fancy likened them to the up-springing chances of life, � uncertain, unstable, alike too much for her skill and her strength to manage. she was not more helpless before the attacks of the one than of the other. but then � that calm blue heaven that hung over the sea. it was like the heaven of power and love above her destinies; only this was far higher, and more pure and abiding. "he knoweth them that trust in him." "there shall not a hair of your head perish." not these words, perhaps, but something like the sense of them, was in little fleda's head. mr. carleton coming up, saw her gazing out upon the water, with an eye that seemed to see nothing. "elfie! � are you looking into futurity!" "no, � yes � not exactly!" said fleda, smiling. "no, yes, and not exactly!" said he, throwing himself down beside her. "what does all that mean?" "i wasn't exactly looking into futurity," said fleda. "what then? � don't tell me you were 'thinking;' i know that already. what?" fleda was always rather shy of opening her cabinet of thoughts. she glanced at him, and hesitated, and then yielded to a fascination of eye and smile that rarely failed of its end. looking off to the sea again as if she had left her thoughts there, she said, "i was only thinking of that beautiful hymn of mr. newton's." "what hymn?" "that long one, 'the lord will provide.' " "do you know it? tell it to me, elfie; let us see whether i shall think it beautiful." fleda knew the whole, and repeated it. "though troubles assail, and dangers affright, though friends should all fail, and foes all unite; yet one thing secures us whatever betide, the scripture assures us 'the lord will provide.' "the birds without barn or storehouse are fed; from them let us learn to trust for our bread. his saints what is fitting shall ne'er be denied, so long as 'tis written, 'the lord will provide.' "his call we obey, like abraham of old, not knowing our way, but faith makes us bold. and though we are strangers, we have a good guide, and trust in all dangers 'the lord will provide.' "we may like the ships in tempests be tossed on perilous deeps, but cannot be lost. though satan enrages the wind and the tide, the promise engages 'the lord will provide.' "when satan appears to stop up our path, and fills us with fears, we triumph by faith. he cannot take from us, though oft he has tried, this heart-cheering promise, 'the lord will provide.' "he tells us we're weak, our hope is in vain, the good that we seek we ne'er shall obtain; but when such suggestions our spirits have tried, this answers all questions, 'the lord will provide.' "no strength of our own, or goodness we claim; but since we have known the saviour's great name, in this, our strong tower, for safety we hide; the lord is our power! 'the lord will provide.' "when life sinks apace, and death is in view, this word of his grace shall comfort us through. no fearing nor doubting, with christ on our side, we hope to die shouting 'the lord will provide!' " guy listened very attentively to the whole. he was very far from understanding the meaning of several of the verses, but the bounding expression of confidence and hope he did understand, and did feel. "happy to be so deluded!" he thought. "i almost wish i could share the delusion!" he was gloomily silent when she had done, and little fleda's eyes were so full that it was a little while before she could look towards him, and ask in her gentle way, "do you like it, mr. carleton?" she was gratified by his grave "yes!" "but elfie," said he, smiling again, "you have not told me your thoughts yet. what had these verses to do with the sea you were looking at so hard?" "nothing; i was thinking," said fleda, slowly, "that the sea seemed something like the world � i don't mean it was like, but it made me think of it; and i thought how pleasant it is to know that god takes care of his people." "don't he take care of everybody?" "yes, in one sort of way," said fleda; "but then it is only his children that he has promised to keep from everything that will hurt them." "i don't see how that promise is kept, elfie. i think those who call themselves so meet with as many troubles as the rest of the world, and perhaps more." "yes," said fleda, quickly, "they have troubles, but then god wont let the troubles do them any harm." a subtle evasion, thought mr. carleton. "where did you learn that, elfie?" "the bible says so," said fleda. "well, how do you know it from that?" said mr. carleton, impelled, he hardly knew whether by his bad or his good angel, to carry on the conversation. "why," said fleda, looking as if it were a very simple question, and mr. carleton were catechising her, "you know, mr. carleton, the bible was written by men who were taught by god exactly what to say, so there could be nothing in it that is not true." "how do you know those men were so taught?" "the bible says so." a child's answer! but with a child's wisdom in it, not learnt of the schools. "he that is of god heareth god's words." to little fleda, as to every simple and humble intelligence, the bible proved itself; she had no need to go further. mr. carleton did not smile, for nothing would have tempted him to hurt her feelings; but he said, though conscience did not let him do it without a twinge, � "but don't you know, elfie, there are some people who do not believe the bible?" "ah, but those are bad people," replied fleda, quickly; "all good people believe it." a child's reason again, but hitting the mark this time. unconsciously, little fleda had brought forward a strong argument for her cause. mr. carleton felt it, and rising up, that he might not be obliged to say anything more, he began to pace slowly up and down the deck, turning the matter over. was it so? that there were hardly any good men (he thought there might be a few), who did not believe in the bible and uphold its authority? and that all the worst portion of society was comprehended in the other class? � and if so, how had he overlooked it? he had reasoned most unphilosophically, from a few solitary instances that had come under his own eye; but applying the broad principle of induction, it could not be doubted that the bible was on the side of all that is sound, healthful, and hopeful, in this disordered world. and whatever might be the character of a few exceptions, it was not supposable that a wide system of hypocrisy should tell universally for the best interests of mankind. summoning history to produce her witnesses, as he went on with his walk up and down, he saw with increasing interest, what he had never seen before, that the bible had come like the breath of spring upon the moral waste of mind; that the ice-bound intellect and cold heart of the world had waked into life under its kindly influence, and that all the rich growth of the one and the other had come forth at its bidding. and except in that sun-lightened tract, the world was and had been a waste indeed. doubtless, in that waste, intellect had at different times put forth sundry barren shoots, such as a vigorous plant can make in the absence of the sun, but also like them immature, unsound, and groping vainly after the light in which alone they could expand and perfect themselves; ripening no seed for a future and richer growth. and flowers the wilderness had none. the affections were stunted and overgrown. all this was so � how had he overlooked it? his unbelief had come from a thoughtless, ignorant, one-sided view of life and human things. the disorder and ruin which he saw, where he did not also see the adjusting hand at work, had led him to refuse his credit to the supreme fabricator. he thought the waste would never be reclaimed, and did not know how much it already owed to the sun of revelation; but what was the waste where that light had not been! mr. carleton was staggered. he did not know what to think. he began to think he had been a fool. poor little fleda was meditating less agreeably the while. with the sure tact of truth, she had discerned that there was more than jest in the questions that had been put to her. she almost feared that mr. carleton shared himself the doubts he had so lightly spoken of, and the thought gave her great distress. however, when he came to take her down to tea, with all his usual manner, fleda's earnest look at him ended in the conviction that there was. nothing very wrong under that face. for several days, mr. carleton pondered the matter of this evening's conversation, characteristically restless till he had made up his mind. he wished very much to draw fleda to speak further upon the subject, but it was not easy; she never led to it. he sought in vain an opportunity to bring it in easily, and at last resolved to make one.. "elfie," said he, one morning, when all the rest of the passengers were happily engaged at a distance with the letter- bags � "i wish you would let me hear that favourite hymn of yours again; l like it very much." fleda was much gratified, and immediately with great satisfaction repeated the hymn. its peculiar beauty struck him yet more the second time than the first. "do you understand those two last verses?" said he, when she had done. fleda said "yes!" rather surprised. "i do not," he said, gravely. fleda paused a minute or two, and then finding that it depended on her to enlighten him, said in her modest way, � "why, it means that we have no goodness of our own, and only expect to be forgiven, and taken to heaven, for the saviour's sake." mr. carleton asked, "how _for his sake?_" "why, you know, mr. carleton, we don't deserve to go there, and if we are forgiven at all, it must be for what he has done." "and what is that, elfie?" "he died for us," said fleda, with a look of some anxiety into mr. carleton's face. "died for us! � and what end was that to serve, elfie?" said he, partly willing to hear the full statement of the matter, and partly willing to see how far her intelligence could give it. "because we are sinners," said fleda, "and god has said that sinners shall die." "then how can he keep his word, and forgive at all?" "because christ has died _for us_," said fleda, eagerly � "instead of us." "do you understand the justice of letting one take the place of others?" "he was willing, mr. carleton," said fleda, with a singular wistful expression, that touched him. "still, elfie," said he, after a minute's silence, "how could the ends of justice be answered by the death of one man in the place of millions?" "no, mr. carleton, but he was god as well as man," fleda said, with a sparkle in her eye which perhaps delayed her companion's rejoinder. "what should induce him, elfie," he said, gently, "to do such a thing for people who had displeased him?" "because he loved us, mr. carleton." she answered with so evident a strong and clear appreciation of what she was saying, that it half made its way into mr. carleton's mind by the force of sheer sympathy. her words came almost as something new. certainly mr. carleton had heard these things before; though perhaps never in a way that appealed so directly to his intelligence and his candour. he was again silent an instant, pondering, and so was fleda. "do you know, elfie," said mr. carleton, "there are some people who do not believe that the saviour was anything more than a man?" "yes, i know it," said fleda; � "it is very strange!" "why is it strange?" "because the bible says it so plainly." "but those people hold, i believe, that the bible does not say it." "i don't see how they could have read the bible," said fleda. "why, he said so himself." "who said so?" "jesus christ. don't you believe it, mr. carleton?" she saw he did not, and the shade that had come over her face was reflected in his before he said "no." "but perhaps i shall believe it yet, elfie," he said, kindly. "can you show me the place in your bible where jesus says this of himself?" fleda looked in despair. she hastily turned over the leaves of her bible to find the passages he had asked for, and mr. carleton was cut to the heart to see that she twice was obliged to turn her face from him, and brush her hand over her eyes, before she could find them. she turned to matt. xxvi. - , and, without speaking, gave him the book, pointing to the passage. he read it with great care, and several times over. "you are right, elfie," he said. "i do not see how those who honour the authority of the bible, and the character of jesus christ, can deny the truth of his own declaration. if that is false, so must those be." fleda took the bible, and hurriedly sought out another passage. "grandpa showed me these places," she said, "once when we were talking about mr. didenhover � _he_ didn't believe that. there are a great many other places, grandpa said; but one! is enough." � she gave him the latter part of the th chapter of john. "you see, mr. carleton, he let thomas fall down and worship him, and call him god; and if he had _not_ been, you know � god is more displeased with that than with anything." "with what, elfie?" "with men's worshipping any other than himself. he says he 'will not give his glory to another.' " "where is that?" "i am afraid i can't find it," said fleda � "it is somewhere in isaiah, i know" � she tried in vain; and failing, then looked up in mr. carleton's face to see what impression had been made. "you see thomas believed when he _saw_," said he, answering her; � "i will believe, too, when i see." "ah! if you wait for that" � said fleda. her voice suddenly checked: she bent her face down again to her little bible, and there was a moment's struggle with herself. "are you looking for something more to show me?" said mr. carleton, kindly, stooping his face down to hers. "not much," said fleda, hurriedly; and then making a great effort, she raised her head, and gave him the book again. "look here, mr. carleton � jesus said, 'blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.' " mr. carleton was profoundly struck, and the thought recurred to him afterwards, and was dwelt upon. "blessed are they that have _not_ seen, and yet have believed." it was strange at first, and then he wondered that it should ever have been so. his was a mind peculiarly open to conviction, peculiarly accessible to truth; and his attention being called to it, he saw faintly now what he had never seen before, the beauty of the principle of _faith_ � how natural, how reasonable, how _necessary_, how honourable to the supreme being, how happy even for man, that the grounds of his trust in god being established, his acceptance of many other things should rest on that trust alone. mr. carleton now became more reserved and unsociable than ever. he wearied himself with thinking. if he could have got at the books, he would have spent his days and nights in studying the evidences of christianity; but the ship was bare of any such books, and he never thought of turning to the most obvious of all, the bible itself. his unbelief was shaken; it was within an ace of falling in pieces to the very foundation; or, rather, he began to suspect how foundationless it had been. it came at last to one point with him � if there were a god, he would not have left the world without a revelation � no more would he have suffered that revelation to defeat its own end by becoming corrupted or alloyed; if there was such a revelation, it could be no other than the bible; and his acceptance of the whole scheme of christianity now hung upon the turn of a hair. yet he could not resolve himself. he balanced the counter doubts and arguments on one side and on the other, and strained his mind to the task; he could not weigh them nicely enough. he was in a maze; and seeking to clear and calm his judgment that he might see the way out, it was in vain that he tried to shake his dizzied head from the effect of the turns it had made. by dint of anxiety to find the right path, reason had lost herself in the wilderness. fleda was not, as mr. carleton had feared she would be, at all alienated from him by the discovery that had given her so much pain. it wrought in another way, rather to add a touch of tender and anxious interest to the affection she had for him. it gave her, however, much more pain than he thought. if he had seen the secret tears that fell on his account, he would have been grieved; and if he had known of the many petitions that little heart made for him, he could hardly have loved her more than he did. one evening mr. carleton had been a long while pacing up and down the deck in front of little fleda's nest, thinking and thinking, without coming to any end. it was a most fair evening, near sunset, the sky without a cloud, except two or three little dainty strips which set off its blue. the ocean was very quiet, only broken into cheerful mites of waves that seemed to have nothing to do but sparkle. the sun's rays were almost level now, and a long path of glory across the sea led off towards his sinking disk. fleda sat watching and enjoying it all in her happy fashion, which always made the most of everything good, and was especially quick in catching any form of natural beauty. mr. carleton's thoughts were elsewhere � too busy to take note of things around him. fleda looked now and then as he passed at his gloomy brow, wondering what he was thinking of, and wishing that he could have the same reason to be happy that she had. in one of his turns his eye met her gentle glance; and, vexed and bewildered as he was with study, there was something in that calm bright face that impelled him irresistibly to ask the little child to set the proud scholar right. placing himself beside her, he said, � "elfie, how do you know there is a god? what reason have you for thinking so, out of the bible?" it was a strange look little fleda gave him. he felt it at the time, and he never forgot it. such a look of reproach, sorrow, and _pity_, he afterwards thought, as an angel's face might have worn. the _question_ did not seem to occupy her a moment. after this answering look she suddenly pointed to the sinking sun, and said � "who made that, mr. carleton?" mr. carleton's eyes, following the direction of hers, met the long, bright rays, whose still witness-bearing was almost too powerful to be borne. the sun was just dipping majestically into the sea, and its calm self-assertion seemed to him at that instant hardly stronger than its vindication of its author. a slight arrow may find the joint in the armour before which many weightier shafts have fallen powerless. mr. carleton was an unbeliever no more from that time. chapter xii. "he borrowed a box of the ear of the englishman, and swore he would pay him again when he was able. � _merchant of venice_. one other incident alone in the course of the voyage deserves to be mentioned; both because it served to bring out the characters of several people, and because it was not � what is? � without its lingering consequences. thorn and rossitur had kept up indefatigably the game of teasing fleda about her "english admirer," as they sometime styled him. poor fleda grew more and more sore on the subject. she thought it was very strange that two grown men could not find enough to do to amuse themselves without making sport of the comfort of a little child. she wondered they could take pleasure in what gave her so much pain; but so it was; and they had it up so often that, at last, others caught it from them, and, though not in malevolence, yet in thoughtless folly, many a light remark was made and question asked of her that set little fleda's sensitive nerves a-quivering. she was only too happy that they were never said before mr. carleton � that would have been a thousand times worse. as it was, her gentle nature was constantly suffering from the pain or the fear of these attacks. "where's mr. carleton?" said her cousin, coming up one day. "i don't know," said fleda; "i don't know but he is gone up into one of the tops." "your humble servant leaves you to yourself a great while this morning, it seems to me. he is growing very inattentive." "i wouldn't permit it. miss fleda, if i were you," said thorn, maliciously. "you let him have his own way too much." "i wish you wouldn't talk so, cousin charlton!" said fleda. "but seriously," said charlton, "i think you had better call him to account. he is very suspicious lately. i have observed him walking by himself, and looking very glum indeed. i am afraid he has taken some fancy into his head that would not suit you. i advise you to inquire into it." "i wouldn't give myself any concern about it," said thorn, lightly, enjoying the child's confusion and his own fanciful style of backbiting; "i'd let him go if he has a mind to, miss fleda. he's no such great catch. he's neither lord nor knight � nothing in the world but a private gentleman, with plenty of money, i dare say, but you don't care for that; and there's as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it. i don't think much of him." "he is wonderfully better than _you_," thought fleda, as she looked in the young gentleman's face for a second, but she said nothing. "why, fleda," said charlton, laughing, "it wouldn't be a killing affair, would it? how has this english admirer of yours got so far in your fancy? praising your pretty eyes, eh? � eh?" he repeated, as fleda kept a dignified silence. "no," said fleda, in displeasure; "he never says such things." "no?" said charlton. "what then! what does he say? i wouldn't let him make a fool of me, if i were you. fleda � did he ever ask you for a kiss?" "no!" exclaimed fleda, half beside herself, and bursting into tears: " i wish you wouldn't talk so! how can you!" they had carried the game pretty far that time, and thought best to leave it. fleda stopped crying as soon as she could, lest somebody should see her; and was sitting quietly again, alone as before, when one of the sailors whom she had never spoken to, came by, and leaning over towards her with a leer as he passed, said � "is this the young english gentleman's little sweet-heart?" poor fleda! she had got more than she could bear. she jumped up, and ran down into the cabin; and in her berth mrs. carleton found her some time afterwards, quietly crying, and most sorry to be discovered. she was exceeding unwilling to tell what had troubled her. mrs. carleton, really distressed, tried coaxing, soothing, reasoning, promising, in a way the most gentle and kind that she could use. "oh, it's nothing � it's nothing," fleda said, at last, eagerly; "it's because i am foolish � it's only something they said to me." "who, love?" again was fleda most unwilling to answer, and it was after repeated urging that she at last said � "cousin charlton and mr. thorn." "charlton and mr. thorn! what did they say? what did they say, darling fleda?" "oh, it's only that they tease me," said fleda, trying hard to put an end to the tears which caused all this questioning, and to speak as if they were about a trifle. but mrs. carleton persisted. "what do they say to tease you, love? what is it about? guy, come in here, and help me to find out what is the matter with fleda." fleda hid her face in mrs. carleton's neck, resolved to keep her lips sealed. mr. carleton came in, but to her great relief his question was directed not to her but his mother. "fleda has been annoyed by something those young men, her cousin and mr. thorn, have said to her; they tease her, she says, and she will not tell me what it is." mr. carleton did not ask, and he presently left the state- room. "oh, i am afraid he will speak to them!" exclaimed fleda, as soon as he was gone. "oh, i oughtn't to have said that!" mrs. carleton tried to soothe her, and asked what she was afraid of. but fleda would not say any more. her anxious fear that she had done mischief helped to dry her tears, and she sorrowfully resolved she would keep her griefs to herself next time. rossitur and thorn were in company with a brother officer, and friend of the latter, when mr. carleton approached them. "mr. rossitur and mr. thorn," said he, "you have indulged yourselves in a style of conversation extremely displeasing to the little girl under my mother's care. you will oblige me by abandoning it for the future." there was certainly in mr. carleton's manner a sufficient degree of the cold haughtiness with which he usually expressed. displeasure, though his words gave no other cause of offence. thorn retorted rather insolently. "i shall oblige myself in the matter, and do as i think proper." "i have a right to speak as i please to my own cousin," said rossitur, sulkily, "without asking anybody's leave. i don't see what you have to do with it." "simply that she is under my protection, and that i will not permit her to be annoyed." "i don't see how she is under your protection," said rossitur. "and i do not see how the potency of it will avail in this case," said his companion. "neither position is to be made out in words," said mr. carleton, calmly. "you see that i desire there be no repetition of the offence, the rest i will endeavour to make clear, if i am compelled to it." "stop, sir!" said thorn, as the young englishman was turning away, adding with an oath �"i wont bear this! you shall answer this to me, sir!" "easily," said the other. "and me, too," said rossitur. "you have an account to settle with me, carleton." "i will answer what you please," said carleton, carelessly; "and as soon as we get to land, provided you do not, in the meantime, induce me to refuse you the honour." however incensed, the young men endeavoured to carry it off with the same coolness that their adversary showed. no more words passed; but mrs. carleton, possibly quickened by fleda's fears, was not satisfied with the carriage of all parties, and resolved to sound her son, happy in knowing that nothing but truth was to be had from him. she found an opportunity that very afternoon, when he was sitting alone on the deck. the neighbourhood of little fleda she hardly noticed. fleda was curled up among her cushions, luxuriously bending over a little old black bible, which was very often in her hand at times when she was quiet and had no observation to fear. "reading! always reading!" said mrs. carleton, as she came up and took a place by her son. "by no means!" he said, closing his book with a smile; � "not enough to tire any one's eyes on this voyage, mother." "i wish you liked intercourse with living society," said mrs. carleton, leaning her arm on his shoulder and looking at him rather wistfully. "you need not wish that � when it suits me," he answered. "but none suits you. is there any on board?" "a small proportion," he said, with the slight play of feature which always effected a diversion of his mother's thoughts, no matter in what channel they had been flowing. "but those young men," she said, returning to the charge, "you hold yourself very much aloof from them?" he did not answer, even by a look, but to his mother the perfectly quiet composure of his face was sufficiently expressive. "i know what you think; but, guy, you always had the same opinion of them?" "i have never shown any other." "guy," she said, speaking low and rather anxiously, "have you got into trouble with those young men?" "i am in no trouble, mother," he answered, somewhat haughtily; "i cannot speak for them." mrs. carleton waited a moment. "you have done something to displease them, have you not?" "they have displeased me, which is somewhat more to the purpose." "but their folly is nothing to you?" "no � not their folly." "guy," said his mother, again pausing a minute, and pressing her hand more heavily upon his shoulder, "you will not suffer this to alter the friendly terms you have been on? � whatever it be, let it pass." "certainly; if they choose to apologize, and behave themselves." "what � about fleda?" "yes." "i have no idea they meant to trouble her; i suppose they did no at all know what they were doing � thoughtless nonsense � and they could have had no design to offend you. promise me that you will not take any further notice of this." he shook off the beseeching hand as he rose up, and answered haughtily, and not without something like an oath, that he _would_. mrs. carleton knew him better than to press the matter any further; and her fondness easily forgave the offence against herself, especially as her son almost immediately resumed his ordinary manner. it had well nigh passed from the minds of both parties, when in the middle of the next day, mr. carleton asked what had become of fleda? � he had not seen her except at the breakfast-table. mrs. carleton said she was not well. "what's the matter?" "she complained of some headache � i think she made herself sick yesterday � she was crying all the afternoon, and i could not get her to tell me what for. i tried every means i could think of, but she would not give me the least clue � she said 'no' to everything i guessed � i can't bear to see her do so � it makes it all the worse she does it so quietly � it was only by a mere chance i found she was crying at all, but i think she cried herself ill before she stopped. she could not eat a mouthful of breakfast." mr. carleton said nothing, and, with a changed countenance, went directly down to the cabin. the stewardess whom he sent in to see how she was, brought back word that fleda was not asleep, but was too ill to speak to her. mr. carleton went immediately into the little crib of a state-room. there he found his little charge, sitting bolt upright, her feet on the rung of a chair, and her hands grasping the top to support herself. her eyes were closed, her face without a particle of colour, except the dark shade round the eyes which bespoke illness and pain. she made no attempt to answer his shocked questions and words of tender concern, not even by the raising of an eyelid, and he saw that the intensity of pain at the moment was such as to render breathing itself difficult. he sent off the stewardess with all despatch after iced water and vinegar and brandy, and himself went on an earnest quest of restoratives among the lady passengers in the cabin, which resulted in sundry supplies of salts and cologne, and also offers of service, in greater plenty still, which he all refused. most tenderly and judiciously he himself applied various remedies to the suffering child, who could not direct him otherwise than by gently putting away the things which she felt would not avail her. several were in vain. but there was one bottle of strong aromatic vinegar which was destined to immortalize its owner in fleda's remembrance. before she had taken three whiffs of it, her colour changed. mr. carleton watched the effect of a few whiffs more, and then bade the stewardess take away all the other things, and bring him a cup of fresh strong coffee. by the time it came fleda was ready for it; and by the time mr. carleton had administered the coffee, he saw it would do to throw his mother's shawl round her, and carry her up on deck, which he did without asking any questions. all this while fleda had not spoken a word, except once when he asked her if she felt better. but she had given him, on finishing the coffee, a full look and half smile of such pure affectionate gratitude, that the young gentleman's tongue was tied for some time after. with happy skill, when he had safely bestowed fleda among her cushions on deck, mr. carleton managed to keep off the crowd of busy inquirers after her well-doing, and even presently to turn his mother's attention another way, leaving fleda to enjoy all the comfort of quiet and fresh air at once. he himself seeming occupied with other things, did no more but keep watch over her, till he saw that she was able to bear conversation again. then he seated himself beside her, and said softly � "elfie, what were you crying about all yesterday afternoon?" fleda changed colour, for, soft and gentle as the tone was, she heard in it a determination to have the answer; and looking up beseechingly into his face, she saw in the steady full blue eye, that it was a determination she could not escape from. her answer was an imploring request that he would not ask her. but taking one of her little hands and carrying it to his lips, he in the same tone repeated his question. fleda snatched away her hand, and burst into very frank tears; mr. carleton was silent, but she knew through his silence that he was only quietly waiting for her to answer him. "i wish you wouldn't ask me, sir," said poor fleda, who still could not turn her face to meet his eye � "it was only something that happened yesterday." "what was it, elfie? � you need not be afraid to tell me." "it was only � what you said to mrs. carleton yesterday � when she was talking �" "about my difficulty with those gentlemen!" "yes," said fleda, with a new gush of tears, as if her grief stirred afresh at the thought. mr. carleton was silent a moment; and when he spoke, there was no displeasure, and more tenderness than usual, in his voice. "what troubled you in that, elfie? tell me the whole." "i was sorry, because it wasn't right," said fleda, with a grave truthfulness which yet lacked none of her universal gentleness and modesty. "what wasn't right?" "to speak � i am afraid you wont like me to say it, mr. carleton." "i will, elfie for i ask you." "to speak to mrs. carleton, so; and, besides, you know what you said, mr. carleton" "it was _not_ right," said he, after a minute, "and i very seldom use such an expression, but you know one cannot always be on one's guard, elfie." "but," said fleda, with gentle persistence, "one can always do what is right." "the deuce one can!" thought mr. carleton to himself. "elfie, was this all that troubled you? that i had said what was not right?" "it wasn't quite that only," said fleda, hesitating. "what else?" she stooped her face from his sight, and he could but just understand her words. "i was disappointed �" "what, in me?" her tears gave the answer; she could add to them nothing but an assenting nod of her head. they would have flowed in double measure if she had guessed the pain she had given. her questioner heard her with a keen pang, which did not leave him. for days. there was some hurt pride in it, though other and more generous feelings had a far larger share. he, who had been admired, lauded, followed, cited, and envied, by all ranks of his countrymen and countrywomen; in whom nobody found a fault that could be dwelt upon, amid the lustre of his perfections and advantages � one of the first young men in england, thought so by himself, as well as by others � this little pure being had been _disappointed_ in him. he could not get over it. he reckoned the one judgment worth all the others. those whose direct or indirect flatteries had been poured at his feet, were the proud, the worldly, the ambitious, the interested, the corrupted; their praise was given to what they esteemed, and that, his candour said, was the least estimable part of him. beneath all that, this truth-loving, truth-discerning little spirit had found enough to weep for. she was right, and they were wrong. the sense of this was so keen upon him, that it was ten or fifteen minutes before he could recover himself to speak to his little reprover. he paced up and down the deck, while fleda wept more and more from the fear of having offended or grieved him. but she was soon reassured on the former point. she was just wiping away her tears, with the quiet expression of patience her face often wore, when mr. carleton sat down beside her and took one of her hands. "elfie," said he, "i promise you i will never say such a thing again." he might well call her his good angel, for it was an angelic look the child gave him; so purely humble, grateful, glad; so rosy with joyful hope; the eyes were absolutely sparkling through tears. but when she saw that his were not dry, her own overflowed. she clasped her other hand to his hand, and bending down her face affectionately upon it, she wept � if ever angels weep � such tears as they. "elfie," said mr. carleton, as soon as he could, "i want you to go down stairs with me; so dry those eyes, or my mother will be asking all sorts of difficult questions." happiness is a quick restorative. elfie was soon ready to go where he would. they found mrs. carleton fortunately wrapped up in a new novel, some distance apart from the other persons in the cabin. the novel was immediately laid aside to take fleda on her lap, and praise guy's nursing. "but she looks more like a wax figure yet than anything else; don't she, guy?" "not like any that ever i saw," said mr. carleton, gravely. "hardly substantial enough. mother, i have come to tell you i am ashamed of myself for having given you such cause of offence yesterday." mrs. carleton's quick look, as she laid her hand on her son's arm, said sufficiently well that she would have excused him from making any apology, rather than have him humble himself in the presence of a third person. "fleda heard me yesterday," said he; "it was right she should hear me to-day." "then, my dear guy," said his mother, with a secret eagerness which she did not allow to appear, "if i may make a condition for my forgiveness, which you had before you asked for it, will you grant me one favour?" "certainly, mother, if i can." "you promise me?" "as well in one word as in two." "promise me that you will never, by any circumstances, allow yourself to be drawn into � what is called an _affair of honour_." mr. carleton's brow changed, and without making any reply, perhaps to avoid his mother's questioning gaze, he rose up and walked two or three times the length of the cabin. his mother and fleda watched him doubtfully. "do you see how you have got me into trouble, elfie?" said he, stopping before them. fleda looked wonderingly, and mrs. carleton exclaimed � "what trouble!" "elfie," said he, without immediately answering his mother, "what would your conscience do with two promises, both of which cannot be kept?" "what such promises have you made?" said mrs. carleton, eagerly. "let me hear first what fleda says to my question." "why," said fleda, looking a little bewildered, "i would keep the right one." "not the one first made?" said he, smiling. "no," said fleda; "not unless it was the right one." "but don't you think one ought to keep one's word, in any event?" "i don't think anything can make it right to do wrong," fleda said, gravely, and not without a secret trembling consciousness to what point she was speaking. he left them, and again took several turns up and down the cabin before he sat down. "you have not given me your promise yet, guy," said his mother, whose eye had not once quitted him. "you said you would." "i said, if i could." "well, you can?" "i have two honourable meetings of the proscribed kind now on hand, to which i stand pledged." fleda hid her face in an agony. mrs. carleton's agony was in every line of hers as she grasped her son's wrist, exclaiming, "guy, promise me!" she had words for nothing else. he hesitated still a moment, and then meeting his mother's look, he said gravely and steadily � "i promise you, mother, i never will." his mother threw herself upon his breast, and hid her face there, too much excited to have any thought of her customary regard to appearances, sobbing out thanks and blessings even audibly. fleda's gentle head was bowed in almost equal agitation; and mr. carleton at that moment had no doubt that he had chosen well which promise to keep. there remained, however, a less agreeable part of the business to manage. after seeing his mother and fleda quite happy again, though without satisfying in any degree the curiosity of the former, guy went in search of the two young west point officers. they were together, but without thorn's friend captain beebee. him carleton next sought, and brought to the forward deck, where the others were enjoying their cigars; or rather, charlton rossitur was enjoying his with the happy self-satisfaction of a pair of epaulettes, off duty. thorn had too busy a brain to be much of a smoker. now, however, when it was plain that mr. carleton had something to say to them, charlton's cigar gave way to his attention; it was displaced from his mouth, and held in abeyance, while thorn puffed away more intently than ever. "gentlemen," carleton began, "i gave you, yesterday, reason to expect that so soon as circumstances permitted, you should have the opportunity which offended honour desires of trying sounder arguments than those of reason upon the offender. i have to tell you to-day that i will not give it you. i have thought further of it." "is it a new insult that you mean by this, sir?" exclaimed rossitur, in astonishment. thorn's cigar did not stir. "neither new nor old. i mean, simply, that i have changed my mind." "but this is very extraordinary!" said rossitur. "what reason do you give?" "i give none, sir." "in that case," said captain beebee, "perhaps mr. carleton will not object to explain or unsay the things which gave offence yesterday." "i apprehend there is nothing to explain, sir � i think i must have been understood; and i never take back my words, for i am in the habit of speaking the truth." "then we are to consider this as a further unprovoked unmitigated insult, for which you will give neither reason nor satisfaction!" cried rossitur. "i have already disclaimed that, mr. rossitur." "are we, on mature deliberation, considered unworthy of the honour you so condescendingly awarded to us yesterday?" "my reasons have nothing to do with you, sir, nor with your friend; they are entirely personal to myself." "mr. carleton must be aware," said captain beebee, "that his conduct, if unexplained, will bear a very strange construction." mr. carleton was coldly silent. "it never was heard of," the captain went on, "that a gentleman declined both to explain and to give satisfaction for any part of his conduct which had called for it." "it never was heard that a _gentleman_ did," said thorn, removing his cigar a moment, for the purpose of supplying the emphasis, which his friend had carefully omitted to make. "will you say, mr. carleton," said rossitur, "that you did not mean to offend us yesterday, in what you said?" "no, mr. rossitur." "you will not!" cried the captain. "no sir; for your friends had given me, as i conceived, just cause of displeasure; and i was, and am, careless of offending those who have done so." "you consider yourself aggrieved, then, in the first place?" said beebee. "i have said so, sir." "then," said the captain, after a puzzled look out to sea, "supposing that my friends disclaim all intention to offend you, in that case �" "in that case i should be glad, captain beebee, that they had changed their line of tactics � there is nothing to change in my own." "then what are we to understand by this strange refusal of a meeting, mr. carleton? what does it mean?" "it means one thing in my own mind, sir, and probably another in yours; but the outward expression i choose to give it is, that i will not reward uncalled-for rudeness with an opportunity of self-vindication." "you are," said thorn, sneeringly, "probably careless as to the figure your own name will cut in connection with this story?" "entirely so," said mr. carleton, eyeing him steadily. "you are aware that your character is at our mercy." a slight bow seemed to leave at their disposal the very small portion of his character he conceived to lie in that predicament. "you will expect to hear yourself spoken of in terms that befit a man who has cowed out of an engagement he dared not fulfil?" "of course," said carleton, haughtily; "by my present refusal i give you leave to say all that, and as much more as your ingenuity can furnish in the same style; but not in my hearing, sir." "you can't help yourself," said thorn, with the same sneer. "you have rid yourself of a gentleman's means of protection, � what others will you use?" "i will leave that to the suggestion of the moment � i do not doubt it will be found fruitful." nobody doubted it who looked just then on his steady sparkling eye. "i consider the championship of yesterday given up, of course," thorn went on in a kind of aside, not looking at anybody, and striking his cigar against the guards to clear it of ashes; � "the champion has quitted the field, and the little princess but lately so walled in with defences must now listen to whatever knight and squire may please to address to her. nothing remains to be seen of her defender but his spurs." "they may serve for the heels of whoever is disposed to annoy her," said mr. carleton. "he will need them." he left the group with the same air of imperturbable self- possession which he had maintained during the conference. but presently, rossitur, who had his private reasons for wishing to keep friends with an acquaintance who might be of service in more ways than one, followed him, and declared himself to have been, in all his nonsense to fleda, most undesirous of giving displeasure to her temporary guardian, and sorry that it had fallen out so. he spoke frankly, and mr. carleton, with the same cool gracefulness with which he had carried on the quarrel, waived his displeasure, and admitted the young gentleman apparently to stand as before in his favour. their reconciliation was not an hour old when captain beebee joined them. "i am sorry i must trouble you with a word more on this disagreeable subject, mr. carleton," he began, after a ceremonious salutation, "my friend, lieutenant thorn, considers himself greatly outraged by your determination not to meet him. he begs to ask, by me, whether it is your purpose to abide by it at all hazards?" "yes, sir." "there is some misunderstanding here, which i greatly regret. i hope you will see and excuse the disagreeable necessity i am. under of delivering the rest of my friend's message." "say on, sir." "mr. thorn declares that if you deny him the common courtesy which no gentleman refuses to another, he will proclaim your name with the most opprobrious adjuncts to all the world; and, in place of his former regard, he will hold you in the most unlimited contempt, which he will have no scruple about showing on all occasions." mr. carleton coloured a little, but replied, coolly � "i have not lived in mr. thorn's favour. as to the rest, i forgive him! � except indeed, he provoke me to measures for which i never will forgive him." "measures!" said the captain. "i hope not! for my own self-respect would be more grievously hurt than his. but there is an unruly spring somewhere about my composition, that when it gets wound up, is once in a while too much for me." "but," said rossitur, "pardon me, � have you no regard to the effect of his misrepresentations?" "you are mistaken, mr. rossitur," said carleton, slightly, "this is but the blast of a bellows � not the simoon." "then what answer shall i have the honour of carrying back to my friend?" said captain beebee, after a sort of astounded pause of a few minutes. "none, of my sending, sir." captain beebee touched his cap, and went back to mr. thorn, to whom he reported that the young englishman was thoroughly impracticable, and that there was nothing to be gained by dealing with him; and the vexed conclusion of thorn's own mind, in the end, was in favour of the wisdom of letting him alone. in a very different mood, saddened and disgusted, mr. carleton shook himself free of rossitur, and went and stood alone by the guards, looking out upon the sea. he did not at all regret his promise to his mother, nor wish to take other ground than that he had taken. both the theory and the practice of duelling he heartily despised, and he was not weak enough to fancy that he had brought any discredit upon either his sense or his honour by refusing to comply with an unwarrantable and barbarous custom. and he valued mankind too little to be at all concerned about their judgment in the matter. his own opinion was at all times enough for him. but the miserable folly and puerility of such an altercation as that in which he had just been engaged, the poor display of human character, the little, low passions which had been called up, even in himself, alike destitute of worthy cause and aim, and which had, perhaps, but just missed ending in the death of some, and the living death of others � it all wrought to bring him back to his old wearying of human nature and despondent eyeing of the every-where jarrings, confusions, and discordances in the moral world. the fresh sea-breeze that swept by the ship, roughening the play of the waves, and brushing his own cheek with its health-bearing wing, brought with. it a sad feeling of contrast. free, and pure, and steadily directed, it sped on its way, to do its work. and, like it, all the rest of the natural world, faithful to the law of its maker was stamped with the same signet of perfection. only man, in all the universe, seemed to be at cross purposes with the end of his being. only man, of all animate or inanimate things, lived an aimless, fruitless, broken life � or fruitful only in evil. how was this? and whence? and when would be the end? and would this confused mass of warring elements ever be at peace? would this disordered machinery ever work smoothly, without let or stop any more, and work out the beautiful. something for which sure it was designed? and could any hand but its first maker mend the broken wheel, or supply the spring that was wanting? has not the desire of all nations been often sought of eyes that were never taught where to look for him? mr. carleton was standing still by the guards, looking thoughtfully out to windward to meet the fresh breeze, as if the spirit of the wilderness were in it, and could teach him the truth that the spirit of the world knew not and had not to give, when he became sensible of something close beside him; and, looking down; met little fleda's upturned face, with such a look of purity, freshness, and peace, it said as plainly as ever the dial-plate of a clock that _that_ little piece of machinery was working right. there was a sunlight upon it, too, of happy confidence and affection. mr. carleton's mind experienced a sudden revulsion. fleda might see the reflection of her own light in his face as he helped her up to a stand where she could be more on a level with him, putting his arm round her to guard against any sudden roll of the ship. "what makes you wear such a happy face?" said he, with an expression half envious, half regretful. "i don't know!" said fleda, innocently. "you i suppose." he looked as bright as she did, for a minute. "were you ever angry, elfie?" "i don't know " said fleda. " i don't know but i have." he smiled to see that, although evidently her memory could not bring the charge, her modesty would not deny it. "were you not angry yesterday with your cousin and that unmannerly friend of his?" "no," said fleda, a shade crossing her face � "i was not _angry_ �" and as she spoke, her hand was softly put upon mr. carleton's, as if partly in the fear of what might have grown out of _his_ anger, and partly in thankfulness to him that he had rendered it unnecessary. there was a singular delicate timidity and tenderness in the action. "i wish i had your secret, elfie," said mr. carleton, looking wistfully into the clear eyes that met his. "what secret?" said fleda, smiling. "you say one can always do right � is that the reason you are happy? � because you follow that out?" "no," said fleda, seriously. "but i think it is a great deal pleasanter." "i have no doubt at all of that � neither, i dare say, have the rest of the world; only, somehow, when it comes to the point, they find it is easier to do wrong. what's your secret, elfie?" "i haven't any secret," said fleda. but presently seeming to bethink herself, she added gently and gravely � "aunt miriam says � "what?" "she says that when we love jesus christ, it is easy to please him." "and do you love him, elfie?" mr. carleton asked, after a minute. her answer was a very quiet and sober "yes." he doubted still whether she were not unconsciously using a form of speech, the spirit of which she did not quite realize. that one might "not see and yet believe," he could understand; but for _affection_ to go forth towards an unseen object was another matter. his question was grave and acute. "by what do you judge that you do, elfie?" "why, mr. carleton," said fleda, with an instant look of appeal, "who else _should_ i love?" "if not him" � her eye and her voice made sufficiently plain. mr. carleton was obliged to confess to himself that she spoke intelligently, with deeper intelligence than he could follow. he asked no more questions. yet truth shines by its own light, like the sun. he had not perfectly comprehended her answers, but they struck him as something that deserved to be understood, and he resolved to make the truth of them his own. the rest of the voyage was perfectly quiet. following the earnest advice of his friend, captain beebee, thorn had given up trying to push mr. carleton to extremity; who, on his part, did not seem conscious of thorn's existence. chapter xiii "there the most daintie paradise on ground itselfe doth offer to his sober eye � � the painted flowers, the trees upshooting hye, the dales for shade, the hills for breathing space, the trembling groves, the christall running by; and that, which all faire works doth most aggrace, the art which all that wrought appeared in no place." faery queene. they had taken ship for london, as mr. and mrs. carleton wished to visit home for a day or two before going on to paris. so leaving charlton to carry news of them to the french capital, so soon as he could persuade himself to leave the english one, they with little fleda in company posted down to carleton, in � shire. it was a time of great delight to fleda, that is, as soon as mr. carleton had made her feel at home in england; and, somehow, he had contrived to do that, and to scatter some clouds of remembrance that seemed to gather about her, before they had reached the end of their first day's journey. to be out of the ship was itself a comfort, and to be along with kind friends was much more. with great joy fleda put her cousin charlton and mr. thorn at once out of sight and out of mind, and gave herself with even more than her usual happy readiness, to everything the way and the end of the way had for her. those days were to be painted days in fleda's memory. she thought carleton was a very odd place � that is, the house, not the village, which went by the same name. if the manner of her two companions had not been such as to put her entirely at her ease, she would have felt strange and shy. as it was, she felt half afraid of losing herself in the house; to fleda's unaccustomed eyes, it was a labyrinth of halls and staircases, set with the most unaccountable number and variety of rooms � old and new, quaint and comfortable, gloomy and magnificent; some with stern old-fashioned massiveness of style and garniture, others absolutely bewitching (to fleda's eyes and understanding) in the rich beauty and luxuriousness of their arrangements. mr. carleton's own particular haunts were of these; his private room (the little library as it was called), the library, and the music-room, which was, indeed, rather a gallery of the fine arts, so many treasures of art were gathered there. to an older and nice-judging person, these rooms would have given no slight indications of their owner's mind � it had been at work on every corner of them. no particular fashion had been followed in anything, nor any model consulted, but that which fancy had built to the mind's order. the wealth of years had drawn together an enormous assemblage of matters, great and small, every one of which was fitted either to excite fancy, or suggest thought, or to satisfy the eye by its nice adaptation. and if pride had had the ordering of them, all these might have been but a costly museum, a literary alphabet that its possessor could not put together, an ungainly confession of ignorance on the part of the intellect that could do nothing with this rich heap of material. but pride was not the genius of the place. a most refined taste and curious fastidiousness had arranged and harmonized all the heterogeneous items; the mental hieroglyphics had been ordered by one to whom the reading of them was no mystery. nothing struck a stranger at first entering, except the very rich effect and faultless air of the whole, and perhaps the delicious facilities for every kind of intellectual cultivation which appeared on every hand � facilities which, it must be allowed, do seem in general not to facilitate the work they are meant to speed. in this case, however, it was different. the mind that wanted them had brought them together to satisfy its own craving. these rooms were guy's peculiar domain. in other parts of the house, where his mother reigned conjointly with him, their joint tastes had struck out another style of adornment, which might be called a style of superb elegance. not superb alone, for taste had not permitted so heavy a characteristic to be predominant; not merely elegant, for the fineness of all the details would warrant an ampler word. a larger part of the house than both these together had been left as generations past had left it, in various stages of refinement, comfort, and comeliness. it was a day or two before fleda found out that it was all one; she thought at first that it was a collection of several houses that had somehow inexplicably sat down there with their backs to each other; it was so straggling and irregular a pile of building, covering so much ground, and looking so very unlike the different parts to each other. one portion was quite old; the other parts ranged variously between the present and the far past. after she once understood this, it was a piece of delicious wonderment, and musing, and great admiration to fleda; she never grew weary of wandering round it, and thinking about it � for, from a child, fanciful meditation was one of her delights. within doors, she best liked mr. carleton's favourite rooms. their rich colouring and moderated light, and endless stores of beauty and curiosity, made them a place of fascination. out of doors she found still more to delight her. morning, noon, and night, she might be seen near the house gazing, taking in pictures of natural beauty, which were for ever after to hang in fleda's memory as standards of excellence in that sort. nature's hand had been very kind to the place, moulding the ground in beautiful style. art had made happy use of the advantage thus given her; and now what appeared was neither art nor nature, but a perfection that can only spring from the hands of both. fleda's eyes were bewitched. she stood watching the rolling slopes of green turf, so soft and lovely, and the magnificent trees, that had kept their ground for ages, and seen generations rise and fall before their growing strength and grandeur. they were scattered here and there on the lawn; and further back stood on the heights, and stretched along the ridges of the undulating ground, the outposts of a wood of the same growth still beyond them. "how do you like it, elfie?" mr. carleton asked her, the evening of the first day, as he saw her for a length of time looking out gravely and intently from before the hall door. "i think it is beautiful!" said fleda. "the ground is a great deal smoother here than it was at home." "i'll take you to ride to-morrow," said he, smiling, "and show you rough ground enough." "as you did when we came from montepoole?" said fleda, rather eagerly. "would you like that!" "yes, very much � if _you_ would like it, mr. carleton. "very well," said he. "so it shall be." and not a day passed during their short stay that he did not give her one of those rides. he showed her rough ground, according to his promise, but fleda still thought it did not look much like the mountains "at home." and, indeed, unsightly roughness had been skilfully covered or removed; and though a large part of the park, which was a very extensive one, was wildly broken, and had apparently been left as nature left it, the hand of taste had been there; and many an unsuspected touch, instead of hindering, had heightened both the wild and the beautiful character. landscape gardening had long been a great hobby of its owner. "how far does your ground come, mr. carleton?" inquired fleda on one of these rides, when they had travelled a good distance from home. "further than you can see, elfie." "further than i can see! � it must be a very large farm." "this is not a farm where we are now," said he; "did you mean that? this is the park; we are almost at the edge of it on this side." "what is the difference between a farm and a park?" said fleda. "the grounds of a farm are tilled for profit; a park is an uncultivated enclosure, kept merely for men and women and deer to take pleasure in." "_i_ have taken a good deal of pleasure in it," said fleda. "and have you a farm besides, mr. carleton?" "a good many, elfie." fleda looked surprised; and then remarked, that it must be very nice to have such a beautiful piece of ground just for pleasure. she enjoyed it to the full during the few days she was there. and one thing more, the grand piano in the music-room. the first evening of their arrival she was drawn by the far-off sounds, and mrs. carleton seeing it, went immediately to the music-room with her. the room had no light, except from the moonbeams that stole in through two glass doors which opened upon a particularly private and cherished part of the grounds, in summer-time full of flowers; for, in the very refinement of luxury, delights had been crowded about this favourite apartment. mr. carleton was at the instrument, playing. fleda sat down quietly in one corner, and listened � in a rapture of pleasure she had hardly ever known from any like source. she did not think it could be greater; till, after a time, in a pause of the music, mrs. carleton asked her son to sing a particular ballad; and that one was followed by two or three more. fleda left her corner � she could not contain herself, and, favoured by the darkness, came forward; and stood quite near; and if the performer had had light to see by, he would have been gratified with the tribute paid to his power by the unfeigned tears that ran down her cheeks. this pleasure was also repeated from evening to evening. "do you know we set off for paris to-morrow?" said mrs. carleton the last evening of their stay, as fleda came up to the door after a prolonged ramble in the park, leaving mr. carleton with one or two gardeners at a little distance. "yes!" said fleda, with a sigh that was more than half audible. "are you sorry?" said mrs. carleton, smiling. "i cannot be glad," said fleda, giving a sober look over the lawn. "then you like carleton?" "very much! � it is a prettier place than queechy." "but we shall have you here again, dear fleda," said mrs. carleton, restraining her smile at this, to her, very moderate compliment. "perhaps not," said fleda quietly. "mr. carleton said," she added, a minute after, with more animation, "that a park was a place for men and women and deer to take pleasure in. i am sure it is for children too!" "did you have a pleasant ride this morning?" "oh, very! � i always do. there isn't anything i like so well." "what, as to ride on horseback with guy?" said mrs. carleton, looking exceedingly benignant. "yes � unless �" "unless what, my dear fleda?" "unless, perhaps � i don't know, � i was going to say, unless perhaps to hear him sing." mrs. carleton's delight was unequivocally expressed; and she promised fleda that she should have both rides and songs there in plenty another time � a promise upon which fleda built no trust at all. the short journey to paris was soon made. the next morning mrs. carleton, making an excuse of her fatigue, left guy to end the care he had rather taken upon himself, by delivering his little charge into the hands of her friends. so they drove to the hôtel �, rue �, where mr. rossitur had apartments in very handsome style. they found him alone in the saloon. "ha! carleton � come back again. just in time � very glad to see you. and who is this? � ah, another little daughter for aunt lucy." mr. rossitur, who gave them this greeting very cordially, was rather a fine-looking man � decidedly agreeable both in person and manner. fleda was pleasantly disappointed after what her grandfather had led her to expect. there might be something of sternness in his expression; people gave him credit for a peremptory, not to say imperious, temper; but, if truly, it could not often meet with opposition. the sense and gentlemanly character which marked his face and bearing had an air of smooth politeness which seemed habitual. there was no want of kindness nor even of tenderness in the way he drew fleda within his arm and held her there, while he went on talking to mr. carleton � now and then stooping his face to look in at her bonnet and kiss her, which was his only welcome. he said nothing to her after his first question. he was too busy talking to guy. he seemed to have a great deal to tell him. there was this for him to see, and that for him to hear, and charming new things which had been done or doing since mr. carleton left paris. the impression upon fleda's mind after listening awhile was, that the french capital was a great gallery of the fine arts, with a magnified likeness of mr. carleton's music-room at one end of' it. she thought her uncle must be most extraordinarily fond of pictures and works of art in general, and must have a great love for seeing company, and hearing people sing. this latter taste, fleda was disposed to allow, might be a very reasonable one. mr. carleton, she observed, seemed much more cool on the whole subject. but, meanwhile, where was aunt lucy? � and had mr. rossitur forgotten the little armful that he held so fast and so perseveringly? no, for here was another kiss, and another look into her face, so kind, that fleda gave him a piece of her heart from that time. "hugh!" said mr. rossitur suddenly to somebody she had not seen before � "hugh! here is your little cousin. take her off to your mother." a child came forward at this bidding, hardly larger than herself. he was a slender, graceful little figure, with nothing of the boy in his face or manner; delicate as a girl, and with something almost melancholy in the gentle sweetness of his countenance. fleda's confidence was given to it on the instant, which had not been the case with anything in her uncle, and she yielded without reluctance the hand he took to obey his father's command. before two steps had been taken, however, she suddenly broke away from him, and springing to mr. carleton's side, silently laid her hand in his. she made no answer whatever to a light word or two of kindness that he spoke just for her ear. she listened with downcast eyes and a lip that he saw was too unsteady to be trusted, and then after a moment more, without looking, pulled away her hand, and followed her cousin. hugh did not once get a sight of her face on the way to his mother's room, but owing to her exceeding efforts; and quiet generalship, he never guessed the cause. there was nothing in her face to raise suspicion, when he reached the door, and opening it, announced her with � "mother, here's cousin fleda come." fleda had seen her aunt before, though several years back, and not long enough to get acquainted with her. but no matter � it was her mother's sister sitting there, whose face gave her so lovely a welcome at that speech of hugh's, whose arms were stretched out so eagerly towards her: and springing to them as to a very haven of rest, fleda wept on her bosom those delicious tears that are only shed where the heart is at home. and even before they were dried the ties were knit that bound her to her new sphere. "who came with you, dear fleda?" said mrs. rossitur then. "is mrs. carleton here? i must go and thank her for bringing you to me." "_mr._ carleton is here." said hugh. "i must go and thank him, then. jump down, dear fleda � i'll be back in a minute." fleda got off her lap, and stood looking in a kind of enchanted maze, while her aunt hastily arranged her hair at the glass; � looking, while fancy and memory were making strong the net in which her heart was caught. she was trying to see something of her mother in one who had shared her blood and her affection so nearly. a miniature of that mother was left to fleda, and she had studied it till she could hardly persuade herself that she had not some recollection of the original; and now she thought she caught a precious shadow of something like it in her aunt lucy. not in those pretty bright eyes which had looked through kind tears so lovingly upon her, but in the graceful ringlets about the temples, the delicate contour of the face, and a something � fleda could only have said it was "a something" � about the mouth when at rest, the shadow of her mother's image rejoiced her heart. rather that faint shadow of the loved lost one for little fleda, than any other form or combination of beauty on earth. as she stood fascinated, watching the movements of her aunt's light figure, fleda drew a long breath with which went off the whole burden of doubt and anxiety that had lain upon her mind ever since the journey began. she had not known it was there, but she felt it go, yet even when that sigh of relief was breathed, and while fancy and feeling were weaving their rich embroidery into the very tissue of fleda's happiness, most persons would have seen merely that the child looked very sober, and have thought, probably, that she felt very tired and strange. perhaps mrs. rossitur thought so, for, again tenderly kissing her before she left the room, she told hugh to take off her things and make her feel at home. hugh upon this made fleda sit down, and proceeded to untie her tippet-strings and take off her coat, with an air of delicate tenderness which showed he had great pleasure in his task, and which made fleda take a good deal of pleasure in it too. "are you tired, cousin fleda?" said he, gently. "no," said fleda � "o no!" "charlton said you were tired on board ship." "i wasn't tired," said fleda, in not a little surprise; "i liked it very much." "then maybe i mistook. i know charlton said _he_ was tired, and i thought he said you were too. you know my brother charlton, don't you?" "yes." " are you glad to come to paris?" "i am glad, now," said fleda. "i wasn't glad before." "i am very glad," said hugh. "i think you will like it. we didn't know you were coming till two or three days ago, when charlton got here. do you like to take walks?" "yes, very much." "father and mother will take us delightful walks in the tuileries � the gardens, you know � and the champs elysées, and versailles, and the boulevards, and ever so many places, and it will be a great deal pleasanter now you are here. do you know french?" "no." "then you'll have to learn. i'll help you if you will let me. it is very easy. did you get my last letter?" "i don't know," said fleda; "the last one i had came with one of aunt lucy's telling me about mrs. carleton � i got it just before �" alas! before what? fleda suddenly remembered, and was stopped short. from all the strange scenes and interests which lately had whirled her along, her spirit leapt back with strong yearning recollection to her old home and her old ties; and such a rain of tears witnessed the dearness of what she had lost, and the tenderness of the memory that had let them slip for a moment, that hugh was as much distressed as startled. with great tenderness and touching delicacy, he tried to soothe her, and at the same time, though guessing, to find out what was the matter, lest he should make a mistake. "just before what?" said he, laying his hand caressingly on his little cousin's shoulder. "don't grieve so, dear fleda!" "it was only just before grandpa died," said fleda. hugh had known of that before, though like her he had forgotten it for a moment. a little while his feeling was too strong to permit any further attempt at condolence; but as he saw fleda grow quiet, he took courage to speak again. "was he a good man?" he asked softly. "o yes!" "then," said hugh, "you know he is happy now, fleda. if he loved jesus christ, he is gone to be with him. that ought to make you glad as well as sorry." fleda looked up, though tears were streaming yet, to give that full happy answer of the eye that no words could do. this was consolation, and sympathy. the two children had a perfect understanding of each other from that time forward, � a fellowship that never knew a break nor a weakening. mrs. rossitur found on her return that hugh had obeyed her charge to the letter. he had made fleda feel at home. they were sitting close together, hugh's hand affectionately clasping hers, and he was holding forth on some subject with a gracious politeness that many of his elders might have copied, while fleda listened and assented with entire satisfaction. the rest of the morning she passed in her aunt's arms, drinking draughts of pleasure from those dear bright eyes, taking in the balm of gentlest words of love and soft kisses, every one of which was felt at the bottom of fleda's heart, and the pleasure of talking over her young sorrows with one who could feel them all, and answer with tears as well as words of sympathy. and hugh stood by the while, looking at his little orphan cousin as if she might have dropped from the clouds into his mother's lap, a rare jewel or delicate flower, but much more delicate and precious than they or any other possible gift. hugh and fleda dined alone: for, as he informed her, his father never would have children at the dinner-table when he had company, and mr. and mrs. carleton, and other people were to be there to-day. fleda made no remark on the subject, by word or look, but she thought none the less. she thought it was a very mean fashion. _she_ not come to the table when strangers were there! and who would enjoy them more? when mr. rossitur and mr. carleton had dined with her grandfather, had she not taken as much pleasure in their society, and in the whole thing, as any other one of the party? and at carleton had she not several times dined with a tableful, and been unspeakably amused to watch the different manners and characteristics of people who were strange to her? however, mr. rossitur had other notions. so she and hugh had their dinner in aunt lucy's dressing-room by themselves; and a very nice dinner it was, fleda thought, and rosaline, mrs. rossitur's french maid, was well affected and took admirable care of them. indeed, before the close of the day, rosaline privately informed her mistress, "qu'elle serait entêtée sûrement de cet enfant dans trois jours;" and "que son regard vraiment lui serrait le coeur." and hugh was excellent company, failing all other, and did the honours of the table with the utmost thoughtfulness, and amused fleda the whole time with accounts of paris, and what they would do, and what she should see; and how his sister marion was at school at a convent, and what kind of a place a convent was; and how he himself always stayed at home and learned of his mother and his father; "or by himself," he said, "just as it happened," and he hoped they would keep fleda at home too. so fleda hoped exceedingly, but this stern rule about the dining had made her feel a little shy of her uncle; she thought perhaps he was not kind and indulgent to children, like her aunt lucy, and if he said she must go to a convent, she would not dare to ask him to let her stay. the next time she saw him, however, she was obliged to change her opinion again, in part; for he was very kind and indulgent, both to her and hugh, and, more than that, he was very amusing. he showed her pictures, and told her new and interesting things, and finding that she listened eagerly, he seemed pleased to prolong her pleasure, even at the expense of a good deal of his own time. mr. rossitur was a man of cultivated mind and very refined and fastidious taste. he lived for the pleasures of art and literature, and the society where these are valued. for this, and not without some secret love of display, he lived in paris; not extravagant in his pleasures, nor silly in his ostentation, but leading, like a gentleman, as worthy and rational a life as a man can lead who lives only to himself, with no further thought than to enjoy the passing hours. mr. rossitur enjoyed them elegantly, and, for a man of the world, moderately; bestowing, however, few of those precious hours upon his children. it was his maxim, that they should be kept out of the way whenever their presence might by any chance interfere with the amusements of their elders; and this maxim, a good one certainly in some hands, was, in his reading of it, a very broad one. still, when he did take time to give his family, he was a delightful companion to those of them who could understand him. if they showed no taste for sensible pleasure, he had no patience with them, nor desire of their company. report had done him no wrong in giving him a stern temper; but this almost never came out in actual exercise; fleda knew it only from in occasional hint now and then, and by her childish intuitive reading of the lines it had drawn round the mouth and brow. it had no disagreeable bearing on his everyday life and manner; and the quiet fact probably served but to heighten the love and reverence in which his family held him very high. mr. rossitur did once moot the question, whether fleda should not join marion at her convent. but his wife looked very grave, and said that she was too tender and delicate a little thing to be trusted to the hands of strangers. hugh pleaded, and argued that she might share all his lessons; and fleda's own face pleaded more powerfully. there was something appealing in its extreme delicacy and purity which seemed to call for shelter and protection from every rough breath of the world; and mr. rossitur was easily persuaded to let her remain in the stronghold of home. hugh had never quitted it. neither father nor mother ever thought of such a thing. he was the cherished idol of the whole family. always a delicate child, always blameless in life and behaviour, his loveliness of mind and person, his affectionateness, the winning sweetness that was about him like a halo, and the slight tenure by which they seemed to hold him, had wrought to bind the hearts of father and mother to this child, as it were, with the very life- strings of both. not his mother was more gentle with hugh than his much sterner father. and now little fleda, sharing somewhat of hugh's peculiar claims upon their tenderness, and adding another of her own, was admitted, not to the same place in their hearts � that could not be � but, to their honour be it spoken, to the same place in all outward show of thought and feeling. hugh had nothing that fleda did not have, even to the time, care, and caresses of his parents. and not hugh rendered them a more faithful return of devoted affection. once made easy on the question of school, which was never seriously stirred again, fleda's life became very happy. it was easy to make her happy; affection and sympathy would have done it almost anywhere; but in paris she had much more; and after time had softened the sorrow she brought with her, no bird ever found existence less of a burden, nor sang more light-heartedly along its life. in her aunt she had all but the name of a mother; in her uncle with kindness and affection, she had amusement, interest, and improvement; in hugh, everything � love, confidence, sympathy, society, help; their tastes, opinions, pursuits, went hand in hand. the two children were always together. fleda's spirits were brighter than hugh's, and her intellectual tastes stronger and more universal. that might be as much from difference of physical as of mental constitution. hugh's temperament led him somewhat to melancholy, and to those studies and pleasures which best side with subdued feeling and delicate nerves. fleda's nervous system was of the finest too, but, in short, she was as like a bird as possible. perfect health, which yet a slight thing was enough to shake to the foundation; joyous spirits, which a look could quell; happy energies, which a harsh hand might easily crush for ever. well for little fleda that so tender a plant was permitted to unfold in so nicely tempered an atmosphere. a cold wind would soon have killed it. besides all this, there were charming studies to be gone through every day with hugh � some for aunt lucy to hear, some for masters and mistresses. there were amusing walks in the boulevards, and delicious pleasure-taking in the gardens of paris, and a new world of people, and manners, and things, and histories, for the little american. and despite her early rustic experience, fleda had from nature an indefeasible taste for the elegances of life; it suited her well, to see all about her, in dress, in furniture, in various appliances, as commodious and tasteful as wealth and refinement could contrive it; and she very soon knew what was right in each kind. there were, now and then, most gleeful excursions in the environs of paris, when she and hugh found in earth and air a world of delights more than they could tell anybody but each other. and at home, what peaceful times they two had � what endless conversations, discussions, schemes, air journeys of memory and fancy, backward and forward! � what sociable dinners alone, and delightful evenings with mr. and mrs. rossitur in the saloon, when nobody, or only a very few people, were there, how pleasantly in those evenings the foundations were laid of a strong and enduring love for the works of art, painted, sculptured, or engraven; what a multitude of curious and excellent bits of knowledge fleda's ears picked up from the talk of different people. they were capital ears; what they caught they never let fall. in the course of the year her gleanings amounted to more than many another person's harvest. chapter xiv. "heav'n bless thee; thou hast the sweetest face i ever look'd on." shakespeare. one of the greatest of fleda's pleasures was when mr. carleton came to take her out with him. he did that often. fleda only wished he would have taken hugh too, but somehow he never did. nothing but that was wanting to make the pleasure of those times perfect. knowing that she saw the _common things_ in other company, guy was at the pains to vary the amusement when she went with him. instead of going to versailles or st. cloud, he would take her long delightful drives into the country, and show her some old or interesting place that nobody else went to see. often there was a history belonging to the spot, which fleda listened to with the delight of eye and fancy at once. in the city, where they more frequently walked, still he showed her what she would perhaps have seen under no other guidance. he made it his business to give her pleasure; and understanding the inquisitive active little spirit he had to do with, he went where his own tastes would hardly have led him. the quai aux fleurs was often visited, but also the halle aux blés, the great halle aux vins, the jardin des plantes, and the marché des innocens. guy even took the trouble, more for her sake than his own, to go to the latter place once very early in the morning, when the market bell had not two hours sounded, while the interest and prettiness of the scene were yet in their full life. hugh was in company this time, and the delight of both children was beyond words, as it would have been beyond anybody's patience, that had not a strong motive to back it. they never discovered that mr. carleton was in a hurry, as indeed he was not. they bargained for fruit with any number of people, upon all sorts of inducements, and to an extent of which they had no competent notion; but hugh had his mother's purse, and fleda was skilfully commissioned to purchase what she pleased for mrs. carleton. verily the two children that morning bought pleasure, not peaches. fancy and benevolence held the purse-strings, and economy did not even look on. they revelled too, fleda especially, amidst the bright pictures of the odd, the new, and the picturesque, and the varieties of character and incident that were displayed around them, even till the country people began to go away, and the scene to lose its charm. it never lost it in memory; and many a time in after life, hugh and fleda recurred to something that was seen or done "that morning when we bought fruit at the innocens." besides these scenes of everyday life, which interested and amused fleda to the last degree, mr. carleton showed her many an obscure part of paris, where deeds of daring and of blood had been, and thrilled the little listener's ear with histories of the past. he judged her rightly. she would rather at any time have gone to walk with him than with anybody else to see any show that could be devised. his object in all this was, in the first place, to give her pleasure; and, in the second place, to draw out her mind into free communion with his own, which he knew could only be done by talking sense to her. he succeeded as he wished. lost in the interest of the scenes he presented to her eye and mind, she forgot everything else, and showed him herself � precisely what he wanted to see. it was strange that a young man, an admired man of fashion, a flattered favourite of the gay and great world, and, furthermore, a reserved and proud repeller of almost all who sought his intimacy, should seek and delight in the society of a little child. his mother would have wondered if she had known it. mrs. rossitur did marvel that even fleda should have so won upon the cold and haughty young englishman; and her husband said he probably chose to have fleda with him because he could make up his mind to like nobody else; a remark which perhaps arose from the utter failure of every attempt to draw him and charlton nearer together. but mr. rossitur was only half right. the reason lay deeper. mr. carleton had admitted the truth of christianity, upon what he considered sufficient grounds, and would now have steadily fought for it, as he would for anything else that he believed to be truth. but there he stopped. he had not discovered, nor tried to discover, whether the truth of christianity imposed any obligation upon him. he had cast off his unbelief, and looked upon it now as a singular folly. but his belief was almost as vague and as fruitless as his infidelity had been. perhaps, a little, his bitter dissatisfaction with the world and human things, or rather his despondent view of them, was mitigated. if there was, as he now held, a supreme orderer of events, it might be, and it was rational to suppose there would be, in the issues of time, an entire change wrought in the disordered and dishonoured state of his handiwork. there might be a remedial system somewhere � nay, it might be in the bible, � he meant to look some day. but that _he_ had anything to do with that change; that the working of the remedial system called for hands; that _his_ had any charge in the matter, had never entered into his imagination nor stirred his conscience. he was living his old life at paris, with his old dissatisfaction � perhaps a trifle less bitter. he was seeking pleasure in whatever art, learning, literature, refinement, and luxury can do for a man who has them all at command; but there was something within him that spurned this ignoble existence, and called for higher aims and worthier exertion. he was not vicious, he never had been vicious, or, as somebody else said, his vices were all refined vices; but a life of mere self-indulgence, although pursued without self- satisfaction, is constantly lowering the standard and weakening the forces of virtue � lessening the whole man. he felt it so; and to leave his ordinary scenes and occupations, and lose a morning with little fleda, was a freshening of his better nature; it was like breathing pure air after the fever- heat of a sick-room; it was like hearing the birds sing after the meaningless jabber of bedlam. mr. carleton, indeed, did not put the matter quite so strongly to himself. he called fleda his good angel. he did not exactly know that the office this good angel performed was simply to hold a candle to his conscience; for conscience was not by any means dead in him, it only wanted light to see by. when he turned from the gay and corrupt world in which he lived, where the changes were rung incessantly upon self-interest, falsehood, pride, and the various, more or less refined forms of sensuality; and when he looked upon that pure bright little face, so free from selfishness, those clear eyes so innocent of evil, the peaceful brow under which a thought of double-dealing had never hid, mr. carleton felt himself in a healthier region. here, as elsewhere, he honoured and loved the image of truth, in the broad sense of truth, � that which suits the perfect standard of right. but his pleasure in this case was invariably mixed with a slight feeling of self-reproach; and it was this hardly recognised stir of his better nature, this clearing of his mental eyesight under the light of a bright example, that made him call the little torch-bearer his good angel. if this were truth, this purity, uprightness, and singleness of mind, as conscience said it was, where was he? how far wandering from his beloved idol? one other feeling saddened the pleasure he had in her society, � a belief that the ground of it could not last. "if she could grow up so!" he said to himself. "but it is impossible. a very few years, and all that clear sunshine of the mind will be overcast, � there is not a cloud now!" under the working of these thoughts, mr. carleton sometimes forgot to talk to his little charge, and would walk for a length of way by her side, wrapped up in sombre musings. fleda never disturbed him then, but waited contentedly and patiently for him to come out of them, with her old feeling, wondering what he could be thinking of, and wishing he were as happy as she. but he never left her very long. he was sure to wave his own humour and give her all the graceful kind attention which nobody else could bestow so well. nobody understood and appreciated it better than fleda. one day, some months after they had been in paris, they were sitting in the place de la concorde. mr. carleton was in one of these thinking fits. he had been giving fleda a long detail of the scenes that had taken place in that spot; a history of it from the time when it had lain an unsightly waste, � such a graphic lively account as he knew well how to give. the absorbed interest with which she had lost everything else in what he was saying, had given him at once reward and motive enough as he went on. standing by his side, with one little hand confidingly resting on his knee, she gazed alternately into his face and towards the broad highly-adorned square by the side of which they had placed themselves, and where it was hard to realize that the ground had once been soaked in blood, while madness and death filled the air; and her changing face, like a mirror, gave him back the reflection of the times he held up to her view. and still standing there in the same attitude after he had done, she had been looking out towards the square in a fit of deep meditation. mr. carleton had forgotten her for a while in his own thoughts, and then the sight of the little gloved hand upon his knee brought him back again. "what are you musing about, elfie, dear?" he said, cheerfully, taking the hand in one of his. fleda gave a swift glance into his face, as if to see whether it would be safe for her to answer his question, � a kind of exploring look, in which her eyes often acted as scouts for her tongue. those she met pledged their faith for her security; yet fleda's look went back to the square and then again to his face in silence. "how do you like living in paris?" said he. "you should know by this time." "i like it very much indeed," said fleda. "i thought you would." "i like queechy better, though," she went on, gravely, her eyes turning again to the square. "like queechy better! were you thinking of queechy just now when i spoke to you?" "o no!" � with a smile. "were you going over all those horrors i have been distressing you with?" "no," said fleda; "i was thinking of them, a while ago." "what then?" said he pleasantly. "you were looking so sober, i should like to know how near your thoughts were to mine." "i was thinking," said fleda, gravely, and a little unwillingly, but guy's manner was not to be withstood � "i was wishing i could be like the disciple whom jesus loved." mr. carleton let her see none of the surprise he felt at this answer. "was there one more loved than the rest?" "yes � the bible calls him 'the disciple whom jesus loved.' that was john." "why was he preferred above the others?" "i don't know. i suppose he was more gentle and good than the others, and loved jesus more. i think aunt miriam said so when i asked her once." mr. carleton thought fleda had not far to seek for the fulfilment of her wish. "but how in the world, elfie, did you work round to this gentle and good disciple from those scenes of blood you set out with?" "why," said elfie, "i was thinking how unhappy and bad people are, especially people here, i think; and how much must be done before they will all be brought right; and then i was thinking of the work jesus gave his disciples to do; and so i wished i could be like that disciple. hugh and i were talking about it this morning." "what is the work he gave them to do?'" said mr. carleton, more and more interested. "why," said fleda, lifting her gentle wistful eyes to his, and then looking away, "to bring everybody to be good and happy." "and how in the world are they to do that?" said mr. carleton, astonished to see his own problem quietly handled by this child. "by telling them about jesus christ, and getting them to believe and love him," said fleda, glancing at him again, "and living so beautifully that people cannot help believing them." "that last is an important clause," said mr. carleton, thoughtfully. "but suppose people will not hear when they are spoken to, elfie?" "some will, at any rate," said fleda, "and by and by everybody will." "how do you know?" "because the bible says so." "are you sure of that, elfie?" "why, yes, mr. carleton, � god has promised that the world shall be full of good people, and then they will be all happy. _i_ wish it was now." "but if that be so, elfie, god can make them all good without our help." "yes, but i suppose he wishes to do it with our help, mr. carleton," said fleda, with equal naïveté and gravity. "but is not this you speak of," said he, half smiling, "rather the business of clergymen? you have nothing to do with it?" "no," said fleda, "everybody has something to do with it � the bible says so; ministers must do it in their way, and other people in other ways; everybody has his own work. don't you remember the parable of the ten talents, mr. carleton?" mr. carleton was silent for a minute. "i do not know the bible quite as well as you do, elfie," he said then, "nor as i ought to do." elfie's only answer was by a look somewhat like that he well remembered on shipboard he had thought was angel-like, � a look of gentle sorrowful wistfulness, which she did not venture to put into words. it had not for that the less power. but he did not choose to prolong the conversation. they rose up and began to walk homeward, elfie thinking with all the warmth of her little heart that she wished very much mr. carleton knew the bible better; divided between him and "that disciple" whom she and hugh had been talking about. "i suppose you are very busy now, elfie," observed her companion, when they had walked the length of several squares in silence. "o yes!" said fleda. " hugh and i are as busy as we can be. we are busy every minute." "except when you are on some chase after pleasure?" "well," said fleda, laughing, "that is a kind of business; and all the business is pleasure too. i didn't mean that we were always busy about work. oh, mr. carleton, we had such a nice time the day before yesterday!" � and she went on to give him the history of a very successful chase after pleasure which they had made to st. cloud. "and yet you like queechy better?" "yes," said fleda, with a gentle steadiness peculiar to herself � "if i had aunt lucy, and hugh, and uncle rolf there, and everybody that i care for, i should like it a great deal better." " 'unspotted' yet," he thought. "mr. carleton," said fleda, presently � "do you play and sing every day here in paris?" "yes," said he, smiling, � "about every day. why?" "i was thinking how pleasant it was at your house in england." "has carleton the honour of rivalling queechy in your liking?" "i haven't lived there so long, you know," said fleda, "i dare say it would if i had. i think it is quite as pretty a place." mr. carleton smiled with a very pleased expression. truth and politeness had joined hands in her answer with a child's grace. he brought fleda to her own door, and there was leaving her. "stop! oh, mr. carleton," cried fleda, "come in, just for one minute � i want to show you something." he made no resistance to that. she led him to the saloon, where it happened that nobody was, and repeating, "one minute!" � rushed out of the room. in less than that time, she came running back with a beautiful half-blown bud of a monthly rose in her hand, and in her face such a bloom of pleasure and eagerness as more than rivalled it. the rose was fairly eclipsed. she put the bud quietly, but with a most satisfied air of affection, into mr. carleton's hand. it had come from a little tree which he had given her on one of' their first visits to the quai aux fleurs. she had had the choice of what she liked best, and had characteristically taken a flourishing little rose-bush, that as yet showed nothing but leaves and green buds, partly, because she would have the pleasure of seeing its beauties come forward, and partly, because she thought having no flowers, it would not cost much. the former reason, however, was all that she had given to mr. carleton's remonstrances. "what is all this, elfie?" said he. "have you been robbing your rose-tree?" "no," said elfie, "there are plenty more buds! isn't it lovely? this is the first one. they've been a great while coming out." his eye went from the rose to her; he thought the one was a mere emblem of the other. fleda was usually very quiet in her demonstrations; it was as if a little green bud had suddenly burst into a flush of loveliness; and he saw, it was as plain as possible, that goodwill to him had been the moving power. he was so much struck and moved, that his thanks, though as usual perfect in their kind, were far shorter and graver than he would have given if he had felt less. he turned away from the house, his mind full of the bright unsullied purity and single-hearted goodwill that had looked out of that beaming little face; he seemed to see them again in the flower he held in his hand, and he saw nothing else as he went. mr. carleton preached to himself all the way home, and his text was a rose. laugh who will. to many it may seem ridiculous; and to most minds it would have been impossible; but to a nature very finely wrought and highly trained, many a voice that grosser senses cannot hear, comes with an utterance as clear as it is sweet-spoken; many a touch that coarser nerves cannot heed, reaches the springs of the deeper life; many a truth that duller eyes have no skill to see, shows its fair features, hid away among the petals of a rose, or peering out between the wings of a butterfly, or reflected in a bright drop of dew. the material is but a veil for the spiritual; but, then, eyes must be quickened, or the veil becomes an impassable cloud. that particular rose was to mr. carleton's eye a most perfect emblem and representative of its little giver. he traced out the points of resemblance as he went along. the delicacy and character of refinement for which that kind of rose is remarkable above many of its more superb kindred; a refinement essential and unalterable by decay or otherwise, as true a characteristic of the child as of the flower; a delicacy that called for gentle handling and tender cherishing; the sweetness, rare indeed, but asserting itself as it were timidly, at least with equally rare modesty; the very style of the beauty that, with all its loveliness, would not startle nor even catch the eye among its more showy neighbours; and the breath of purity that seemed to own no kindred with earth, nor liability to infection. as he went on with his musing, and drawing out this fair character from the type before him, the feeling of contrast that he had known before pressed upon mr. carleton's mind; the feeling of self-reproach, and the bitter wish that he could be again what he once had been � something like this. how changed now he seemed to himself � not a point of likeness left. how much less honourable, how much less worth, how much less dignified, than that fair innocent child! how much better a part she was acting in life � what an influence she was exerting, � as pure, as sweet-breathed, and as unobtrusive, as the very rose in his hand! and he � doing no good to an earthly creature, and losing himself by inches. he reached his room, put the flower in a glass on the table, and walked up and down before it. it had come to a struggle between the sense of what was and the passionate wish for what might have been. "it is late, sir," said his servant, opening the door � "and you were �" "i am not going out." "this evening, sir?" "no � not at all to-day. spenser, i don't wish to see anybody � let no one come near me." the servant retired, and guy went on with his walk and his meditations � looking back over his life, and reviewing, with a wiser ken now, the steps by which he had come. he compared the selfish disgust with which he had cast off the world with the very different spirit of little fleda's look upon it that morning; the useless, self-pleasing, vain life he was leading, with her wish to be like the beloved disciple, and do something to heal the troubles of those less happy than herself. he did not very well comprehend the grounds of her feeling or reasoning, but he began to see, mistily, that his own had been mistaken and wild. his step grew slower, his eye more intent, his brow quiet. "she is right, and i am wrong," he thought. "she is by far the nobler creature � worth many such as i. like her i cannot be � i cannot regain what i have lost � i cannot undo what years have done. but i can be something other than i am! if there be a system of remedy, as there well may, it may as well take effect on myself first. she says everybody has his work; i believe her. it must, in the nature of things, be so. i will make it my business to find out what mine is; and when i have made that sure, i will give myself to the doing of it. an all- wise governor must look for service of me. he shall have it. whatever my life be, it shall be to some end. if not what i would, what i can. if not the purity of the rose, that of tempered steel!" mr. carleton walked his room for three hours; then rung for his servant, and ordered him to prepare everything for leaving paris the second day thereafter. the next morning over theirs coffee he told his mother of his purpose. "leave paris! to-morrow! my dear guy, that is rather a sudden notice." "no, mother; for i am going alone." his mother immediately bent an anxious and somewhat terrified look upon him. the frank smile she met put half her suspicions out of her head at once. "what is the matter?" "nothing at all � if by 'matter' you mean mischief." "you are not in difficulty with those young men again?" "no, mother," said he, coolly. "i am in difficulty with no one but myself." "with yourself! but why will you not let me go with you?" "my business will go on better if i am quite alone." "what business?'' "only to settle this question with myself," said he, smiling. "but, guy! you are enigmatical this morning. is it the question that of all others i wish to see settled?" "no, mother," said he, laughing, and colouring a little; "i don't want another half to take care of till i have this one under management." "i don't understand you," said mrs. carleton. "there is no hidden reason under all this that you are keeping from me?" "i wont say that. but there is none that need give you the least uneasiness. there are one or two matters i want to study out; i cannot do it here, so i am going where i shall be free." "where?" "i think i shall pass the summer between switzerland and germany." "and when and where shall i meet you again?" "i think, at home; i cannot say when." "at home!" said his mother with a brightening face. "then you are beginning to be tired of wandering at last?" "not precisely, mother," � rather out of humour. "i shall be glad of anything," said his mother, gazing at him admiringly, "that brings you home again, guy." "brings me home a better man, i hope, mother," said he, kissing her as he left the room. "i will see you again by and by." " 'a better man!' " thought mrs. carleton, as she sat with full eyes, the image of her son filling the place where his presence had been; "i would be willing never to see him better, and be sure of his never being worse." mr. carleton's farewell visit found mr. and mrs. rossitur not at home. they had driven out early into the country to fetch marion from her convent for some holiday. fleda came alone into the saloon to receive him. "i have your rose in safe keeping, elfie," he said. "it has done me more good than ever a rose did before." fleda smiled an innocently pleased smile. but her look changed when he added � "i have come to tell you so, and to bid you good-bye." "are you going away, mr. carleton?" "yes." "but you will be back soon?" "no, elfie � i do not know that i shall ever come back." he spoke gravely, more gravely than he was used, and fleda's acuteness saw that there was some solid reason for this sudden determination. her face changed sadly, but she was silent, her eyes never wavering from those that read hers with such gentle intelligence. "you will be satisfied to have me go, elfie, when i tell you that i am going on business which i believe to be duty. nothing else takes me away. i am going to try to do right," said he, smiling. elfie could not answer the smile. she wanted to ask whether she should never see him again, and there was another thought upon her tongue too; but her lip trembled, and she said nothing. "i shall miss my good fairy," mr. carleton went on, lightly; "i don't know how i shall do without her. if your wand was long enough to reach so far i would ask you to touch me now and then, elfie." poor elfie could not stand it. heir head sank. she knew she had a wand that could touch him, and well and gratefully she resolved that its light blessing should "now and then" rest on his head; but he did not understand that; he was talking, whether lightly or seriously � and elfie knew it was a little of both � he was talking of wanting her help, and was ignorant of the help that alone could avail him. "o that he knew but that!" what with this feeling and sorrow together, the child's distress was exceeding great; and the tokens of grief in one so accustomed to hide them were the more painful to see. mr. carleton drew the sorrowing little creature within his arm, and endeavoured with a mixture of kindness and lightness in his tone to cheer her. "i shall often remember you, dear elfie," he said; "i shall keep your rose always, and take it with me wherever i go. you must not make it too hard for me to quit paris � you are glad to have me go on such an errand, are you not?" she presently commanded herself, bade her tears wait till another time as usual, and trying to get rid of those that covered her face, asked him "what errand?" he hesitated. "i have been thinking of what we were talking of yesterday, elfie," he said at length. "i am going to try to discover my duty, and then to do it." but fleda at that clasped his hand, and squeezing it in both hers, bent down her little head over it to hide her face and the tears that streamed again. he hardly knew how to understand, or what to say to her. he half suspected that there were depths in that childish mind beyond his fathoming. he was not, however, left to wait long. fleda, though she might now and then be surprised into showing it, never allowed her sorrow of any kind to press upon the notice or the time of others. she again checked herself and dried her face. "there is nobody else in paris that will be so sorry for my leaving it," said mr. carleton, half tenderly and half pleasantly. "there is nobody else that has so much cause," said elfie, near bursting out again, but she restrained herself. "and you will not come here again;, mr. carleton?" she said, after a few minutes. "i do not say that � it is possible � if i do, it will be to see you, elfie." a shadow of a smile passed over her face at that. it was gone instantly. "my mother will not leave paris yet," he went on � you will see her often." but he saw that fleda was thinking of something else; she scarce seemed to hear him. she was thinking of something that troubled her. "mr. carleton," she began, and her colour changed. "speak, elfie." her colour changed again. "mr. carleton, will you be displeased if i say something?" "don't you know me better than to ask me that, elfie?" he said, gently. "i want to ask you something � if you wont mind my saying it?" "what is it?" said he, reading in her face that a request was behind. "i will do it." her eyes sparkled, but she seemed to have some difficulty in going on. "i will do it whatever it is," he said, watching her. "will you wait for me one moment, mr. carleton?" "half an hour." she sprang away, her face absolutely flashing pleasure through her tears. it was much soberer, and again doubtful and changing colour, when a few minutes afterwards she came back with a book in her hand. with a striking mixture of timidity, modesty, and eagerness in her countenance, she came forward, and putting the little volume, which was her own bible, into mr. carleton's hands, said, under her breath, "please read it." she did not venture to look up. he saw what the book was; and then taking the gentle hand which had given it, he kissed it two or three times � if it had been a princess's he could not with more respect. "you have my promise, elfie," he said; "i need not repeat it." she raised her eves and gave him a look so grateful, so loving, so happy, that it dwelt for ever in his remembrance. a moment after it had faded, and she stood still where he had left her listening to his footsteps as they went down the stairs. she heard the last of them, and then sank upon her knees by a chair, and burst into a passion of tears. their time was now, and she let them come. it was not only the losing a loved and pleasant friend, it was not only the stirring of sudden and disagreeable excitement � poor elfie was crying for her bible. it had been her father's own � it was filled with his marks � it was precious to her above price � and elfie cried with all her heart for the loss of it. she had done what she had on the spur of the emergency � she was satisfied she had done right; she would not take it back if she could; but not the less her bible was gone, and the pages that loved eyes had looked upon were for hers to look upon no more. her very heart was wrung that she should have parted with it; and yet, what could she do? it was as bad as the parting with mr. carleton. that agony was over, and even that was shortened, for "hugh would find out that she had been crying." hours had passed, and the tears were dried, and the little face was bending over the wonted tasks, with a shadow upon its wonted cheerfulness, when rosaline came to tell her that victor said there was somebody in the passage who wanted to see her and would not come in. it was mr. carleton himself. he gave her a parcel, smiled at her without saying a word, kissed her hand earnestly, and was gone again. fleda ran to her own room, and took the wrappers off such a beauty of a bible as she had never seen � bound in blue velvet, with clasps of gold, and her initials in letters of gold upon the cover. fleda hardly knew whether to be most pleased or sorry; for to have its place so supplied seemed to put her lost treasure further away than ever. the result was another flood of very tender tears; in the very shedding of which, however, the new little bible was bound to her heart with cords of association as bright and as incorruptible as its gold mountings. chapter xv. "her sports were such as carried riches of knowledge upon the stream of delight." sidney. fleda had not been a year in paris, when her uncle suddenly made up his mind to quit it and go home. some trouble in money affairs, felt or feared, brought him to this step, which a month before he had no definite purpose of ever taking. there was cloudy weather in the financial world of new york, and he wisely judged it best that his own eyes should be on the spot to see to his own interests. nobody was sorry for this determination. mrs. rossitur always liked what her husband liked, but she had at the same time a decided predilection for home. marion was glad to leave her convent for the gay world, which her parents promised she should immediately enter. and hugh and fleda had too lively a spring of happiness within themselves to care where its outgoings should be. so home they came, in good mood, bringing with them all manner of parisian delights that paris could part with � furniture, that at home at least they might forget where they were; dresses, that, at home or abroad, nobody might forget where they had been; pictures, and statuary, and engravings, and books, to satisfy a taste really strong and well cultivated. and, indeed, the other items were quite as much for this purpose as for any other. a french cook for mr. rossitur, and even rosaline for his wife, who declared she was worth all the rest of paris. hugh cared little for any of these things; he brought home a treasure of books and a flute, to which he was devoted. fleda cared for them all, even monsieur emile and rosaline, for her uncle's and aunt's sake; but her special joy was a beautiful little king charles, which had been sent her by mr. carleton a few weeks before. it came with the kindest of letters, saying, that some matters had made it inexpedient for him to pass through paris on his way home, but that he hoped, nevertheless, to see her soon. that intimation was the only thing that made fleda sorry to leave paris. the little dog was a beauty, allowed to be so not only by his mistress but by every one else, of the true black and tan colours; and fleda's dearly loved and constant companion. the life she and hugh led was little changed by the change of place. they went out and came in as they had done in paris, and took the same quiet but intense happiness in the same quiet occupations and pleasures; only the tuileries and champs elysées had a miserable substitute in the battery, and no substitute at all anywhere else. and the pleasant drives in the environs of paris were missed too, and had nothing in new york to supply their place. mrs. rossitur always said it was impossible to get out of new york by land, and not worth the trouble to do it by water. but, then, in the house fleda thought there was a great gain. the dirty parisian hotel was well exchanged for the bright, clean, well-appointed house in state street. and if broadway was disagreeable, and the park a weariness to the eyes, after the dressed gardens of the french capital, hugh and fleda made it up in the delights of the luxuriously furnished library, and the dear at-home feeling of having the whole house their own. they were left, those two children, quite as much to themselves as ever. marion was going into company, and she and her mother were swallowed up in the consequent necessary calls upon their time. marion never had been anything to fleda. she was a fine, handsome girl, outwardly, but seemed to have more of her father than her mother in her composition, though colder-natured, and more wrapped up in self than mr. rossitur would be called by anybody that knew him. she had never done anything to draw fleda towards her, and even hugh had very little of her attention. they did not miss it. they were everything to each other. everything � for now morning and night there was a sort of whirlwind in the house which carried the mother and daughter round and round, and permitted no rest; and mr. rossitur himself was drawn in. it was worse than it had been in paris. there, with marion in her convent, there were often evenings when they did not go abroad nor receive company, and spent the time quietly and happily in each other's society. no such evenings now: if by chance there were an unoccupied one, mrs. rossitur and her daughter were sure to be tired, and mr. rossitur busy. hugh and fleda in those bustling times retreated to the library; mr. rossitur would rarely have that invaded; and while the net was so eagerly cast for pleasure among the gay company below, pleasure had often slipped away, and hid herself among the things on the library table, and was dancing on every page of hugh's book, and minding each stroke of fleda's pencil, and cocking the spaniel's ears whenever his mistress looked at him. king, the spaniel, lay on a silk cushion on the library table, his nose just touching fleda's fingers. fleda's drawing was mere amusement; she and hugh were not so burdened with studies that they had not always their evenings free, and, to tell truth, much more than their evenings. masters, indeed, they had; but the heads of the house were busy with the interests of their grown-up child, and, perhaps, with other interests, and took it for granted that all was going right with the young ones. "haven't we a great deal better time than they have down stairs, fleda?" said hugh, one of these evenings. "hum � yes" � answered fleda, abstractedly, stroking into order some old man in her drawing with great intentness. "king! you rascal � keep back and be quiet, sir!" nothing could be conceived more gentle and loving than fleda's tone of fault-finding, and her repulse only fell short of a caress. "what's he doing?" "wants to get into my lap." "why don't you let him?" "because i don't choose to � a silk cushion is good enough for his majesty. king!" (laying her soft cheek against the little dog's soft head, and forsaking her drawing for the purpose.) "how you do love that dog!" said hugh. "very well � why shouldn't i? � provided he steals no love from anybody else," said fleda, still caressing him. "what a noise somebody is making down stairs!" said hugh. " i don't think i should ever want to go to large parties, fleda; do you?" "i don't know," said fleda, whose natural taste for society was strongly developed; "it would depend upon what kind of parties they were." "i shouldn't like them, i know, of whatever kind," said hugh. "what are you smiling at?" "only mr. pickwick's face, that i am drawing here." hugh came round to look and laugh, and then began again. "i can't think of anything pleasanter than this room as we are now." "you should have seen mr. carleton's library," said fleda, in a musing tone, going on with her drawing. "was it so much better than this?" fleda's eyes gave a slight glance at the room, and then looked down again with a little shake of her head sufficiently expressive. "well," said hugh, "you and i do not want any better than this; do we, fleda?" fleda's smile � a most satisfactory one � was divided between him and king. "i don't believe," said hugh, "you would have loved that dog near so well if anybody else had given him to you." "i don't believe i should! � not a quarter," said fleda, with sufficient distinctness. "i never liked that mr. carleton as well as you did." "that is because you did not know him," said fleda, quietly. "do you think he was a good man, fleda?" "he was very good to me," said fleda, "always. what rides i did have on that great black horse of his!" � "a black horse?" "yes, a great black horse, strong, but so gentle, and he went so delightfully. his name was harold. oh, i should like to see that horse! when i wasn't with him, mr. carleton used to ride another, the greatest beauty of a horse, hugh � a brown arabian � so slender and delicate � her name was zephyr, and she used to go like the wind, to be sure. mr. carleton said he wouldn't trust me on such a fly-away thing." "but you didn't use to ride alone?" said hugh. "o no! � and i wouldn't have been afraid if he had chosen to take me on any one." "but do you think, fleda, he was a good man � as i mean?" "i am sure he was better than a great many others," answered fleda, evasively � "the worst of him was infinitely better than the best of half the people down stairs � mr. sweden included." "sweden! � you don't call his name right." "the worse it is called the better, in my opinion," said fleda. "well, i don't like him; but what makes you dislike him so much?" "i don't know � partly because uncle rolf and marion like him so much, i believe � i don't think there is any moral expression in his face." "i wonder why they like him," said hugh. it was a somewhat irregular and desultory education that the two children gathered under this system of things. the masters they had were rather for accomplishments and languages than for anything solid � the rest they worked out for themselves. fortunately they both loved books, and rational books; and hours and hours, when mrs. rossitur and her daughter were paying or receiving visits, they, always together, were stowed away behind the book-cases or in the library window, poring patiently over pages of various complexion � the soft turning of the leaves, or fleda's frequent attentions to king, the only sound in the room. they walked together, talking of what they had read, though, indeed, they ranged beyond that into nameless and numberless fields of speculation, where, if they sometimes found fruit, they as often lost their way. however, the habit of ranging was something. then when they joined the rest of the family at the dinner-table, especially if others were present, and most especially if a certain german gentleman happened to be there, who, the second winter after their return, fleda thought came very often, she and hugh would be sure to find the strange talk of the world that was going on unsuited and wearisome to them, and they would make their escape up-stairs again to handle the pencil, and to play the flute, and to read, and to draw plans for the future, while king crept upon the skirts of his mistress's gown, and laid his little head on her feet. nobody ever thought of sending them to school. hugh was a child of frail health, and though not often very ill, was often near it; and as for fleda, she and hugh were inseparable, and besides, by this time her uncle and aunt would almost as soon have thought of taking the mats off their delicate shrubs in winter, as of exposing her to any atmosphere less genial than that of home. for fleda, this doubtful course of mental training wrought singularly well. an uncommonly quick eye, and strong memory, and clear head, which she had even in childhood, passed over no field of truth or fancy without making their quiet gleanings; and the stores thus gathered, though somewhat miscellaneous and unarranged, were both rich and uncommon, and more than any one or she herself knew. perhaps such a mind thus left to itself knew a more free and luxuriant growth than could ever have flourished within the confinement of rules � perhaps a plant at once so strong and so delicate was safest without the hand of the dresser � at all events it was permitted to spring and to put forth all its native gracefulness alike unhindered and unknown. cherished as little fleda dearly was, her mind kept company with no one but herself � and hugh. as to externals; music was uncommonly loved by both the children, and by both cultivated with great success. so much came under mrs. rossitur's knowledge; also every foreign signor and madame that came into the house to teach them spoke with enthusiasm of the apt minds and flexible tongues that honoured their instructions. in private and in public, the gentle, docile, and affectionate children answered every wish, both of taste and judgment. and perhaps, in a world where education is not understood, their guardians might be pardoned for taking it for granted that all was right where nothing appeared that was wrong � certainly they took no pains to make sure of the fact. in this case, one of a thousand, their neglect was not punished with disappointment. they never found out that hugh's mind wanted the strengthening that early skilful training might have given it. his intellectual tastes were not so strong as fleda's � his reading was more superficial � his gleanings not so sound, and in far fewer fields, and they went rather to nourish sentiment and fancy than to stimulate thought, or lay up food for it. but his parents saw nothing of this. the third winter had not passed, when fleda's discernment saw that mr. sweden, as she called him, the german gentleman, would not cease coming to the house till he had carried off marion with him. her opinion on the subject was delivered to no one but hugh. that winter introduced them to a better acquaintance. one evening dr. gregory, an uncle of mrs. rossitur's, had been dining with her, and was in the drawing-room. mr. schwiden had been there too, and he and marion, and one or two other young people, had gone out to some popular entertainment. the children knew little of dr. gregory, but that he was a very respectable-looking elderly gentleman, a little rough in his manners. the doctor had not long been returned from a stay of some years in europe, where he had been collecting rare books for a fine public library, the charge of which was now entrusted to him. after talking some time with mr. and mrs. rossitur, the doctor pushed round his chair to take a look at the children. "so that's amy's child," said he. "come here, amy." "that is not my name," said the little girl, coming forward. "isn't it? it ought to be. what is, then?" "elfleda." "elfleda! where in the name of all that is auricular did you get such an outlandish name?" "my father gave it to me, sir," said fleda, with a dignified sobriety which amused the old gentleman. "your father! � hum � i understand. and couldn't your father find a cap that fitted you without going back to the old- fashioned days of king alfred?" "yes, sir; it was my grandmother's cap." "i am afraid your grandmother's cap isn't all of her that's come down to you," said he, tapping his snuff-box, and looking at her with a curious twinkle in his eyes. "what do you call yourself? haven't you some variations of this tongue-twisting appellative to serve for every day, and save trouble?" "they call me fleda," said the little girl, who could not help laughing. "nothing better than that?" fleda remembered two prettier nicknames which had been her's; but one had been given by dear lips long ago, and she was not going to have it profaned by common use; and "elfie" belonged to mr. carleton. she would own to nothing but fleda. "well, miss fleda," said the doctor, "are you going to school?" "no, sir." "you intend to live without such a vulgar thing as learning?" "no, sir. hugh and i have our lessons at home." "teaching each other, i suppose?" "o no, sir," said fleda, laughing; "mme. lascelles and mr. schweppenhesser, and signor barytone come to teach us, besides our music masters." "do you ever talk german with this mr. what's-his-name, who has just gone out with your cousin marion!" "i never talk to him at all, sir." "don't you? why not? don't you like him?" fleda said, "not particularly," and seemed to wish to let the subject pass, but the doctor was amused, and pressed it. "why, why don't you like him?" said he; "i am sure he's a fine-looking dashing gentleman; � dresses as well as anybody, and talks as much as most people � why don't you like him? isn't he a handsome fellow � eh?" "i dare say he is, to many people," said fleda. "she said she didn't think there was any moral expression in his face," said hugh, by way of settling the matter. "moral expression!" cried the doctor, "moral expression! and what if there isn't, you elf! � what if there isn't?" "i shouldn't care what other kind of expression it had," said fleda, colouring a little. mr. rossitur "pished" rather impatiently. the doctor glanced at his niece, and changed the subject. "well, who teaches you english, miss fleda? you haven't told me that yet." "oh, that we teach ourselves," said fleda, smiling, as if it was a very innocent question. "hum! � you do! pray how do you teach yourselves?" "by reading, sir." "reading! and what do you read? what have you read in the last twelve months, now?" "i don't think i could remember all exactly," said fleda. "but you have got a list of them all," said hugh, who chanced to have been looking over said list a day or two before, and felt quite proud of it. "let's have it, let's have it," said the doctor. and mrs. rossitur, laughing, said, "let's have it;" and even her husband commanded hugh to go and fetch it; so poor fleda, though not a little unwilling, was obliged to let the list be forthcoming. hugh brought it, in a neat little book covered with pink blotting paper. "now for it!" said the doctor; "let us see what this english amounts to. can you stand fire, elfleda?" " 'jan. . robinson crusoe.' * [* a true list made by a child of that age.] "hum � that sounds reasonable, at all events." "i had it for a new year's present," remarked fleda, who stood by with downcast eyes, like a person undergoing an examination. " 'jan. . histoire de france.' "what history of france is this?" fleda hesitated, and then said it was by lacretelle. "lacretelle? � what? of the revolution?" "no, sir; it is before that; it is in five or six large volumes." "what, louis xv.'s time," said the doctor, muttering to himself. " 'jan. . ditto, ditto.' " 'two' means the second volume, i suppose?" "yes, sir." "hum � if you were a mouse, you would gnaw through the wall in time, at that rate. this is in the original?" "yes sir." " 'feb. . paris. l. e. k.' "what do these hieroglyphics mean?" "that stands for the 'library of entertaining knowledge,' " said fleda. "but how is this? do you go hop, skip, and jump through these books, or read a little, and then throw them away'? here it is only seven days since you began the second volume of lacretelle � not time enough to get through it." "oh no, sir," said fleda, smiling: "i like to have several books that i am reading in at once; i mean at the same time, you know; and then if i am not in the mood of one i take up another." "she reads them all through," said hugh, "always, though she reads them very quick." "hum � i understand," said the old doctor, with a humorous expression, going on with the list. " 'march . hist. de france.' "but you finish one of these volumes, i suppose, before you begin another; or do you dip into different parts of the same work at once?" "oh no, sir; of course not!" " 'mar. . modern egyptians. l. e. k. ap. .' "what are these dates on the right, as well as on the left?" "those on the right show when i finished the volume." "well, i wonder what you were cut out for!" said the doctor. "a quaker! you aren't a quaker, are you?" "no, sir," said fleda, laughing. "you look like it," said he. " 'feb. . five penny magazines, finished mar. .' "they are in paper numbers, you know, sir." " 'april . hist. de. f.' "let us see � the third volume was finished, march � i declare you keep it up pretty well." " 'ap. . incidents of travel.' "whose is that?" "it is by mr. stephens." "how did you like it?" "oh, very much, indeed." "ay, i see you did; you finished it by the first of may. 'tour to the hebrides' � what, johnson's?" "yes sir." "read it all fairly through?" "yes, sir; certainly." he smiled, and went on. " 'may . peter simple.'" there was quite a shout at the heterogeneous character of fleda's reading, which she, not knowing exactly what to make of it, heard rather abashed. " 'peter simple!' " said the doctor, settling himself to go on with his list; "well, let us see. 'world without souls.' why, you elf! read in two days." "it is very short, you know, sir." "what did you think of it?" "i liked parts of it very much." he went on, still smiling. " 'june . goldsmith's animated nature.' " 'june i . life of washington.' "what life of washington?" "marshall's." "hum. � 'july . goldsmith's an. na.' as i live, begun the very day the first volume was finished! did you read the whole of that?" "oh yes, sir. i liked that book very much." " 'july . hist. de france.' "two histories on hand at once! out of all rule, miss fleda! we must look after you." "yes sir; sometimes i wanted to read one, and sometimes i wanted to read the other." "and you always do what you want to do, i suppose?" "i think the reading does me more good in that way." " 'july . paley's natural theology!' " there was another shout. poor fleda's eyes filled with tears. "what in the world put that book into your head, or before your eyes?" said the doctor. "i don't know, sir � i thought i should like to read it," said fleda, drooping her eyelids, that the bright drops under them might not be seen. "and finished in eleven days, as i live!" said the doctor, wagging his head. " 'july . goldsmith's a. n.' " 'aug. . do. do.' " "that is one of fleda's favourite books," put in hugh. "so it seems. ' hist. de france.' � what does this little cross mean?" "that shows when the book is finished," said fleda, looking on the page � "the last volume, i mean." " 'retrospect of western travel' � 'goldsmith's a. n., last vol.' � 'mémoires de sully' � in the french ?" "yes, sir." " 'life of newton' � what's this? � 'sep. . fairy queen!' � not spenser's?" "yes, sir, i believe so � the fairy queen, in five volumes." the doctor looked up comically at his niece and her husband, who were both sitting or standing close by. " 'sep. . paolo e virginia' � in what language?" "italian, sir; i was just beginning, and i haven't finished it yet." " 'sep. . milner's church history!' �what the deuce! � 'vol. . fairy queen.' � why, this must have been a favourite book, too." "that's one of the books fleda loves best," said hugh; � "she went through that very fast." "over it, you mean, i reckon; how much did you skip, fleda?" "i didn't skip at all," said fleda; "i read every word of it." " ' sep. . mém. de sully.' well, you're an industrious mouse, i'll say that for you. what's this? � 'don quixote!' � 'life of howard.' � 'nov. . fairy queen.' � 'nov. . fairy queen.' � 'dec. . goldsmith's england.' � well, if this list of books is a fair exhibit of your taste and capacity, you have a most happily proportioned set of intellectuals. let us see � history, fun, facts, nature, theology, poetry and divinity! � upon my soul! � and poetry and history the leading features! � a little fun � as much as you could lay your hand on, i'll warrant, by that pinch in the corner of your eye. and here, the eleventh of december, you finished the fairy queen; and ever since, i suppose, you have been imagining yourself the 'faire una,' with hugh standing for prince arthur or the red-cross knight � haven't you?" "no, sir. i didn't imagine anything about it." "don't tell me. what did you read it for?" "only because i liked it, sir. i liked it better than any other book i read last year." "you did! well, the year ends, i see, with another volume of sully. i wont enter upon this year's list. pray, how much of all these volumes do you suppose you remember? i'll try and find out next time i come to see you. i can give a guess, if you study with that little pug in your lap." "he is not a pug!" said fleda, in whose arms king was lying luxuriously � "and he never gets into my lap, besides." "don't he! why not?" "because i don't like it, sir. i don't like to see dogs in laps." "but all the ladies in the land do it, you little saxon! it is universally considered a mark of distinction." "i can't help what all the ladies in the land do," said fleda. "that wont alter my liking; and i don't think a lady's lap is a place for a dog." "i wish you were my daughter!' said the old doctor, shaking his head at her with a comic fierce expression of countenance, which fleda perfectly understood and laughed at accordingly. then as the two children with the dog went off into the other room, he said, turning to his niece and mr. rossitur � "if that girl ever takes a wrong turn with the bit in her teeth, you'll be puzzled to hold her. what stuff will you make the reins of?" "i don't think she ever will take a wrong turn," said mr. rossitur. "a look is enough to manage her, if she did," said his wife. " hugh is not more gentle." "i should be inclined rather to fear her not having stability of character enough," said mr. rossitur. "she is so very meek and yielding, i almost doubt whether anything would give her courage to take ground of her own, and keep it." "hum � well, well!" said the old doctor, walking off after the children. "prince arthur, will you bring this damsel up to my den some of these days? � the 'faire una' is safe from the wild beasts, you know; � and i'll show her books enough to build herself a house with, if she likes." the acceptance of this invitation led to some of the pleasantest hours of fleda's city life. the visits to the great library became very frequent. dr. gregory and the children were little while in growing fond of each other; he loved to see them, and taught them to come at such times as the library was free of visitors and his hands of engagements. then he delighted himself with giving them pleasure, especially fleda, whose quick curiosity and intelligence were a constant amusement to him. he would establish the children in some corner of the large apartments, out of the way behind a screen of books and tables; and there, shut out from the world, they would enjoy a kind of fairyland pleasure over some volume or set of engravings that they could not see at home. hours and hours were spent so. fleda would stand clasping her hands before audubon, or rapt over a finely illustrated book of travels, or going through and through, with hugh, the works of the best masters of the pencil and the graver. the doctor found he could trust them, and then all the treasures of the library were at their disposal. very often he put chosen pieces of reading into their hands; and it was pleasantest of all when he was not busy and came and sat down with them; for with all his odd manner he was extremely kind, and could and did put them in the way to profit greatly by their opportunities. the doctor and the children had nice times there together. they lasted for many months, and grew more and more worth. mr. schwiden carried off marion, as fleda had foreseen he would, before the end of spring; and after she was gone, something like the old pleasant paris life was taken up again. they had no more company now than was agreeable, and it was picked not to suit marion's taste, but her father's � a very different matter. fleda and hugh were not forbidden the dinner-table, and so had the good of hearing much useful conversation, from which the former, according to custom, made her steady, precious gleanings. the pleasant evenings in the family were still better enjoyed than they used to be. fleda was older; and the snug, handsome american house had a home-feeling to her that the wide parisian saloons never knew. she had become bound to her uncle and aunt by all but the ties of blood; nobody in the house ever remembered that she was not born their daughter; except, indeed, fleda herself, who remembered everything, and with whom the forming of any new affections or relations somehow never blotted out or even faded the register of the old. it lived in all its brightness; the writing of past loves and friendships was as plain as ever in her heart; and often, often the eye and the kiss of memory fell upon it. in the secret of her heart's core; for still, as at the first, no one had a suspicion of the movings of thought that were beneath that childish brow. no one guessed how clear a judgment weighed and decided upon many things. no one dreamed, amid their busy, bustling, thoughtless life, how often, in the street, in her bed, in company and alone, her mother's last prayer was in fleda's heart; well cherished; never forgotten. her education and hugh's meanwhile went on after the old fashion. if mr. rossitur had more time, he seemed to have no more thought for the matter; and mrs. rossitur, fine-natured as she was, had never been trained to self-exertion, and, of course, was entirely out of the way of training others. her children were pieces of perfection, and needed no oversight; her house was a piece of perfection too. if either had not been, mrs. rossitur would have been utterly at a loss how to mend matters, � except in the latter instance, by getting a new housekeeper; and as mrs. renney, the good woman who held that station, was in everybody's opinion another treasure, mrs. rossitur's mind was uncrossed by the shadow of such a dilemma. with mrs. renney, as with every one else, fleda was held in highest regard � always welcome to her premises, and to those mysteries of her trade which were sacred from other intrusion. fleda's natural inquisitiveness carried her often to the housekeeper's room, and made her there the same curious and careful observer that she had been in the library or at the louvre. "come," said hugh, one day when he had sought and found her in mrs. renney's precincts � "come away, fleda! what do you want to stand here and see mrs. renney roll butter and sugar for?" "my dear mr. rossitur," said fleda, "you don't understand quelquechoses. how do you know but i may have to get my living by making them, some day?" "by making what?" said hugh. "quelquechoses � anglice, kickshaws � alias, sweet trifles, denominated merrings." "pshaw, fleda!" "miss. fleda is more likely to get her living by eating them, mr. hugh, isn't she?" said the housekeeper. "i hope to decline both lines of life," said fleda, laughingly, as she followed hugh out of the room. but her chance remark had grazed the truth sufficiently near. those years in new york were a happy time for little fleda � a time when mind and body flourished under the sun of prosperity. luxury did not spoil her; and any one that saw her in the soft furs of her winter wrappings, would have said that delicate cheek and frame were never made to know the unkindliness of harsher things. chapter xvi "whereunto is money good? who has it not wants hardihood. who has it has much trouble and care, who once has had it has despair." longfellow. _from the german_. it was the middle of winter. one day hugh and fleda had come home from their walk. they dashed into the parlour, complaining that it was bitterly cold, and began unrobing before the glowing grate, which was a mass of living fire from end to end. mrs. rossitur was there in an easy chair, alone, and doing nothing. that was not a thing absolutely unheard of, but fleda had not pulled off her second glove before she bent down towards her, and in a changed tone tenderly asked if she did not feel well. mrs. rossitur looked up in her face a minute, and then drawing her down, kissed the blooming cheeks, one and the other, several times. but as she looked off to the fire again, fleda saw that it was through watering eyes. she dropped on her knees by the side of the easy chair, that she might have a better sight of that face, and tried to read it as she asked again what was the matter; and hugh, coming to the other side, repeated her question. his mother passed an arm round each, looking wistfully from one to the other, and kissing them earnestly, but she said only, with a very heart-felt emphasis, "poor children!" fleda was now afraid to speak, but hugh pressed his inquiry. "why 'poor', mamma? what makes you say so?" "because you are poor really, dear hugh. we have lost everything we have in the world." "mamma! what do you mean?" "your father has failed." "failed! � but, mamma, i thought he wasn't in business?" "so i thought," said mrs. rossitur; "i didn't know people could fail that were not in business; but it seems they can. he was a partner in some concern or other, and it's all broken to pieces, and your father with it, he says!" mrs. rossitur's face was distressful. they were all silent for a little, hugh kissing his mother's wet cheeks. fleda had softly nestled her head in her bosom. but mrs. rossitur soon recovered herself. "how bad is it, mother?" said hugh. "as bad as can possibly be." "is everything gone?" "everything!" � "you don't mean the house, mamma?" "the house, and all that is in it." the children's hearts were struck, and they were silent again, only a trembling touch of fleda's lips spoke sympathy and patience, if ever a kiss did. "but, mamma," said hugh, after he had gathered breath for it, "do you mean to say that everything, literally everything, is gone? is there nothing left?" "nothing in the world � not a sou." "then what are we going to do?" mrs. rossitur shook her head, and had no words. fleda looked across to hugh to ask no more, and putting her arms around her aunt's neck, and laying cheek to cheek, she spoke what comfort she could. "don't, dear aunt lucy! � there will be some way � things always turn out better than at first, i dare say we shall find out it isn't so bad by and by. don't you mind it, and then we wont. we can be happy anywhere together." if there was not much in the reasoning, there was something in the tone of the words, to bid mrs. rossitur bear herself well. its tremulous sweetness, its anxious love, was without a taint of self-recollection; its sorrow was for her. mrs. rossitur felt that she must not show herself overcome. she again kissed and blessed, and pressed closer in her arms, her little comforter, while her other hand was given to hugh. "i have only heard about it this morning. your uncle was here telling me just now � a little while before you came in. don't say anything about it before him." why not? the words struck fleda disagreeably. "what will be done with the house, mamma?" said hugh. "sold � sold, and everything in it." "papa's books, mamma! and all the things in the library!" exclaimed hugh, looking terrified. mrs. rossitur's face gave the answer; do it in words she could not. the children were a long time silent, trying hard to swallow this bitter pill; and still hugh's hand was in his mother's, and fleda's head lay on her bosom. thought was busy, going up and down, and breaking the companionship they had so long held with the pleasant drawing-room, and the tasteful arrangements among which fleda was so much at home; the easy chairs in whose comfortable arms she had had so many an hour of nice reading; the soft rug, where, in the very wantonness of frolic, she had stretched herself to play with king; that very luxurious bright grateful of fire, which had given her so often the same warm welcome home � an apt introduction to the other stores of comfort which awaited her above and below stairs; the rich-coloured curtains and carpet, the beauty of which had been such a constant gratification to fleda's eye; and the exquisite french table and lamps they had brought out with them, in which her uncle and aunt had so much pride, and which could nowhere be matched for elegance � they must all be said "good-bye" to; and as yet fancy had nothing to furnish the future with; it looked very bare. king had come in, and wagged himself up close to his mistress, but even he could obtain nothing but the touch of most abstracted finger-ends. yet, though keenly recognised, these thoughts were only passing compared with the anxious and sorrowful ones that went to her aunt and uncle; for hugh and her, she judged, it was less matter. and mrs. rossitur's care was most for her husband; and hugh's was for them all. his associations were less quick, and his tastes less keen, than fleda's, and less a part of himself. hugh lived in his affections; with a salvo to them he could bear to lose anything and go anywhere. "mamma," said he, after a long time � "will anything be done with fleda's books?" a question that had been in fleda's mind before, but which she had patiently forborne just then to ask. "no, indeed!" said mrs. rossitur, pressing fleda more closely, and kissing in a kind of rapture the sweet, thoughtful face � "not yours, my darling; they can't touch anything that belongs to you � i wish it was more � and i don't suppose they will take anything of mine either." "ah, well!" said fleda, raising her head, "you have got quite a parcel of books, aunt lucy, and i have a good many � how well it is i have had so many given me since i have been here! that will make quite a nice little library, both together, and hugh has some; i thought perhaps we shouldn't have one at all left, and that would have been rather bad." "rather bad!" mrs. rossitur looked at her, and was dumb. "only don't you wear a sad face for anything!" fleda went on earnestly; "we shall be perfectly happy if you and uncle rolf only will be." "my dear children!" said mrs. rossitur, wiping her eyes, "it is for you i am unhappy � you and your uncle; i do not think of myself." "and we do not think of ourselves, mamma," said hugh. "i know it; but having good children don't make one care less about them," said mrs. rossitur, the tears fairly raining over her fingers. hugh pulled the fingers down and again tried the efficacy of his lips. "and you know papa thinks most of you, mamma." "ah, your father!" said mrs. rossitur shaking her head; "i am afraid it will go hard with him! but i will be happy as long as i have you two, or else i should be a very wicked woman. it only grieves me to think of your education and prospects" � "fleda's piano, mamma!" said hugh, with sudden dismay. mrs. rossitur shook her head again and covered her eyes, while fleda stretching across to hugh, gave him, by look and touch, an earnest admonition to let that subject alone. and then, with a sweetness and gentleness like nothing but the breath of the south wind, she wooed her aunt to hope and resignation. hugh held back, feeling or thinking that fleda could do it better than he, and watching her progress, as mrs. rossitur took her hand from her face and smiled, at first mournfully, and then really mirthfully, in fleda's face, at some sally that nobody but a nice observer would have seen was got up for the occasion; and it was hardly that, so completely had the child forgotten her own sorrow in ministering to that of another. "blessed are the peacemakers!" it is always so. "you are a witch or a fairy," said mrs. rossitur, catching her again in her arms � "nothing else! you must try your powers of charming upon your uncle." fleda laughed without any effort; but as to trying her slight wand upon mr. rossitur, she had serious doubts. and the doubts became certainty when they met at dinner; he looked so grave that she dared not attack him. it was a gloomy meal, for the face that should have lighted the whole table cast a shadow there. without at all comprehending the whole of her husband's character, the sure magnetism of affection had enabled mrs. rossitur to divine his thoughts. pride was his ruling passion; not such pride as mr. carleton's, which was rather like exaggerated self-respect, but wider and more indiscriminate in its choice of objects. it was pride in his family name; pride in his own talents, which were considerable; pride in his family, wife, and children, and all of which he thought did him honour � if they had not, his love for them assuredly would have known some diminishing; pride in his wealth, and in the attractions with which it surrounded him; and, lastly, pride in the skill, taste, and connoisseurship which enabled him to bring those attractions together. furthermore, his love for both literature and art was true and strong; and for many years he had accustomed himself to lead a life of great luxuriousness, catering for body and mind in every taste that could be elegantly enjoyed; and again proud of the elegance of every enjoyment. the change of circumstances which touched his pride, wounded him at every point where he was vulnerable at all. fleda had never felt so afraid of him. she was glad to see dr. gregory come in to tea. mr. rossitur was not there. the doctor did not touch upon affairs, if he had heard of their misfortune; he went on as usual in a rambling cheerful way all tea-time, talking mostly to fleda and hugh. but after tea he talked no more, but sat still and waited till the master of the house came in. fleda thought mr. rossitur did not look glad to see him. but how could he look glad about anything? he did not sit down, and for a few minutes there was a kind of meaning silence. fleda sat in the corner with the heartache, to see her uncle's gloomy tramp up and down the rich apartment, and her aunt lucy's gaze at him. "humph! � well! � so!" said the doctor, at last, "you've all gone overboard with a smash, i understand?" the walker gave him no regard. "true, is it?" said the doctor. mr. rossitur made no answer, unless a smothered grunt might be taken for one. "how came it about?" "folly and devilry." "humph! � bad capital to work upon. i hope the principal is gone with the interest. what's the amount of your loss?" "ruin." "humph! french ruin, or american ruin? because there's a difference. what do you mean?" "i am not so happy as to understand you, sir; but we shall not pay seventy cents, on the dollar." the old gentleman got up, and stood before the fire, with his back to mr. rossitur, saying, "that was rather bad." "what are you going to do?" mr. rossitur hesitated a few moments for an answer, and then said � "pay the seventy cents, and begin the world anew with nothing." "of course," said the doctor. "i understand that; but where and how? what end of the world will you take up first?." mr. rossitur writhed in impatience or disgust, and after again hesitating, answered drily, that he had not determined. "have you thought of anything in particular?" "zounds! no, sir, nothing except my misfortune. that's enough for one day." "and too much," said the old doctor, "unless you can mix some other thought with it. that's what i came for. will you go into business?" fleda was startled by the vehemence with which her uncle said, "no, never!" and he presently added, "i'll do nothing here." "well, well," said the doctor to himself; "will you go into the country?" "yes! � anywhere! the further the better." mrs. rossitur startled, but her husband's face did not encourage her to open her lips. "ay; but on a farm, i mean?" "on anything, that will give me a standing." "i thought that, too," said dr. gregory, now whirling about. "i have a fine piece of land that wants a tenant. you may take it at an easy rate, and pay me when the crops come in. i shouldn't expect so young a farmer, you know, to keep any closer terms." "how far is it?" "far enough � up in wyandot county." "how large?" "a matter of two or three hundred acres of so. it is very fine, they say. it came into a fellow's hands that owed me what i thought was a bad debt: so, for fear he would never pay me, i thought best to take it and pay him; whether the place will ever fill my pockets again remains to be seen � doubtful, i think." "i'll take it, dr. gregory, and see if i cannot bring that about." "pooh, pooh! fill your own. i am not careful about it; the less money one has the more it jingles, unless it gets too low, indeed." "i will take it, dr. gregory, and feel myself under obligation to you." "no, i told you, not till the crops come in. no obligation is binding till the term is up. well, i'll see you further about it." "but rolf!" said mrs. rossitur, "stop a minute; uncle, don't go yet; rolf don't know anything in the world about the management of a farm; neither do i." "the 'faire una' can enlighten you," said the doctor, waving his hand towards his little favourite in the corner. � "but i forgot! well, if you don't know, the crops wont come in; that's all the difference." but mrs. rossitur looked anxiously at her husband. "do you know exactly what you are undertaking, rolf!" she said. "if i do not, i presume i shall discover in time." "but it may be too late," said mrs. rossitur, in the tone of sad remonstrance that had gone all the length it dared. "it can not be too late!" said her husband, impatiently. "if i do not know what i am taking up, i know very well what i am laying down; and it does not signify a straw what comes after � if it was a snail-shell, that would cover my head!" "hum �" said the old doctor, � "the snail is very well in his way, but i have no idea that he was ever cut out for a farmer." "do you think you will find it a business you would like, mr. rossitur?" said his wife, timidly. "i tell you," said he, facing about, "it is not a question of liking. i will like anything that will bury me out of the world." poor mrs. rossitur! she had not yet come to wishing herself buried alive, and she had small faith in the permanence of her husband's taste for it. she looked desponding. "you don't suppose," said mr. rossitur, stopping again in the middle of the floor, after another turn and a half � "you do not suppose that i am going to take the labouring of the farm upon myself? i shall employ some one, of course, who understands the matter, to take all that off my hands." the doctor thought of the old proverb, and the alternative the plough presents to those who would thrive by it; fleda thought of mr. didenhover; mrs. rossitur would fain have suggested that such an important person must be well paid; but neither of them spoke. "of course," said mr. rossitur, haughtily, as he went on with his walk, "i do not expect, any more than you, to live in the back woods the life we have been leading here. that is at an end." "is it a very wild country?" asked mrs. rossitur of the doctor. "no wild beasts, my dear, if that is your meaning � and i do not suppose there are even many snakes left by this time." "no, but, dear uncle, i mean, is it in all unsettled state?" "no, my dear, not at all � perfectly quiet." "ah! but do not play with me," exclaimed poor mrs. rossitur, between laughing and crying; � "i mean, is it far from any town, and not among neighbours?" "far enough to be out of the way of morning calls," said the doctor; "and when your neighbours come to see you, they will expect tea by four o'clock. there are not a great many near by, but they don't mind coming from five or six miles off." mrs. rossitur looked chilled, and horrified. to her he had described a very wild country indeed. fleda would have laughed if it had not been for her aunt's face; but that settled down into a doubtful anxious look that pained her. it pained the old doctor too. "come," said he, touching her pretty chin with his fore-finger � "what are you thinking of? folks may be good folks, and yet have tea at four o'clock, mayn't they?" "when do they have dinner!" said mrs. rossitur. "i really don't know. when you get settled up there, i'll come and see." "hardly," said mrs. rossitur. "i don't believe it would be possible for emile to get dinner before the tea-time; and i am sure i shouldn't like to propose such a thing to mrs. renney." the doctor fidgeted about a little on the hearth-rug, and looked comical, perfectly understood by one acute observer in the corner. "are you wise enough to imagine, lucy," said mr. rossitur, sternly, "that you can carry your whole establishment with you? what do you suppose emile and mrs. renney would do in a farmhouse?" "i can do without whatever you can," said mrs. rossitur, meekly. "i did not know that you would be willing to part with emile, and i do not think mrs. renney would like to leave us." "i told you before, it is no more a question of liking," answered he. "and if it were," said the doctor, "i have no idea that monsieur emile and madame renney would be satisfied with the style of a country kitchen, or think the interior of yankeeland a hopeful sphere for their energies." "what sort of a house is it?" said mrs. rossitur. "a wooden-frame house, i believe." "no, but, dear uncle, do tell me." "what sort of a house? � humph � large enough, i am told. it will accommodate you in one way." "comfortable?" "i don't know," said the doctor, shaking his head � "depends on who's in it. no house is that per se. but i reckon there isn't much plate glass. i suppose you'll find the doors all painted blue, and every fireplace with a crane in it." "a crane!" said mrs. rossitur, to whose imagination the word suggested nothing but a large water-bird with a long neck. "ay!" said the doctor. "but it's just as well. you wont want hanging lamps there � and candelabra would hardly be in place either, to hold tallow candles." "tallow candles!" exclaimed mrs. rossitur. her husband winced, but said nothing. "ay," said the doctor, again � "and make them yourself, if you are a good housewife. come, lucy," said he, taking her hand, "do you know how the wild fowl do on the chesapeake? � duck and swim under water till they can show their heads with safety. 't wont spoil your eyes to see by a tallow candle." mrs. rossitur half smiled, but looked anxiously towards her husband. "pooh, pooh! rolf wont care what the light burns that lights him to independence � and when you get there, you may illuminate with a whole whale if you like. by the way, rolf, there is a fine water power up yonder, and a saw-mill in good order, they tell me, but a short way from the house. hugh might learn to manage it, and it would be fine employment for him." "hugh!" said his mother, disconsolately. mr. rossitur neither spoke nor looked an answer. fleda sprang forward. "a saw-mill! � uncle orrin! � where is it?" "just a little way from the house, they say. you can't manage it, fair saxon! � though you look as if you would undertake all the mills in creation, for a trifle." "no, but the place, uncle orrin; � where is the place?" "the place? hum � why it's up in wyandot county � some five or six miles from the montepoole spring � what's this they call it? � queechy! � by the way!" said he, reading fleda's countenance, "it is the very place where your father was born! � it is! i didn't think of that before." fleda's hands were clasped. "oh, i am very glad!" she said. "it's my old home. it is the most lovely place, aunt lucy! � most lovely � and we shall have some good neighbours there too. oh, i am very glad! � the dear old saw-mill! �" "dear old saw-mill!" said the doctor, looking at her. "rolf, i'll tell you what, you shall give me this girl. i want her. i can take better care of her, perhaps, now, than you can. let her come to me when you leave the city � it will be better for her than to help work the saw-mill; and i have as good a right to her as anybody, for amy before her was like my own child." the doctor spoke not with his usual light jesting manner, but very seriously. hugh's lips parted � mrs. rossitur looked with a sad thoughtful look at fleda � mr. rossitur walked up and down looking at nobody. fleda watched him. "what does fleda herself say?" said he, stopping short suddenly. his face softened, and his eye changed as it fell upon her, for the first time that day. fleda saw her opening; she came to him, within his arms, and laid her head upon his breast. "what does fleda say?" said he, softly kissing her. fleda's tears said a good deal, that needed no interpreter. she felt her uncle's hand passed more and more tenderly over her head � so tenderly that it made it all the more difficult for her to govern herself and stop her tears. but she did stop them, and looked up at him then with such a face � so glowing through smiles and tears � it was like a very rainbow of hope upon the cloud of their prospects. mr. rossitur felt the power of the sunbeam wand; it reached his heart; it was even with a smile that he said, as he looked at her � "will you go to your uncle orrin, fleda?" "not if uncle rolf will keep me." "keep you!" said mr. rossitur; "i should like to see who wouldn't keep you! there, dr. gregory, you have your answer." "hum! � i might have known," said the doctor, "that the 'faire una' would abjure cities. come here, you elf!" � and he wrapped her in his arms so tight she could not stir � "i have a spite against you for this. what amends will you make me for such an affront?" "let me take breath," said fleda, laughing, "and i'll tell you. you don't want any amends, uncle orrin." "well," said he, gazing with more feeling than he cared to show into that sweet face, so innocent of apology-making � you shall promise me that you will not forget uncle orrin, and the old house in bleecker street." fleda's eyes grew more wistful. "and will you promise me that if ever you want anything, you will come, or send straight there?" "if ever i want anything i can't get nor do without," said fleda. "pshaw!" said the doctor, letting her go, but laughing at the same time. " mind my words, mr. and mrs. rossitur � if ever that girl takes the wrong bit in her mouth � well, well! i'll go home." home he went. the rest drew together particularly near, round the fire � hugh at his father's shoulder, and fleda kneeling on the rug, between her uncle and aunt, with a hand on each; and there was not one of them whose gloom was not lightened by her bright face and cheerful words of hope, that, in the new scenes they were going to, "they would all be so happy." the days that followed were gloomy, but fleda's ministry was unceasing. hugh seconded her well, though more passively. feeling less pain himself, he perhaps for that very reason was less acutely alive to it in others � not so quick to foresee and ward off, not so skilful to allay it. fleda seemed to have intuition for the one and a charm for the other. to her there was pain in every parting; her sympathies clung to whatever wore the livery of habit. there was hardly any piece of furniture, there was no book or marble or picture, that she could take leave of without a pang. but it was kept to herself; her sorrowful good-byes were said in secret; before others, in all those weeks, she was a very euphrosyne � light, bright, cheerful of eye, and foot, and hand � a shield between her aunt and every annoyance that she could take instead � a good little fairy, that sent her sunbeam wand, quick as a flash, where any eye rested gloomily. people did not always find out where the light came from, but it was her witchery. the creditors would touch none of mrs. rossitur's things, her husband's honourable behaviour had been so thorough. they even presented him with one or two pictures, which he sold for a considerable sum; and to mrs. rossitur they gave up all the plate in daily use, a matter of great rejoicing to fleda, who knew well how sorely it would have been missed. she and her aunt had quite a little library, too, of their own private store; a little one it was indeed, but the worth of every volume was now trebled in her eyes. their furniture was all left behind; and in its stead went some of neat light painted wood, which looked to fleda deliciously countrified. a promising cook and housemaid were engaged to go with them to the wilds, and about the first of april they turned their backs upon the city. chapter xvii. "the thresher's weary flinging-tree the lee-lang day had tired me: and whan the day had closed his e'e, far i' the west, ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, i gaed to rest." burns. queechy was reached at night. fleda had promised herself to be off almost with the dawn of light the next morning to see aunt miriam, but a heavy rain kept her fast at home the whole day. it was very well; she was wanted there. despite the rain and her disappointment it was impossible for fleda to lie abed from the time the first grey light began to break in at her windows � those old windows that had rattled their welcome to her all night. she was up and dressed, and had had a long consultation with herself over matters and prospects before anybody else had thought of leaving the indubitable comfort of a feather bed for the doubtful contingency of happiness that awaited them down stairs. fleda took in the whole length and breadth of it, half wittingly and half through some finer sense than that of the understanding. the first view of things could not strike them pleasantly; it was not to be looked for. the doors did not happen to be painted blue; they were a deep chocolate colour � doors and wainscot. the fire-places were not all furnished with cranes, but they were all uncouthly wide and deep. nobody would have thought them so indeed in the winter, when piled up with blazing hickory logs; but in summer they yawned uncomfortably upon the eye. the ceilings were low; the walls rough papered or rougher whitewashed; the sashes not hung; the rooms, otherwise well enough proportioned, stuck with little cupboards, in recesses and corners, and out-of-the-way places, in a style impertinently suggestive of housekeeping, and fitted to shock any symmetrical set of nerves. the old house had undergone a thorough putting in order, it is true; the chocolate paint was just dry, and the paper-hangings freshly put up; and the bulk of the new furniture had been sent on before and unpacked, though not a single article of it was in its right place. the house was clean and tight � that is, as tight as it ever was. but the colour had been unfortunately chosen � perhaps there was no help for that; the paper was very coarse and countrified; the big windows were startling, they looked so bare, without any manner of drapery; and the long reaches of wall were unbroken by mirror or picture-frame. and this to eyes trained to eschew ungracefulness and that abhorred a vacuum as much as nature is said to do! even fleda felt there was something disagreeable in the change, though it reached her more through the channel of other people's sensitiveness than her own. to her it was the dear old house still, though her eyes had seen better things since they loved it. no corner or recess could have a pleasanter filling, to her fancy, than the old brown cupboard or shelves which had always been there. but what would her uncle say to them! and to that dismal paper! and what would aunt lucy think of those rattling window sashes! this cool raw day, too, for the first! � think as she might, fleda did not stand still to think. she had gone softly all over the house, taking a strange look at the old places and the images with which memory filled them, thinking of the last time, and many a time before that � and she had at last come back to the sitting-room, long before anybody else was down stairs; the two tired servants were just rubbing their eyes open in the kitchen, and speculating themselves awake. leaving them, at their peril, to get ready a decent breakfast (by the way she grudged them the old kitchen), fleda set about trying what her wand could do towards brightening the face of affairs in the other part of the house. it was quite cold enough for a fire, luckily. she ordered one to be made, and meanwhile busied herself with the various stray packages and articles of wearing apparel that lay scattered about, giving the whole place a look of discomfort. fleda gathered them up, and bestowed them in one or two of the impertinent cupboards, and then undertook the labour of carrying out all the wrong furniture that had got into the breakfast-room, and bringing in that which really belonged there from the hall and the parlour beyond, moving like a mouse that she might not disturb the people up stairs. a quarter of an hour was spent in arranging to the best advantage these various pieces of furniture in the room; it was the very same in which mr. carleton and charlton rossitur had been received the memorable day of the roast-pig dinner, but that was not the uppermost association in fleda's mind. satisfied at last that a happier effect could not be produced with the given materials, and well pleased too, with her success, fleda turned to the fire. it was made, but not by any means doing its part to encourage the other portions of the room to look their best. fleda knew something of wood fires from old times; she laid hold of the tongs, and touched and loosened and coaxed a stick here and there, with a delicate hand, till, seeing the very opening it had wanted � without which neither fire nor hope can keep its activity � the blaze sprang up energetically, crackling through all the piled oak and hickory, and driving the smoke clean out of sight. fleda had done her work. it would have been a misanthropical person indeed that could have come into the room then, and not felt his face brighten. one other thing remained � setting the breakfast-table; and fleda would let no hands but hers do it this morning; she was curious about the setting of tables. how she remembered or divined where everything had been stowed; how quietly and efficiently her little fingers unfastened hampers and pried into baskets, without making any noise; till all the breakfast paraphernalia of silver, china, and table- linen was found, gathered from various receptacles, and laid in most exquisite order on the table. state street never saw better. fleda stood and looked at it then, in immense satisfaction, seeing that her uncle's eye would miss nothing of its accustomed gratification. to her the old room, shining with firelight and new furniture, was perfectly charming. if those great windows were staringly bright, health and cheerfulness seemed to look in at them. and what other images of association, with "nods and becks and wreathed smiles," looked at her out of the curling flames in the old wide fire- place! and one other angel stood there unseen � the one whose errand it is to see fulfilled the promise, "give, and it shall be given to you; full measure, and pressed down, and heaped up, and running over." a little while fleda sat contentedly eyeing her work; then a new idea struck her and she sprang up. in the next meadow, only one fence between, a little spring of purest water ran through from the woodland; water-cresses used to grow there. uncle rolf was very fond of them. it was pouring with rain; but no matter. her heart beating between haste and delight, fleda slipped her feet into galoches, and put an old cloak of hugh's over her head, and ran out through the kitchen, the old accustomed way. the servants exclaimed and entreated, but fleda only flashed a bright look at them from under her cloak as she opened the door, and ran off, over the wet grass, under the fence, and over half the meadow, till she came to the stream. she was getting a delicious taste of old times; and though the spring water was very cold, and with it and the rain one-half of each sleeve was soon thoroughly wetted, she gathered her cresses, and scampered back with a pair of eyes and cheeks that might have struck any city belle chill with envy. "then, but that's a sweet girl!" said mary the cook to jane the housemaid. "a lovely countenance she has," answered jane, who was refined in her speech. "take her away, and you've taken the best of the house, i'm a thinking." "mrs. rossitur is a lady," said jane, in a low voice. "ay, and a very proper behaved one she is, and him the same, that is, for a gentleman i mean; but jane; i say, i'm thinking he'll have eat too much sour bread lately! i wish i knowed how they'd have their eggs boiled till i'd have them ready." "sure it's on the table itself they'll do 'em," said jane. "they've an elegant little fixture in there for the purpose." "is that it!" nobody found out how busy fleda's wand had been in the old breakfast-room. but she was not disappointed; she had not worked for praise. her cresses were appreciated; that was enough. she enjoyed her breakfast � the only one of the party that did. mr. rossitur looked moody; his wife looked anxious; and hugh's face was the reflection of theirs. if fleda's face reflected anything, it was the sunlight of heaven. "how sweet the air is after new york!" said she. they looked at her. there was a fresh sweetness of another kind about that breakfast-table. they all felt it, and breathed more freely. "delicious cresses!' said mrs. rossitur. "yes; i wonder where they came from," said her husband. "who got them?" "i guess fleda knows," said hugh. "they grow in a little stream of spring water over here in the meadow," said fleda, demurely. "yes, but you don't answer my question," said her uncle, putting his hand under her chin, and smiling at the blushing face he brought round to view. "who got them?" "i did." "you have been out in the rain?" "oh, queechy rain don't hurt me, uncle rolf." "and don't it wet you either?" "yes, sir � a little." "how much?" "my sleeves � oh, i dried them long ago." "don't you repeat that experiment, fleda," said he, seriously, but with a look that was a good reward to her, nevertheless. "it is a raw day!" said mrs. rossitur, drawing her shoulders together, as an ill-disposed window-sash gave one of its admonitory shakes. "what little panes of glass for such big windows!" said hugh. "but what a pleasant prospect through them," said fleda � "look, hugh! � worth all the batteries and parks in the world." "in the world! in new york, you mean," said her uncle. "not better than the champs elysées?" "better to me," said fleda. "for to-day i must attend to the prospect in-doors," said mrs. rossitur. "now, aunt lucy," said fleda, "you are just going to put yourself down in the corner, in the rocking-chair there, with your book, and make yourself comfortable; and hugh and i will see to all these things. hugh and i and mary and jane � that makes quite an army of us, and we can do everything without you, and you must just keep quiet. i'll build you up a fine fire, and then, when i don't know what to do, i will come to you for orders. uncle rolf, would you be so good as just to open that box of books in the hall, because i am afraid hugh isn't strong enough. i'll take care of you, aunt lucy." fleda's plans were not entirely carried out, but she contrived pretty well to take the brunt of the business on her own shoulders. she was as busy as a bee the whole day. to her all the ins and outs of the house, its advantages and disadvantages, were much better known than to anybody else; nothing could be done but by her advice; and, more than that, she contrived by some sweet management to baffle mrs. rossitur's desire to spare her, and to bear the larger half of every burden that should have come upon her aunt. what she had done in the breakfast-room, she did or helped to do in the other parts of the house; she unpacked boxes and put away clothes and linen, in which hugh was her excellent helper; she arranged her uncle's dressing-table with a scrupulosity that left nothing uncared-for; and the last thing before tea she and hugh dived into the book-box to get out some favourite volumes to lay upon the table in the evening, that the room might not look to her uncle quite so dismally bare. he had been abroad, notwithstanding the rain, near the whole day. it was a weary party that gathered round the supper-table that night � weary, it seemed, as much in mind as in body; and the meal exerted its cheering influence over only two of them; mr. and mrs. rossitur sipped their cups of tea abstractedly. "i don't believe that fellow, donohan, knows much about his business," remarked the former at length. "why don't you get somebody else, then?" said his wife. "i happen to have engaged him, unfortunately." a pause. "what doesn't he know?" mr. rossitur laughed, not a pleasant laugh. "it would take too long to enumerate. if you had asked me what part of his business he does understand, i could have told you shortly that i don't know." "but you do not understand it very well yourself. are you sure?" "am i sure of what?" "that this man does not know his business?" "no further sure than i can have confidence in my own common sense." "what will you do?" said mrs. rossitur, after a moment. a question men are not fond of answering, especially when they have not made up their minds. mr. rossitur was silent, and his wife too, after that. "if i could get some long-headed yankee to go along with him," he remarked again, balancing his spoon on the edge of his cup, in curious illustration of his own mental position at the moment � donohan being the only fixed point, and all the rest wavering in uncertainty. there were a few silent minutes before anybody answered. "if you want one, and don't know of one, uncle rolf," said fleda, "i dare say cousin seth might." that gentle modest speech brought his attention round upon her. his face softened. "cousin seth? who is cousin seth?" "he is aunt miriam's son," said fleda. "seth plumfield. he's a very good farmer, i know; grandpa used to say he was; and he knows everybody." "mrs. plumfield," said mrs. rossitur, as her husband's eyes went inquiringly to her � "mrs. plumfield was mr. ringgan's sister, you remember. this is her son." "cousin seth, eh?" said mr. rossitur, dubiously. " well � why, fleda, your sweet air don't seem to agree with you, as far as i see; i have not known you look so � so triste � since we left paris. what have you been doing, my child?" "she has been doing everything, father," said hugh. "oh! it's nothing," said fleda, answering mr. rossitur's look and tone of affection with a bright smile. " i'm a little tired, that's all!" "a little tired!' she went to sleep on the sofa directly after supper, and slept like a baby all the evening; but her power did not sleep with her; for that quiet, sweet, tired face, tired in their service, seemed to bear witness against the indulgence of anything harsh or unlovely in the same atmosphere. a gentle witness-bearing, but strong in its gentleness. they sat close together round the fire, talked softly, and from time to time cast loving glances at the quiet little sleeper by their side. they did not know that she was a fairy, and that though her wand had fallen out of her hand it was still resting upon them. chapter xviii. "_gon_. here is everything advantageous to life. _ant_. true; save means to live." tempest. fleda's fatigue did not prevent her being up before sunrise the next day. fatigue was forgotten, for the light of a fair spring morning was shining in at her windows, and she meant to see aunt miriam before breakfast. she ran out to find hugh, and her merry shout reached him before she did, and brought him to meet her. "come, hugh! i'm going off up to aunt miriam's, and i want you. come! isn't this delicious?" "hush!" said hugh. " father's just here in the barn. i can't go, fleda." fleda's countenance clouded. "can't go! what's the matter? can't you go, hugh?" he shook his head, and went off into the barn. a chill came upon fleda. she turned away with a very sober step. what if her uncle was in the barn, why should she hush? he never had been a check upon her merriment � never; what was coming now? hugh, too, looked disturbed. it was a spring morning no longer. fleda forgot the glittering wet grass that had set her own eyes a-sparkling but a minute ago; she walked along, cogitating, swinging her bonnet by the strings in thoughtful vibration, till, by the help of sunlight and sweet air, and the loved scenes, her spirits again made head and swept over the sudden hindrance they had met. there were the blessed old sugar maples, seven in number, that fringed the side of the road � how well fleda knew them! only skeletons now, but she remembered how beautiful they looked after the october frosts; and presently they would be putting out their new green leaves, and be beautiful in another way. how different in their free-born luxuriance from the dusty and city-prisoned elms and willows she had left! she came to the bridge then, and stopped with a thrill of pleasure and pain to look and listen. unchanged! � all but herself. the mill was not going; the little brook went by quietly chattering to itself, just as it had done the last time she saw it, when she rode past on mr. carleton's horse. four and a half years ago! and now how strange that she had come to live there again. drawing a long breath, and swinging her bonnet again, fleda softly went on up the hill, past the saw-mill, the ponds, the factories, the houses of the settlement. the same, and not the same! bright with the morning sun, and yet, somehow, a little browner and homelier than of old they used to be. fleda did not care for that � she would hardly acknowledge it to herself � her affection never made any discount for infirmity. leaving the little settlement behind her thoughts as behind her back, she ran on now towards aunt miriam's, breathlessly, till field after field was passed, and her eye caught a bit of the smooth lake, and the old farm-house in its old place. very brown it looked, but fleda dashed on, through the garden, and in at the front door. nobody at all was in the entrance-room, the common sitting- room of the family. with trembling delight, fleda opened the well-known door, and stole noiselessly through the little passage-way to the kitchen. the door of that was only on the latch, and a gentle movement of it gave to fleda's eye the tall figure of aunt miriam, just before her, stooping down to look in at the open mouth of the oven, which she was at that moment engaged in supplying with more work to do. it was a huge one, and, beyond her aunt's head, fleda could see in the far end the great loaves of bread, half baked, and more near a perfect squad of pies and pans of gingerbread just going in to take the benefit of the oven's milder mood. fleda saw all this, as it were, without seeing it; she stood still as a mouse and breathless, till her aunt turned, and then � a spring and a half shout of joy, and she had clasped her in her arms, and was crying with her whole heart. aunt miriam was taken all aback � she could do nothing but sit down and cry too, and forgot her oven-door." "aint breakfast ready yet, mother?" said a manly voice coming in. "i must be off to see after them ploughs. hollo � why, mother!" the first exclamation was uttered as the speaker put the door to the oven's mouth; the second as he turned in quest of the hand that should have done it. he stood wondering, while his mother and fleda, between laughing and crying, tried to rouse themselves and look up. "what is all this?" "don't you see, seth?" "i see somebody that had like to have spoiled your whole baking � i don't know who it is yet." "don't you now, cousin seth?" said fleda, shaking away her tears and getting up. "i ha'n't quite lost my recollection. cousin, you must give me a kiss. how do you do! you ha'n't forgot how to colour, i see, for all you've been so long among the pale city folks." "i hav'n't forgotten anything, cousin seth," said fleda, blushing indeed, but laughing and shaking his hand with as hearty good-will. "i don't believe you have � anything that is good," said he. "where have you been all this while?" "oh, part of the time in new york, and part of the time in paris, and some other places." "well, you ha'n't seen anything better than queechy, or queechy bread and butter, have you?" "no, indeed!" "come, you shall give me another kiss for that," said he, suiting the action to the word; "and now sit down and eat as much bread and butter as you can. it's just as good as it used to be. come, mother, i guess breakfast is ready by the looks of that coffee-pot." "breakfast ready!" said fleda. "ay indeed; it's a good half-hour since it ought to ha' been ready. if it aint, i can't stop for it. them boys will be running their furrows like sarpents if i aint there to start them." "which like sarpents," said fleda, � "the furrows or the men?" "well, i was thinking of the furrows," said he, glancing at her. "i guess there aint cunning enough in the others to trouble them. come, sit down, and let me see whether you have forgot a queechy appetite." "i don't know," said fleda, doubtfully; "they will expect me at home." "i don't care who expects you � sit down! you aint going to eat any bread and butter this morning but my mother's � you haven't got any like it at your house. mother, give her a cup of coffee, will you, and set her to work." fleda was too willing to comply with the invitation, were it only for the charm of old times. she had not seen such a table for years, and little as the conventionalities of delicate taste were known there, it was not without a comeliness of its own in its air of wholesome abundance and the extreme purity of all its arrangements. if but a piece of cold pork were on aunt miriam's table, it was served with a nicety that would not have offended the most fastidious; and amid irregularities that the fastidious would scorn, there was a sound excellence of material and preparation that they very often fail to know. fleda made up her mind she would be wanted at home; all the rather, perhaps, for hugh's mysterious "hush;" and there was something in the hearty kindness and truth of these friends that she felt particularly genial. and if there was a lack of silver at the board, its place was more than filled with the pure gold of association. they sat down to table, but aunt miriam's eyes devoured fleda. mr. plumfield set about his more material breakfast with all despatch. "so mr. rossitur has left the city for good?" said aunt miriam. "how does he like it?" "he hasn't been here but a day, you know, aunt miriam," said fleda evasively. "is he anything of a farmer?" asked her cousin. "not much," said fleda. "is he going to work the farm himself?" "how do you mean?" "i mean, is he going to work the farm himself, or hire it out, or let somebody else work it on shares?" "i don't know," said fleda � "i think he is going to have a farmer, and oversee things himself." "he'll get sick o' that," said seth; "unless he's the luck to get hold of just the right hand." "has he hired anybody yet?" said aunt miriam, after a little interval of supplying fleda with "bread and butter." "yes, ma'am, i believe so." "what's his name?" "donohan � an irishman, i believe; uncle rolf hired him in new york." "for his head man?" said seth, with a sufficiently intelligible look. "yes," said fleda. "why?" but he did not immediately answer her. "the land's in poor heart now," said he, "a good deal of it; it has been wasted; it wants first-rate management to bring it in order, and make much of it for two or three years to come. i never see an irishman's head yet that was worth more than a joke. their hands are all of 'em that's good for anything." "i believe uncle rolf wants to have an american to go with this man," said fleda. seth said nothing; but fleda understood the shake of his head as he reached over after a pickle. "are you going to keep a dairy, fleda?" said her aunt. "i don't know, ma'am � i haven't heard anything about it." "does mrs. rossitur know anything about country affairs?" "no � nothing," fleda said, her heart sinking perceptibly with every new question. "she hasn't any cows yet?" she? � any cows! � but fleda only said they had not come; she believed they were coming. "what help has she got?" "two women � irishwomen," said fleda. "mother, you'll have to take hold and learn her," said mr. plumfield. "teach her?" cried fleda, repelling the idea � "aunt lucy? she cannot do anything � she isn't strong enough; not anything of that kind." "what did she come here for?" said seth. "you know," said his mother, "that mr. rossitur's circumstances obliged him to quit new york." "ay, but that aint my question. a man had better keep his fingers off anything he can't live by. a farm's one thing or t'other, just as it's worked. the land wont grow specie � it must be fetched out of it. is mr. rossitur a smart man?" "very," fleda said, "about everything but farming." "well, if he'll put himself to school, maybe he'll learn," seth concluded, as he finished his breakfast and went off. fleda rose too, and was standing thoughtfully by the fire, when aunt miriam came up and put her arms round her. fleda's eyes sparkled again. "you're not changed � you're the same little fleda," she said. "not quite so little," said fleda, smiling. "not quite so little, but my own darling. the world hasn't spoiled thee yet." "i hope not, aunt miriam." "you have remembered your mother's prayer, fleda?" "always!" how tenderly aunt miriam's hand was passed over the bowed head � how fondly she pressed her! and fleda's answer was as fond. "i wanted to bring hugh up to see you, aunt miriam, with me, but he couldn't come. you will like hugh. he is so good!" "i will come down and see him," said aunt miriam; and then she went to look after her oven's doings. fleda stood by, amused to see the quantities of nice things that were rummaged out of it. they did not look like mrs. renney's work, but she knew from old experience that they were good. "how early you must have been up to put these things in," said fleda. "put them in! yes, and make them. these were all made this morning, fleda." "this morning! � before breakfast! why, the sun was only just rising when i set out to come up the hill, and i wasn't long coming, aunt miriam." "to be sure; that's the way to get things done. before breakfast! � what time do you breakfast, fleda?" "not till eight or nine o'clock." "eight or nine! � here?" "there hasn't been any change made yet, and i don't suppose there will be. uncle rolf is always up early, but he can't bear to have breakfast early." aunt miriam's face showed what she thought; and fleda went away with all its gravity and doubt settled like lead upon her heart. though she had one of the identical apple pies in her hands, which aunt miriam had quietly said was for "her and hugh," and though a pleasant savour of old times was about it, fleda could not get up again the bright feeling with which she had come up the hill. there was a miserable misgiving at heart. it would work off in time. it had begun to work off, when, at the foot of the hill, she met her uncle. he was coming after her to ask mr. plumfield about the desideratum of a yankee. fleda put her pie in safety behind a rock, and turned back with him, and aunt miriam told them the way to seth's ploughing ground. a pleasant word or two had set fleda's spirits a-bounding again, and the walk was delightful. truly the leaves were not on the trees, but it was april, and they soon would be; there was promise in the light, and hope in the air, and everything smelt of the country and spring-time. the soft tread of the sod, that her foot had not felt for so long, the fresh look of the newly-turned earth; here and there the brilliance of a field of winter grain, and that nameless beauty of the budding trees, that the full luxuriance of summer can never equal � fleda's heart was springing for sympathy. and to her, with whom association was everywhere so strong, there was in it all a shadowy presence of her grandfather, with whom she had so often seen the spring-time bless those same hills and fields long ago. she walked on in silence, as her manner commonly was when deeply pleased; there were hardly two persons to whom she would speak her mind freely then. mr. rossitur had his own thoughts. "can anything equal the spring-time?" she burst forth at length. her uncle looked at her and smiled. "perhaps not; but it is one thing," said he, sighing, "for taste to enjoy, and another thing for calculation to improve." "but one can do both, can't one?" said fleda, brightly. "i don't know," said he, sighing again. "hardly." fleda knew he was mistaken, and thought the sighs out of place. but they reached her; and she had hardly condemned them before they set her off upon a long train of excuses for him, and she had wrought herself into quite a fit of tenderness by the time they reached her cousin. they found him on a gentle side-hill, with two other men and teams, both of whom were stepping away in different parts of the field. mr. plumfield was just about setting off to work his way to the other side of the lot, when they came up with him. fleda was not ashamed of her aunt miriam's son, even before such critical eyes as those of her uncle. farmer-like as were his dress and air, they showed him, nevertheless, a well- built, fine-looking man, with the independent bearing of one who has never recognised any but mental or moral superiority. his face might have been called handsome; there was at least manliness in every line of it; and his excellent dark eye showed an equal mingling of kindness and acute common sense. let mr. plumfield wear what clothes he would, one felt obliged to follow burns' notable example, and pay respect to the man that was in them. "a fine day, sir," he remarked to mr. rossitur, after they had shaken hands. "yes, and i will not interrupt you but a minute. mr. plumfield, i am in want of hands � hands for this very business you are about, ploughing � and fleda says you know everybody; so i have come to ask if you can direct me." " heads or hands, do you want?" said seth, clearing his boot- sole from some superfluous soil upon the share of his plough. "why both, to tell you the truth. i want bands and teams, for that matter, for i have only two, and i suppose there is no time to be lost. and i want very much to get a person thoroughly acquainted with the business to go along with my man. he is an irishman, and i am afraid not very well accustomed to the ways of doing things here." "like enough," said seth; " and the worst of 'em is, you can't learn 'em." "well! � can you help me?" "mr. douglass!" said seth, raising his voice to speak to one of his assistants who was approaching them � "mr. douglass! you're holding that 'ere plough a little too obleekly for my grounds." "very good, mr. plumfield!" said the person called upon, with a quick accent that intimated, "if you don't know what is best, it is not my affair!" � the voice very peculiar, seeming to come from no lower than the top of his throat, with a guttural roll of the words. "is that earl douglass?" said fleda. "you remember him?" said her cousin, smiling. "he's just where he was, and his wife too. well, mr. rossitur, 'tain't very easy to find what you want just at this season, when most folks have their hands full, and help is all taken up. i'll see if i can't come down and give you a lift myself with the ploughing, for a day or two, as i'm pretty beforehand with the spring, but you'll want more than that. i ain't sure � i haven't more hands than i'll want myself, but i think it is possible squire springer may spare you one of his'n. he aint taking in any new land this year, and he's got things pretty snug; i guess he don't care to do any more than common, � anyhow, you might try. you know where uncle joshua lives, fleda? well, philetus � what now?" they had been slowly walking along the fence towards the furthest of mr. plumfield's coadjutors, upon whom his eye had been curiously fixed as he was speaking � a young man who was an excellent sample of what is called "the raw material." he had just come to a sudden stop in the midst of the furrow when his employer called to him; and he answered, somewhat lack-a- daisically � "why, i've broke this here clavis: i ha'n't touched anything nor nothing, and it broke right in teu!" "what do you 'spose 'll be done now?" said mr. plumfield, gravely, going up to examine the fracture. "well, 't wa'n't none of my doings," said the young man. "i ha'n't touched anything nor nothing, and the mean thing broke right in teu. 'tain't so handy as the old kind o' plough, by a long jump." "you go 'long down to the house and ask my mother for a new clavis; and talk about ploughs when you know how to hold 'em," said mr. plumfield. "it don't look so difficult a matter," said mr. rossitur, � "but i am a novice myself. what is the principal thing to be attended to in ploughing, mr. plumfield?" there was a twinkle in seth's eye, as he looked down upon a piece of straw he was breaking to bits, which fleda, who could see, interpreted thoroughly. "well," said he, looking up � "the breadth of the stitches and the width and depth of the furrow must be regulated according to the nature of the soil and the lay of the ground, and what you're ploughing for. there's stubble-ploughing, and breaking up old leys, and ploughing for fallow crops, and ribbing, where the land has been some years in grass, and so on; and the plough must be geared accordingly, and so as not to take too much land nor go out of the land; and after that the best part of the work is to guide the plough right, and run the furrows straight and even." he spoke with the most impenetrable gravity, while mr. rossitur looked blank and puzzled. fleda could hardly keep her countenance. "that row of poles," said mr. rossitur, presently, "are they to guide you in running the furrow straight?" "yes, sir, they are to mark out the crown of the stitch. i keep 'em right between the horses, and plough 'em down one after another. it's a kind of way country-folks play at nine- pins," said seth, with a glance half inquisitive, half sly, at his questioner. mr. rossitur asked no more. fleda felt a little uneasy again. it was rather a longish walk to uncle joshua's, and hardly a word spoken on either side. the old gentleman was "to hum;" and while fleda went back into some remote part of the house to see "aunt syra," mr. rossitur set forth his errand. "well, and so you're looking for help � eh?" said uncle joshua, when he had heard him through. "yes, sir � i want help." "and a team too?" "so i have said, sir," mr. rossitur answered rather shortly. "can you supply me?" "well, i don't know as i can," said the old man, rubbing his hands slowly over his knees. "you ha'n't got much done yet, i s'pose?" "nothing. i came the day before yesterday." "land's in rather poor condition in some parts, aint it?" "i really am not able to say, sir, � till i have seen it." "it ought to be," said the old gentleman, shaking his head, � "the fellow that was there last didn't do right by it. he worked the land too hard, and didn't put on it anywhere near what he had ought to; i guess you'll find it pretty poor in some places. he was trying to get all he could out of it, i s'pose. there's a good deal of fencing to be done too, aint there?" "all that there was, sir, � i have done none since i came." "seth plumfield got through ploughing yet?" "we found him at it." "ay, he's a smart man. what are you going to do, mr. rossitur, with that piece of marsh land that lies off to the south east of the barn, beyond the meadow, between the hills? i had just sich another, and i �" "before i do anything with the wet land, mr. � i am so unhappy as to have forgotten your name �" "springer, sir," said the old gentleman, � "springer � joshua springer. that is my name, sir." "mr. springer, before i do anything with the wet land, i should like to have something growing on the dry; and as that is the present matter in hand, will you be so good as to let me know whether i can have your assistance." "well, i don't know," said the old gentleman; "there aint anybody to send but my boy lucas, and i don't know whether he would make up his mind to go or not." "well, sir!" said mr. rossitur, rising, "in that case, i will bid you good morning. i am sorry to have given you the trouble." "stop," said the old man, "stop a bit. just sit down. i'll go in and see about it." mr. rossitur sat down, and uncle joshua left him to go into the kitchen and consult his wife, without whose counsel, of late years especially, he rarely did anything. they never varied in opinion, but aunt syra's wits supplied the steel edge to his heavy metal. "i don't know but lucas would as lieve go as not," the old gentleman remarked on coming back from this sharpening process, � "and i can make out to spare him, i guess. you calculate to keep him, i s'pose?" "until this press is over; and perhaps longer, if i find he can do what i want." "you'll find him pretty handy at a'most anything, but i mean � i s'pose he'll get his victuals with you?" "i have made no arrangement of the kind," said mr. rossitur, controlling with some effort his rebelling muscles. "donohan is boarded somewhere else, and for the present it will be best for all in my employ to follow the same plan." "very good," said uncle joshua; "it makes no difference � only, of course, in that case it is worth more, when a man has to find himself and his team." "whatever it is worth, i am quite ready to pay, sir." "very good. you and lucas can agree about that. he'll be along in the morning." so they parted; and fleda understood the impatient quick step with which her uncle got over the ground. "is that man a brother of your grandfather?" "no, sir � oh no! only his brother-in-law. my grandmother was his sister, but they weren't in the least like each other." "i should think they could not," said mr. rossitur. "oh, they were not!" fleda repeated. "i have always heard that." after paying her respects to aunt syra in the kitchen, she had come back time enough to hear the end of the discourse in the parlour, and had felt its full teaching. doubts returned, and her spirits were sobered again. not another word was spoken till they reached home; when fleda seized upon hugh, and went off to the rock after her forsaken pie. "have you succeeded?" asked mrs. rossitur, while they were gone. "yes � that is, a cousin has kindly consented to come and help me." "a cousin!" said mrs. rossitur. "ay � we're in a nest of cousins." "in a what, mr. rossitur?" "in a nest of cousins; and i had rather be in a nest of rooks. i wonder if i shall be expected to ask my ploughmen to dinner! every second man is a cousin, and the rest are uncles." chapter xix. "whilst skies are blue and bright, whilst flowers are gay, whilst eyes that change ere night make glad the day; whilst yet the calm hours creep, dream thou � and from thy sleep then wake to weep." shelley. the days of summer flew by, for the most part lightly, over the heads of hugh and fleda. the farm was little to them but a place of pretty and picturesque doings, and the scene of nameless delights by wood and stream, in all which, all that summer, fleda rejoiced; pulling hugh along with her, even when sometimes he would rather have been poring over his books at home. she laughingly said it was good for him, and one half, at least, of every fine day their feet were abroad. they knew nothing, practically, of the dairy, but that it was an inexhaustible source of the sweetest milk and butter, and, indirectly, of the richest custards and syllabubs. the flock of sheep that now and then came in sight, running over the hill-side, were to them only an image of pastoral beauty, and a soft link with the beauty of the past. the two children took the very cream of country life. the books they had left were read with greater eagerness than ever. when the weather was "too lovely to stay in the house," shakespeare, or massillon, or sully, or the "curiosities of literature," or "corinne," or milner's church history � for fleda's reading was as miscellaneous as ever � was enjoyed under the flutter of leaves and along with the rippling of the mountain spring; whilst king curled himself up on the skirt of his mistress's gown, and slept for company; hardly more thoughtless and fearless of harm than his two companions. now and then fleda opened her eyes to see that her uncle was moody and not like himself, and that her aunt's gentle face was clouded in consequence; and she could not sometimes help the suspicion that he was not making a farmer of himself; but the next summer-wind would blow these thoughts away, or the next look of her flowers would put them out of her head. the whole courtyard in front of the house had been given up to her peculiar use as a flower garden, and there she and hugh made themselves very busy. but the summer-time came to an end. it was a november morning, and fleda had been doing some of the last jobs in her flower-beds. she was coming in with spirits as bright as her cheeks, when her aunt's attitude and look, more than usually spiritless, suddenly checked them. fleda gave her a hopeful kiss, and asked for the explanation. "how bright you look, darling!" said her aunt, stroking her cheek. "yes, but you don't, aunt lucy. what has happened?" "mary and jane are going away." "going away! � what for?" "they are tired of the place � don't like it, i suppose." "very foolish of them! well, aunt lucy, what matter? we can get plenty more in their room." "not from the city � not possible; they would not come at this time of year." "sure? � well, then, here we can, at any rate." "here! but what sort of persons shall we get here? and your uncle � just think!" � "oh, but i think we can manage," said fleda. "when do mary and jane want to go?" "immediately! � to-morrow; they are not willing to wait till we can get somebody. think of it!" "well, let them go," said fleda; "the sooner the better." "yes: and i am sure i don't want to keep them; but" � and mrs. rossitur wrung her hands � "i haven't money enough to pay them quite � and they wont go without it." fleda felt shocked; so much that she could not help looking it. "but can't uncle rolf give it you?" mrs. rossitur shook her head. "i have asked him." "how much is wanting?" "twenty-five. think of his not being able to give me that!" � mrs. rossitur burst into tears. "now don't, aunt lucy!" said fleda, guarding well her own composure; "you know he has had a great deal to spend upon the farm, and paying men, and all, and it is no wonder that he should be a little short just now � now, cheer up! � we can get along with this, anyhow." "i asked him," said mrs. rossitur, through her tears, "when he would be able to give it to me; and he told me he didn't know!" fleda ventured no reply, but some of the tenderest caresses that lips and arms could give; and then sprang away, and in three minutes was at her aunt's side again. "look here, aunt lucy," said she, gently, "here is twenty dollars, if you can manage the five." "where did you get this?" mrs. rossitur exclaimed. "i got it honestly. it is mine, aunt lucy," said fleda, smiling. "uncle orrin gave me some money, just before we came away, to do what i liked with; and i haven't wanted to do anything with it till now." but this seemed to hurt mrs. rossitur more than all the rest. leaning her head forward upon fleda's breast, and clasping her arms about her, she cried worse tears than fleda had seen her shed. if it had not been for the emergency, fleda would have broken down utterly too. "that it should have come to this! � i can't take it, dear fleda! �" "yes, you must, aunt lucy," said fleda, soothingly. "i couldn't do anything else with it that would give me so much pleasure. i don't want it; it would lie in my drawer till i don't know when. we'll let these people be off as soon as they please. don't take it so; uncle rolf will have money again � only just now he is out, i suppose � and we'll get somebody else in the kitchen that will do nicely; you see if we don't." mrs. rossitur's embrace said what words were powerless to say. "but i don't know how we're to find any one here in the country � i don't know who'll go to look � i am sure your uncle wont want to; and hugh wouldn't know �" "i'll go," said fleda, cheerfully � "hugh and i. we can do famously, if you'll trust me. i wont promise to bring home a french cook." "no, indeed; we must take what we can get. but you can get no one to-day, and they will be off by the morning's coach; what shall we do to-morrow � for dinner? � your uncle �" "i'll get dinner," said fleda, caressing her; "i'll take all that on myself. it sha'n't be a bad dinner either. uncle rolf will like what i do for him, i dare say. now, cheer up, aunt lucy; do; that's all i ask of you. wont you � for me?" she longed to speak a word of that quiet hope with which in every trouble she secretly comforted herself � she wanted to whisper the words that were that moment in her own mind, "truly, i know that it shall be well with them that fear god;" but her natural reserve and timidity kept her lips shut to her grief. the women were paid off and dismissed, and departed in the next day's coach from montepoole. fleda stood at the front door to see them go, with a curious sense that there was an empty house at her back, and indeed upon her back. and in spite of all the cheeriness of her tone to her aunt, she was not without some shadowy feeling that soberer times might be coming upon them. "what is to be done now?" said hugh, close beside her. "oh, we are going to get somebody else," said fleda. "where?" "i don't know! you and i are going to find out." "you and i!" "yes. we are going out after dinner, hugh, dear," said she, turning her bright merry face towards him � "to pick up somebody." linking her arm within his, she went back to the deserted kitchen premises, to see how her promise about talking mary's place was to be fulfilled. "do you know where to look?" said hugh. "i've a notion; but the first thing is dinner, that uncle rolf mayn't think the world is turning topsy-turvy. there is nothing at all here, hugh � nothing in the world but bread � it's a blessing there is that. uncle rolf will have to be satisfied with a coffee dinner to-day, and i'll make him the most superb omelette that my skill is equal to! hugh, dear, you shall set the table. � you don't know how? � then you shall make the toast, and i will set it the first thing of all. you perceive it is well to know how to do everything, mr. hugh rossitur." "where did you learn to make omelettes?" said hugh, with laughing admiration, as fleda bared two pretty arms, and ran about, the very impersonation of good-humoured activity. the table was set � the coffee was making � and she had him established at the fire with two great plates, a pile of slices of bread, and the toasting-iron. "where? oh, don't you remember the days of mrs. renney? i have seen emile make them. and by dint of trying to teach mary this summer, i have taught myself. there is no knowing, you see, what a person may come to." "i wonder what father would say, if he knew you had made all the coffee this summer?" "that is an unnecessary speculation, my dear hugh, as i have no intention of telling him. but see! that is the way with speculators! 'while they go on refining,' the toast burns!" the coffee, and the omelette, and the toast, and mr. rossitur's favourite french salad, were served with beautiful accuracy; and he was quite satisfied. but aunt lucy looked sadly at fleda's flushed face, and saw that her appetite seemed to have gone off in the steam of her preparations. fleda had a kind of heart-feast, however, which answered as well. hugh harnessed the little wagon, for no one was at hand to do it, and he and fleda set off as early as possible after dinner. fleda's thoughts had turned to her old acquaintance, cynthia gall, who she knew was out of employment, and staying at home somewhere near montepoole. they got the exact direction from aunt miriam, who approved of her plan. it was a pleasant, peaceful drive they had. they never were alone together, they two, but vexations seemed to lose their power, or be forgotten; and an atmosphere of quietness gather about them, the natural element of both hearts. it might refuse its presence to one, but the attraction of both together was too strong to be resisted. miss cynthia's present abode was in an out-of-the-way place, and a good distance off; they were some time in reaching it. the barest-looking and dingiest of houses, set plump in a green field, without one softening or home-like touch from any home-feeling within; not a flower, not a shrub, not an out- house, not a tree near. one would have thought it a deserted house, but that a thin wreath of smoke lazily stole up from one of the brown chimneys; and graceful as that was, it took nothing from the hard, stern barrenness below, which told of a worse poverty than that of paint and glazing. "can this be the place?" said hugh. "it must be. you stay here with the horse, and i'll go in and seek my fortune. � don't promise much," said fleda, shaking her head. the house stood back from the road. fleda picked her way to it along a little footpath which seemed to be the equal property of the geese. her knock brought an invitation to "come in." an elderly woman was sitting there, whose appearance did not mend the general impression. she had the same dull and unhopeful look that her house had. "does mrs. gall live here?" "i do," said this person. "is cynthia at home?" the woman, upon this, raised her voice, and directed it at an inner door. "lucindy!" said she, in a diversity of tones; "lucindy! tell cynthy here's somebody wants to see her." but no one answered; and throwing the work from her lap, the woman muttered she would go and see, and left fleda, with a cold invitation to sit down. dismal work! fleda wished herself out of it. the house did not look poverty-stricken within, but poverty must have struck to the very heart, fleda thought, where there was no apparent cherishing of anything. there was no absolute distress visible, neither was there a sign of real comfort, or of a happy home. she could not fancy it was one. she waited so long, that she was sure cynthia did not hold herself in readiness to see company. and when the lady at last came in, it was with very evident marks of "smarting up" about her. "why, it's flidda ringgan!" said miss gall, after a dubious look or two at her visitor. "how do you do? i didn't 'spect to see you. how much you have growed!" she looked really pleased, and gave fleda's hand a very strong grasp as she shook it. "there aint no fire here to-day," pursued cynthy, paying her attentions to the fire-place; "we let it go down on account of our being all busy out at the back of the house. i guess you're cold, aint you." fleda said, "no;" and remembered that the woman she had first seen was certainly not busy at the back of the house, nor anywhere else but in that very room, where she had found her deep in a pile of patchwork. "i heerd you had come to the old place. were you glad to be back again?" cynthy asked, with a smile that might be taken to express some doubt upon the subject. "i was very glad to see it again." "i ha'n't seen it in a great while. i've been staying to hum this year or two. i got tired o' going out," cynthy remarked, with again a smile very peculiar, and, fleda thought, a little sardonical. she did not know how to answer. "well, how do you come along down yonder?" cynthy went on, making a great fuss with the shovel and tongs to very little purpose. "ha' you come all the way from queechy?" "yes. i came on purpose to see you, cynthy." without staying to ask what for, miss gall now went out to "the back of the house," and came running in again with a live brand pinched in the tongs, and a long tail of smoke running after it. fleda would have compounded for no fire and no choking. the choking was only useful to give her time to think. she was uncertain how to bring in her errand. "and how is mis' plumfield?" said cynthy, in an interval of blowing the brand. "she is quite well; but, cynthy, you need not have taken all that trouble for me. i cannot stay but a few minutes." "there is wood enough!" cynthia remarked, with one of her grim smiles � an assertion fleda could not help doubting. indeed, she thought miss gall had grown altogether more disagreeable than she used to be in old times. why, she could not divine, unless the souring effect had gone on with the years. "and what's become of earl douglass and mis' douglass? i hain't heerd nothin' of 'em this great while. i always told your grandpa he'd ha' saved himself a great deal o' trouble if he'd ha' let earl douglass take hold of things. you han't got mr. didenhover into the works again, i guess, have you? he was there a good spell after your grandpa died.'' "i haven't seen mrs. douglass," said fleda. "but, cynthy, what do you think i have come here for?" "i don't know," said cynthy, with another of her peculiar looks directed at the fire. "i s'pose you want someh'n nother of me." "i have come to see if you wouldn't come and live with my aunt, mrs. rossitur. we are left alone, and want somebody very much; and i thought i would find you out and see if we couldn't have you, first of all, before i looked for anybody else." cynthy was absolutely silent. she sat before the fire, her feet stretched out towards it as far as they would go, and her arms crossed, and not moving her steady gaze at the smoking wood, or the chimney-back, whichever it might be; but there was in the corners of her mouth the threatening of a smile that fleda did not at all like. "what do you say to it, cynthy?" "i reckon you'd best get somebody else," said miss gall, with a kind of condescending dryness, and the smile showing a little more. "why?" said fleda. "i would a great deal rather have an old friend than a stranger." "be you the housekeeper?" said cynthy, a little abruptly. "oh, i am a little of everything," said fleda � "cook and housekeeper, and whatever comes first. i want you to come and be housekeeper, cynthy." "i reckon mis' rossitur don't have much to do with her help, does she?" said cynthy, after a pause, during which the corners of her mouth never changed. the tone of piqued independence let some light into fleda's mind. "she is not strong enough to do much herself, and she wants some one that will take all the trouble from her. you'd have the field all to yourself, cynthy." "your aunt sets two tables, i calculate, don't she?" "yes; my uncle doesn't like to have any but his own family around him." "i guess i shouldn't suit!" said miss gall, after another little pause, and stooping very diligently to pick up some scattered shreds from the floor. but fleda could see the flushed face, and the smile which pride and a touch of spiteful pleasure in the revenge she was taking made particularly hateful. she needed no more convincing that miss gall "wouldn't suit;" but she was sorry, at the same time, for the perverseness that had so needlessly disappointed her; and went rather pensively back again down the little footpath to the waiting wagon. "this is hardly the romance of life, dear hugh," she said, as she seated herself. "haven't you succeeded?" fleda shook her head. "what's the matter?" "oh � pride � injured pride of station! the wrong of not coming to our table and putting her knife into our butter." "and living in such a place!" said hugh. "you don't know what a place. they are rniserably poor, i am sure; and yet � i suppose that the less people have to be proud of, the more they make of what is left. poor people!" � "poor fleda!" said hugh, looking at her. "what will you do now?" "oh, we'll do somehow," said she, cheerfully. "perhaps it is just as well, after all; for cynthy isn't the smartest woman in the world. i remember grandpa used to say he didn't believe she could get a bean into the middle of her bread." "a bean into the middle of her bread!" said hugh. but fleda's sobriety was quite banished by his mystified look, and her laugh rang along over the fields before she answered him. that laugh had blown away all the vapours, for the present at least, and they jogged on again very sociably. "do you know," said fleda, after a while of silent enjoyment in the changes of scene and the mild autumn weather � "i am not sure that it wasn't very well for me that we came away from new york." "i dare say it was," said hugh � "since we came; but what makes you say so?" "i don't mean that it was for anybody else, but for me. i think i was a little proud of our nice things there." "you, fleda!" said hugh, with a look of appreciating affection. "yes, i was, a little. it didn't make the greatest part of my love for them, i am sure; but i think i had a little undefined sort of pleasure in the feeling that they were better and prettier than other people had." "you are sure you are not proud of your little king charles now?" said hugh. "i don't know but i am," said fleda, laughing. "but how much pleasanter it is here on almost every account! look at the beautiful sweep of the ground off among those hills � isn't it? what an exquisite horizon line, hugh!" "and what a sky over it!" "yes � i love these fall skies. oh, i would a great deal rather be here than in any city that ever was built!" "so would i," said hugh. "but the thing is �" fleda knew quite well what the thing was, and did not answer. "but, my dear hugh," she said, presently � "i don't remember that sweep of hills when we were coming?" "you were going the other way," said hugh. "yes, but hugh � i am sure we did not pass these grain fields. we must have got into the wrong road." hugh drew the reins, and looked and doubted. "there is a house yonder," said fleda � we had better drive on, and ask." "there is no house �" "yes, there is � behind that piece of wood. look over it; don't you see a light curl of blue smoke against the sky? � we never passed that house and wood, i am certain. we ought to make haste, for the afternoons are short now, and you will please to recollect there is nobody at home to get tea." "i hope lucas will get upon one of his everlasting talks with father," said hugh. "and that it will hold till we get home," said fleda. "it will be the happiest use lucas has made of his tongue in a good while." just as they stopped before a substantial-looking farm-house, a man came from the other way and stopped there too, with his hand upon the gate. "how far are we from queechy, sir?" said hugh. "you're not from it at all, sir," said the man, politely. "you're in queechy, sir, at present." "is this the right road from montepoole to queechy village?" "it is not, sir. it is a very tortuous direction, indeed. have i not the pleasure of speaking to mr. rossitur's young gentleman?" mr. rossitur's young gentleman acknowledged his relationship, and begged the favour of being set in the right way home. "with much pleasure! you have been showing miss rossitur the picturesque country about montepoole?" "my cousin and i have been there on business, and lost our way coming back." "ah, i dare say! very easy. first time you have been there?" "yes, sir; and we are in a hurry to get home." "well, sir � you know the road by deacon patterson's? � comes out just above the lake." hugh did not remember. "well � you keep this road straight on, � i'm sorry you are in a hurry, � you keep on till � do you know when you strike mr. harris's ground?" no, hugh knew nothing about it, nor fleda. "well, i'll tell you now how it is," said the stranger, "if you'll permit me. you and your � a � cousin � come in and do us the pleasure of taking some refreshment. i know my sister 'll have her table set out by this time � and i'll do myself the honour of introducing you to � a � these strange roads, afterwards." "thank you, sir, but that trouble is unnecessary � cannot you direct us?" "no trouble � indeed, sir, i assure you, i should esteem it a favour � very highly. i � i am dr. quackenboss, sir; you may have heard �" "thank you, dr. quackenboss, but we have no time this afternoon � we are very anxious to reach home as soon as possible, if you would be so good as to put us in the way." "i � really, sir, i am afraid � to a person ignorant of the various localities � you will lose no time � i will just hitch your horse here, and i'll have mine ready by the time this young lady has rested. miss � a � wont you join with me? i assure you i will not put you to the expense of a minute. thank you, mr. harden! � just clap the saddle on to lollypop, and have him up here in three seconds. thank you! � my dear miss � a � wont you take my arm? i am gratified, i assure you." yielding to the apparent impossibility of getting anything out of dr. quackenboss, except civility, and to the real difficulty of disappointing such very earnest good will, fleda and hugh did what older persons would not have done � alighted and walked up to the house. "this is quite a fortuitous occurrence," the doctor went on. "i have often had the pleasure of seeing mr. rossitur's family in church � in the little church at queechy run � and that enabled me to recognise your cousin, as soon as i saw him in the wagon. perhaps, miss � a � you may have possibly heard of my name? � quackenboss � i don't know that you understood �" "i have heard it, sir." "my irishmen, miss � a � my irish labourers, can't get hold of but one end of it � they call me boss � ha, ha, ha!" fleda hoped his patients did not get hold of the other end of it, and trembled, visibly. "hard to pull a man's name to pieces before his face � ha, ha! but i am � a � not one thing myself � a kind of heterogynous � i am a piece of a physician, and a little in the agricultural line also; so it's all fair." "the irish treat my name as hardly, dr. quackenboss � they call me nothing but miss ring-again." and then fleda could laugh � and laugh she did � so heartily, that the doctor was delighted. "ring-again! ha, ha! � very good! well, miss � a � i shouldn't think that anybody in your service would ever � a � ever let you put your name in practice." but fleda's delight at the excessive gallantry and awkwardness of this speech was almost too much; or, as the doctor pleasantly remarked, her nerves were too many for her; and every one of them was dancing by the time they reached the hall door. the doctor's flourishes lost not a bit of their angularity from his tall, ungainly figure, and a lantern-jawed face, the lower member of which had now and then a somewhat lateral play when he was speaking, which curiously aided the quaint effect of his words. he ushered his guests into the house, seeming in a flow of self-gratulation. the supper-table was spread, sure enough, and hovering about it was the doctor's sister; a lady in whom fleda only saw a dutch face, with eyes that made no impression, disagreeable fair hair, and a string of gilt beads round her neck. a painted yellow floor under foot, a room that looked excessively _wooden_ and smelt of cheese, bare walls, and a well-filled table, was all that she took in besides. "i have the honour of presenting you to my sister," said the doctor, with suavity. "flora, the irish domestics of this young lady call her name miss ring-again � if she will let us know how it ought to be called, we shall be happy to be informed." dr. quackenboss was made happy. "miss _ringgan_ � and this young gentleman is young mr. rossitur � the gentleman that has taken squire ringgan's old place. we were so fortunate as to have them lose their way this afternoon, coming from the pool, and they have just stepped in to see if you can't find 'em a mouthful of something they can eat, while lollypop is a-getting ready to see them home." poor miss flora immediately disappeared into the kitchen, to order a bit of superior cheese, and to have some slices of ham put on the gridiron, and then, coming back to the common room, went rummaging about, from cupboard to cupboard, in search of cake and sweetmeats. fleda protested and begged in vain. "she was so sorry she hadn't knowed," miss flora said � "she'd ha' had some cakes made that maybe they could have eaten, but the bread was dry; and the cheese wa'n't as good somehow as the last one they cut; maybe miss ringgan would prefer a piece of newer made, if she liked it; and she hadn't had good luck with her preserves last summer � the most of 'em had fomented � she thought it was the damp weather; but there was some stewed pears that maybe she would be so good as to approve � and there was some ham! whatever else it was, it was hot!" � it was impossible � it was impossible, to do dishonour to all this hospitality and kindness and pride that was brought out for them. early or late, they must eat, in mere gratitude. the difficulty was to avoid eating everything. hugh and fleda managed to compound the matter with each other, one taking the cake and pears, and the other the ham and cheese. in the midst of all this overflow of goodwill, fleda bethought her to ask if miss flora knew of any girl or woman that would go out to service. miss flora took the matter into grave consideration as soon as her anxiety on the subject of their cups of tea had subsided. she did not commit herself, but thought it possible that one of the finns might be willing to go out. "where do they live?" "it's � a � not far from queechy run," said the doctor, whose now and then hesitation in the midst of his speech was never for want of a thought, but simply and merely for the best words to clothe it in. "is it in our way to-night?" he could make it so, the doctor said, with pleasure, for it would give him permission to gallant them a little further. they had several miles yet to go, and the sun went down as they were passing through queechy run. under that still, cool, clear, autumn sky, fleda would have enjoyed the ride very much, but that her unfulfilled errand was weighing upon her, and she feared her aunt and uncle might want her services before she could be at home. still, late as it was, she determined to stop for a minute at mrs. finn's, and go home with a clear conscience. at her door, and not till there, the doctor was prevailed upon to part company, the rest of the way being perfectly plain. mrs. finn's house was a great unprepossessing building, washed and dried by the rain and sun into a dark, dingy colour, the only one that had ever supplanted the original hue of the freshsawn boards. this, indeed, was not an uncommon thing in the country; near all the houses of the deepwater settlement were in the same case. fleda went up a flight of steps to what seemed the front door, but the girl that answered her knock led her down them again, and round to a lower entrance on the other side. this introduced fleda to a large ground-floor apartment, probably the common room of the family, with the large kitchen fireplace, and flagged hearth, and wall cupboards, and the only furniture, the usual red backed splinter chairs and wooden table. a woman standing before the fire with a broom in her hand, answered fleda's inclination with a saturnine nod of the head, and, fetching one of the red-backs from the wall, bade her "sit down." poor fleda's nerves bade her "go away." the people looked like their house. the principal woman, who remained standing, broom in hand, to hear fleda's business, was, in good truth, a dark personage � her head covered with black hair, her person with a dingy black calico, and a sullen cloud lowering over her eye. at the corner of the fireplace was an old woman, laid by in an easy-chair; disabled, it was plain, not from mental but bodily infirmity; for her face had a cast of mischief which could not stand with the innocence of second childhood. at the other corner sat an elderly woman sewing, with tokens of her trade for yards on the floor around her. back at the far side of the room, a young man was eating his supper at the table, alone; and under the table, on the floor, the enormous family bread-trough was unwontedly filled with the sewing-woman's child, which had with superhuman efforts crawled into it, and lay kicking and crowing in delight at its new cradle. fleda did not know how to enter upon her business. "i have been looking," she began, "for a person who is willing to go out to work. miss flora quackenboss told me perhaps i might find somebody here." "somebody to help?" said the woman, beginning to use her broom upon the hearth. "who wants 'em?" "mrs. rossitur � my aunt." "mrs. rossitur? � what, down to old squire ringgan's place?" "yes. we are left alone, and want somebody very much." "do you want her only a few days, or do you calculate to have her stop longer? because you know it wouldn't be worth the while to put oneself out for a week." "oh, we want her to stay; if we suit each other." "well, i don't know," said the woman, going on with her sweeping. "i could let you have hannah, but i 'spect i'll want her to hum. what does mis' rossitur calculate to give?" "i don't know � anything that's reasonable." "hannah kin go � just as good as not," said the old woman in the corner, rubbing her hands up and down her lap � "hannah kin go, � just as good as not!" "hannah ain't a-going," said the first speaker, answering without looking at her. "hannah 'll be wanted to hum; and she aint a well girl neither; she's kind o' weak in her muscles; and i calculate you'll want somebody that call take hold lively. there's lucy, if she took a notion, she could go � but she'd please herself about it. she wont do nothing without she has a notion." this was inconclusive, and desiring to bring matters to a point, fleda, after a pause, asked if this lady thought lucy would have a notion to go. "well, i can't say � she ain't to hum, or you could ask her. she's down to mis' douglass's, working for her to-day. do you know mis' douglass? � earl douglass's wife?" "o yes, i knew her long ago," said fleda, thinking it might be as well to throw in a spice of ingratiation. "i am fleda ringgan. i used to live here with my grandfather." "don't say! well, i thought you had a kind o' look � the old squire's granddarter, ain't you?" "she looks like her father," said the sewing-woman, laying down her needle, which indeed had been little hindrance to her admiration since fleda came in. "she's a real pretty gal," said the old woman in the corner. "he was as smart a looking man as there was in queechy township, or montepoole either," the sewing-woman went on, "do you mind him, flidda?" "anastasy," said the old woman aside, "let hannah go!" "hannah's a-going to keep to hum � well, about lucy," she said, as fleda rose to go � "i can't just say � suppos'n you come here to-morrow afternoon � there's a few coming to quilt � and lucy 'll be to hum then. i should admire to have you, and then you and lucy can agree what you'll fix upon. you can get somebody to bring you, can't you?" fleda inwardly shrank, but managed to get off with thanks, and without making a positive promise, which miss anastasia would fain have had. she was glad to be out of the house, and driving off with hugh. "how delicious the open air feels!" "what has this visit produced?" said hugh. "an invitation to a party, and a slight possibility that at the party i may find what i want." "a party," said hugh. fleda laughed and explained. "and do you intend to go?" "not i � at least i think not. but, hugh, don't say anything about all this to aunt lucy. she would be troubled." fleda had certainly, when she came away, no notion of improving her acquaintance with miss anastasia; but the supper, and the breakfast and the dinner of the next day, with all the nameless and almost numberless duties of house work that filled up the time between, wrought her to a very strong sense of the necessity of having some kind of "help" soon. mrs. rossitur wearied herself excessively with doing very little, and then looked so sad to see fleda working on, that it was more disheartening and harder to bear than the fatigue. hugh was a most faithful and invaluable coadjutor, and his lack of strength was, like her own, made up by energy of will; but neither of them could bear the strain long; and when the final clearing away of the dinner-dishes gave her a breathing- time, she resolved to dress herself, and put her thimble in her pocket, and go over to miss finn's quilting. miss lucy might not be like miss anastasia; and if she were, anything that had hands and feet to move instead of her own, would be welcome. hugh went with her to the door, and was to come for her at sunset. chapter xx. "with superfluity of breeding first makes you sick, and then with feeding." jenyns. miss anastasia was a little surprised and a good deal gratified, fleda saw, by her coming, and played the hostess with great benignity. the quilting-frame was stretched in an upper room, not in the long kitchen, to fleda's joy; most of the company were already seated at it, and she had to go through a long string of introductions before she was permitted to take her place. first of all, earl douglass's wife, who rose up, and taking both fleda's hands, squeezed and shook them heartily, giving her, with eye and lip, a most genial welcome. this lady had every look of being a very clever woman � "a manager," she was said to be; and, indeed, her very nose had a little pinch, which prepared one for nothing superfluous about her. even her dress could not have wanted another breadth from the skirt, and had no fullness to spare about the body � neat as a pin, though; and a well-to-do look through it all. miss quackenboss fleda recognised as an old friend, gilt beads and all. catherine douglass had grown up to a pretty girl during the five years since fleda had left queechy, and gave her a greeting, half-smiling, half-shy. there was a little more affluence about the flow of her drapery, and the pink ribbon round her neck was confined by a little dainty jew's-harp of a brooch; she had her mother's pinch of the nose too. then there were two other young ladies � miss letitia ann thornton, a tall-grown girl in pantalettes, evidently a would-be aristocrat, from the air of her head and lip, with a well-looking face, and looking well knowing of the same, and sporting neat little white cuffs at her wrists � the only one who bore such a distinction. the third of these damsels, jessie healy, impressed fleda with having been brought up upon coarse meat, and having grown heavy in consequence; the other two were extremely fair and delicate, both in complexion and feature. her aunt syra, fleda recognised without particular pleasure, and managed to seat herself at the quilt with the sewing-woman and miss hannah between them. miss lucy finn she found seated at her right hand, but after all the civilities she had just gone through, fleda had not courage just then to dash into business with her, and miss lucy herself stitched away, and was dumb. so were the rest of the party � rather. the presence of the new comer seemed to have the effect of a spell. fleda could not think they had been as silent before her joining them, as they were for some time afterwards. the young ladies were absolutely mute, and conversation seemed to flag even among the elder ones; and if fleda ever raised her eyes from the quilt to look at somebody, she was sure to see somebody's eyes looking at her, with a curiosity well enough defined, and mixed with a more or less amount of benevolence and pleasure. fleda was growing very industrious and feeling her cheeks grow warm, when the checked stream of conversation began to take revenge by turning its tide upon her. "are you glad to be back to queechy, fleda?" said mrs. douglass, from the opposite far end of the quilt. "yes ma'am," said fleda, smiling back her answer � "on some accounts." "ain't she growed like her father, mis' douglass?" said the sewing-woman. "do you recollect walter ringgan? what a handsome feller he was!" the two opposite girls immediately found something to say to each other. "she aint a bit more like him than she is like her mother," said mrs. douglass, biting off the end of her thread energetically. "amy ringgan was a sweet good woman as ever was in this town." again her daughter's glance and smile went over to the speaker. "you stay in queechy, and live like queechy folks do," mrs. douglass added, nodding encouragingly, "and you'll beat both on 'em." but this speech jarred, and fleda wished it had not been spoken. "how does your uncle like farming?" said aunt syra. a home thrust, which fleda parried by saying he had hardly got accustomed to it yet. "what's been his business? what has he been doing all his life till now?" said the sewing-woman. fleda replied that he had had no business; and after the minds of the company had had time to entertain this statement, she was startled by miss lucy's voice at her elbow. "it seems kind o' curious, don't it, that a man should live to be forty or fifty years old, and not know anything of the earth he gets his bread from?" "what makes you think he don't?" said miss thornton, rather tartly. "she wa'n't speaking o' nobody," said aunt syra. "i was � i was speaking of man � i was speaking abstractly," said fleda's right-hand neighbour. "what's abstractly?" said miss anastasia, scornfully. "where do you get hold of such hard words, lucy?" said mrs. douglass. "i don't know, mis' douglass, they come to me; it's practice, i suppose. i had no intention of being obscure." "one kind o' word 's as easy as another, i suppose, when you're used to it, aint it?" said the sewing-woman. "what's abstractly?" said the mistress of the house, again. "look in the dictionary, if you want to know," said her sister. "i don't want to know � i only want you to tell." "when do you get time for it, lucy? ha'n't you nothing else to practise?" pursued mrs. douglass. "yes, mis' douglass; but then there are times for exertion, and other times less disposable; and when i feel thoughtful or low, i commonly retire to my room, and contemplate the stars, or write a composition." the sewing-woman greeted this speech with an unqualified ha! ha! and fleda involuntarily raised her head to look at the last speaker; but there was nothing to be noticed about her, except that she was in rather nicer order than the rest of the finn family. "did you get home safe last night?" inquired miss quackenboss, bending forward over the quilt to look down to fleda. fleda thanked her, and replied that they had been overturned, and had several ribs broken. "and where have you been, fleda, all this while?" said mrs. douglass. fleda told, upon which all the quilting party raised their heads simultaneously, to take another review of her. "your uncle's wife aint a frenchwoman, be she?" asked the sewing-woman. fleda said, "oh, no!" and miss quackenboss remarked, that "she thought she wa'n't;" whereby fleda perceived it had been a subject of discussion. "she lives like one, don't she?" said aunt syra. which imputation fleda also refuted to the best of her power. "well, don't she have dinner in the middle of the afternoon?" pursued aunt syra. fleda was obliged to admit that. "and she can't eat without she has a fresh piece of roast meat on table every day, can she?" "it is not always roast," said fleda, half vexed and half laughing. "i'd rather have a good dish o' bread and 'lasses, than the hull on't," observed old mrs. finn, from the corner where she sat, manifestly turning up her nose at the far-off joints on mrs. rossitur's dinner-table. the girls on the other side of the quilt again held counsel together, deep and low. "well, didn't she pick up all them notions in that place yonder? � where you say she has been?" aunt syra went on. "no," said fleda; "everybody does so in new york." "i want to know what kind of a place new york is, now," said old mrs. finn, drawlingly. "i s'pose it's pretty big, aint it?" fleda replied that it was. "i shouldn't wonder if it was a'most as far as from here to queechy run, now; aint it?" the distance mentioned being somewhere about one-eighth of new york's longest diameter, fleda answered that it was quite as far. "i s'pose there's plenty o' mighty rich folks there, aint there?" "plenty, i believe," said fleda. "i should hate to live in it awfully," was the old woman's conclusion. "i should admire to travel in many countries," said miss lucy, for the first time seeming to intend her words particularly for fleda's ear. "i think nothing makes people more genteel. i have observed it frequently." fleda said it was very pleasant; but though encouraged by this opening, could not muster enough courage to ask if miss lucy had a "notion" to come and prove their gentility. her next question was startling � if fleda had ever studied mathematics. "no," said fleda. "have you?" "o my, yes! there was a lot of us concluded we would learn it; and we commenced to study it a long time ago. i think it's a most elevating �" the discussion was suddenly broken off, for the sewing-woman exclaimed, as the other sister came in and took her seat � "why, hannah! you ha'n't been makin' bread with that clock on your hands!" "well, mis' barnes!" said the girl; "i've washed 'em, and i've made bread with 'em, and even that did not take it off!" "do you look at the stars, too, hannah?" said mrs. douglass. amidst a small hubbub of laugh and talk which now became general, poor fleda fell back upon one single thought, one wish � that hugh would come to fetch her home before tea-time. but it was a vain hope. hugh was not to be there till sundown, and supper was announced long before that. they all filed down, and fleda with them, to the great kitchen below stairs; and she found herself placed in the seat of honour indeed, but an honour she would gladly have escaped, at miss anastasia's right hand. a temporary locked-jaw would have been felt a blessing. fleda dared hardly even look about her; but under the eye of her hostess the instinct of good breeding was found sufficient to swallow everything, literally and figuratively. there was a good deal to swallow. the usual variety of cakes, sweetmeats, beef, cheese, biscuits, and pies, was set out with some peculiarity of arrangement which fleda had never seen before, and which left that of miss quackenboss elegant by comparison. down each side of the table ran an advanced guard of little sauces in indian file, but in companies of three, the file leader of each being a saucer of custard, its follower a ditto of preserves, and the third keeping a sharp look-out in the shape of pickles; and to fleda's unspeakable horror, she discovered that the guests were expected to help themselves at will from these several stores with their own spoons, transferring what they took either to their own plates, or at once to its final destination, which last mode several of the company preferred. the advantage of this plan was the necessary great display of the new silver tea-spoons, which mrs. douglass slily hinted to aunt syra were the moving cause of the tea-party. but aunt syra swallowed sweetmeats, and would not give heed. there was no relief for poor fleda. aunt syra was her next neighbour, and opposite to her, at miss anastasia's left hand, was the disagreeable countenance and peering eyes of the old crone, her mother. fleda kept her own eyes fixed upon her plate, and endeavoured to see nothing but that. "why, here's fleda aint eating anything," said mrs. douglass. "wont you have some preserves? take some custard, do! anastasy, she ha'n't a spoon � no wonder!" fleda had secretly conveyed hers under cover. "there was one," said miss anastasia, looking about where one should have been. i'll get another as soon as i give mis' springer her tea." "ha'n't you got enough to go round?" said the old woman, plucking at her daughter's sleeve. "anastasy! ha'n't you got enough to go round?" this speech, which was spoken with a most spiteful simplicity, miss anastasia answered with superb silence, and presently produced spoons enough to satisfy herself and the company. but fleda! no earthly persuasion could prevail upon her to touch pickles, sweetmeats, or custard that evening; and even in the bread and cakes she had a vision of hands before her that took away her appetite. she endeavoured to make a show with hung beef and cups of tea, which indeed was not pouchong; but her supper came suddenly to an end upon a remark of her hostess, addressed to the whole table, that they needn't be surprised if they found any bits of pudding in the gingerbread, for it was made from the molasses the children left the other day. who "the children" were fleda did not know, neither was it material. it was sundown, but hugh had not come when they went to the upper rooms again. two were open now, for they were small, and the company promised not to be such. fathers and brothers, and husbands began to come, and loud talking, and laughing and joking took place of the quilting chit-chat. fleda would fain have absorbed herself in the work again, but though the frame still stood there, the minds of the company were plainly turned aside from their duty, or perhaps they thought that miss anastasia had had admiration enough to dispense with service. nobody showed a thimble but one or two old ladies; and as numbers and spirits gathered strength, a kind of romping game was set on foot, in which a vast deal of kissing seemed to be the grand wit of the matter. fleda shrank away out of sight behind the open door of communication between the two rooms, pleading, with great truth, that she was tired, and would like to keep perfectly quiet; and she had soon the satisfaction of being apparently forgotten. in the other room, some of the older people were enjoying themselves more soberly. fleda's ear was too near the crack of the door, not to have the benefit of more of their conversation than she cared for. it soon put quiet of mind out of the question. "he'll twist himself up pretty short � that's my sense of it; and he wont take long to do it, nother," said earl douglass's voice. fleda would have known it anywhere, from its extreme peculiarity. it never either rose or fell much from a certain pitch; and at that level the words gurgled forth, seemingly from an everbrimming fountain; he never wanted one; and the stream had neither let nor stay till his modicum of sense had fairly run out. people thought he had not a greater stock of that than some of his neighbours; but he issued an amount of word-currency sufficient for the use of the county. "he'll run himself agin a post pretty quick," said uncle joshua, in a confirmatory tone of voice. fleda had a confused idea that somebody was going to hang himself. "he aint a-workin' things right," said douglass; "he aint a- workin' things right; he's takin' hold o' everything by the tail end. he aint studied the business; he doesn't know when things is right, and he doesn't know when things is wrong; and if they're wrong, he don't know how to set 'em right. he's got a feller there that aint no more fit to be there, than i am to be vice-president of the united states; and i aint a-going to say what i think i am fit for, but i ha'n't studied for that place, and i shouldn't like to stand an examination for't; and a man hadn't ought to be a farmer no more if he ha'n't qualified himself. that's my idee. i like to see a thing done well, if it's to be done at all; and there aint a stitch o' land been laid right on the hull farm, nor a furrow driv' as it had ought to be, since he came on to it; and i say, squire springer, a man aint going to get along in that way, and he hadn't ought to. i work hard myself, and i calculate to work hard, and i make a livin' by't; and i'm content to work hard. when i see a man with his hands in his pockets, i think he'll have nothin' else in 'em soon. i don't believe he's done a hand's turn himself on the land the hull season!" and upon this mr. douglass brought up. "my son, lucas, has been workin' with him, off and on, pretty much the hull time since he come; and he says he ha'n't begun to know how to spell farmer yet." "ay, ay! my wife � she's a little harder on folks than i be � i think it aint worth while to say nothin' of a man without i can say some good of him � that's my idee; and it don't do no harm, nother; but my wife, she says he's got to let down his notions a peg or two afore they'll hitch just in the right place; and i wont say but what i think she aint, maybe, fur from right. if a man's above his business, he stands a pretty fair chance to be below it some day. i wont say myself, for i haven't any acquaintance with him, and a man oughtn't to speak but of what he's knowing to; but i have heerd say, that he wa'n't as conversationable as it would ha' been handsome in him to be, all things considerin.' there seems to be a good many things said of him, somehow, and l always think men don't talk of a man if he don't give 'em occasion; but, anyhow, i've been past the farm pretty often myself this summer, working with seth plumfield; and i've took notice of things myself; and i know he's been makin' beds o' sparrowgrass when he had ought to ha' been makin' fences, and he's been helpin' that little girl o' his'n set her flowers, when he would ha' been better sot to work lookin' after his irishman. but i don't know as it made much matter, nother; for if he went wrong, mr. rossitur wouldn't know how to set him right, and if he was a- going right, mr. rossitur would ha' been just as likely to ha' set him wrong. well, i'm sorry for him!" "mr. rossitur is a most gentlemanlike man," said the voice of dr. quackenboss. "ay � i dare say he is," earl responded, in precisely the same tone. "i was down to his house one day last summer to see him. he wa'n't to hum, though." "it would be strange if harm come to a man with such a guardian angel in the house as that man has in his'n." said dr. quackenboss. "well she's a pretty creetur!" said douglass, looking up with some animation. "i wouldn't blame any man that sot a good deal by her. i will say i think she's as handsome as my own darter; and a man can't go no furder than that, i suppose." "she wont help his farming much, i guess," said uncle joshua, "nor his wife nother." fleda heard dr. quackenboss coming through the doorway, and started from her corner, for fear he might find her out there, and know what she had heard. he very soon found her out in the new place she had chosen, and came up to pay his compliments. fleda was in a mood for anything but laughing, yet the mixture of the ludicrous which the doctor administered set her nerves a-twitching. bringing his chair down sideways at one angle and his person at another, so as to meet at the moment of the chair's touching the floor, and with a look and smile, slanting to match, the doctor said � "well, miss ringgan, has � a � mrs. rossitur � does she feel herself reconciled yet?" "reconciled, sir?' said fleda. "yes � a � to queechy?" "she never quarrelled with it, sir," said fleda, quite unable to keep from laughing. "yes � i mean � a � she feels that she can sustain her spirits in different situations?" "she is very well, sir, thank you." "it must have been a great change to her � and to you all � coming to this place." "yes, sir; the country is very different from the city." "in what part of new york was mr. rossitur's former residence?" " in state-street, sir." "state-street � that is somewhere in the direction of the park?" "no, sir, not exactly." "was mrs. rossitur a native of the city?" "not of new york. oh, hugh! my dear hugh!" exclaimed fleda, in another tone � "what have you been thinking of?" "father wanted me," said hugh. "i could not help it, fleda." "you are not going to have the cruelty to take your � a � cousin away, mr. rossitur?" said the doctor. but fleda was for once happy to be cruel; she would hear no remonstrances. though her desire for miss lucy's "help" had considerably lessened, she thought she could not in politeness avoid speaking on the subject, after being invited there on purpose. but miss lucy said she "calculated to stay at home this winter," unless she went to live with somebody at kenton, for the purpose of attending a course of philosophy lectures that she heard were to be given there. so that matter was settled; and, clasping hugh's arm, fleda turned away from the house with a step and heart both lightened by the joy of being out of it. "i coudn't come sooner, fleda," said hugh. "no matter � oh, i'm so glad to be away! walk a little faster, dear hugh. have you missed me at home?" "do you want me to say no or yes?" said hugh, smiling. "we did very well � mother and i � and i have left everything ready to have tea the minute you get home. what sort of a time have you had?" in answer to which fleda gave him a long history, and then they walked on a while in silence. the evening was still, and would have been dark but for the extreme brilliancy of the stars through the keen, clear atmosphere. fleda looked up at them, and drew large draughts of bodily and mental refreshment with the bracing air. "do you know to-morrow will be thanksgiving-day?" "yes; what made you think of it?" "they were talking about it; they make a great fuss here thanksgiving-day." "i don't think we shall make much of a fuss," said hugh. "i don't think we shall. i wonder what i shall do � i am afraid uncle rolf will get tired of coffee and omelettes in the course of time; and my list of receipts is very limited." "it is a pity you didn't beg one of mrs. renney's books," said hugh, laughing. "if you had only known �" " 'tisn't too late!" said fleda, quickly. "i'll send to new york for one. i will! i'll ask uncle orrin to get it for me. that's the best thought!" "but, fleda, you're not going to turn cook in that fashion?" "it would be no harm to have the book," said fleda. "i can tell you, we mustn't expect to get anybody here that can make an omelette, or even coffee, that uncle rolf will drink. oh, hugh! �" "what?" "i don't know where we are going to get anybody! but don't say anything to aunt lucy about it." "well, we can keep thanksgiving-day, fleda, without a dinner," said hugh, cheerfully. "yes, indeed � i am sure i can � after being among these people to-night. how much i have that they want! look at the great bear over there! isn't that better than new york?" "the great bear hangs over new york, too," hugh said, with a smile. "ah! but it isn't the same thing. heaven hasn't the same eyes for the city and the country." as hugh and fleda went quick up to the kitchen-door, they overtook a dark figure, at whom looking narrowly as she passed, fleda recognised seth plumfield. he was joyfully let into the kitchen, and there proved to be the bearer of a huge dish, carefully covered with a napkin. "mother guessed you hadn't any thanksgiving ready," he said, "and she wanted to send this down to you; so i thought i would come and fetch it myself." "oh, thank her! and thank you, cousin seth; how good you are!" "mother ha'n't lost her old trick at 'em," said he; "so i hope that's good." "oh, i know it is," said fleda. "i remember aunt miriam's thanksgiving chicken-pies. now, cousin seth, you must come in, and see aunt lucy." "no," said he, quietly: "i've got my farm boots on. i guess i wont see anybody but you." but fleda would not suffer that; and finding she could not move him, she brought her aunt out into the kitchen. mrs. rossitur's manner of speaking, and thanking him, quite charmed seth, and he went away with a kindly feeling towards those gentle, bright eves, which he never forgot. "now, we've something for to-morrow, hugh !" said fleda; "and such a chicken-pie, i can tell you, as you never saw. hugh, isn't it odd, how different a thing is in different circumstances? you don't know how glad i was when i put my hands upon that warm pie-dish, and knew what it was; and when did i ever care in new york about emile's doings?" "except the almond gauffres," said hugh, smiling. "i never thought to be so glad of a chicken-pie," said fleda, shaking her head. aunt miriam's dish bore out fleda's praise, in the opinion of all that tasted it; for such fowls, such butter, and such cream, as went to its composition, could hardly be known but in an unsophisticated state of society. but one pie could not last for ever; and as soon as the signs of dinner were got rid of, thanksgiving-day though it was, poor fleda was fain to go up the hill, to consult aunt miriam about the possibility of getting "help." "i don't know, dear fleda," said she; "if you cannot get lucy flinn, i don't know who else there is you can get. mrs. toles wants both her daughters at home, i know, this winter, because she is sick; and marietta winchel is working at aunt syra's. i don't know � do you remember barby elster, that used to live with me?" "o yes!" "she might go � she has been staying at home these two years, to take care of her old mother, that's the reason she left me; but she has another sister come home now � hetty, that married, and went to montepoole; she's lost her husband and come home to live; so perhaps barby would go out again. but i don't know � how do you think your aunt lucy would get along with her?" "dear aunt miriam, you know we must do as we can. we must have somebody." "barby is a little quick," said mrs. plumfield, "but i think she is good-hearted, and she is thorough and faithful as the day is long. if your aunt and uncle can put up with her ways." "i am sure we can, aunt miriam. aunt lucy's the easiest person in the world to please; and i'll try and keep her away from uncle rolf. i think we can get along. i know barby used to like me." "but then barby knows nothing about french cooking, my child; she can do nothing but the common, country things. what will your uncle and aunt say to that?" "i don't know," said fleda, "but anything is better than nothing. i must try and do what she can't do. i'll come up and get you to teach me, aunt miriam." aunt miriam hugged and kissed her before speaking. "i'll teach you what i know, my darling: � and now we'll go right off and see barby � we shall catch her just in a good time." it was a poor little unpainted house, standing back from the road, and with a double row of' boards laid down to serve as a path to it. but this board walk was scrubbed perfectly clean. they went in without knocking. there was nobody there but an old woman seated before the fire, shaking all over with the st. vitus's dance. she gave them no salutation, calling instead on "barby!" � who presently made her appearance from the inner door. "barby! who's this?" "that's mis' plumfield, mother," said the daughter, speaking loud as to a deaf person. the old lady immediately got up and dropped a very quick and what was meant to be a very respect-showing courtesy, saying at the same time, with much deference, and with one of her involuntary twitches, "i ' 'maun ' to know!" the sense of the ludicrous and the feeling of pity together, were painfully oppressive. fleda turned away to the daughter, who came forward and shook hands with a frank look of pleasure at the sight of her elder visitor. "barby," said mrs. plumfield, "this is little fleda ringgan � do you remember her?" "i 'mind to know!" said barby, transferring her hand to fleda's, and giving it a good squeeze. "she's growed a fine gal, mis' plumfield. you ha'n't lost none of your good looks � - ha' you kept all your old goodness along with 'em?" fleda laughed at this abrupt question, and said she didn't know. "if you ha'n't, i wouldn't give much for your eyes," said barby, letting go her hand. mrs. plumfield laughed too at barby's equivocal mode of complimenting. "who's that young gal, barby?" inquired mrs. elster. "that's mis' plumfield's niece, mother." "she's a handsome little creetur, aint she?" they all laughed at that, and fleda's cheeks growing crimson, mrs. plumfield stepped forward to ask after the old lady's health; and while she talked and listened, fleda's eyes noted the spotless condition of the room � the white table, the nice rag-carpet, the bright many-coloured patchwork counterpane on the bed, the brilliant cleanliness of the floor, where the small carpet left the boards bare, the tidy look of the two women; and she made up her mind that she could get along with miss barbara very well. barby was rather tall, and in face decidedly a fine-looking woman, though her figure had the usual scantling proportions which nature or fashion assigns to the hard-working dwellers in the country. a handsome, quick, gray eye, and the mouth, were sufficiently expressive of character, and perhaps of temper, but there were no lines of anything sinister or surly; you could imagine a flash, but not a cloud. "barby, you are not tied at home any longer, are you?" said. mrs. plumfield, coming back from the old lady and speaking rather low; � "now that hetty is here, can't your mother spare you?" "well, i reckon she could, mis' plumfield, if i could work it so that she'd be more comfortable by my being away." "then you'd have no objection to go out again?" "where to?" "fleda's uncle, you know, has taken my brother's old place, and they have no help. they want somebody to take the whole management � just you, barby. mrs. rossitur isn't strong." "nor don't want to be, does she? i've heerd tell of her, mis' plumfield � i should despise to have as many legs and arms as other folks, and not be able to help myself!" "but you wouldn't despise to help other folks, i hope," said mrs. plumfield, smiling. "people that want you very much, too," said fleda; for she quite longed to have that strong hand and healthy eye to rely upon at home. barby looked at her with a relaxed face, and, after a little consideration, said she guessed "she'd try." "mis' plumfield," cried the old lady, as they were moving � "mis' plumfield, you said you'd send me a piece of pork." "i haven't forgotten it, mrs. elster � you shall have it." "well, you get it out for me yourself," said the old woman, speaking very energetically � "don't you send no one else to the barrel for't, because i know you'll give me the biggest piece." mrs. plumfield laughed and promised. "i'll come up and work it out some odd day," said the daughter, nodding intelligently, as she followed them to the door. "we'll talk about that," said mrs. plumfield. "she was wonderful pleased with the pie," said barby, "and so was hetty; she ha'n't seen anything so good, she says, since she quit queechy." "well, barby," said mrs. plumfield, as she turned and grasped her hand, "did you remember your thanksgiving over it?" "yes, mis' plumfield," and the fine grey eyes fell to the floor; "but i minded it only because it had come from you. i seemed to hear you saying just that out of every bone i picked." "you minded my message," said the other, gently. "well, i don't mind the things i had ought to most," said barby, in a subdued voice � "never! � 'cept mother � i aint very apt to forget her." mrs. plumfield saw a tell-tale glittering beneath the drooping eyelid. she added no more but a sympathetic strong squeeze of the hand she held, and turned to follow fleda who had gone on ahead. "mis' plumfield," said barby, before they had reached the stile that led into the road, where fleda was standing, "will i be sure of having the money regular down yonder? you know, i hadn't ought to go otherways, on account of mother." "yes, it will be sure," said mrs. plumfield, "and regular;" adding quietly, "i'll make it so." there was a bond for the whole amount in aunt miriam's eyes; and, quite satisfied, barby went back to the house. "will she expect to come to our table, aunt miriam'? said fleda, when they had walked a little way. "no, she will not expect that; but barby will want a different kind of managing from those irish women of yours. she wont bear to be spoken to in a way that don't suit her notions of what she thinks she deserves; and perhaps your aunt and uncle will think her notions rather high � i don't know." "there is no difficulty with aunt lucy," said fleda; "and i guess i can manage uncle rolf � i'll try. _i_ like her very much." "barby is very poor," said mrs. plumfield; "she has nothing but her own earnings to support herself and her old mother, and now, i suppose, her sister and her child; for hetty is a poor thing � never did much, and now i suppose does nothing." "are those finns poor, aunt miriam?" "o no � not at all � they are very well off." "so i thought � they seemed to have plenty of everything, and silver spoons and all. but why then do they go out to work?" "they are a little too fond of getting money, i expect," said aunt miriam. "and they are a queer sort of people rather � the mother is queer, and the children are queer � they aint like other folks exactly � never were." "i am very glad we are to have barby, instead of that lucy finn," said fleda. "oh, aunt miriam! you can't think how much easier my heart feels." "poor child!" said aunt miriam, looking at her. "but it isn't best, fleda, to have things work too smooth in this world." "no, i suppose not," said fleda, sighing. "isn't it very strange, aunt miriam, that it should make people worse instead of better to have everything go pleasantly with them?" "it is because they are apt then to be so full of the present, that they forget the care of the future." "yes, and forget there is anything better than the present, i suppose," said fleda. "so we mustn't fret at the ways our father takes to keep us from hurting ourselves," said aunt miriam, cheerfully. "o no!" said fleda, looking up brightly, in answer to the tender manner in which these words were spoken; � "and i didn't mean that _this_ is much of a trouble � only i am very glad to think that somebody is coming to-morrow." aunt miriam thought that gentle unfretful face could not stand in need of much discipline. chapter xxi. "wise men alway affyrme and say, that best is for a man diligently, for to apply, the business that he can." � more fleda waited for barby's coming the next day with a little anxiety. the introduction and installation, however, were happily got over. mrs. rossitur, as fleda knew, was most easily pleased, and barby elster's quick eye was satisfied with the unaffected and universal gentleness and politeness of her new employer. she made herself at home in half an hour; and mrs. rossitur and fleda were comforted to perceive, by unmistakable signs, that their presence was not needed in the kitchen, and they might retire to their own premises and forget there was another part of the house. fleda had forgotten it utterly, and deliciously enjoying the rest of mind and body, she was stretched upon the sofa, luxuriating over some volume from her remnant of a library, when the inner door was suddenly pushed open far enough to admit of the entrance of miss elster's head. "where's the soft soap?" fleda's book went down, and her heart jumped to her mouth, for her uncle was sitting over by the window. mrs. rossitur looked up in amaze, and waited for the question to be repeated. "i say, where's the soft soap?" "soft soap!" said mrs. rossitur � "i don't know whether there is any � fleda, do you know?" "i was trying to think, aunt lucy � i don't believe there is any." "_where_ is it?" said barby. "there is none, i believe," said mrs. rossitur "where _was_ it, then?" "nowhere � there has not been any in the house," said fleda, raising herself up to see over the back of her sofa. "there ha'n't been none!" said miss elster, in a tone more significant than her words, and shutting the door as abruptly as she had opened it. "what upon earth does the woman mean?" exclaimed mr. rossitur, springing up and advancing towards the kitchen door. fleda threw herself before him. "nothing at all, uncle rolf � she doesn't mean anything at all � she doesn't know any better." "i will improve her knowledge � get out of the way, fleda." "but, uncle rolf, just hear me one moment � please don't! � she didn't mean any harm � these people don't know any manners � just let me speak to her, please, uncle rolf!" said fleda, laying both hands upon her uncle's arms � "i'll manage her." mr. rossitur's wrath was high, and he would have run over or knocked down anything less gentle that had stood in his way; hut even the harshness of strength shuns to set itself in array against the meekness that does not _oppose;_ if the touch of those hands had been a whit less light, or the glance of her eye less submissively appealing, it would have availed nothing. as it was, he stopped and looked at her, at first scowling, but then with a smile. "_you_ manage her!" said he. "yes," said fleda, laughing, and now exerting her force, she gently pushed him back towards the seat he had quitted � "yes, uncle rolf, you've enough else to manage, don't undertake our 'help.' deliver over all your displeasure upon me when anything goes wrong � i will be the conductor to carry it off safely into the kitchen, and discharge it just at that point where i think it will do most execution. now, will you, uncle rolf? � because we have got a new-fashioned piece of fire-arms in the other room, that i am afraid will go off unexpectedly if it is meddled with by an unskilful hand; and that would leave us without arms, you see, or with only aunt lucy's and mine, which are not reliable." "you saucy girl!" said her uncle, who was laughing partly at and partly with her, "i don't know what you deserve exactly. well, keep this precious new operative of yours out of my way, and i'll take care to keep out of hers. but mind, you must manage not to have your piece snapping in my face in this fashion, for i wont stand it." and so, quieted, mr. rossitur sat down to his book again; and fleda, leaving hers open, went to attend upon barby. "there ain't much yallow soap neither," said this personage, "if this is all. there's one thing � if we ha'n't got it, we can make it. i must get mis' rossitur to have a leach-tub sot up right away. i'm a dreadful hand for havin' plenty o' soap." "what is a leach-tub?" said fleda. "why, a leach-tub, for to leach ashes in. that's easy enough. i'll fix it, afore we're any on us much older. if mr. rossitur 'll keep me in good hard wood, i sha'n't cost him hardly anything for potash." "i'll see about it," said fleda; "and i will see about having the leach-tub, or whatever it is, put up for you. and, barby, whenever you want anything, will you just speak to me about it? � and if i am in the other room, ask me to come out here; because my aunt is not strong, and does not know where things are as well as i do; and when my uncle is in there, he sometimes does not like to be disturbed with hearing any such talk. if you'll tell me, i'll see and have everything done for you." "well � you get me a leach sot up � that's all i'll ask of you just now," said barby, good-humouredly, "and help me to find the soap-grease, if there is any. as to the rest, i don't want to see nothin' o' him in the kitchen, so i'll relieve him if he don't want to see much o' me in the parlour. i shouldn't wonder if there wa'n't a speck of it in the house." not a speck was there to be found. "your uncle's pockets must ha' had a good hole in 'em by this time," remarked barby, as they came back from the cellar. "however, there never was a crock so empty it couldn't be filled. you get me a leach-tub sot up, and i'll find work for it." from that time, fleda had no more trouble with her uncle and barby. each seemed to have a wholesome appreciation of the other's combative qualities, and to shun them. with mrs. rossitur, barby was soon all-powerful. it was enough that she wanted a thing, if mrs. rossitur's own resources could compass it. for fleda, to say that barby had presently a perfect understanding with her, and joined to that, a most affectionate, careful regard, is not, perhaps, saying much; for it was true of every one, without exception, with whom fleda had much to do. barby was to all of them a very great comfort and stand-by. it was well for them that they had her within doors to keep things, as she called it, "right and tight;" for abroad the only system in vogue was one of fluctuation and uncertainty. mr. rossitur's irishman, donohan, staid his year out, doing as little good, and as much, at least, negative harm, as he well could; and then went, leaving them a good deal poorer than he found them. dr. gregory's generosity had added to mr. rossitur's own small stock of ready money, giving him the means to make some needed outlays on the farm. but the outlay, ill-applied, had been greater than the income; a scarcity of' money began to be more and more felt; and the comfort of the family accordingly drew within more and more narrow bounds. the temper of the head of the family suffered in at least equal degree. from the first of barby's coming, poor fleda had done her utmost to prevent the want of mons. emile from being felt. mr. rossitur's table was always set by her careful hand, and all the delicacies that came upon it were, unknown to him, of her providing � even the bread. one day, at breakfast, mr. rossitur had expressed his impatient displeasure at that of miss elster's manufacture. fleda saw the distressed shade that came over her aunt's face, and took her resolution. it was the last time. she had followed her plan of sending for the receipts, and she studied them diligently, both at home and under aunt miriam. natural quickness of eye and hand came in aid of her affectionate zeal, and it was not long before she could trust herself to undertake any operation in the whole range of her cookery-book. but, meanwhile, materials were growing scarce, and hard to come by. the delicate french rolls which were now always ready for her uncle's plate in the morning, had sometimes nothing to back them, unless the unfailing water-cress from the good little spring in the meadow. fleda could not spare her eggs, for, perhaps, they might have nothing else to depend upon for dinner. it was no burden to her to do these things; she had a sufficient reward in seeing that her aunt and hugh ate the better, and that her uncle's brow was clear; but it was a burden when her hands were tied by the lack of means, for she knew the failure of the usual supply was bitterly felt, not for the actual want, but for that other want which it implied and prefigured. on the first dismissal of donohan, fleda hoped for a good turn of affairs. but mr. rossitur, disgusted with his first experiment, resolved this season to be his own head man; and appointed lucas springer the second in command, with a possé of labourers to execute his decrees. it did not work well. mr. rossitur found he had a very tough prime minister, who would have every one of his plans to go through a kind of winnowing process by being tossed about in an argument. the arguments were interminable, until mr. rossitur not unfrequently quit the field with, "well, do what you like about it!" � not conquered, but wearied. the labourers, either from want of ready money, or of what they called "manners" in their employer, fell off at the wrong times, just when they were most wanted. hugh threw himself then into the breach and wrought beyond his strength; and that tried fleda worst of all. she was glad to see haying and harvest pass over; but the change of seasons seemed to bring only a change of disagreeableness, and she could not find that hope had any better breathing-time in the short days of winter than in the long days of summer. her gentle face grew more gentle than ever, for under the shade of sorrowful patience, which was always there, now its meekness had no eclipse. mrs. rossitur was struck with it one morning. she was coming down from her room and saw fleda standing on the landing-place gazing out of the window. it was before breakfast one cold morning in winter. mrs. rossitur put her arms round her softly and kissed her. "what are you thinking about, dear fleda? � you ought not to be standing here." "i was looking at hugh," said fleda, and her eye went back to the window. mrs. rossitur's followed it. the window gave them a view of the ground behind the house; and there was hugh, just coming in with a large armful of heavy wood which he had been sawing. "he isn't strong enough to do that, aunt lucy," said fleda, softly. "i know it," said his mother, in a subdued tone, and not moving her eye, though hugh had disappeared. "it is too cold for him; he is too thinly clad to bear this exposure," said fleda, anxiously. "i know it," said his mother, again. "can't you tell uncle rolf? can't you get him to do it? i am afraid hugh will hurt himself, aunt lucy." "i did tell him the other day � i did speak to him about it," said mrs. rossitur; "but he said there was no reason why hugh should do it � there were plenty of other people �" "but how can he say so when he knows we never can ask lucas to do anything of the kind, and that other man always contrives to be out of the way when he is wanted? oh, what is he thinking of?" said fleda, bitterly, as she saw hugh again at his work. it was so rarely that fleda was seen to shed tears, that they always were a signal of dismay to any of the household. there was even agony in mrs. rossitur's voice as she implored her not to give way to them. but, notwithstanding that, fleda's tears came this time from too deep a spring to be stopped at once. "it makes me feel as if all was lost, fleda, when i see you do so." fleda put her arms about her neck, and whispered that "she would not" � that "she should not �" yet it was a little while before she could say any more. "but, aunt lucy, he doesn't know what he is doing." "no; and i can't make him know. i cannot say anything more, fleda � it would do no good. i don't know what is the matter � he is entirely changed from what he used to be." "i know what is the matter," said fleda, now turning comforter in her turn, as her aunt's tears fell more quietly, because more despairingly, than her own � "i know what it is � he is not happy; � that is all. he has not succeeded well in these farm doings, and he wants money, and he is worried � it is no wonder if he don't seem exactly as he used to." "and oh, that troubles me most of all!" said mrs. rossitur. "the farm is bringing in nothing, i know � he don't know how to get along with it � i was afraid it would be so; � and we are paying nothing to uncle orrin � and it is just a dead weight on his hands; � and i can't bear to think of it! and what will it come to?" mrs. rossitur was now in her turn surprised into showing the strength of her sorrows and apprehensions. fleda was fain to put her own out of sight, and bend her utmost powers to soothe and compose her aunt, till they could both go down to the breakfast-table. she had got ready a nice little dish that her uncle was very fond of; but her pleasure in it was all gone; and indeed it seemed to be thrown away upon the whole table. half the meal was over before anybody said a word. "i am going to wash my hands of these miserable farm affairs," said mr. rossitur. "are you?" said his wife. "yes � of all personal concern in them; that is, i am wearied to death with the perpetual annoyances and vexations, and petty calls upon my time � life is not worth having at such a rate! i'll have done with it." "you will give up the entire charge to lucas?" said mrs. rossitur. "lucas! � no! � i wouldn't undergo that man's tongue for another year if he would take out his wages in talking. i could not have more of it in that case than i have had the last six months. after money, the thing that man loves best is certainly the sound of his own voice; � and a most insufferable egotist! no � i have been talking with a man who wants to take the whole farm for two years upon shares � that will clear me of all trouble." there was sober silence for a few minutes, and then mrs. rossitur asked who it was. "his name is didenhover." "oh, uncle rolf, don't have anything to do with him!" exclaimed fleda. "why not?" "because he lived with grandpa a great while ago, and behaved very ill. grandpa had a great deal of trouble with him." "how old were you then?" "i was young to be sure," said fleda, hanging her head, "but i remember very well how it was." "you may have occasion to remember it a second time," said mr. rossitur, drily, "for the thing is done. i have engaged him." not another word was spoken. mr. rossitur went out after breakfast, and mrs. rossitur busied herself with the breakfast cups and a tub of hot water � a work she never would let fleda share with her, and which lasted in consequence long enough, barby said, to cook and eat three breakfasts. fleda and hugh sat looking at the floor and the fire respectively. "i am going up the hill to get a sight of aunt miriam," said fleda, bringing her eyes from the fire upon her aunt. "well, dear, do. you have been shut up long enough by the snow. wrap yourself up well, and put on my snow-boots." "no, indeed!" said fleda. "i shall just draw on another pair of stockings over my shoes, within my india-rubbers � i will take a pair of hugh's woollen ones." "what has become of your own?" said hugh. "my own what? stockings?" "snow-boots." "worn out, mr. rossitur! i have run them to death, poor things! is that a slight intimation that you are afraid of the same fate for your socks?" "no," said hugh, smiling in spite of himself, at her manner � "i will lend you anything i have got, fleda." his tone put fleda in mind of the very doubtful pretensions of the socks in question to be comprehended under the term � she was silent a minute. "will you go with me, hugh?" "no, dear, i can't; i must get a little ahead with the wood while i can; it looks as if it would snow again, and barby isn't provided for more than a day or two." "and how for this fire?" hugh shook his head, and rose up to go forth into the kitchen. fleda went too, linking her arm in his, and bearing affectionately upon it; a sort of tacit saying, that they would sink or swim together. hugh understood it perfectly. "i am very sorry you have to do it, dear hugh; oh, that woodshed! if it had only been made �" "never mind � can't help it now � we shall get through the winter by and by." "can't you get uncle rolf to help you a little?" whispered fleda; "it would do him good." but hugh only shook his head. "what are we going to do for dinner, barby?" said fleda, still holding hugh there before the fire. "aint much choice," said barby. "it would puzzle anybody to spell much more out of it than pork and ham. there's plenty of them. _i_ sha'n't starve this some time." "but we had ham yesterday, and pork the day before yesterday, and ham monday," said fleda. "there is plenty of vegetables, thanks to you and me, hugh," she said, with a little reminding squeeze of his arm. "i could make soups nicely, if i had anything to make them of!" "there's enough to be had for the catching," said barby. "if i hadn't a man-mountain of work upon me, i'd start out and shoot or steal something." "_you_ shoot, barby!" said fleda, laughing. "i guess i can do most anything i set my hand to. if i couldn't, i'd shoot myself. it wont do to kill no more o' them chickens." "o no, � now they are laying so finely. well, i am going up the hill, and when i come home i'll try and make up something, barby." "earl douglass 'll go out in the woods now and then, of a day, when he ha'n't no work particular to do, and fetch hum as many pigeons and woodchucks as you could shake a stick at." "hugh, my dear," said fleda, laughing, "it's a pity you aren't a hunter � i would shake a stick at you with great pleasure. well, barby, we will see when i come home." "i was just a-thinkin'," said barby; � "mis' douglass sent round to know if mis' rossitur would like a piece of fresh meat � earl's been killing a sheep � there's a nice quarter, she says, if she'd like to have it." "a quarter of mutton!" said fleda, � "i don't know � no, i think not, barby; i don't know when we should be able to pay it back again. and yet, hugh � do you think uncle rolf will kill another sheep this winter?" "i am sure he will not," said hugh; "there have so many died." "if he only knowed it, that is a reason for killing more," said barby � "and have the good of them while he can." "tell mrs. douglass we are obliged to her, but we do not want the mutton, barby." hugh went to his chopping, and fleda set out upon her walk � the lines of her face settling into a most fixed gravity so soon as she turned away from the house. it was what might be called a fine winter's day � cold and still, and the sky covered with one uniform grey cloud. the snow lay in uncompromising whiteness, thick over all the world � a kindly shelter for the young grain and covering for the soil; but fleda's spirits, just then in another mood, saw in it only the cold refusal to hope, and the barren check to exertion. the wind had cleared the snow from the trees and fences, and they stood in all their unsoftened blackness and nakedness, bleak and stern. the high grey sky threatened a fresh fall of snow in a few hours; it was just now a lull between two storms; and fleda's spirits, that sometimes would have laughed in the face of nature's soberness, to-day sank to its own quiet. her pace neither slackened nor quickened till she reached aunt miriam's house, and entered the kitchen. aunt miriam was in high tide of business over a pot of boiling lard, and the enormous bread-tray by the side of the fire was half-full of very tempting light-brown cruller, which, however, were little more than a kind of sweet bread for the workmen. in the bustle of putting in and taking out, aunt miriam could give her visitor but a word and a look. fleda pulled off her hood, and sitting down, watched in unusual silence the old lady's operations. "and how are they all at your house to-day?" aunt miriam asked, as she was carefully draining her cruller out of the kettle. fleda answered that they were as well as usual, but a slight hesitation and the tell-tale tone of her voice made the old lady look at her more narrowly. she came near and kissed that gentle brow, and looking in her eyes, asked her what the matter was? "i don't know; " said fleda, eyes and voice wavering alike � "i am foolish, i believe �" aunt miriam tenderly put aside the hair from her forehead, and kissed it again, but the cruller was burning, and she went back to the kettle. "i got down-hearted somehow this morning," fleda went on, trying to steady her voice and school herself. "_you_ down-hearted, dear! about what?" there was a world of sympathy in these words, in the warmth of which fleda's shut-up heart unfolded itself at once. "it's nothing new, aunt miriam � only somehow i felt it particularly this morning � i have been kept in the house so long by this snow, i have got dumpish, i suppose �" aunt miriam looked anxiously at the tears which seemed to come involuntarily, but she said nothing. "we are not getting along well at home." "i supposed that," said mrs. plumfield, quietly. "but anything new?" "yes � uncle rolf has let the farm � only think of it! � he has let the farm to that didenhover." "didenhover!" "for two years." "did you tell him what you knew about him?" "yes, but it was too late � the mischief was done." aunt miriam went on skimming out her cruller with a very grave face. "how came your uncle to do so without learning about him first?" "oh, i don't know! � he was in a hurry to do anything that would take the trouble of the farm off his hands; he don't like it." "on what terms has he let him have it?" "on shares � and i know, i know under that didenhover it will bring us in nothing, and it has brought us in nothing all the time we have been here; and i don't know what we are going to live upon �" "has your uncle nor your aunt no property at all left?" "not a bit � except some waste lands in michigan? i believe, that were left to aunt lucy a year or two ago; but they are as good as nothing." "has he let didenhover have the saw-mill too?" "i don't know � he didn't say � if he has, there will be nothing at all left for us to live upon. i expect nothing from didenhover, � his face is enough. i should have thought it might have been for uncle rolf. oh, if it wasn't for aunt lucy and hugh, i shouldn't care!" � "what has your uncle been doing all this year past?" "i don't know, aunt miriam � he can't bear the business, and he has left the most of it to lucas, and i think lucas is more of a talker than a doer. almost nothing has gone right. the crops have been ill-managed � i do not know a great deal about it, but i know enough for that; and uncle rolf did not know anything about it but what he got from books. and the sheep are dying off � barby says it is because they were in such poor condition at the beginning of winter, and i dare say she is right." "he ought to have had a thorough good man at the beginning, to get along well." "o yes! � but he hadn't, you see, and so we have just been growing poorer every month. and now, aunt miriam, i really don't know from day to day what to do to get dinner. you know, for a good while after we came we used to have our marketing brought every few days from albany, but we have run up such a bill there already at the butcher's as i don't know when in the world will get paid, and aunt lucy and i will do anything before we will send for any more; and if it wasn't for her and hugh i wouldn't care, but they haven't much appetite, and i know that all this takes what little they have away � this, and seeing the effect it has upon uncle rolf �" "does he think so much more of eating than of anything else?" said aunt miriam. "o no, it is not that," said fleda, earnestly, "it is not that at all � he is not a great eater � but he can't bear to have things different from what they used to be, and from what they ought to be � o no, don't think that! i don't know whether i ought to have said what i have said, but i couldn't help it �" fleda's voice was lost for a little while. "he is changed from what he used to be � a little thing vexes him now, and i know it is because he is not happy; � he used to be so kind and pleasant, and he is still sometimes; but aunt lucy's face � oh, aunt miriam!" "why, dear?" said aunt miriam, tenderly. "it is so changed from what it used to be!" poor fleda covered her own, and aunt miriam came to her side to give softer and gentler expression to sympathy than words could do, till the bowed face was raised again and hid in her neck. "i can't see thee do so, my child � my dear child! hope for brighter days, dear fleda." "i could bear it," said fleda, after a little interval, "if it wasn't for aunt lucy and hugh � oh, that is the worst!" "what about hugh?" said aunt miriam, soothingly. "oh, he does what he ought not to do, aunt miriam, and there is no help for it � and he did last summer, when we wanted men; and in the hot haying-time he used to work, i know, beyond his strength, and aunt lucy and i did not know what to do with ourselves." fleda's head, which had been raised, sunk again and more heavily. "where was his father?" said mrs. plumfield. "oh, he was in the house � he didn't know it � he didn't think about it." "didn't think about it?" "no � oh, he didn't think hugh was hurting himself, but he was; he showed it for weeks afterward. i have said what i ought not now," said fleda, looking up, and seeming to check her tears, and the spring of them at once. "so much security any woman has in a man without religion," said aunt miriam, going back to her work. fleda would have said something if she could; she was silent; she stood looking into the fire, while the tears seemed to come as it were by stealth, and ran down her face unregarded. "is hugh not well?" "i don't know," said fleda, faintly; "he is not ill, but he never was very strong, and he exposes himself now, i know, in a way he ought not. i am sorry i have just come and troubled you with all this now, aunt miriam," she said, after a little pause; "i shall feel better by and by � i don't very often get such a fit." "my dear little fleda!" � and there was unspeakable tenderness in the old lady's voice, as she came up, and drew fleda's head again to rest upon her � "i would not let a rough wind touch thee if i had the holding of it. but we may be glad the arranging of things is not in my hand � i should be a poor friend after all, for i do not know what is best. canst thou trust him who does know, my child?" "i do, aunt miriam � oh, i do," said fleda, burying her face in her bosom � "i don't often feel so as i did to-day." "there comes not a cloud that its shadow is not wanted," said aunt miriam. "i cannot see why, but it is that thou mayest bloom the brighter, my dear one." "i know it" � fleda's words were hardly audible � "i will try." � "remember his own message to every one under a cloud � 'cast all thy care upon him, for he careth for thee;' � thou mayest keep none of it; and then the peace that passeth understanding shall keep thee. � 'so he giveth his beloved sleep.' " fleda wept for a minute on the old lady's neck, and then she looked up, dried her tears, and sat down with a face greatly quieted and lightened of its burden, while aunt miriam once more went back to her work. the one wrought and the other looked on in silence. the cruller were all done at last � the great bread-trough was filled and set away � the remnant of the fat was carefully disposed of, and aunt miriam's handmaid was called in to "take the watch." she herself and her visitor adjourned to the sitting-room. "well," said fleda., in a tone again steady and clear, "i must go home to see about getting up a dinner. i am the greatest hand at making something out of nothing, aunt miriam, that ever you saw. there is nothing like practice. i only wish the man uncle orrin talks about would come along once in a while." "who was that?" said aunt miriam. "a man that used to go about from house to house," said fleda, laughing, "when the cottagers were making soup, with a ham- bone to give it a relish, and he used to charge them so much for a dip, and so much for a wallop." "come, come, i can do as much for you as that," said aunt miriam, proceeding to her store pantry � "see here � wouldn't this be as good as a ham-bone?" said she, bringing out of it a fat fowl; "how would a wallop of this do?" "admirably! � only � the ham-bone used to come out again, and i am confident this never would." "well, i guess i'll stand that," said aunt miriam, smiling � "you wouldn't mind carrying this under your cloak, would you?" "i have no doubt i shall go home lighter with it than without it, ma'am, � thank you, dear aunty! �dear aunt miriam!" there was a change of tone, and of eye, as fleda sealed each thank with a kiss. "but how is it? � does all the charge of the house come upon you, dear?" "oh, this kind of thing, because aunt lucy doesn't understand it, and can't get along with it so well. she likes better to sew, and i had quite as lief do this." "and don't you sew, too?" "oh, a little. she does as much as she can," said fleda, gravely. "where is your other cousin?" said mrs. plumfield, abruptly. "marion? � she is in england, i believe � we don't hear from her very often." "no, no � i mean the one who is in the army?" "charlton! � oh, he is just ordered off to mexico," said fleda, sadly, "and that is another great trouble to aunt lucy. this miserable war!" "does he never come home?" "only once since we came from paris � while we were in new york. he has been stationed away off at the west." "he has a captain's pay now, hasn't he?" "yes, but he doesn't know at all how things are at home; he hasn't an idea of it � and he will not have. well, good-bye, dear aunt miriam � i must run home to take care of my chicken." she ran away; and if her eyes many a time on the way down the hill filled and overflowed, they were not bitter nor dark tears; they were the gushings of high and pure and generous affections, weeping for fullness, not for want. that chicken was not wasted in soup; it was converted into the nicest possible little fricassee, because the toast would make so much more of it; and to fleda's own dinner, little went beside the toast, that a greater portion of the rest might be for her aunt and hugh. that same evening, seth plumfield came into the kitchen, while fleda was there. "here is something belongs to you, i believe," said he, with a covert smile, bringing out from under his cloak the mate to fleda's fowl � "mother said somethin' had run away with t'other one, and she didn't know what to do with this one alone. your uncle at home?" the next news that fleda heard was, that seth had taken a lease of the saw-mill for two years. mr. didenhover did not disappoint fleda's expectations. very little could be got from him, or the farm under him, beyond the immediate supply wanted for the use of the family; and that in kind, not in cash. mrs. rossitur was comforted by knowing, that some portion of rent had also gone to dr. gregory � how large or how small a portion, she could not find out. but this left the family in increasing straits, which narrowed and narrowed during the whole first summer and winter of didenhover's administration. very straitened they would have been, but for the means of relief adopted by the two _children_, as they were always called. hugh, as soon as the spring opened, had a quiet hint through fleda, that if he had a mind to take the working of the saw-mill he might, for a consideration merely nominal. this offer was immediately and gratefully closed with; and hugh's earnings were thenceforward very important at home. fleda had her own ways and means. mr. rossitur, more low-spirited and gloomy than ever, seemed to have no heart to anything. he would have worked, perhaps, if he could have done it alone; but to join didenhover and his men, or any other gang of workmen, was too much for his magnanimity. he helped nobody but fleda. for her he would do anything, at any time; and in the garden, and among her flowers in the flowery courtyard, he might often be seen at work with her. but nowhere else. chapter xxii. "some bring a capon, some a rurall cake, some nuts, some apples; some that thinke they make the better cheeses, bring 'hem; or else send by their ripe daughters, whom they would commend this way to husbands; and whose baskets beare an embleme of themselves in plum or pears." ben johnson. so the time walked away � for this family was not now of those "whom time runneth withal" � to the second summer of mr. didenhover's term. one morning mrs. rossitur was seated in the breakfast-room at her usual employment, mending and patching � no sinecure now. fleda opened the kitchen door and came in, folding up a calico apron she had just taken off. "you are tired, dear," said mrs. rossitur, sorrowfully; � you look pale." "do i?" said fleda, sitting down. "i am a little tired!" "why do you do so?" "oh, it's nothing," said fleda, cheerfully; "i haven't hurt myself. i shall be rested again in a few minutes." "what have you been doing?" "oh, i tired myself a little before breakfast in the garden, i suppose. aunt lucy, don't you think i had almost a bushel of pease? � and there was a little over a half bushel last-time, so i shall call it a bushel. isn't that fine?" "you didn't pick them all yourself?" "hugh helped me a little while; but he had the horse to get ready, and i was out before him this morning � poor fellow, he was tired from yesterday, i dare say." mrs. rossitur looked at her, a look between remonstrance and reproach, and cast her eves down without saying a word, swallowing a whole heartful of thoughts and feelings. fleda stooped forward till her own forehead softly touched mrs. rossitur's, as gentle a chiding of despondency as a very sunbeam could have given. "now, aunt lucy! � what do you mean? don't you know it's good for me? � and do you know, mr. sweet will give me four shillings a bushel? and, aunt lucy, i sent three dozen heads of lettuce this morning besides. isn't that doing well? and i sent two dozen day before yesterday. it is time they were gone, for they are running up to seed, this set; i have got another fine set almost ready." mrs. rossitur looked at her again, as if she had been a sort of terrestrial angel. "and how much will you get for them?" "i don't know exactly � threepence, or sixpence, perhaps � i guess not so much � they are so easily raised; though i don't believe there are so fine as mine to be seen in this region. if i only had somebody to water the strawberries! � we should have a great many. aunt lucy, i am going to send as many as i can without robbing uncle rolf � he sha'n't miss them; but the rest of us don't mind eating rather fewer than usual? i shall make a good deal by them. and i think these morning rides do hugh good; don't you think so?" "and what have you been busy about ever since breakfast, fleda?" "oh � two or three things," said fleda, lightly. "what?" "i had bread to make � and then i thought, while my hands were in, i would make a custard for uncle rolf." "you needn't have done that, dear, it was not necessary." "yes it was, because, you know, we have only fried pork for dinner to-day; and while we have the milk and eggs, it doesn't cost much � the sugar is almost nothing. he will like it better, and so will hugh. as for you," said fleda, gently touching her forehead again, "you know it is of no consequence!" "i wish you would think yourself of some consequence," said mrs. rossitur. "don't i think myself of consequence?" said fleda, affectionately. "i don't know how you'd all get on without me. what do you think i have a mind to do now, by way of resting myself?" "well?" said mrs. rossitur, thinking of something else. "it is the day for making presents to the minister, you know?" "the minister? �" "yes, the new minister � they expect him to-day; you have heard of it; the things are all to be carried to his house to- day. i have a great notion to go and see the fun � if i only had anything in the world i could possibly take with me �" "aren't you too tired, dear?" "no � it would rest me; it is early yet; if i only had something to take! i couldn't go without taking something �" "a basket of eggs?" said mrs. rossitur. "can't, aunt lucy � i can't spare them; so many of the hens are setting now. a basket of strawberries! � that's the thing! i've got enough picked for that and to-night too. that will do!" fleda's preparations were soon made, and with her basket on her arm she was ready to set forth. "if pride had not been a little put down in me," she said, smiling, "i suppose i should rather stay at home than go with such a petty offering. and no doubt every one that sees it or hears of it will lay it to anything but the right reason. so much the world knows about the people it judges! it is too bad to leave you all alone, aunt lucy." mrs. rossitur pulled her down for a kiss � a kiss in which how much was said on both sides! � and fleda set forth, choosing, as she very commonly did, the old-time way through the kitchen. "off again?" said barby, who was on her knees scrubbing the great flag-stones of the hearth. "yes, i am going up to see the donation party." "has the minister come?" "no, but he is coming to-day, i understand." "he ha'n't preached for 'em yet, has he?" "not yet; i suppose he will next sunday." "they are in a mighty hurry to give him a donation party!" said barby. "i'd a' waited till he was here first. i don't believe they'd be quite so spry with their donations if they had paid the last man up as they ought. i'd rather give a man what belongs to him, and make him presents afterwards." "why, so i hope they will, barby," said fleda, laughing. but barby said no more. the parsonage-house was about a quarter of a mile, a little more, from the saw-mill, in a line at right angles with the main road. fleda took hugh from his work, to see her safe there. the road ran north, keeping near the level of the mid- hill, where it branched off a little below the saw-mill; and as the ground continued rising towards the east, and was well clothed with woods, the way, at this hour, was still pleasantly shady. to the left, the same slope of ground carried down to the foot of the hill gave them an uninterrupted view over a wide plain or bottom, edged in the distance with a circle of gently swelling hills. close against the hills, in the far corner of the plain, lay the little village of queechy run, hid from sight by a slight intervening rise of ground. not a chimney showed itself in the whole spread of country. a sunny landscape just now; but rich in picturesque associations of hay-cocks and win-rows, spotting it near and far; and close by below them was a field of mowers at work; they could distinctly hear the measured rush of the scythes through the grass, and then the soft clink of the rifles would seem to play some old delicious tune of childish days. fleda made hugh stand still to listen. it was a warm day, but "the sweet south that breathes upon a bank of violets" could hardly be more sweet than the air which, coming to them over the whole breadth of the valley, had been charged by the new-made hay. "how good it is, hugh," said fleda, "that one can get out of doors, and forget everything that ever happened or ever will happen within four walls!" "do you?" said hugh, rather soberly. "yes, i do � even in my flower-patch, right before the house- door; but here" � said fleda, turning away, and swinging her basket of strawberries as she went, "i have no idea i ever did such a thing as make bread, � and how clothes get mended i do not comprehend in the least!" "and have you forgotten the pease and the asparagus too?" "i am afraid you haven't, dear hugh," said fleda, linking her arm within his. "hugh � i must find some way to make money." "more money!" said hugh, smiling. "yes � this garden business is all very well, but it doesn't come to any very great things after all, if you are aware of it; and hugh, i want to get aunt lucy a new dress. i can't bear to see her in that old merino, and it isn't good for her. why, hugh, she couldn't possibly see anybody, if anybody should come to the house." "who is there to come?" said hugh. "why, nobody; but still, she ought not to be so." "what more can you do, dear fleda? you work a great deal too hard already," said hugh, sighing. "you should have seen the way father and mother looked at you last night when you were asleep on the sofa." fleda stifled her sigh, and went on. "i am sure there are things that might be done � things for the booksellers � translating, or copying, or something � i don't know exactly � i have heard of people's doing such things. i mean to write to uncle orrin, and ask him. i am sure he can manage it for me." "what were you writing the other night?" said hugh, suddenly. "when!" "the other night � when you were writing by the fire-light? i saw your pencil scribbling away at a furious rate over the paper, and you kept your hand up carefully between me and your face, but i could see it was something very interesting. ha!" � said hugh, laughingly trying to get another view of fleda's face which was again kept from him. "send that to uncle orrin, fleda; � or show it to me first, and then i will tell you." fleda made no answer; and at the parsonage-door hugh left her. two or three wagons were standing there, but nobody to be seen. fleda went up the steps and crossed the broad piazza, brown and unpainted, but picturesque still, and guided by the sound of tongues turned to the right, where she found a large low room, the very centre of the stir. but the stir had not by any means reached the height yet. not more than a dozen people were gathered. here were aunt syra and mrs. douglass, appointed a committee to receive and dispose the offerings as they were brought in. "why, there is not much to be seen yet," said fleda. "i did not know i was so early." "time enough," said mrs. douglass. "they'll come the thicker when they do come. good morning, dr. quackenboss! i hope you're a-going to give us something else besides a bow? and i wont take none of your physic neither." "i humbly submit," said the doctor, graciously, "that nothing ought to be expected of gentlemen that � a � are so unhappy as to be alone; for they really � a � have nothing to give � but themselves." there was a shout of merriment. "and suppos'n that's a gift that nobody wants?" said mrs. douglass's sharp eye and voice at once. "in that case," said the doctor, "i really � miss ringgan, may i � a � may i relieve your hand of this fair burden?" "it is not a very fair burden, sir," said fleda, laughing, and relinquishing her strawberries. "ah, but, fair, you know, i mean � we speak � in that sense � mrs. douglass, here is by far the most elegant offering that your hands will have the honour of receiving this day." "i hope so," said mrs. douglass, "or there wont be much to eat for the minister. did you never take notice how elegant things somehow made folks grow poor?" "i guess he'd as lieve see something a little substantial," said aunt syra. "well, now," said the doctor, "here is miss ringgan, who is unquestionably � a �elegant! � and i am sure nobody will say that she � looks poor." in one sense, surely not! there could not be two opinions. but with all the fairness of health, and the flush which two or three feelings had brought to her cheeks, there was a look as if the workings of the mind had refined away a little of the strength of the physical frame, and as if growing poor in mrs. douglass's sense � that is, thin, might easily be the next step. "what's your uncle going to give us, fleda?" said aunt syra. but fleda was saved replying; for mrs. douglass, who, if she was sharp, could be good-natured too, and had watched to see how fleda took the double fire upon elegance and poverty, could bear no more trial of that sweet gentle face. without giving her time to answer, she carried her off to see the things already stored in the closet, bidding the doctor, over her shoulder, "be off after his goods, whether he had got 'em or no." there was certainly a promising beginning made for the future minister's comfort. one shelf was already completely stocked with pies, and another showed a quantity of cake, and biscuits enough to last a good-sized family for several meals. "that is always the way," said mrs. douglass; "it's the strangest thing that folks has no sense! now, one half o' them pies 'll be dried up afore they can eat the rest; 't aint much loss, for mis' prin sent 'em down, and if they are worth anything, it's the first time anything ever come out of her house that was. now look at them biscuit!" "how many are coming to eat them?" said fleda. "how?" "how large a family has the minister?" "he ha'n't a bit of a family! he ain't married." "not!" at the grave way in which mrs. douglass faced round upon her and answered, and at the idea of a single mouth devoted to all that closetful fleda's gravity gave place to most uncontrollable merriment. "no," said mrs. douglass, with a curious twist of her mouth, but commanding herself, � "he aint, to be sure, not yet. he ha'n't any family but himself and some sort of a housekeeper, i suppose; they'll divide the house between 'em." "and the biscuits, i hope," said fleda. "but what will he do with all the other things, mrs. douglass?" "sell 'em if he don't want 'em," said mrs. douglass, quizzically. "shut up, fleda, i forget who sent them biscuit � somebody that calculated to make a show for a little, i reckon. my sakes! i believe it was mis' springer herself! she didn't hear me though," said mrs. douglass, peeping out of the half-open door. "it's a good thing the world aint all alike; there's mis' plumfield � stop now, and i'll tell you all she sent; that big jar of lard, there's as good as eighteen or twenty pound � and that basket of eggs, i don't know how many there is � and that cheese, a real fine one, i'll be bound, she wouldn't pick out the worst in her dairy; and seth fetched down a hundred weight of corn meal, and another of rye flour; now, that's what i call doing things something like; if everybody else would keep up their end as well as they keep up their'n, the world wouldn't be quite so one-sided as it is. i never see the time yet when i couldn't tell where to find mis' plumfield." "no, nor anybody else," said fleda, looking happy. "there's mis' silbert couldn't find nothing better to send than a kag of soap," mrs. douglass went on, seeming very much amused; "i _was_ beat when i saw that walk in! i should think she'd feel streaked to come here by and by, and see it a- standing between mis' plumfield's lard and mis' clavering's pork � that's a handsome kag of pork, aint it? what's that man done with your strawberries? i'll put 'em up here, afore somebody takes a notion to 'em. i'll let the minister know who he's got to thank for 'em," said she, winking at fleda. "where's dr. quackenboss?" "coming, ma'am!" sounded from the hall, and forthwith, at the open door, entered the doctor's head, simultaneously with a large cheese, which he was rolling before him, the rest of the doctor's person being thrown into the background in consequence � a curious natural representation of a wheelbarrow, the wheel being the only artificial part. "oh! that's you, doctor, is it?" said mrs. douglass. "this is me, ma'am," said the doctor, rolling up to the closet door; "this has the honour to be � a � myself, � bringing my service to the feet of miss ringgan." " 'tain't very elegant," said the sharp lady. fleda thought if his service was at her feet, her feet should be somewhere else, and accordingly stepped quietly out of the way, and went to one of the windows, from whence she could have a view both of the comers and the come; and by this time, thoroughly in the spirit of the thing, she used her eyes upon both with great amusement. people were constantly arriving now, in wagons and on foot; and stores of all kinds were most literally pouring in. bags, and even barrels of meal, flour, pork, and potatoes; strings of dried apples, salt, hams, and beef; hops, pickles, vinegar, maple-sugar and molasses; rolls of fresh butter, cheese, and eggs; cake, bread, and pies, without end. mr. penny, the storekeeper, sent a box of tea. mr. winegar, the carpenter, a new ox-sled. earl douglass brought a handsome axe-helve of his own fashioning; his wife, a quantity of rolls of wool. zan finn carted a load of wood into the wood-shed, and squire thornton another. home-made candles, custards, preserves, and smoked liver, came in a batch from two or three miles off, up on the mountain. half-a- dozen chairs from the factory-man; half-a-dozen brooms from the other storekeeper at the deepwater settlement; a carpet for the best room from the ladies of the township, who had clubbed forces to furnish it � and a home-made concern it was, from the shears to the loom. the room was full now, for every one, after depositing his gift, turned aside to see what others had brought and were bringing; and men and women, the young and old, had their several circles of gossip in various parts of the crowd. apart from them all fleda sat in her window, probably voted "elegant" by others than the doctor, for they vouchsafed her no more than a transitory attention, and sheered off to find something more congenial. she sat watching the people, smiling very often as some odd figure, or look, or some peculiar turn of expression or tone of voice, caught her ear or her eye. both ear and eye were fastened by a young countryman, with a particularly fresh face, whom she saw approaching the house. he came up on foot, carrying a single fowl slung at his back by a stick thrown across his shoulder, and, without stirring hat or stick, he came into the room, and made his way through the crowd of people, looking to the one hand and the other, evidently in a maze of doubt to whom he should deliver himself and his chicken, till brought up by mrs. douglass's sharp voice. "well, philetus, what are you looking for?" "do, mis' douglass!" � it is impossible to express the abortive attempt at a bow which accompanied this salutation � "i want to know if the minister 'll be in town to-day." "what do you want of him?" "i don't want nothin' of him. i want to know if he'll be in town to-day?" "yes; i expect he'll be along directly. why, what then?" " 'cause i've got teu chickens for him here, and mother said they hadn't ought to be kept no longer, and if he wan't to hum, i were to fetch 'em back, straight." "well, he'll be here, so let's have 'em," said mrs. douglass, biting her lips. "what's become o' t'other one?" said earl, as the young man's stick was brought round to the table: "i guess you've lost it, ha'n't you?" "my gracious!" was all philetus's powers were equal to. mrs. douglass went off into fits, which rendered her incapable of speaking, and left the unlucky chicken-bearer to tell his story his own way, but all he brought forth was, "du tell! � i _am_ beat!" "where's t'other one?" said mrs. douglass, between paroxysms. "why, i ha'n't done nothin' to it," said philetus, dismally; "there was teu on 'em afore i started, and i took and tied 'em together, and hitched 'em onto the stick, and that one must ha' loosened itself off some way � i believe the darned thing did it o' purpose." "i guess your mother knowed that one wouldn't keep till it got here," said mrs. douglass. the room was now all one shout, in the midst of which poor philetus took himself off as speedily as possible. before fleda had dried her eyes, her attention was taken by a lady and gentleman who had just got out of a vehicle of more than the ordinary pretension, and were coming up to the door. the gentleman was young � the lady was not; both had a particularly amiable and pleasant appearance; but about the lady there was something that moved fleda singularly, and, somehow, touched the spring of old memories, which she felt stirring at the sight of her. as they neared the house she lost them; then they entered the room and came through it slowly, looking about them with an air of good-humoured amusement. fleda's eye was fixed, but her mind puzzled itself in vain to recover what, in her experience, had been connected with that fair and lady-like physiognomy, and the bland smile that was overlooked by those acute eyes. the eyes met hers, and then seemed to reflect her doubt, for they remained as fixed as her own, while the lady, quickening her steps, came up to her. "i am sure," she said, holding out her hand, and with a gentle graciousness that was very agreeable, "i am sure you are somebody i know. what is your name?" "fleda ringgan." "i thought so!" said the lady, now shaking her hand warmly, and kissing her; "i knew nobody could have been your mother but amy charlton! how like her you look! don't you know me? don't you remember mrs. evelyn?" "mrs. evelyn!" said fleda, the whole coming back to her at once. "you remember me now? � how well i recollect you! and all that old time at montepoole. poor little creature that you were! and dear little creature, as i am sure you have been ever since! and how is your dear aunt lucy?" fleda answered that she was well. "i used to love her very much � that was before i knew you � before she went abroad. we have just got home � this spring; and now we are staying at montepoole for a few days. i shall come and see her to-morrow � i knew you were somewhere in this region, but i did not know exactly where to find you; that was one reason why i came here to-day, i thought i might hear something of you. and where are your aunt lucy's children? and how are they?" "hugh is at home," said fleda, "and rather delicate � charlton is in the army." "in the army! in mexico! �" "in mexico he has been �" "your poor aunt lucy!" "� in mexico he has been, but he is just coming home now � he has been wounded, and he is coming home to spend a long furlough." "coming home. that will make you all very happy. and hugh is delicate; and how are you, love? you hardly look like a country-girl. mr. olmney!" said mrs. evelyn, looking round for her companion, who was standing quietly a few steps off, surveying the scene. "mr. olmney! i am going to do you a favour, sir, in introducing you to miss ringgan, a very old friend of mine. mr. olmney, these are not exactly the apple- cheeks and _robustious_ demonstrations we are taught to look for in country-land." this was said with a kind of sly funny enjoyment, which took away everything disagreeable from the appeal; but fleda conceived a favourable opinion of the person to whom it was made from the fact that he paid her no compliment, and made no answer beyond a very pleasant smile. "what is mrs. evelyn's definition of a _very old_ friend?" said he, with another smile, as that lady moved off to take a more particular view of what she had come to see. "to judge by the specimen before me, i should consider it very equivocal." "perhaps mrs. evelyn counts friendships by inheritance," said fleda. "i think they ought to be counted so." " 'thine own friend, and thy father's friend, forsake not,' " said the young man. fleda looked up and smiled a pleased answer. "there is something very lovely in the faithfulness of tried friendship, and very uncommon." "i know that it is uncommon only by hearsay," said fleda. "i have so many good friends." he was silent for an instant, possibly thinking there might be a reason for that, unknown only to fleda herself. "perhaps one must be in peculiar circumstances to realize it," he said, sighing; � "circumstances that leave one of no importance to any one in the world. but it is a kind lesson, � one learns to depend more on the one friendship that can never disappoint." fleda's eyes again gave an answer of sympathy; for she thought from the shade that had come upon his face, that these circumstances had probably been known to himself. "this is rather an amusing scene," he remarked presently, in a low tone. "very," said fleda. "i have never seen such a one before." "nor i," said he. "it is a pleasant scene, too; it is pleasant to see so many evidences of kindness and good feeling on the part of all these people." "there is all the more show of it, i suppose, to-day," said fleda, "because we have a new minister coming; they want to make a favourable impression." "does the old proverb of the 'new broom' hold good here too?" said he, smiling. "what's the name of your new minister?" "i am not certain," said fleda; "there were two talked of; the last i heard was, that it was an old mr. carey; but from what i hear this morning, i suppose it must be the other � a mr. ollum, or some such queer name, i believe." fleda thought her hearer looked very much amused, and followed his eye into the room, where mrs. evelyn was going about in all quarters looking at everything, and finding occasion to enter into conversation with at least a quarter of the people who were present. whatever she was saying, it seemed at that moment to have something to do with them, for sundry eyes turned in their direction; and presently dr. quackenboss came up, with even more than common suavity of manner. "i trust miss ringgan will do me the favour of making me acquainted with � a � with our future pastor!" said the doctor, looking, however, not at all at miss ringgan, but straight at the pastor in question. "i have great pleasure in giving you the first welcome, sir � or, i should say, rather the second; since, no doubt, miss ringgan has been in advance of me. it is not un � a � appropriate, sir, for i may say we � a � divide the town between us. you are, i am sure, a worthy representative of peter and paul; and i am � a � a pupil of esculapius, sir! you are the intellectual physician, and i am the external." "i hope we shall both prove ourselves good workmen, sir," said the young minister, shaking the doctor's hand heartily. "this is dr. quackenboss; mr. olmney," said fleda, making a tremendous effort. but though she could see corresponding indications about her companion's eyes and mouth, she admired the kindness and self-command with which he listened to the doctor's civilities and answered them; expressing his grateful sense of the favours received, not only from him, but from others. "oh � a little to begin with," said the doctor, looking round upon the room, which would certainly have furnished _that_ for fifty people; "i hope we aint done yet by considerable � but here is miss ringgan, mr. � a � ummin, that has brought you some of the fruits of her own garden, with her own fair hands � a basket of fine strawberries, which, i am sure � a � will make you forget everything else!" mr. olmney had the good-breeding not to look at fleda, as he answered, "i am sure the spirit of kindness was the same in all, dr. quackenboss, and i trust not to forget that readily." others now came up; and mr. olmney was walked off to be "made acquainted" with all, or with all the chief of his parishioners then and there assembled. fleda watched him going about, shaking hands, talking and smiling, in all directions, with about as much freedom of locomotion as a fly in a spider's web; till, at mrs. evelyn's approach, the others fell off a little, and taking him by the arm, she rescued him. "my dear mr. olmney," she whispered, with an intensely amused face, "i shall have a vision of you every day for a month to come, sitting down to dinner, with a rueful face, to a whortleberry pie; for there are so many of them, your conscience will not let you have anything else cooked, � you cannot manage more than one a day." "pies!" said the young gentleman, as mrs. evelyn left talking, to indulge her feelings in ecstatic quiet laughing � "i have a horror of pies!" "yes, yes," said mrs. evelyn, nodding her head delightedly, as she drew him towards the pantry � "i know! � come and see what is in store for you. you are to do penance for a month to come with tin pans of blackberry jam, fringed with pie crust � no, they can't be blackberries, they must be raspberries, the blackberries are not ripe yet. and you may sup upon cake and custards, unless you give the custards for the little pig out there, he will want something." "a pig!" said mr. olmney, in amaze � mrs. evelyn again giving out in distress. "a pig!" said mr. olmney. "yes, a pig � a very little one," said mrs. evelyn, convulsively. "i am sure he is hungry now." they had reached the pantry, and mr. olmney's face was all that was wanting to mrs. evelyn's delight. how she smothered it, so that it should go no further than to distress his self- command, is a mystery known only to the initiated. mrs. douglass was forthwith called into council. "mrs. douglass," said mr. olmney, "i feel very much inclined to play the host, and beg my friends to share with me some of these good things they have been so bountifully providing." "he would enjoy them much more than he would alone, mrs. douglass," said mrs. evelyn, who still had hold of mr. olmney's arm, looking round to the lady with a most benign face. "i reckon some of 'em would be past enjoying by the time he got to 'em, wouldn't they?" said the lady. "well, they'll have to take 'em in their fingers, for our crockery ha'n't come yet � i shall have to jog mr. flatt's elbow; but hungry folks aint curious." "in their fingers, or any way, provided you have only a knife to cut them with," said mr. olmney, while mrs. evelyn squeezed his arm in secret mischief; "and pray, if we can muster two knives, let us cut one of these cheeses, mrs. douglass." and presently fleda saw pieces of pie walking about in all directions, supported by pieces of cheese. and then mrs. evelyn and mr. olmney came out from the pantry and came towards her, the latter bringing her, with his own hands, a portion in a tin pan. the two ladies sat down in the window together to eat and be amused. "my dear fleda, i hope you are hungry," said mrs. evelyn, biting her pie, fleda could not help thinking, with an air of good-humoured condescension. "i am, ma'am," she said, laughing. "you look just as you used to do," mrs. evelyn went on, earnestly. "do i?" said fleda, privately thinking that the lady must have good eyes for features of resemblance. "except that you have more colour in your cheeks and more sparkles in your eyes. dear little creature that you were; i want to make you know my children. do you remember that mr. and mrs. carleton that took such care of you at montepoole?" "certainly i do! � very well." "we saw them last winter; we were down at their country place in � shire. they have a magnificent place there � everything you can think of to make life pleasant. we spent a week with them. my dear fleda, i wish i could show you that place! you never saw anything like it." fleda ate her pie. "we have nothing like it in this country; of course, cannot have. one of those superb english country seats is beyond even the imagination of an american." "nature has been as kind to us, hasn't she?" said fleda. "o yes; but such fortunes, you know. mr. olmney, what do you think of those overgrown fortunes? i was speaking to miss ringgan just now of a gentleman who has forty thousand pounds a year income � sterling, sir; forty thousand pounds a year sterling. somebody says, you know, that 'he who has more than enough is a thief of the rights of his brother' � what do you think?" but mr. olmney's attention was at the moment forcibly called off by the "income" of a parishioner. "i suppose," said fleda, "his thievish character must depend entirely on the use he makes of what he has." "i don't know," said mrs. evelyn, shaking her head; "i think the possession of great wealth is very hardening." "to a fine nature?" said fleda. mrs. evelyn shook her head again, but did not seem to think it worth while to reply; and fleda was trying the question in her own mind whether wealth or poverty might be the most hardening in its effects; when mr. olmney, having succeeded in getting free again, came and took his station beside them, and they had a particularly pleasant talk, which fleda, who had seen nobody in a great while, enjoyed very much. they had several such talks in the course of the day; for though the distractions caused by mr. olmney's other friends were many and engrossing, he generally contrived in time to find his way back to their window. meanwhile, mrs. evelyn had a great deal to say to fleda, and to hear from her; and left her at last under an engagement to spend the next day at the pool. upon mr. olmney's departure with mrs. evelyn, the attraction which had held the company together was broken, and they scattered fast. fleda presently finding herself in the minority, was glad to set out with miss anastasia finn, and her sister lucy, who would leave her but very little way from her own door. but she had more company than she bargained for. dr. quackenboss was pleased to attach himself to their party, though his own shortest road certainly lay in another direction; and fleda wondered what he had done with his wagon, which, beyond a question, must have brought the cheese in the morning. she edged herself out of the conversation as much as possible, and hoped it would prove so agreeable that he would not think of attending her home. in vain. when they made a stand at the cross roads the doctor stood on her side. "i hope now you've made a commencement, you will come to see us again, fleda," said miss lucy. "what's the use of asking?" said her sister, abruptly. "if she has a mind to, she will, and if she ha'n't, i am sure we don't want her." they turned off. "those are excellent people," said the doctor, when they were beyond hearing; "really respectable!" "are they?" said fleda. "but your goodness does not look, i am sure, to find � a � parisian graces in so remote a circle?" "certainly not," said fleda. "we have had a genial day!" said the doctor, quitting the finns. "i don't know," said fleda, permitting a little of her inward merriment to work off; "i think it has been rather too hot." "yes," said the doctor, "the sun has been ardent; but i referred rather to the � a � to the warming of affections, and the pleasant exchange of intercourse on all sides which has taken place. how do you like our � a � the stranger?" "who, sir?" "the new-comer � this young mr. ummin?" fleda answered, but she hardly knew what, for she was musing whether the doctor would go away or come in. they reached the door, and fleda invited him, with terrible effort after her voice; the doctor having just blandly offered an opinion upon the decided polish of mr. olmney's manners. chapter xxiii. "labour is light, where love (quoth i) doth pay; (saith he) light burthens heavy, if far borne." drayton. fleda pushed open the parlour door, and preceded her convoy, in a kind of tip-toe state of spirits. the first thing that met her eyes was her aunt, in one of the few handsome silks which were almost her sole relic of past wardrobe prosperity, and with a face uncommonly happy and pretty; and the next instant she saw the explanation of this appearance in her cousin charlton, a little palish, but looking better than she had ever seen him, and another gentleman, of whom her eye took in only the general outlines of fashion and comfortable circumstances, now too strange to it to go unnoted. in fleda's usual mood her next movement would have been made with a demureness that would have looked like bashfulness. but the amusement and pleasure of the day just passed had for the moment set her spirits free from the burden that generally bound them down; and they were as elastic as her step, as she came forward and presented to her aunt "dr. quackenboss," and then turned to shake her cousin's hand. "charlton! � where did you come from? we didn't expect you so soon." "you are not sorry to see me, i hope?" "not at all � very glad;" � and then as her eye glanced towards the other new-comer, charlton presented to her "mr. thorn," and fleda's fancy made a sudden quick leap on the instant to the old hall at montepoole, and the shot dog. and then dr. quackenboss was presented, an introduction which captain rossitur received coldly, and mr. thorn with something more than frigidity. the doctor's elasticity, however, defied depression, especially in the presence of a silk dress and a military coat. fleda presently saw that he was agonizing her uncle. mrs. rossitur had drawn close to her son. fleda was left to take care of the other visitor. the young men had both seemed more struck at the vision presented to them than she had been on her part. she thought neither of them was very ready to speak to her. "i did not know," said mr. thorn, softly, "what reason i had to thank rossitur for bringing me home with him to-night � he promised me a supper and a welcome � but i find he did not tell me the half of my entertainment." "that was wise in him," said fleda; "the half that is not expected is always worth a great deal more than the other." "in this case, most assuredly," said thorn, bowing, and, fleda was sure, not knowing what to make of her. "have you been in mexico, too, mr. thorn?" "not i! � that's an entertainment i beg to decline. i never felt inclined to barter an arm for a shoulder-knot, or to abridge my usual means of locomotion for the privilege of riding on parade � or selling one's-self for a name. peter schlemil's selling his shadow i can understand; but this is really lessening one's-self that one's shadow may grow the larger." "but you were in the army?" said fleda. "yes, it wasn't my doing. there is a time, you know, when one must please the old folks � i grew old enough and wise enough to cut loose from the army before i had gained or lost much by it." he did not understand the displeased gravity of fleda's face, and went on insinuatingly � "unless i have lost what charlton has gained � something i did not know hung upon the decision � perhaps you think a man is taller for having iron heels to his boots?" "i do not measure a man by his inches," said fleda. "then you have no particular predilection for shooting-men?" "i have no predilection for shooting anything, sir?" "then i am safe!" said he, with an arrogant little air of satisfaction. "i was born under an indolent star, but i confess to you, privately, of the two i would rather gather my harvests with the sickle than the sword. how does your uncle find it?" "find what, sir?" "the worship of ceres? � i remember he used to be devoted to apollo and the muses." "are they rival deities?" "why � i have been rather of the opinion that they were too many for one house to hold," said thorn, glancing at mr. rossitur. "but perhaps the graces manage to reconcile them." "did you ever hear of the graces getting supper?" said fleda. "because ceres sometimes sets them at that work. uncle rolf," she added as she passed him � "mr. thorn is inquiring after apollo � will you set him right, while i do the same for the tablecloth?" her uncle looked from her sparkling eyes to the rather puzzled expression of his guest's face. "i was only asking your lovely niece," said mr. thorn, coming down from his stilts, "how you liked this country life." dr. quackenboss bowed, probably in approbation of the epithet. "well, sir, what information did she give you on the subject?" "left me in the dark, sir, with a vague hope that you would enlighten me." "i trust mr. rossitur can give a favourable report?" said the doctor, benignly. but mr. rossitur's frowning brow looked very little like it. "what do you say to our country life, sir?" "it's a confounded life, sir," said mr. rossitur, taking a pamphlet from the table to fold and twist as he spoke; "it is a confounded life; for the head and the hands must either live separate, or the head must do no other work but wait upon the hands. it is an alternative of loss and waste, sir." "the alternative seems to be of � a � limited application," said the doctor, as fleda, having found that hugh and barby had been beforehand with her, now came back to the company. "i am sure this lady would not give such a testimony." "about what?" said fleda, colouring under the fire of so many eyes. "the blighting influence of ceres' sceptre," said mr. thorn. "this country life," said her uncle � "do you like it, fleda?" "you know, uncle," said she, cheerfully, "i was always of the old douglass's mind � i like better to hear the lark sing than the mouse squeak." "is that one of earl douglass's sayings," said the doctor. "yes, sir," said fleda with quivering lips, "but not the one you know � an older man." "ah!" said the doctor, intelligently, "mr. rossitur � speaking of hands � i have employed the irish very much of late years � they are as good as one can have, if you do not want a head." "that is to say � if you have a head," said thorn. "exactly!" said the doctor, all abroad � "and when there are not too many of them together. i had enough of that, sir, some years ago, when a multitude of them were employed on the public works. the irish were in a state of mutilation, sir, all through the country." "ah!" said thorn, "had the military been at work upon them?" "no, sir, but i wish they had, i am sure; it would have been for the peace of the town. there were hundreds of them. we were in want of an army." "of surgeons, i should think," said thorn. fleda saw the doctor's dubious air and her uncle's compressed lips; and, commanding herself, with even a look of something like displeasure, she quitted her seat by mr. thorn, and called the doctor to the window to look at a cluster of rose acacias just then in their glory. he admired, and she expatiated, till she hoped everybody but herself had forgotten what they had been talking about. but they had no sooner returned to their seats than thorn began again. "the irish in your town are not in the same mutilated state now, i suppose, sir?" "no, sir, no," said the doctor: "there are much fewer of them to break each other's bones. it was all among themselves, sir." "the country is full of foreigners," said mr. rossitur, with praiseworthy gravity. "yes, sir," said dr. quackenboss, thoughtfully, "we shall have none of our ancestors left in a short time, if they go on as they are doing." fleda was beaten from the field, and, rushing into the breakfast-room, astonished hugh by seizing hold of him and indulging in a most prolonged and unbounded laugh. she did not show herself again till the company came in to supper; but then she was found as grave as minerva. she devoted herself particularly to the care and entertainment of dr. quackenboss till he took leave; nor could thorn get another chance to talk to her through all the evening. when he and rossitur were at last in their rooms, fleda told her story. "you don't know how pleasant it was, aunt lucy � how much i enjoyed it � seeing and talking to somebody again. mrs. evelyn was so very kind." "i a very glad, my darling," said mrs. rossitur, stroking away the hair from the forehead that was bent down towards her � "i am glad you had it to-day, and i am glad you will have it again to-morrow." "you will have it too, aunt lucy. mrs. evelyn will be here in the morning � she said so." "i shall not see her." "why? now, aunt lucy! � you will." "i have nothing in the world to see her in � i cannot." "you have this?" "for the morning? a rich french silk? � it would be absurd. no, no � it would be better to wear my old merino than that." "but you will have to dress in the morning for mr. thorn? � he will be here to breakfast." "i shall not come down to breakfast. don't look so, love! � i can't help it." "why was that calico got for me and not for you!" said fleda, bitterly. "a sixpenny calico!" said mrs. rossitur, smiling � "it would be hard if you could not have so much as that, love." "and you will not see mrs. evelyn and her daughters at all! � and i was thinking that it would do you so much good!" mrs. rossitur drew her face a little nearer and kissed it, over and over. "it will do you good, my darling � that is what i care for much more." "it will not do me half as much," said fleda, sighing. her spirits were in their old place again; no more a tiptoe to-night. the short light of pleasure was overcast. she went to bed feeling very quiet indeed; and received mrs. evelyn and excused her aunt the next day, almost wishing the lady had not been as good as her word. but though in the same mood she set off with her to drive to montepoole, it could not stand the bright influences with which she found herself surrounded. she came home again at night with dancing spirits. it was some days before captain rossitur began at all to comprehend the change which had come upon his family. one morning fleda and hugh, having finished their morning's work, were in the breakfast-room waiting for the rest of the family, when charlton made his appearance, with the cloud on his brow which had been lately gathering. "where is the paper?" said he. "i haven't seen a paper since i have been here." "you mustn't expect to find mexican luxuries in queechy, captain rossitur," said fleda pleasantly. � "look at these roses, and don't ask me for papers!" he did look a minute at the dish of flowers she was arranging for the breakfast table, and at the rival freshness and sweetness of the face that hung over them. "you don't mean to say you live without a paper?" "well, it's astonishing how many things people can live without," said fleda, rather dreamily, intent upon settling an uneasy rose that would topple over. "i wish you'd answer me really," said charlton. "don't you take a paper here?" "we would take one, thankfully, if it would be so good as to come; but, seriously, charlton, we haven't any," she said, changing her tone. "and have you done without one all through the war?" "no � we used to borrow one from a kind neighbour once in a while, to make sure, as mr. thorn says, that you had not bartered an arm for a shoulder-knot." "you never looked to see whether i was killed in the meanwhile, i suppose?" "no � never," said fleda, gravely, as she took her place on a low seat in the corner � "i always knew you were safe before i touched the paper." "what do you mean?" "i am not an enemy, charlton," said fleda, laughing. "i mean that i used to make aunt miriam look over the accounts before i did." charlton walked up and down the room for a little while in sullen silence; and then brought up before fleda. "what are you doing?" fleda looked up � a glance that, as sweetly and brightly as possible, half asked, half bade him be silent and ask no questions. "what are you doing?" he repeated. "i am putting a patch on my shoe." his look expressed more indignation than anything else. "what do you mean?" "just what i say," said fleda, going on with her work. "what in the name of all the cobblers in the land do you do it for?" "because i prefer it to having a hole in my shoe; which would give me the additional trouble of mending my stockings." charlton muttered an impatient sentence, of which fleda only understood that "the devil" was in it, and then desired to know if whole shoes would not answer the purpose as well as either holes or patches. "quite � if i had them," said fleda, giving him another glance, which, with all its gravity and sweetness, carried also a little gentle reproach. "but do you know," said he, after standing still a minute looking at her, "that any cobbler in the country would do what you are doing much better for sixpence?" "i am quite aware of that," said fleda, stitching away. "your hands are not strong enough for that work." fleda again smiled at him, in the very dint of giving a hard push to her needle � a smile that would have witched him into good humour if he had not been determinately in a cloud, and proof against everything. it only admonished him that he could not safely remain in the region of sunbeams; and he walked up and down the room furiously again. the sudden ceasing of his footsteps presently made her look up. "what have you got there? � oh, charlton, don't! � please put that down! � i didn't know i had left them there. they were a little wet, and i laid them on the chair to dry." "what do you call this?" said he, not minding her request. "they are only my gardening gloves � i thought i had put them away." "gloves!" said he, pulling at them disdainfully � "why, here are two � one within the other � what's that for?" "it's an old-fashioned way of mending matters � two friends covering each other's deficiencies. the inner pair are too thin alone, and the outer ones have holes that are past cobbling." "are we going to have any breakfast to-day?" said he, flinging the gloves down. "you are very late!" "no," said fleda, quietly � "it is not time for aunt lucy to be down yet." "don't you have breakfast before nine o'clock?" "yes � by half-past eight generally." "strange way of getting along on a farm! well, i can't wait, � i promised thorn i would meet him this morning � barby! i wish you would bring me my boots!" � fleda made two springs, � one to touch charlton's mouth, the other to close the door of communication with the kitchen. "well! � what is the matter? � can't i have them?" "yes, yes, but ask me for what you want. you mustn't call upon barby in that fashion." "why not? is she too good to be spoken to? what is she in the kitchen for?" "she wouldn't be in the kitchen long if we were to speak to her in that way," said fleda. "i suppose she would as soon put your boots on for you as fetch and carry them. i'll see about it." "it seems to me fleda rules the house," remarked captain rossitur, when she had left the room. "well, who should rule it?" said hugh. "not she!" "i don't think she does," said hugh; "but if she did, i am sure it could not be in better hands." "it shouldn't be in her hands at all. but i have noticed since i have been here that she takes the arrangement of almost everything. my mother seems to have nothing to do in her own family." "i wonder what the family or anybody in it would do without fleda!" said hugh, his gentle eyes quite firing with indignation. "you had better know more before you speak, charlton." "what is there for me to know?" "fleda does everything." "so i say � and that is what i don't like." "how little you know what you are talking about!" said hugh. "i can tell you she is the life of the house, almost literally, we should have had little enough to live upon this summer if it had not been for her." "what do you mean?" � impatiently enough. "fleda � if it had not been for her gardening and management � she has taken care of the garden these two years, and sold i can't tell you how much from it. mr. sweet, the hotelman at the pool, takes all we can give him." "how much does her 'taking care of the garden' amount to?" "it amounts to all the planting, and nearly all the other work, after the first digging � by far the greater part of it." charlton walked up and down a few turns in most unsatisfied silence. "how does she get the things to montepoole?" "i take them." "you! � when?" "i ride with them there before breakfast. fleda is up very early to gather them." "you have not been there this morning?" "yes." "with what?" "pease and strawberries." "and fleda picked them?" "yes � with some help from barby and me." "that glove of hers was wringing wet." "yes, with the pea-vines, and strawberries too; you know they get so loaded with dew. oh, fleda gets more than her gloves wet. but she does not mind anything she does for father and mother." "humph! and does she get enough when all is done to pay for the trouble?" "i don't know," said hugh, rather sadly. "_she_ thinks so. it is no trifle." "which, the pay or the trouble?" "both. but i meant the pay. why, she made ten dollars last year from the asparagus beds alone, and i don't know how much more this year." "ten dollars! � the devil!" "why?" "have you come to counting your dollars by the tens?" "we have counted our sixpences so a good while," said hugh, quietly. charlton strode about the room again in much perturbation. then came in fleda, looking as bright as if dollars had been counted by the thousand, and bearing his boots. "what on earth did you do that for?" said he, angrily. "i could have gone for them myself." "no harm done," said fleda, lightly; "only i have got something else instead of the thanks i expected." "i can't conceive," said he, sitting down and sulkily drawing on his foot-gear, "why this piece of punctiliousness should have made any more difficulty about bringing me my boots than about blacking them." a sly glance of intelligence, which charlton was quick enough to detect, passed between fleda and hugh. his eye carried its question from one to the other. fleda's gravity gave way. "don't look at me so, charlton," said she, laughing; "i can't help it, you are so excessively comical! � i recommend that you go out upon the grass-plat before the door and turn round two or three times. "will you have the goodness to explain yourself? who did black these boots?" "never pry into the secrets of families," said fleda. "hugh and i have a couple of convenient little fairies in our service that do things _unknownst_." "i blacked them, charlton," said hugh. captain rossitur gave his slippers a fling that carried them clean into the corner of the room. "i will see," he said, rising, "whether some other service cannot be had more satisfactory than that of fairies!" "now, charlton," said fleda, with a sudden change of manner, corning to him and laying her hand most gently on his arm, "please don't speak about these things before uncle rolf or your mother � please do not, charlton. it would only do a great deal of harm, and do no good." she looked up in his face, but he would not meet her pleading eye, and shook off her hand. "i don't need to be instructed how to speak to my father and mother; and i am not one of the household that has submitted itself to your direction." fleda sat down on her bench and was quiet, but with a lip that trembled a little and eyes that let fall one or two witnesses against him. charlton did not see them, and he knew better than to meet hugh's look of reproach. but for all that, there was a certain consciousness that hung about the neck of his purpose and kept it down in spite of him; and it was not till breakfast was half over that his ill-humour could make head against this gentle thwarting and cast it off. for so long the meal was excessively dull; hugh and fleda had their own thoughts; charlton was biting his resolution into every slice of bread-and-butter that occupied him; and mr. rossitur's face looked like anything but encouraging an inquiry into his affairs. since his son's arrival he had been most uncommonly gloomy; and mrs. rossitur's face was never in sunshine when his was in shade. "you'll have a warm day of it at the mill, hugh," said fleda, by way of saying something to break the dismal monotony of knives and forks. "does that mill make much?" suddenly inquired charlton. "it has made a new bridge to the brook, literally," said fleda gaily; "for it has sawn out the boards; and you know you mustn't speak evil of what carries you over the water." "does that mill pay for the working?' said charlton, turning with the dryest disregard from her interference, and addressing himself determinately to his father. "what do you mean? it does not work gratuitously," answered mr. rossitur, with at least equal dryness. "but, i mean, are the profits of it enough to pay for the loss of hugh's time?" "if hugh judges they are not, he is at liberty to let it alone." "my time is not lost," said hugh; "i' don't know what i should do with it." "i don't know what we should do without the mill," said mrs. rossitur. that gave charlton an unlucky opening. "has the prospect of farming disappointed you, father?" "what is the prospect of your company?" said mr. rossitur, swallowing half an egg before he replied. "a very limited prospect!" said charlton, "if you mean the one that went with me. not a fifth part of them left." "what have you done with them?" "showed them where the balls were flying, sir, and did my best to show them the thickest of it." "is it necessary to show it to us too?" said fleda. "i believe there are not twenty living that followed me into mexico," he went on, as if he had not heard her. "was all that havoc made in one engagement?" said mrs. rossitur, whose cheek had turned pale. "yes, mother; in the course of a few minutes." "i wonder what would pay for _that_ loss," said fleda, indignantly. "why, the point was gained! and it did not signify what the cost was, so we did that. my poor boys were a small part of it." "what point do you mean?" "i mean the point we had in view, which was taking the place." "and what was the advantage of gaining the place?" "pshaw! the advantage of doing one's duty." "but what made it duty?" said hugh. "orders." "i grant you," said fleda; "i understand that � but bear with me, charlton � what was the advantage to the army or the country?" "the advantage of great honour if we succeeded, and avoiding the shame of failure." "is that all?" said hugh. "all!" said charlton. "glory must be a precious thing, when other men's lives are so cheap to buy it," said fleda. "we did not risk theirs without our own," said charlton, colouring. "no; but still theirs were risked for you." "not at all; why, this is absurd! you are saying that the whole war was for nothing." "what better than nothing was the end of it? we paid mexico for the territory she yielded to us, didn't we, uncle rolf?" "yes." "how much?" "twenty millions, i believe." "and what do you suppose the war has cost?" "hum � i don't know � a hundred." "a hundred million! besides � how much besides! and don't you suppose, uncle rolf, that for half of that sum mexico would have sold us peaceably what she did in the end?" "it is possible � i think it is very likely." "what was the fruit of the war, captain rossitur?" "why, a great deal of honour to the army and the nation at large." "honour again! but granting that the army gained it, which they certainly did, for one i do not feel very proud of the nation's share." "why, they are one," said charlton, impatiently. "in an unjust war?" "it was _not_ an unjust war." "that's what you call a knock-downer," said fleda, laughing. "but i confess myself so simple as to have agreed with seth plumfield, when i heard him and lucas disputing about it last winter, that it was a shame to a great and strong nation like ours to display its might in crushing a weak one." "but they drew it upon themselves. _they_ began hostilities." "there is a diversity of opinion about that." "not in heads that have two grains of information." "i beg your pardon. mrs. evelyn and judge sensible were talking over that very question the other day at montepoole; and he made it quite clear to my mind that we were the aggressors." "judge sensible is a fool!" said mr. rossitur. "very well!" said fleda, laughing; � "but as i do not wish to be comprehended in the same class, will you show me how he was wrong, uncle?" this drew on a discussion of some length, to which fleda listened with profound attention, long after her aunt had ceased to listen at all, and hugh was thoughtful, and charlton disgusted. at the end of it, mr. rossitur left the table and the room, and fleda subsiding, turned to her cold coffee-cup. "i didn't know you ever cared anything about politics before," said hugh. "didn't you?" said fleda, smiling. "you do me injustice." their eyes met for a second, with a most appreciating smile on his part; and then he too went off to his work. there was a few minutes' silent pause after that. "mother," said charlton, looking up and bursting forth, "what is all this about the mill and the farm? � is not the farm doing well?" "i am afraid not very well," said mrs. rossitur, gently. "what is the difficulty?" "why, your father has let it to a man by the name of didenhover, and i am afraid he is not faithful; it does not seem to bring us in what it ought." "what did he do that for?" "he was wearied with the annoyances he had to endure before, and thought it would be better and more profitable to have somebody else take the whole charge and management. he did not know didenhover's character at the time." "engaged him without knowing him!" fleda was the only third party present, and charlton unwittingly allowing himself to meet her eye, received a look of keen displeasure that he was not prepared for. "that is not like him," he said, in a much moderated tone. "but you must be changed too, mother, or you would not endure such anomalous service in your kitchen." "there are a great many changes, dear charlton," said his mother, looking at him with such a face of sorrowful sweetness and patience that his mouth was stopped. fleda left the room. "and have you really nothing to depend upon but that child's strawberries and hugh's wood-saw?" he said, in the tone he ought to have used from the beginning. "little else." charlton stifled two or three sentences that rose to his lips, and began to walk up and down the room again. his mother sat musing by the tea-board still, softly clinking her spoon against the edge of her tea-cup. "she has grown up very pretty," he remarked, after a pause. "pretty!" said mrs. rossitur. "why?" "no one that has seen much of fleda would ever describe her by that name." charlton had the candour to think he had seen something of her that morning. "poor child!" said mrs. rossitur, sadly, " i can't bear to think of her spending her life as she is doing � wearing herself out, i know, sometimes � and buried alive." "buried!" said charlton, in his turn. "yes; without any of the advantages and opportunities she ought to have. i can't bear to think of it. and yet how should i ever live without her" said mrs. rossitur, leaning her lace upon her hands. "and if she were known she would not be mine long. but it grieves me to have her go without her music, that she is so fond of, and the book she wants; she and hugh have gone from end to end of every volume there is in the house, i believe, in every language, except greek." "well, she looks pretty happy and contented, mother." "i don't know!'" said mrs.. rossitur, shaking her head. "isn't she happy?" "i don't know," said mrs. rossitur, again; "she has a spirit that is happy in doing her duty, or anything for those she loves; but i see her sometimes wearing a look that pains me exceedingly. i am afraid the way she lives, and the changes in our affairs, have worn upon her more than we know of � she feels doubly everything that touches me, or hugh, or your father. she is a gentle spirit!" � "she seems to me not to want character," said charlton. "character! i don't know who has so much. she has at least fifty times as much character as i have. and energy. she is admirable at managing people � she knows how to influence them somehow, so that everybody does what she wants." "and who influences her?" said charlton. "who influences her? everybody that she loves. who has the most influence over her, do you mean? i am sure i don't know � hugh, if anybody � but she is rather the moving spirit of the household." captain rossitur resolved that he would be an exception to her rule. he forgot, however, for some reason or other, to sound his father any more on the subject of mismanagement. his thoughts, indeed, were more pleasantly taken up. chapter xxiv. "my lord sebastian, the truth you speak doth lack some gentleness, and time to speak it in: you rub the sore, when you should bring the plaster." _tempest_. the evelyns spent several weeks at the pool; and both mother and daughters conceiving a great affection for fleda, kept her in their company as much as possible. for those weeks fleda had enough of gaiety. she was constantly spending the day with them at the pool, or going on some party of pleasure, or taking quiet sensible walks and rides with them alone, or with only one or two more of the most rational and agreeable people that the place could command. and even mrs. rossitur was persuaded, more times than one, to put herself in her plainest remaining french silk, and entertain the whole party, with the addition of one or two of charlton's friends, at her queechy farm-house. fleda enjoyed it all with the quick spring of a mind habitually bent to the patient fulfilment of duty, and habitually under the pressure of rather sobering thoughts. it was a needed and very useful refreshment. charlton's being at home gave her the full good of the opportunity more than would else have been possible. he was her constant attendant, driving her to and from the pool, and finding as much to call him there as she had; for, besides the evelyns, his friend thorn abode there all this time. the only drawback to fleda's pleasure as she drove off from queechy would be the leaving hugh plodding away at his saw-mill. she used to nod and wave to him as they went by, and almost feel that she ought not to go on and enjoy herself while he was tending that wearisome machinery all day long. still she went on and enjoyed herself; but the mere thought of his patient smile as she passed would have kept her from too much elation of spirits, if there had been any danger. there never was any. "that's a lovely little cousin of yours," said thorn, one evening, when he and rossitur, on horseback, were leisurely making their way along the up-and-down road between montepoole and queechy. "she is not particularly little," said rossitur, with a dryness that somehow lacked any savour of gratification. "she is of a most fair stature," said thorn; "i did not mean anything against that; but there are characters to which one gives instinctively a softening appellative." "are there?" said charlton. "yes. she is a lovely little creature." "she is not to compare to one of those girls we have left behind us at montepoole," said charlton. "hum � well, perhaps you are right; but which girl do you mean? � for i profess i don't know." "the second of mrs. evelyn's daughters � the auburn-haired one." "miss constance, eh?" said thorn. "in what isn't the other one to be compared to her?" "in anything! nobody would ever think of looking at her in the same room." "why not?" said thorn, coolly. "i don't know why not," said charlton, "except that she has not a tithe of her beauty. that's a superb girl!" for a matter of twenty yards, mr. thorn went softly humming a tune to himself, and leisurely switching the flies off his horse. "well," said he, "there's no accounting for tastes � 'i ask no red and white to make up my delight, no odd becoming graces, black eyes, or little know-not-what in faces.' " "what _do_ you want, then?" said charlton, half laughing at him though his friend was perfectly grave. "a cool eye, and a mind in it." "a cool eye!" said rossitur. "yes. those we have left behind us are arrant will-o'-the- wisps � dancing fires � no more." "i can tell you, there is fire sometimes in the other eyes," said charlton. "very likely," said his friend, composedly; "i could have guessed as much; but that is a fire you may warm yourself at; no eternal phosphorescence � it is the leaping up of all internal fire, that only shows itself upon occasion." "i suppose you know what you are talking about," said charlton; "but i can't follow you into the region of volcanoes. constance evelyn has superb eyes. it is uncommon to see a light blue so brilliant." "i would rather trust a sick head to the handling of the lovely lady than the superb one, at a venture." "i thought you never had a sick head," said charlton. "that is lucky for me, as the hands do not happen to be at my service. but no imagination could put miss constance in desdemona's place, when othello complained of his headache � you remember, charlton, � "faith, that's with watching � 'twill away again � let me but bind this handkerchief about it hard.' " thorn gave the intonation truly and admirably. "fleda never said anything so soft as that," said charlton. "no?" "no." "you speak � well, but _soft!_ � do you know what you are talking about there?" "not very well," said charlton. "i only remember there was nothing soft about othello; what you quoted of his wife just now seemed to me to smack of that quality." "i forgive your memory," said thorn, "or else i certainly would not forgive you. if there is a fair creation in all shakespeare, it is desdemona; and if there is a pretty combination on earth that nearly matches it, i believe it is that one." "what one?" "your pretty cousin." charlton was silent. "it is generous in me to undertake her defence," thorn went on, "for she bestows as little of her fair countenance upon me as she can well help. but try as she will, she cannot be so repellent as she is attractive." charlton pushed his horse into a brisker pace not favourable to conversation; and they rode forward in silence, till, in descending the hill below deepwater, they came within view of hugh's work-place, the saw-mill. charlton suddenly drew bridle. "there she is." "and who is with her?" said thorn. "as i live! � our friend � what's his name? � who has lost all his ancestors. � and who is the other?" "my brother," said charlton. "i don't mean your brother, captain rossitur," said thorn, throwing himself off his horse. he joined the party, who were just leaving the mill to go down towards the house. very much at his leisure, charlton dismounted, and came after him. "i have brought charlton safe home, miss ringgan," said thorn, who, leading his horse, had quietly secured a position at her side. "what's the matter?" said fleda, laughing. "couldn't he bring himself home?" "i don't know what's the matter, but he's been uncommonly dumpish; we've been as near as possible to quarrelling for half a dozen miles back." "we have been � a � more agreeably employed," said dr. quackenboss, looking round at him with a face that was a concentration of affability. "i make no doubt of it, sir; i trust we shall bring no unharmonious interruption. if i may change somebody else's words," he added more low to fleda � " 'disdain itself must convert to courtesy in your presence.' " "i am sorry disdain should live to pay me a compliment," said fleda. "mr. thorn, may i introduce to you, mr. olmney?" mr. thorn honoured the introduction with perfect civility, but then fell back to his former position and slightly lowered tone. "are you then a sworn foe to compliments?" "i was never so fiercely attacked by them as to give me any occasion." "i should be very sorry to furnish the occasion; but what's the harm in them, miss ringgan?" "chiefly a want of agreeableness." "of agreeableness! pardon me; i hope you will be so good as to give me the rationale of that?" "i am of miss edgeworth's opinion, sir," said fleda, blushing, " that a lady may always judge of the estimation in which she is held, by the conversation which is addressed to her." "and you judge compliments to be a doubtful indication of esteem!" "i am sure you do not need information on that point, sir." "as to your opinion, or the matter of fact?" said he, somewhat keenly. "as to the matter of fact," said fleda, with a glance both simple and acute in its expression. "i will not venture to say a word," said thorn, smiling. "protestations would certainly fall flat at the gates where _les douces paroles_ cannot enter. but do you know this is picking a man's pocket of all his silver pennies, and obliging him to produce his gold?" "that _would_ be a hard measure upon a good many people," said fleda, laughing. "but they're not driven to that. there's plenty of small change left." "you certainly do not deal in the coin you condemn," said thorn, bowing. "but you will remember that none call for gold but those who can exchange it, and the number of them is few. in a world where cowrie passes current, a man may be excused for not throwing about his guineas." "i wish you'd throw about a few for our entertainment," said charlton, who was close behind. "i haven't seen a yellow-boy in a good while." "a proof that your eyes are not jaundiced," said his friend, without turning his head, "whatever may be the case with you otherwise. is he out of humour with the country-life you like so well, miss ringgan? or has he left his domestic tastes in mexico? how do you think he likes queechy?" "you might as well ask myself," said charlton. "how do you think he likes queechy, miss ringgan?" "i am afraid something after the fashion of touchstone," said fleda, laughing; � "he thinks, that 'in respect of itself, it is a good life; but in respect that it is a shepherd's life, it is nought. in respect that it is solitary, he likes it very well; but in respect that it is private, it is a very vile life. now, in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth him well; but in respect it is not in the court, it is tedious.' " "there's a guinea for you, captain rossitur," said his friend. "do you know out of what mint?" "it doesn't bear the head of socrates," said charlton. " 'hast no philosophy in thee,' charlton?" said fleda, laughing back at him. "has not queechy � a � the honour of your approbation, captain rossitur?" said the doctor. "certainly, sir; i have no doubt of its being a very fine country." "only he has imbibed some doubts whether happiness be an indigenous crop," said thorn. "undoubtedly," said the doctor, blandly; "to one who has roamed over the plains of mexico, queechy must seem rather � a � a rather flat place." "if he could lose sight of the hills," said thorn. "undoubtedly, sir, undoubtedly," said the doctor; "they are a marked feature in the landscape, and do much to relieve � a � the charge of sameness." "luckily," said mr. olmney, smiling, "happiness is not a thing of circumstance; it depends on a man's self." "i used to think so," said thorn; "that is what i have always subscribed to; but i am afraid i could not live in this region and find it so long." "what an evening!" said fleda. "queechy is doing its best to deserve our regards under this light. mr. olmney, did you ever notice the beautiful curve of the hills in that hollow where the sun sets?" "i do notice it now," he said. "it is exquisite!" said the doctor. "captain rossitur, do you observe, sir � in that hollow where the sun sets?" captain rossitur's eye made a very speedy transition from the hills to fleda, who had fallen back a little to take hugh's arm, and placing herself between him and mr. olmney, was giving her attention undividedly to the latter. and to him she talked perseveringly of the mountains, the country, and the people, till they reached the courtyard gate. mr. olmney then passed on. so did the doctor, though invited to tarry, averring that the sun had gone down behind the firmament, and he had something to attend to at home. "you will come in, thorn," said charlton. "why, i had intended returning; but the sun has gone down indeed, and as our friend says there is no chance of our seeing him again, i may as well go in and take what comfort is to be had in the circumstances. gentle euphrosyne, doth it not become the graces to laugh?" "they always ask leave, sir," said fleda, hesitating. "a most grace-ful answer, though it does not smile upon me," said thorn. "i am sorry, sir," said fleda, smiling now, "that you have so many silver pennies to dispose of � we shall never get at the gold." "i will do my very best," said he. so he did, and made himself agreeable that evening to every one of the circle; though fleda's sole reason for liking to see him come in had been, that she was glad of everything that served to keep charlton's attention from home subjects. she saw sometimes the threatening of a cloud that troubled her. but the evelyns and thorn, and everybody else whom they knew, left the pool at last, before charlton, who was sufficiently well again, had near run out his furlough; and then the cloud, which had only showed itself by turns during all those weeks, gathered and settled determinately upon his brow. he had long ago supplied the want of a newspaper. one evening in september, the family were sitting in the room where they had had tea, for the benefit of the fire, when barby pushed open the kitchen door and came in. "fleda, will you let me have one of the last papers? i've a notion to look at it." fleda rose and went to rummaging in the cupboards. "you can have it again in a little while," said barby, considerately. the paper was found, and miss elster went out with it. "what an unendurable piece of ill-manners that woman is!" said charlton. "she has no idea of being ill-mannered, i assure you," said fleda,. his voice was like a brewing storm � hers was so clear and soft that it made a lull in spite of him. but he began again. "there is no necessity for submitting to impertinence. i never would do it." "i have no doubt you never will," said his father. "unless you can't help yourself." "is there any good reason, sir, why you should not have proper servants in the house?" "a very good reason," said mr. rossitur. "fleda would be in despair." "is there none beside that?" said charlton, dryly. "none � except a trifling one," mr. rossitur answered, in the same tone. "we cannot afford it, dear charlton," said his mother, softly. there was a silence, during which fleda moralized on the ways people take to make themselves uncomfortable. "does that man � to whom you let the farm � does he do his duty?" "i am not the keeper of his conscience." " i am afraid it would be a small charge to any one," said fleda. "but are you the keeper of the gains you ought to have from him? does he deal fairly by you?" "may i ask first what interest it is of yours?" "it is my interest, sir, because i come home and find the family living upon the exertions of hugh and fleda, and find them growing thin and pale under it." "you, at least, are free from all pains of the kind, captain rossitur." "don't listen to him, uncle rolf!" said fleda, going round to her uncle, and making, as she passed, a most warning impression upon charlton's arm � "don't mind what he says � that young gentleman has been among the mexican ladies till he has lost an eye for a really proper complexion. look at me! � do i look pale and thin? i was paid a most brilliant compliment the other day upon my roses. uncle, don't listen to him! � he hasn't been in a decent humour since the evelyns went away." she knelt down before him and laid her hands upon his, and looked up in his face to bring all her plea � the plea of most winning sweetness of entreaty in features yet flushed and trembling. his own did not unbend as he gazed at her, but he gave her a silent answer in a pressure of the hands that went straight from his heart to hers. fleda's eye turned to charlton appealingly. "is it necessary," he repeated, "that that child and this boy should spend their days in labour to keep the family alive?" "if it were," replied mr. rossitur, "i am very willing that their exertions should cease. for my own part, i would quite as lief be out of the world as in it." "charlton! � how can you!" said fleda, half-beside herself � "you should know of what you speak, or be silent! � uncle, don't mind him! he is talking wildly � my work does me good." "you do not understand yourself," said charlton, obstinately; � "it is more than you ought to do, and i know my mother thinks so, too." "well!" said mr. rossitur � "it seems there is an agreement in my own family to bring me to the bar � get up, fleda, � let us hear all the charges to be brought against me, at once, and then pass sentence. what have you and your mother agreed upon, charlton? � go on!" mrs. rossitur, now beyond speech, left the room, weeping even aloud. hugh followed her. fleda wrestled with her agitation for a minute or two, and than got up and put both arms round her uncle's neck. "don't talk so, dear uncle rolf! � you make us very unhappy � aunt lucy did not mean any such thing � it is only charlton's nonsense. do go and tell her you don't think so � you have broken her heart by what you said; � do go, uncle rolf! � do go and make her happy again! forget it all! � charlton did not know what he was saying � wont you go, dear uncle rolf? �" the words were spoken between bursts of tears that utterly overcame her, though they did not hinder the utmost caressingness of manner. it seemed at first spent upon a rock. mr. rossitur stood like a man that did not care what happened or what became of him � dumb and unrelenting � suffering her sweet words and imploring tears, with no attempt to answer the one or stay the other. but he could not hold out against her beseeching. he was no match for it. he returned at last heartily the pressure of her arms, and, unable to give her any other answer, kissed her two or three times � such kisses as are charged with the heart's whole message; and, disengaging himself, left the room. for a minute after he was gone, fleda cried excessively; and charlton, now alone with her, felt as if he had not a particle of self-respect left to stand upon. one such agony would do her more harm than whole weeks of labour and weariness. he was too vexed and ashamed of himself to be able to utter a word, but when she recovered a little, and was leaving the room, he stood still by the door in an attitude that seemed to ask her to speak a word to him. "i am sure, charlton," she said, gently, "you'll be sorry to- morrow for what you have done." "i am sorry now," he said. but she passed out without saying anything more. captain rossitur passed the night in unmitigated vexation with himself. but his repentance could not have been very genuine, since his most painful thought was, what fleda must think of him. he was somewhat reassured at breakfast to find no traces of the evening's storm; indeed, the moral atmosphere seemed rather clearer and purer than common. his own face was the only one which had an unusual shade upon it. there was no difference in anybody's manner towards himself; and there was even a particularly gentle and kind pleasantness about fleda, intended, he knew, to soothe and put to rest any movings of self-reproach he might feel. it somehow missed of its aim, and made him feel worse; and after, on his part, a very silent meal, he quitted the house, and took himself and his discontent to the woods. whatever effect they had upon him, it was the middle of the morning before he came back again. he found fleda alone in the breakfast-room, sewing; and for the first time noticed the look his mother had spoken of � a look not of sadness, but rather of settled, patient gravity; the more painful to see, because it could only have been wrought by long-acting causes, and might be as slow to do away as it must have been to bring. charlton's displeasure with the existing state of things had revived as his remorse died away, and that quiet face did not have a quieting effect upon him. "what on earth is going on?" he began, rather abruptly, as soon as he entered the room. "what horrible cookery is on foot?" "i venture to recommend that you do not inquire," said fleda. "it was set on foot in the kitchen, and it has walked in here. if you open the window, it will walk out." "but you will be cold?" "never mind � in that case i will walk out too, into the kitchen." "into the thick of it! no � i will try some other way of relief. this is unendurable!" fleda looked, but made no other remonstrance, and not heeding the look, mr. charlton walked out into the kitchen, shutting the door behind him. "barby," said he, "you have got something cooking here that is very disagreeable in the other room." "is it?" said barby. "i reckoned it would all fly up chimney. i guess the draught ain't so strong as i thought it was." "but i tell you it fills the house!" "well, it'll have to a spell yet," said barby, "cause if it didn't, you see, captain rossitur, there'd be nothing to fill fleda's chickens with." "chickens! � where's all the corn in the land?" "it's some place besides in our barn," said barby. "all last year's is out, and mr. didenhover aint fetched any of this year's home; so i made a bargain with 'em, they shouldn't starve as long as they'd eat boiled pursley." "what do you give them?" "most everything � they aint particular now-a-days � chunks o' cabbages, and scarcity, and pun'kin, and that � all the sass that aint wanted." "and do they eat that?" "eat it!" said barby; "they don't know how to thank me for't." "but it ought to be done out of doors," said charlton, coming black from a kind of maze in which he had been listening to her. "it is unendurable." "then i guess you'll have to go some place where you wont know it," said barby � "that's the most likely plan i can hit upon; for it'll have to stay on till it's ready." charlton went back into the other room really down-hearted, and stood watching the play of fleda's fingers. "is it come to this!" he said at length. "is it possible that you are obliged to go without such a trifle as the miserable supply of food your fowls want?" "that's a small matter!" said fleda, speaking lightly though she smothered a sigh. "we have been obliged to do without more than that." "what is the reason?" "why, this man didenhover is a rogue, i suspect, and he manages to spirit away all the profits that should come to uncle rolf's hands � i don't know how. we have lived almost entirely upon the mill for some time." "and has my father been doing nothing all this while?" "nothing on the farm." "and what of anything else?" "i don't know," said fleda, speaking with evident unwillingness. "but surely, charlton, he knows his own business best. it is not our affair." "he is mad!" said charlton, violently striding up and down the floor. "no," said fleda, with equal gentleness and sadness, "he is only unhappy; i understand it all � he has had no spirit to take hold of anything ever since we came here." "spirit!" said charlton; "he ought to have worked off his fingers to their joints before he let you do as you have been doing!" "don't say so!" said fleda, looking even pale in her eagerness � "don't think so, charlton! it isn't right. we cannot tell what he may have had to trouble him; i know he has suffered, and does suffer a great deal. do not speak again about anything as you did last night! oh," said fleda, now shedding bitter tears, "this is the worst of growing poor � the difficulty of keeping up the old kindness, and sympathy, and care, for each other!" "i am sure it does not work so upon you," said charlton, in an altered voice. "promise me, dear charlton," said fleda, looking up after a moment, and drying her eyes again, "promise me you will not say any more about these things! i am sure it pains uncle rolf more than you think. say you will not � for your mother's sake!" "i will not fleda for your sake. i would not give you any more trouble to bear. promise me that you will be more careful of yourself in future." "oh there is no danger about me," said fleda, with a faint smile, and taking up her work again! "who are you making shirts for?" said charlton, after a pause." "hugh." "you do everything for hugh, don't you?" "little enough. not half so much as he does for me." "is he up at the mill to-day?" "he is always there," said fleda, sighing. there was another silence. "charlton," said fleda, looking up with a face of the loveliest insinuation � "isn't there something _you_ might do to help us a little?" "i will help you garden, fleda, with pleasure." "i would rather you should help somebody else," said she, still looking at him. "what, hugh? you would have me go and work at the mill for him, i suppose?" "don't be angry with me, charlton, for suggesting it," said fleda, looking down again. "angry!" said he. "but is that what you would have me do." "not unless you like; i didn't know but you might take his place once in a while for a little, to give him a rest �" "and suppose some of the people from montepoole, that know me, should come by? � what are you thinking of?" said he, in a tone that certainly justified fleda's deprecation. "well!" said fleda, in a kind of choked voice � "there is a strange rule of honour in vogue in the world." "why should i help hugh rather than anybody else?" "he is killing himself!" said fleda, letting her work fall, and hardly speaking the words through thick tears. her head was down, and they came fast. charlton stood abashed for a minute. "you sha'n't do so, fleda," said he gently, endeavouring to raise her � "you have tired yourself with this miserable work! come to the window � you have got low-spirited, but, i am sure, without reason about hugh � but you shall set me about what you will; you are right, i dare say, and i am wrong; but don't make me think myself a brute, and i will do anything you please." he had raised her up, and made her lean upon him. fleda wiped her eyes and tried to smile. "i will do anything that will please you, fleda." "it is not to please _me_," she answered, meekly. "i would not have spoken a word last night if i had known it would have grieved you so." "i am sorry you should have none but so poor a reason for doing right," said fleda, gently. "upon my word, i think you are about as good reason as anybody need have," said charlton. she put her hand upon his arm, and looked up � such a look of pure rebuke, as carried to his mind the full force of the words she did not speak, � "who art thou that carest for a worm which shall die, and forgettest the lord thy maker!" charlton's eyes fell. fleda turned gently away, and began to mend the fire. he stood watching her for a little. "what do you think of me, fleda?" he said at length. "a little wrong-headed," answered fleda, giving him a glance and a smile. "i don't think you are very bad." "if you will go with me, fleda, you shall make what you please of me." he spoke half in jest, half in earnest, and did not himself know at the moment which way he wished fleda to take it. but she had no notion of any depth in his words. "a hopeless task!" she answered, lightly, shaking her head, as she got down on her knees to blow the fire; � "i am afraid it is too much for me. i have been trying to mend you ever since you came, and i cannot see the slightest change for the better." "where is the bellows?" said charlton, in another tone. "it has expired � its last breath," said fleda. "in other words, it has lost its nose." "well, look here," said he, laughing and pulling her away � "you will stand a fair chance of losing your face if you put it in the fire. you sha'n't do it. come and show me where to find the scattered parts of that old wind instrument, and i will see if it cannot be persuaded to play again." chapter xxv. "i dinna ken what i should want if i could get but a man." scotch ballad. captain rossitur did no work at the saw-mill. but fleda's words had not fallen to the ground. he began to show care for his fellow-creatures in getting the bellows mended; his next step was to look to his gun; and from that time, so long as he stayed, the table was plentifully supplied with all kinds of game the season and the country could furnish. wild ducks and partridges banished pork and bacon even from memory; and fleda joyfully declared she would not see another omelette again till she was in distress. while charlton was still at home came a very urgent invitation from mrs. evelyn, that fleda should pay them a long visit in new york, bidding her care for no want of preparation, but come and make it there. fleda demurred, however, on that very score. but before her answer was written another missive came from dr. gregory, not asking so much as demanding her presence, and enclosing a fifty dollar bill, for which he said he would hold her responsible till she had paid him with, not her own hands, but her own lips. there was no withstanding the manner of this entreaty. fleda packed up some of mrs. rossitur's laid-by silks, to be refreshed with an air of fashion, and set off with charlton at the end of his furlough. to her simple spirit of enjoyment the weeks ran fast; and all manner of novelties and kindnesses helped them on. it was a time of cloudless pleasure. but those she had left thought it long. she wrote them how delightfully she kept house for the old doctor, whose wife had long been dead, and how joyously she and the evelyns made time fly and every pleasure she felt awoke almost as strong a throb in the hearts at home. but they missed her, as barby said, "dreadfully;" and she was most dearly welcomed when she came back. it was just before new year. for half an hour there was most gladsome use of eyes and tongues. fleda had a great deal to tell them. "how well � how well you are looking, dear fleda!" said her aunt, for the third or fourth time. "that's more than i can say for you and hugh, aunt lucy. what have you been doing to yourselves?" "nothing new," they said, as her eye went from one to the other. "i guess you have wanted me!" said fleda, shaking her head, as she kissed them both again. "i guess we have," said hugh, "but don't fancy we have grown thin upon the want." "but where's uncle rolf? you didn't tell me." "he is gone to look after those lands in michigan." "in michigan! � when did he go?" "very soon after you." "and you didn't let me know! � oh, why didn't you? how lonely you must have been!" "let you know, indeed!" said mrs. rossitur, wrapping her in her arms again; � "hugh and i counted every week that you stayed, with more pleasure each one." "i understand!" said fleda, laughing under her aunt's kisses. "well, i am glad i am at home again to take care of you. i see you can't get along without me." "people have been very kind, fleda," said hugh. "have they?" "yes � thinking we were desolate, i suppose. there has been no end to aunt miriam's goodness and pleasantness." "oh, aunt miriam, always!" said fleda. "and seth." "catherine douglass has been up twice to ask if her mother could do anything for us; and mrs. douglass sent us once a rabbit, and once a quantity of wild pigeons that earl had shot. mother and i lived upon pigeons for i don't know how long. barby wouldn't eat 'em � she said she liked pork better; but i believe she did it on purpose." "like enough," said fleda, smiling, from her aunt's arms where she still lay. "and seth has sent you plenty of your favourite hickory nuts, very fine ones; and i gathered butternuts enough for you near home." "everything is for me," said fleda. "well, the first thing i do shall be to make some butternut candy for _you_. you wont despise that mr. hugh?" hugh smiled at her, and went on. "and your friend mr. olmney has sent us a corn-basket fill of the superbest apples you ever saw. he has one tree of the finest in queechy, he says." "_my_ friend!" said fleda, colouring a little. "well, i don't know whose he is, if he isn't yours," said hugh. "and even the finns sent us some fish that their brother had caught, because, they said, they had more than they wanted. and dr. quackenboss sent us a goose and a turkey. we didn't like to keep them, but we were afraid, if we sent them back, it would not be understood." "send them back!" said fleda. "that would never do! all queechy would have rung with it." "well, we didn't," said hugh. "but so we sent one of them to barby's old mother, for christmas." "poor dr. quackenboss!" said fleda. "that man has as near as possible killed me two or three times. as for the others, they are certainly the oddest of all the finny tribes. i must go out and see barby for a minute." it was a good many minutes, however, before she could get free to do any such thing. "you han't lost no flesh," said barby, shaking hands with her anew. "what did they think of queechy keep, down in york?" "i don't know � i didn't ask them," said fleda. "how goes the world with you, barby?" "i'm mighty glad you are come home, fleda," said barby, lowering her voice. "why?" said fleda, in a like tone. "i guess i aint all that's glad of it," miss elster went on, with a glance of her bright eye. "i guess not," said fleda, reddening a little � "but what is the matter?" "there's two of our friends ha'n't made us but one visit apiece since � oh, ever since some time in october!" "well, never mind the people," said fleda. "tell me what you were going to say." "and mr. olmney," said barby, not minding her, "he's took and sent us a great basket chock full of apples. now, wa'n't that smart of him, when he knowed there wa'n't no one here that cared about 'em ?" "they are a particularly fine kind," said fleda. "did you hear about the goose and turkey?" "yes," said fleda, laughing. "the doctor thinks he has done the thing just about right, this time, i 'spect. he had ought to take out a patent right for his invention. he'd feel spry if he knowed who ate one on 'em." "never mind the doctor, barby. was this what you wanted to see me for?" "no," said barby, changing her tone. "i'd give something it was. i've been all but at my wit's end; for you know, mis' rossitur aint no hand about anything � i couldn't say a word to her; and ever since he went away, we have been just winding ourselves up. i thought i should clear out, when mis' rossitur said, maybe you wa'n't a-coming till next week." "but what is it, barby? what is wrong?" "there ha'n't been anything right, to my notions, for a long spell," said barby, wringing out her dish-cloth hard, and flinging it down, to give herself uninterruptedly to talk; "but now you see, didenhover, nor none of the men, never comes near the house to do a chore; and there aint wood to last three days; and hugh aint fit to cut it if it was piled up in the yard; and there aint the first stick of it out of the woods yet." fleda sat down, and looked very thoughtfully into the fire. "he had ought to ha' seen to it afore he went away; but he ha'n't done it, and there it is." "why, who takes care of the cows?" said fleda. "oh, never mind the cows," said barby, "they aint suffering � i wish we was as well off as they be; but i guess, when he went away, he made a hole in our pockets for to mend his'n. i don't say he hadn't ought to ha' done it, but we've been pretty short ever sen, fleda � we're in the last bushel of flour, and there aint but a handful of corn meal, and mighty little sugar, white or brown. i did say something to mis' rossitur, but all the good it did was to spoil her appetite, i s'pose; and if there's grain in the floor, there aint nobody to carry it to mill � nor to thrash it � nor a team to draw it, fur's i know." "hugh cannot cut wood," said fleda, "nor drive to mill either, in this weather." "i could go to mill," said barby, "now you're to hum; but that's only the beginning, and it's no use to try to do everything � flesh and blood must stop somewhere." "no, indeed!" said fleda. "we must have somebody immediately." "that's what i had fixed upon," said barby. "if you could get hold o' some young feller that wa'n't sot up with an idee that he was a grown man and too big to be told, i'd just clap to and fix that little room up-stairs for him, and give him his victuals here, and we'd have some good of him; instead o' having him streaking off just at the minute when he'd ought to be along." "who is there we could get, barby?" "i don't know," said barby; "but they say there is never a nick that there aint a jog some place; so i guess it can be made out. i asked mis' plumfield, but she didn't know anybody that was out of work; nor seth plumfield. i'll tell you who does � that is, if there is anybody � mis' douglass. she keeps hold. of one end of most everybody's affairs, i tell her. anyhow, she's a good hand to go to." "i'll go there at once," said fleda. "do you know anything about making maple sugar, barby?" "that's the very thing," exclaimed barby, ecstatically. "there's lots o' sugar-maples on the farm, and it's murder to let them go to loss; and they ha'n't done us a speck o' good ever since i come here. and in your grandfather's time, they used to make barrels and barrels. you and me and hugh, and somebody else we'll have, we could clap to and make as much sugar and molasses in a week as would last us till spring come round again. there's no sense into it all we'd want would be to borrow a team some place. i had all that in my head long ago. if we could see the last of that man, didenhover, oncet, i'd take hold of the plough myself, and see if i couldn't make a living out of it. i don't believe the world would go now, fleda, if it wa'n't for women. i never see three men, yet, that didn't try me more than they were worth." "patience, barby!" said fleda, smiling. "let us take things quietly." "well, i declare, i'm beat, to see how you take 'em," said barby, looking at her lovingly. "don't you know why, barby?" "i s'pose i do," said barby, her face softening still more � "or i can guess." "because i know that all these troublesome things will be managed in the best way, and by my best friend, and i know that he will let none of them hurt me. i am sure of it � isn't that enough to keep me quiet?" fleda's eyes were filling, and barby looked away from them. "well, it beats me," she said, taking up her dish-cloth again, "why you should have anything to trouble you. i can understand wicked folks being plagued, but i can't see the sense of the good ones." "troubles are to make good people better, barby." "well," said barby, with a very odd mixture of real feeling and seeming want of it, "it's a wonder i never got religion, for i will say that all the decent people i ever see were of that kind, � mis' rossitur aint, though, is she?" "no," said fleda, a pang crossing her at the thought that all her aunt's loveliness must tell directly and heavily in this case to lighten religion's testimony. it was that thought, and no other, which saddened her brow as she went back into the other room. "troubles already!" said mrs. rossitur. "you will be sorry you have come back to them, dear." "no, indeed," said fleda, brightly; "i am very glad i have come home. we will try and manage the troubles, aunt lucy." there was no doing anything that day, but the very next afternoon fleda and hugh walked down through the snow to mrs. douglass's. it was a long walk and a cold one, and the snow was heavy; but the pleasure of being together made up for it all. it was a bright walk, too, in spite of everything. in a most thrifty-looking well-painted farm-house, lived mrs. douglass. "why, 'taint you, is it'?" she said, when she opened the door � "catharine said it was, and i said i guessed it wa'n't, for i reckoned you had made up your mind not to come and see me at all. how do you do?" the last sentence in the tone of hearty and earnest hospitality. fleda made her excuses. "ay, ay � i can understand all that just as well as if you said it. i know how much it means, too. take off your hat." fleda said she could not stay, and explained her business. "so you ha'n't come to see me, after all? well, now, take off your hat 'cause i wont have anything to say to you till you do. i'll give you supper right away." "but i have left my aunt alone, mrs. douglass; and the afternoons are so short now, it would be dark before we could get home." "serve her right for not coming along! and you sha'n't walk home in the dark, for earl will harness the team, and carry you home like a streak � the horses have nothing to do. come, you sha'n't go." and as mrs. douglass laid violent hands on her bonnet, fleda thought best to submit. she was presently rewarded with the promise of the very person she wanted � a boy, or young man, then in earl douglass's employ; but his wife said, "she guessed he'd give him up to her;" and what his wife said, fleda knew earl douglass was in the habit of making good. "there aint enough to do to keep him busy," said mrs. douglass. "i told earl he made me more work than he saved; but he's hung on till now." "what sort of a boy is he, mrs. douglass." "he aint a steel-trap, i tell you beforehand," said the lady, with one of her sharp intelligent glances; "he don't know which way to go till you show him; but he's a clever enough kind of a chap � he don't mean no harm. i guess he'll do for what you want." "is he to be trusted?" "trust him with anything but a knife and fork," said she, with another look and shake of the head. "he has no idee but what everything on the supper-table is meant to be eaten straight off. i would keep two such men as my husband as soon as i would philetus." "philetus!" said fleda � "the person that brought the chicken, and thought he had brought two?" "you've hit it," said mrs. douglass. "now you know him. how do you like our new minister?" "we are all very much pleased with him." "he's very good-looking, don't you think so?" "a very pleasant face." "i ha'n't seen him much yet except in church; but those that know, say he is very agreeable in the house." "truly, i dare say," answered fleda, for mrs. douglass's face looked for her testimony. "but i think he looks as if he was beating his brains out there among his books. i tell him he is getting the blues, living in that big house by himself." "do you manage to do all your work without help, mrs. douglass?" said fleda, knowing that the question was in "order," and that the affirmative answer was not counted a thing to he ashamed of. "well, i guess i'll know good reason," said mrs. douglass, complacently, "before i'll have any help to spoil _my_ work. come along, and i'll let you see whether i want one." fleda went, very willingly, to be shown all mrs. douglass's household arrangements and clever contrivances, of her own or her husband's devising, for lessening or facilitating labour. the lady was proud, and had some reason to be, of the very superb order and neatness of each part and detail. no corner or closet that might not be laid open fearlessly to a visitor's inspection. miss catharine was then directed to open her piano, and amuse fleda with it while her mother performed her promise of getting an early supper � a command grateful to one or two of the party, for catharine had been carrying on all this while a most stately tête-à-tête with hugh, which neither had any wish to prolong. so fleda filled up the time good naturedly with thrumming over the two or three bits of her childish music that she could recall, till mr. douglass came in, and they were summoned to sit down to supper; which mrs. douglass introduced by telling her guests "they must take what they could get, for she had made fresh bread and cake and pies for them two or three times, and she wasn't a-going to do it again." her table was abundantly spread, however, and with most exquisite neatness; and everything was of excellent quality, saving only certain matters which call for a free hand in the use of material. fleda thought the pumpkin pies must have been made from that vaunted stock which is said to want no eggs nor sugar, and the cakes, she told mrs. rossitur afterwards, would have been good if half the flour had been left out, and the other ingredients doubled, the deficiency in one kind, however, was made up by superabundance in another; the table was stocked with such wealth of crockery that one could not imagine any poverty in what was to go upon it. fleda hardly knew how to marshal the confusion of plates which grouped themselves around her cup and saucer, and none of them might be dispensed with. there was one set of little glass dishes for one kind of sweetmeat, another set of ditto for another kind; an army of tiny plates to receive and shield the tablecloth from the dislodged cups of tea, saucers being the conventional drinking vessels; and there were the standard bread and butter plates, which, besides their proper charge of bread and butter, and beef, and cheese, were expected, fleda knew, to receive a portion of every kind of cake that might happen to be on the table. it was a very different thing, however, from miss anastasia's tea-table, or that of miss flora quackenboss. fleda enjoyed the whole time without difficulty. mr. douglass readily agreed to the transfer of philetus's services. "he's a good boy!" said earl � he's a good boy; he's as good a kind of a boy as you need to have. he wants tellin'; most boys want tellin'; but he'll do when he is told, and he means to do right." "how long do you expect your uncle will be gone?" said mrs. douglass. "i do not know," said fleda. "have you heard from him since he left?" "not since i came home," said fleda. "mr. douglass, what is the first thing to be done about the maple-trees in the sugar season?" "why, you calculate to try makin' sugar in the spring?" "perhaps � at any rate i should like to know about it." "well, i should think you would," said earl, "and it's easy done � there aint nothin' easier, when you know the right way to set to work about it; and there's a fine lot of sugar trees on the old farm � i recollect of them sugar trees as long ago as when i was a boy � i've helped to work them afore now, but there's a good many years since � has made me a leetle older; but the first thing you want is a man and a team, to go about and empty the buckets � the buckets must be emptied every day � and then carry it down to the house." "yes, i know," said fleda; "but what is the first thing to be done to the trees?" "why, la! 'tain't much to do to the trees � all you've got to do is to take an axe and chip a bit out, and stick a chip a leetle way into the cut for to dreen the sap, and set a trough under, and then go on to the next one, and so on; � you may make one or two cuts in the south side of the tree, and one or two cuts in the north side, if the tree's big enough, and if it aint, only make one or two cuts in the south side of the tree; and for the sap to run good, it had ought to be that kind o' weather when it freezes in the day and thaws by night; i would say! � when it friz in the night and thaws in the day; the sap runs more bountifully in that kind o' weather." it needed little from fleda to keep mr. douglass at the maple- trees till supper was ended; and then, as it was already sundown, he went to harness the sleigh. it was a comfortable one, and the horses, if not very handsome nor bright-curried, were well fed and had good heart to their work. a two-mile drive was before them, and with no troublesome tongues or eyes to claim her attention, fleda enjoyed it fully. in the soft clear winter twilight, when heaven and earth mingle so gently, and the stars look forth brighter and cheerfuller than ever at another time, they slid along over the fine roads, too swiftly, towards home; and fleda's thoughts as easily and swiftly slipped away from mr. douglass, and maple-sugar, and philetus, and an unfilled woodyard, and an empty flour-barrel, and revelled in the pure ether. a dark rising ground covered with wood sometimes rose between her and the western horizon; and then a long stretch of snow, only less pure, would leave free view of its unearthly white light, dimmed by no exhalation, a gentle, mute, but not the less eloquent, witness to earth of what heaven must be. but the sleigh stopped at the gate, and fleda's musings came home. "good night!" said earl, in reply to their thanks and adieus; � " 'taint anything to thank a body for � let me know when you're a-goin' into the sugar-making, and i'll come and help you." "how sweet a pleasant message may make an unmusical tongue!" said fleda, as she and hugh made their way up to the house. "we had a stupid enough afternoon," said hugh. "but the ride home was worth it all!" chapter xxvi. " 'tis merry, 'tis merry, in good green wood, so blithe lady alice is singing; on the beech's pride, and the oak's brown side, lord richard's axe is ringing." lady of the lake. philetus came, and was inducted into office and the little room immediately; and fleda felt herself eased of a burden. barby reported him stout and willing, and he proved it by what seemed a perverted inclination for bearing the most enormous logs of wood he could find into the kitchen. "he will hurt himself!" said fleda. "i'll protect him! � against anything but buckwheat batter," said barby, with a grave shake of her head. "lazy folks takes the most pains, i tell him. but it would be good to have some more ground, fleda, for philetus says he don't care for no dinner when he has griddles to breakfast, and there aint anything much cheaper than that." "aunt lucy, have you any change in the house?" said fleda, that same day. "there isn't but three and sixpence," said mrs. rossitur, with a pained, conscious look. "what is wanting, dear?" "only candles � barby has suddenly found we are out, and she wont have any more made before to-morrow. never mind." "there is only that," repeated mrs. rossitur. "hugh has a little money due to him from last summer, but he hasn't been able to get it yet. you may take that, dear." "no," said fleda, "we mustn't. we might want it more." "we can sit in the dark for once, said hugh, "and try to make an uncommon display of what dr. quackenboss calls 'sociality!' " "no," said fleda, who had stood busily thinking, "i am going to send philetus down to the post-office for the paper, and when it comes, i am not to be balked of reading it; i've made up my mind. we'll go right off into the woods and get some pine knots, hugh � come! they make a lovely light. you get us a couple of baskets and the hatchet; i wish we had two; and i'll be ready in no time. that'll do!" it is to be noticed, that charlton had provided against any future deficiency of news in his family. fleda skipped away, and in five minutes returned arrayed for the expedition, in her usual out-of-door working trim, namely, an old dark merino cloak, almost black, the effect of which was continued by the edge of an old dark mousseline below, and rendered decidedly striking by the contrast of a large whitish yarn shawl worn over it; the whole crowned with a little close-fitting hood made of some old silver-grey silk, shaped tight to the head, without any bow or furbelow to break the outline. but such a face within side of it! she came almost dancing into the room. "this is miss ringgan! as she appeared when she was going to see the pine-trees. hugh, don't you wish you had a picture of me?" "i have got a tolerable picture of you, somewhere," said hugh. "this is somebody very different from the miss ringgan that went to see mrs. evelyn, i can tell you," fleda went on, gaily. "do you know, aunt lucy, i have made up my mind that my visit to new york was a dream, and the dream is nicely folded away with my silk dresses. now, i must go tell that precious philetus about the post-office; i am so comforted, aunt lucy, whenever i see that fellow staggering into the house under a great log of wood! i have not heard anything in a long time so pleasant as the ringing strokes of his axe in the yard. isn't life made up of little things?" "why don't you put a better pair of shoes on?" "can't afford it, mrs. rossitur. you are extravagant." "go and put on my india-rubbers." "no, ma'am � the rocks would cut them to pieces. i have brought my mind down to � my shoes." "it isn't safe, fleda; you might see somebody." "well, ma'am! but i tell you i am not going to see anybody but the chick-a-dees and the snow-birds, and there is great simplicity of manners prevailing among them." the shoes were changed, and hugh and fleda set forth, lingering a while, however, to give a new edge to their hatchet � fleda turning the grindstone. they mounted then the apple-orchard hill, and went a little distance along the edge of the table-land, before striking off into the woods. they had stood still a minute to look over the little white valley to the snow-dressed woodland beyond. "this is better than new york, hugh," said fleda. "i am very glad to hear you say that," said another voice. fleda turned, and started a little to see mr. olmney at her side, and congratulated herself instantly on her shoes. "mrs. rossitur told me where you had gone, and gave me permission to follow you, but i hardly hoped to overtake you so soon." "we stopped to sharpen our tools," said fleda. "we are out on a foraging expedition." "will you let me help you?" "certainly � if you understand the business. do you know a pine-knot when you see it?" he laughed, and shook his head, but avowed a wish to learn. "well, it would be a charity to teach you anything wholesome," said fleda; "for i heard one of mr. olmney's friends lately saying that he looked like a person who was in danger of committing suicide." "suicide! one of my friends!" he exclaimed, in the utmost astonishment. "yes," said fleda, laughing; "and there is nothing like the open air for clearing away vapours." "you cannot have known that by experience," said he, looking at her. fleda shook her head, and, advising him to take nothing for granted, set off into the woods. they were in a beautiful state. a light snow, but an inch or two deep, had fallen the night before; the air had been perfectly still during the day; and though the sun was out, bright and mild, it had done little but glitter on the earth's white capping. the light dry flakes of snow had not stirred from their first resting-place. the long branches of the large pines were just tipped with snow at the ends; on the smaller evergreens every leaf and tuft had its separate crest. stones and rocks were smoothly rounded over, little shrubs and sprays that lay along the ground were all doubled in white; and the hemlock branches, bending with their feathery burden, stooped to the foreheads of the party, and gave them the freshest of salutations as they brushed by. the whole wood-scene was particularly fair and graceful. a light veil of purity, no more, thrown over the wilderness of stones, and stumps, and bare ground � like the blessing of charity, covering all roughnesses and unsightlinesses � like the innocent, unsullied nature that places its light shield between the eye and whatever is unequal, unkindly, and unlovely in the world. "what do you think of this for a misanthropical man, mr. olmney? there's a better tonic to be found in the woods than in any remedies of man's devising." "better than books?" said he. "certainly! � no comparison." "i have to learn that yet." "so i suppose," said fleda. "the very danger to be apprehended, as i hear, sir, is from your running a tilt into some of those thick folios of yours, head foremost. there's no pitch there, hugh � you may leave it alone. we must go on � there are more yellow pines higher up." "but who could give such a strange character of me to you?" said mr. olmney. "i am sure your wisdom would not advise me to tell you that, sir. you will find nothing there, mr. olmney." they went gaily on, careering about in all directions, and bearing down upon every promising stump or dead pine-tree they saw in the distance. hugh and mr. olmney took turns in the labour of hewing out the fat pine knots, and splitting down the old stumps to get at the pitchy heart of the wood; and the baskets began to grow heavy. the whole party were in excellent spirits, and as happy as the birds that filled the woods, and whose cheery "chick-a-dee-dee-dee" was heard whenever they paused to rest, and let the hatchet be still. "how one sees everything in the colour of one's own spectacles!" said fleda. "may i ask what colour yours are to-day?" said mr. olmney. "rose, i think," said hugh. "no," said fleda, "they are better than that � they are no worse colour than the snow's own � they show me everything just as it is. it could not be lovelier." "then we may conclude, may we not," said mr. olmney, "that you are not sorry to find yourself in queechy again?" "i am not sorry to find myself in the woods again. that is not pitch, mr. olmney." "it has the same colour � and weight." "no, it is only wet � see this, and smell of it � do you see the difference? isn't it pleasant?" "everything is pleasant to-day," said he, smiling. "i shall report you a cure. come, i want to go a little higher and show you a view. leave that, hugh � we have got enough." but hugh chose to finish an obstinate stump, and his companions went on without him. it was not very far up the mountain, and they came to a fine look-out point � the same where fleda and mr. carleton had paused long before on their quest after nuts. the wide spread of country was a white waste now; the delicate beauties of the snow were lost in the far view; and the distant catskill showed wintrily against the fair blue sky. the air was gentle enough to invite them to stand still, after the exercise they had taken; and as they both looked in silence, mr. olmney observed that his companion's face settled into a gravity rather at variance with the expression it had worn. "i should hardly think," said he, softly, "that you were looking through white spectacles, if you had not told us so." "oh � a shade may come over what one is looking at, you know," said fleda. but seeing that he still watched her inquiringly, she added � "i do not think a very wide landscape is ever gay in its effect upon the mind � do you?" "perhaps � i do not know," said he, his eyes turning to it again, as if to try what the effect was. "my thoughts had gone back," said fleda, "to a time a good while ago, when i was a child, and stood here in summer weather � and i was thinking that the change in the landscape is something like that which years make in the mind." "but you have not, for a long time at least, known any very acute sorrow?" "no," said fleda, "but that is not necessary. there is a gentle kind of discipline which does its work, i think, more surely." "thank god for _gentle_ discipline!" said mr. olmney; "if you do not know what those griefs are that break down mind and body together." "i am not unthankful, i hope, for anything," said fleda, gently; "but i have been apt to think that, after a crushing sorrow, the mind may rise up again, but that a long-continued though much lesser pressure in time breaks the spring." he looked at her again with a mixture of incredulous and tender interest, but her face did not belie her words, strange as they sounded from so young and in general so bright-seeming a creature. "there shall no evil happen to the just," he said, presently, and with great sympathy. fleda flashed a look of gratitude at him � it was no more, for she felt her eyes watering, and turned them away. "you have not, i trust, heard any bad news?" "no, sir � not at all." "i beg pardon for asking, but mrs. rossitur seemed to be in less good spirits than usual." he had some reason to say so, having found her in a violent fit of weeping. "you do not need to be told," he went on, "of the need there is that a cloud should now and then come over this lower scene � the danger that, if it did not, our eyes would look nowhere else?" there is something very touching in hearing a kind voice say what one has often struggled to say to one's-self. "i know it, sir," said fleda, her words a little choked � "and one may not wish the cloud away � but it does not the less cast a shade upon the face. i guess hugh has worked his way into the middle of that stump by this time, mr. olmney." they rejoined him; and the baskets being now sufficiently heavy, and arms pretty well tired, they left the further riches of the pine woods unexplored, and walked sagely homewards. at the brow of the table-land, mr. olmney left them to take a shorter cut to the high road, having a visit to make which the shortening day warned him not to defer. "put down your basket, and rest a minute, hugh," said fleda. "i had a world of things to talk to you about, and this blessed man has driven them all out of my head." "but you are not sorry he came along with us?" "o no. we had a very good time. how lovely it is, hugh! look at the snow down there � without a track; and the woods have been dressed by the fairies. oh, look how the sun is glinting on the west side of that hillock!" "it is twice as bright since you have come home," said hugh. "the snow is too beautiful to-day. oh, i was right! one may grow morbid over books, but i defy anybody, in the company of those chick-a-dees. i should think it would be hard to keep quite sound in the city." "you are glad to be here again, aren't you?" said hugh. "very! o, hugh! � it is better to be poor, and have one's feet on these hills, than to be rich, and shut up to brick walls!" "it is best as it is," said hugh, quietly. "once," fleda went on � "one fair day, when i was out driving in new york, it did come over me with a kind of pang, how pleasant it would be to have plenty of money again, and be at ease; and then, as i was looking off over that pretty north river to the other shore, i bethought me � 'a little that a righteous man hath is better than the riches of many wicked.' " hugh did not answer, for the face she turned to him, in its half-tearful, half-bright submission, took away his speech. "why, you cannot have enjoyed yourself as much as we thought, fleda, if you dislike the city so much." "yes, i did. oh, i enjoyed a great many things. i enjoyed being with the evelyns. you don't know how much they made of me � every one of them � father and mother, and all the three daughters � and uncle orrin. i have been well petted, i can tell you, since i have been gone." "i am glad they showed so much discrimination," said hugh; "they would be puzzled to make too much of you." "i must have been in a remarkably discriminating society," said fleda, "for everybody was very kind." "how do you like the evelyns, on a nearer view?" "very much, indeed; and i believe they really love me. nothing could possibly be kinder, in all ways of showing kindness. i shall never forget it." "who were you driving with that day?" said hugh. "mr. thorn." "did you see much of him?" "quite as much as i wished. hugh, i took your advice." "about what?" said hugh. "i carried down some of my scribblings, and sent them to a magazine." "did you!" said hugh, looking delighted. "and will they publish them?" "i don't know," said fleda; "that's another matter. i sent them, or uncle orrin did, when i first went down; and i have heard nothing of them yet." "you showed them to uncle orrin?" "couldn't help it, you know. i had to." "and what did he say to them?" "come! � i'm not going to be cross-questioned," said fleda, laughing. "he did not prevent my sending them." "and if they take them, do you expect they will give anything for them � the magazine people?" "i am sure, if they don't, they shall have no more; that is my only possible inducement to let them be printed. for my own pleasure, i would far rather not." "did you sign with your own name?" "my own name! � yes, and desired it to be printed in large capitals. what are you thinking of? no! � i hope you'll forgive me, � but i signed myself what our friend the doctor calls 'yugh.' " "i'll forgive you, if you'll do one thing for me." "what?" "show me all you have in your portfolio � do, fleda! � to- night, by the light of the pitch-pine knots. why shouldn't you give me that pleasure? and, besides, you know molière had an old woman?" "well," said fleda, with a face that to hugh was extremely satisfactory, "we'll see � i suppose you might as well read my productions in manuscript as in print. but they are in a terribly scratchy condition � they go sometimes for weeks in my head before i find time to put them down � you may guess, polishing is pretty well out of the question. suppose we try to get home with these baskets." which they did. "has philetus got home?" was fleda's first question. "no," said mrs. rossitur, "but dr. quackenboss has been here, and brought the paper; he was at the post-office this morning, he says. did you see mr. olmney?" "yes, ma'am, and i feel he has saved me from a lame arm � those pine-knots are so heavy." "he is a lovely young man!" said mrs. rossitur, with uncommon emphasis. "i should have been blind to the fact, aunt lucy, if you had not made me change my shoes. at present, no disparagement to him, i feel as if a cup of tea would be rather more lovely than anything else." "he sat with me some time," said mrs. rossitur; "i was afraid he would not overtake you." tea was ready, and only waiting for mrs. rossitur to come down stairs, when fleda, whose eye was carelessly running along the columns of the paper, uttered a sudden shout, and covered her face with it. hugh looked up in astonishment, but fleda was beyond anything but exclamations, laughing and flushing to the very roots of her hair. "what is the matter, fleda?" "why," said fleda, "how comical! � i was just looking over the list of articles in the january number of the _excelsior_" � "the _excelsior!_" said hugh. "yes � the magazine i sent my things to � i was running over their advertisement here, where they give a special puff of the publication in general, and of several things in particular, and i saw � here they speak of 'a tale of thrilling interest, by mrs. eliza lothbury, unsurpassed,' and so forth, and so forth; 'another valuable communication from mr. charleston, whose first acute and discriminating paper all our leaders will remember; the beginning of a new tale from the infallibly graceful pen of miss delia lawriston: we are sure it will be so and so; '_the wind's voices_,' _by our new correspondent_, '_hugh_,' _has a delicate sweetness that would do no discredit to some of our most honoured names!_' what do you think of that?" what hugh thought he did not say, but he looked delighted, and came to read the grateful words for himself. "i did not know but they had declined it utterly," said fleda; "it was so long since i had sent it, and they had taken no notice of it; but it seems they kept it for the beginning of a new volume." " 'would do no discredit to some of our most honoured names!' " said hugh. "dear fleda, i am very glad! but it is no more than i expected." "expected!" said fleda. "when you had not seen a line! hush, my dear hugh, aren't you hungry?" the tea, with this spice to their appetites, was wonderfully relished; and hugh and fleda kept making despatches of secret pleasure and sympathy to each other's eyes; though fleda's face, after the first flush had faded, was perhaps rather quieter than usual. hugh's was illuminated. "mr. skillcorn is a smart man," said barby, coming in with a package; "he has made out to go two miles in two hours, and get back again safe." "more from the post-office!" exclaimed fleda, pouncing upon it. � "o yes, there has been another mail. a letter for you, aunt lucy, from uncle rolf. we'll forgive him, barby � and here's a letter for me, from uncle orrin, and � yes � the _excelsior_. hugh, uncle orrin said he would send it. now for those blessed pineknots. aunt lucy, you shall be honoured with the one whole candle the house contains." the table soon cleared away, the basket of fat fuel was brought in; and one or two splinters being delicately insinuated between the sticks on the fire, a very brilliant illumination sprang out. fleda sent a congratulatory look over to hugh on the other side of the fireplace, as she cosily established herself on her little bench at one corner with her letter: he had the magazine. mrs. rossitur between them at the table, with her one candle, was already insensible to all outward things. and soon the other two were as delightfully absorbed. the bright light of the fire shone upon three motionless and rapt figures, and getting no greeting from them, went off and danced on the old cupboard doors and paper-hangings, in a kindly hearty joviality, that would have put any number of stately wax candles out of countenance. there was no poverty in the room that night. but the people were too busy to know how cosy they were, till fleda was ready to look up from her note, and hugh had gone twice carefully over the new poem � when there was a sudden giving out of the pine splinters. new ones were supplied in eager haste and silence, and hugh was beginning "the wind's voices," for the third time, when a soft-whispered "hugh!" across the fire, made him look over to fleda's corner. she was holding up, with both hands, a five- dollar bank note, and just showing him her eyes over it. "what's that?" said hugh, in an energetic whisper. "i don't know!" said fleda, shaking her head comically; "i am told 'the wind's voices' have blown it here, but, privately, i am afraid it is a windfall of another kind." "what?" said hugh, laughing. "uncle orrin says it is the first-fruits of what i sent to the _excelsior_, and that more will come; but i do not feel at all sure that it is entirely the growth of that soil." "i dare say it is," said hugh; "i am sure it is worth more than that. dear fleda, i like it so much!" fleda gave him such a smile of grateful affection � not at all as if she deserved his praise, but as if it was very pleasant to have. "what put it into your head? anything in particular?" "no � nothing � i was looking out of the window one day, and seeing the willow-tree blow; and that looked over my shoulder; as you know hans andersen says his stories did." "it is just like you! � exactly as it can be." "things put themselves in my head," said fleda, tucking another splinter into the fire. "isn't this better than a chandelier?" "ten times!" "and so much pleasanter for having got it ourselves. what a nice time we had, hugh!" "very. now for the portfolio, fleda � come � mother is fast; she wont see or hear anything. what does father say, mother?" in answer to this they had the letter read, which, indeed, contained nothing remarkable beyond its strong expressions of affection to each one of the little family � a cordial which mrs. rossitur drank and grew strong upon in the very act of reading. it is pity the medicine of kind words is not more used in the world � it has so much power. then, having folded up her treasure and talked a little while about it, mrs. rossitur caught up the magazine like a person who had been famished in that kind; and soon she and it and her tallow candle formed a trio apart from all the world again. fleda and hugh were safe to pass most mysterious-looking little papers from hand to hand right before her, though they had the care to read them behind newspapers, and exchanges of thought and feeling went on more swiftly still, and softly, across the fire. looks, and smiles, and whispers, and tears too, under cover of a _tribune_ and an _express_. and the blaze would die down just when hugh had got to the last verse of something, and then while impatiently waiting for the new pine splinters to catch, he would tell fleda how much he liked it, or how beautiful he thought it, and whisper inquiries and critical questions; till the fire reached the fat vein, and leaped up in defiant emulation of gas-lights unknown, and then he would fall to again with renewed gusto. and fleda hunted out in her portfolio what bits to give him first, and bade him, as she gave them, remember this and understand that, which was necessary to be borne in mind in the reading. and through all the brightening and fading blaze, and all the whispering, congratulating, explaining, and rejoicing going on at her side, mrs. rossitur and her tallow candle were devoted to each other, happily and engrossingly. at last, however, she flung the magazine from her, and turning from the table sat looking into the fire with a rather uncommonly careful and unsatisfied brow. "what did you think of the second piece of poetry there, mother?" said hugh � "that ballad? � 'the wind's voices,' it is called." " 'the wind's voices?' � i don't know � i didn't read it, i believe." "why, mother! i liked it very much. do read it � read it aloud." mrs. rossitur took up the magazine again abstractedly, and read " 'mamma, what makes your face so sad? the sound of the wind makes me feel glad; but whenever it blows, as grave you look as if you were reading a sorrowful book.' " 'a sorrowful book i am reading, dear � a book of weeping, and pain, and fear � a book deep printed on my heart, which i cannot read but the tears will start. " 'that breeze to my ear was soft and mild, just so, when i was a little child; but now i hear in its freshening breath the voices of those that sleep in death.' " 'mamma,' said the child, with shaded brow, what is this book you are reading now? and why do you read what makes you cry?' 'my child, it comes up before my eye; " ' 'tis the memory, love, of a far-off day, when my life's best friend was taken away; � of the weeks and months that my eyes were dim, watching for tidings � watching for him. " 'many a year has come and pass'd since a ship sailed over the ocean fast, bound for a port on england's shore � she sail'd � but was never heard of more.' " 'mamma' � and she closer press'd her side � 'was that the time when my father died? � is it his ship you think you see? � dearest mamma � wont you speak to me?' "the lady paused, but then calmly said � yes, lucy � the sea was his dying bed! and now, whenever i hear the blast, i think again of that storm long past. " 'the winds' fierce howlings hurt not me, but i think how they beat on the pathless sea � of the breaking mast � of the parting rope � of the anxious strife, and the failing hope.' " 'mamma,' said the child, with streaming eyes, my father has gone above the skies; and you tell me this world is mean and base compared with heaven � that blessed place.' " 'my daughter, i know � i believe it all � i would not his spirit to earth recal. the bless'd one he � his storm was brief � mine, a long tempest of tears and grief. " 'i have you, my darling � i should not sigh � i have one star more in my cloudy sky � the hope that we both shall join him there, in that perfect rest from weeping and care.' " "well, mother; how do you like it?" said hugh, whose eyes gave tender witness to his liking for it. "it is pretty" � said mrs. rossitur. hugh exclaimed, and fleda, laughing, took it out of her hand. "why, mother," said hugh � "it is fleda's!" "fleda's!" exclaimed mrs. rossitur, snatching the magazine again. "my dear child, i was not thinking in the least of what i was reading. fleda's!" � she read it over anew, with swimming eyes this time, and then clasped fleda in her arms, and gave her, not words, but the better reward of kisses and tears. they remained so a long time, even till hugh left them; and then fleda, released from her aunt's embrace, still crouched by her side with one arm in her lap. they both sat thoughtfully looking into the fire till it had burnt itself out, and nothing but a glowing bed of coals remained. "that is an excellent young man," said mrs. rossitur. "who?" "mr. olmney. he sat with me some time after you had gone." "so you said before," said fleda, wondering at the troubled expression of her aunt's face. "he made me wish," said mrs. rossitur, hesitating, "that i could be something different from what i am � i believe i should be a great deal happier." the last word was hardly spoken. fleda rose to her knees, and putting both arms about her aunt, pressed face to face, with a clinging sympathy that told how very near her spirit was, while tears from the eyes of both fell without measure. "dear aunt lucy � _dear_ aunt lucy � i wish you would � i am sure you would be a great deal happier �" but the mixture of feelings was too much for fleda; her head sank lower on her aunt's bosom, and she wept aloud. "but i don't know anything about it," said mrs. rossitur, as well as she could speak � "i am as ignorant as a child!" "dear aunty! that is nothing � god will teach you, if you ask him � he has promised. oh, ask him, aunt lucy! i know you would be happier. i know it is better � a million times � to be a child of god, than to have everything in the world. if they only brought us that, i would be very glad of all our troubles � indeed i would." "but i don't think i ever did anything right in my life," said poor mrs. rossitur. "dear aunt lucy!" said fleda, straining her closer, and with her very heart gushing out at these words � "_dear_ aunty, christ came for just such sinners � for just such as you and i." "_you_," said mrs. rossitur, but speech failed utterly, and with a muttered prayer that fleda would help her she sunk her head upon her shoulder, and sobbed herself into quietness, or into exhaustion. the glow of the fire-light faded away till only a faint sparkle was left in the chimney. there was not another word spoken, but when they rose up, with such kisses as gave and took unuttered affection, counsel, and sympathy, they bade each other good-night. fleda went to her window, for the moon rode high, and her childish habit had never been forgotten. but surely the face that looked out that night was as the face of an angel. in all the pouring moonbeams that filled the air, she could see nothing but the flood of god's goodness on a dark world. and her heart that night had nothing but an unbounded and unqualified thanksgiving for all the "gentle discipline" they had felt � for every sorrow, and weariness, and disappointment; except, besides, the prayer, almost too deep to be put into words, that its due and hoped-for fruit might be brought forth unto perfection. chapter xxvii. "if i become not a cart as well as another man, a plague on my bringing up." shakespeare. every day could not be as bright as the last, even by the help of pitch pine knots. they blazed, indeed, many a time, but the blaze shone upon faces that it could not sometimes light up. matters drew gradually within a smaller and smaller compass. another five dollars came from uncle orrin, and the hope of more; but these were carefully laid by to pay philetus; and for all other wants of the household excepting those the farm supplied, the family were dependent on mere driblets of sums. none came from mr. rossitur. hugh managed to collect a very little. that kept them from absolute distress � that, and fleda's delicate instrumentality. regular dinners were given up, fresh meat being now unheard of, unless when a kind neighbour made them a present; and appetite would have lagged sadly but for fleda's untiring care. she thought no time nor pains ill bestowed which could prevent her aunt and hugh from feeling the want of old comforts; and her nicest skill was displayed in varying the combinations of their very few and simple stores. the diversity and deliciousness of her bread- stuffs, barby said, was "beyond everything!" and a cup of rich coffee was found to cover all deficiencies of removes and _entremets;_ and this was always served, barby said further, as if the president of the united states was expected. fleda never permitted the least slackness in the manner of doing this or anything else that she could control. mr. plumfield had sent down an opportune present of a fine porker. one cold day in the beginning of february, fleda was busy in the kitchen, making something. for dinner, and hugh at another table was vigorously chopping sausage-meat. "i should like to have some cake again," said fleda. "well, why don't you?" said hugh, chopping away. "no eggs, mr. rossitur � and can't afford 'em at two shillings a dozen. i believe i am getting discontented � i have a great desire to do something to distinguish myself � i would make a plumpudding if i had raisins, but there is not one in the house." "you can get 'em up to mr. hemps's for six pence a pound," said barby. but fleda shook her head at the sixpence, and went on moulding out her biscuits diligently. "i wish philetus would make his appearance with the cows � it is a very odd thing they should be gone since yesterday morning, and no news of them." "i only hope the snow aint so bright it'll blind his eyes," said barby. "there he is this minute," said hugh. "it is impossible to tell from his countenance whether successful or not." "well, where are the cows, mr. skillcorn?" said barby, as he came in. "i have went all over town," said the person addressed, "and they aint no place." "have you asked news of them, philetus?" "i have asked the hull town, and i have went all over, 'till i was a'most beat out with the cold � and i ha'n't seen the first sight of 'em yet!" fleda and hugh exchanged looks, while barby and mr. skillcorn entered into an animated discussion of probabilities and impossibilities. "if we should be driven from our coffee dinners to tea with no milk in it!" said hugh, softly, in mock dismay. "wouldn't!" said fled. "we'd beat up an egg and put it in the coffee." "we couldn't afford it," said hugh, smiling. "could! � cheaper than to keep the cows. i'll have some sugar at any rate, i'm determined. � philetus!" "marm!" "i wish, when you have got a good pile of wood chopped, you would make some troughs to put under the maple trees � you know how to make them, don't you?" "i do." "i wish you would make some � you have pine logs out there large enough, haven't you?" "they hadn't ought to want much of it � there's some 'gregious big ones!" "i don't know how many we shall want, but a hundred or two, at any rate; and the sooner the better. do you know how much sugar they make from one tree?" "waul, i don't," said mr. skillcorn, with the air of a person who was at fault on no other point; "the big trees gives more than the little ones �" fleda's eyes flashed at hugh, who took to chopping in sheer desperation; and the muscles of both gave them full occupation for five minutes. philetus stood comfortably warming himself at the fire, looking first at one and then at the other, as if they were a show, and he had paid for it. barby grew impatient. "i guess this cold weather makes lazy people of me!' she said, bustling about her fire with an amount of energy that was significant. it seemed to signify nothing to philetus; he only moved a little out of the way. "didenhover's cleared out," he burst forth, at length, abruptly. "what!" said fleda and barby at once, the broom and the biscuits standing still. "mr. didenhover." "what of him?" "he has tuk himself off out o' town." "where to?" "i can't tell where teu � he aint coming back, tain't likely." "how do you know?" " 'cause he's tuk all his traps and went, and he said farming didn't pay, and he wa'n't a-going to have nothin' more to deu with it; � he telled mis' simpson so � he lived to mis' simpson's; and she telled mr. ten eyck." "are you sure, philetus?" "sure as 'lection! � he telled mis' simpson so, and she telled mr. ten eyck; and he's cleared out." fleda and hugh again looked at each other. mr. skillcorn having now delivered himself of his news, went out to the woodyard. "i hope he ha'n't carried off our cows along with him," said barby, as she, too, went out to some other part of her premises. "he was to have made us quite a payment on the first of march," said fleda. "yes, and that was to have gone to uncle orrin," said hugh. "we shall not see a cent of it. and we wanted a little of it for ourselves. i have that money from the _excelsior_, but i can't touch a penny of it, for it must go to philetus's wages. what barby does without hers, i do not know; she has had but one five dollars in six months. why she stays i cannot imagine; unless it is for pure love." "as soon as the spring opens, i can go to the mill again," said hugh, after a little pause. fleda looked at him sorrowfully, and shook her head as she withdrew her eyes. "i wish father would give up the farm," hugh went on, under his breath. "i cannot bear to live upon uncle orrin so." fleda's answer was to clasp her hands. her only words were, "don't say anything to aunt lucy." "it is of no use to say anything to anybody," said hugh. "but it weighs me to the ground, fleda." "if uncle rolf doesn't come home by spring � i hope, i hope he will! but if he does not, i will take desperate measures. i will try farming myself, hugh. i have thought of it, and i certainly will. i will get earl douglass, or somebody else, to play second fiddle, but i will have but one head on the farm, and i will try what mine is worth." "you could not do it, fleda." "one can do anything! with a strong enough motive." "i'm afraid you'd soon be tired, fleda." "not if i succeeded � not so tired as i am now." "poor fleda! i dare say you are tired!" "it wasn't _that_ i meant," said fleda, slightly drawing her breath; "i meant this feeling of everything going wrong, and uncle orrin, and all." "but you _are_ weary," said hugh, affectionately. "i see it in your face." "not so much body as mind, after all. oh, hugh! this is the worst part of being poor � the constant occupation of one's mind on a miserable succession of trifles. i am so weary sometimes! if i only had a nice book to rest myself for a while, and forget all these things, i would give so much for it! �" "dear fleda, i wish you had!" "that was one delight of being in new york; i forgot all about money, from one end of it to the other; i put all that away; and not having to think of meals till i came to eat them. you can't think how tired i get of ringing the changes on pork and flour, and indian meal, and eggs, and vegetables!" fleda looked tired, and pale; and hugh looked sadly conscious of it. "don't tell aunt lucy i have said all this!" she exclaimed, after a moment, rousing herself; "i don't always feel so; only once in a while i get such a fit. and now, i have just troubled you by speaking of it." "you don't trouble any one in that way very often, dear fleda," said hugh, kissing her. "i ought not at all � you have enough else to think of; but it is a kind of relief sometimes. i like to do these things in general � only now and then i get tired, as i was just now, i suppose, and then one sees everything through a different medium." "i am afraid it would tire you more to have the charge of earl douglass and the farm upon your mind; and mother could be no help to you, � nor i, if i am at the mill." "but there's seth plumfield. oh, i've thought of it all. you don't know what i am up to, mr. rossitur. you shall see how i will manage � unless uncle rolf comes home, in which case i will very gladly forego all my honours and responsibilities together." "i hope he will come!" said hugh. but this hope was to be disappointed. mr. rossitur wrote again about the first of march, saying, that he hoped to make something of his lands in michigan, and that he had the prospect of being engaged in some land agencies, which would make it worth his while to spend the summer there. he bade his wife let anybody take the farm that could manage it, and would pay; and to remit to dr. gregory whatever she should receive, and could spare. he hoped to do something where he was. it was just then the beginning of the sugar season, and mrs. douglass having renewed and urged earl's offer of help, fleda sent philetus down to ask him to come the next day with his team. seth plumfield's, which had drawn the wood in the winter, was now busy in his own sugar business. on earl douglass's ground there happened to be no maple-trees. his lands were of moderate extent, and almost entirely cultivated as a sheep farm; and mr. douglass himself, though in very comfortable circumstances, was in the habit of assisting, on advantageous terms, all. the farmers in the neighbourhood. philetus came back again in a remarkably short time; and announced that he had met dr. quackenboss in the way, who had offered to come with his team for the desired service. "then you have not been to mr. douglass's?" "i have not," said philetus � "i thought likely you wouldn't calculate to want him teu." "how came the doctor to know what you were going for?" "i told him." "but how came you to tell him?'' "waul, i guess he had a mind to know," said philetus; "so i didn't keep it no closer than i had teu." "well," said fleda, biting her lips, "you will have to go down to mr. douglass's, nevertheless, philetus, and tell him the doctor is coming to-morrow, but i should be very much obliged to him if he will be here next day. will you?" "yes, marm!" "now, dear hugh, will you make me those little spouts for the trees? � of some dry wood : you can get plenty out here. you want to split them, up with a hollow chisel, about a quarter of an inch thick, and a little more than half an inch broad. have you got a hollow chisel?" "no, but i can get one up the hill. why must it be hollow?" "to make little spouts, you know, for the sap to run in. and then, my dear hugh, they must be sharpened at one end so as to fit where the chisel goes in. i am afraid i have given you a day's work of it. how sorry i am you must go to-morrow to the mill! � and yet i am glad too." "why need you go round yourself with these people?" said hugh. "i don't see the sense of it." "they don't know where the trees are," said fleda. "i am sure i do not. do you?" "perfectly well. and besides," said fleda, laughing, "i should have great doubts of the discreetness of philetus's auger if it were left to his simple direction. i have no notion the trees would yield their sap as kindly to him as to me. but i didn't bargain for dr. quackenboss." dr. quackenboss arrived punctually the next morning with his oxen and sled; and, by the time it was loaded with the sap- troughs, fleda, in her black cloak, yarn shawl, and grey little hood, came out of the house to the wood-yard. earl douglass was there, too, not with his team, but merely to see how matters stood, and give advice. "good day, mr. douglass!" said the doctor. "you see i'm so fortunate as to have got the start of you." "very good," said earl, contentedly; "you may have it: the start's one thing, and the pull's another. i'm willin' anybody should have the start, but it takes a pull to know whether a man's got stuff in him or no." "what do you mean?" said the doctor. "i don't mean nothin' at all. you make a start to-day, and i'll come ahint and take the pull to-morrow. ha' you got anythin' to boil down in, fleda? there's a potash kittle somewheres, aint there? i guess there is. there is in most houses." "there is a large kettle � i suppose large enough," said fleda. "that'll do, i guess. well, what do you calculate to put the syrup in? ha' you got a good big cask, or plenty o' tubs and that? or will you sugar off the hull lot every night, and fix it that way? you must do one thing or t'other, and it's good to know what you're a-going to do afore you come to do it." "i don't know, mr. douglass," said fleda. "whichever is the best way: we have no cask large enough, i am afraid." "well, i tell you what i'll do. i know where there's a tub, and where they aint usin' it, nother, and i reckon i can get 'em to let me have it � i reckon i can; and i'll go round for't and fetch it here to-morrow mornin' when i come with the team. 'twont be much out of my way. it's more handier to leave the sugarin' off till the next day; and it had ought to have a settlin' besides. where'll you have your fire built? � in doors or out?" "out, i would rather, if we can. but can we?" "la! 'tain't nothin' easier; it's as easy out as in. all you've got to do is to take and roll a couple of pretty sized billets for your fireplace, and stick a couple o' crotched sticks for to hang the kittle over: i'd as lieve have it out as in, and if anythin', a leetle liever. if you'll lend me philetus, me and him 'll fix it all ready agin you come back; 'tain't no trouble at all; and if the sticks aint here, we'll go into the woods after 'em, and have it all sot up." but fleda represented that the services of philetus were just then in requisition, and that there would be no sap brought home till to-morrow. "very good!" said earl, amicably � "_very_ good! it's just as easy done one day as another � it don't make no difference to me: and if it makes any difference to you, of course, we'll leave it to-day, and there'll be time enough to do it to- morrow. me and him 'll knock it up in a whistle. what's them little shingles for?" fleda explained the use and application of hugh's mimic spouts. he turned one about, whistling, while he listened to her. "that's some o' seth plumfield's new jigs, aint it? i wonder if he thinks now the sap's a-goin' to run any sweeter out o' that 'ere than it would off the end of a chip that wa'n't quite so handsome?" "no, mr. douglass," said fleda smiling, "he only thinks that this will catch a little more." "his sugar wont never tell where it come from," remarked earl, throwing the spout down. "well, you shall see more o' me to- morrow. good-bye, dr. quackenboss." "do you contemplate the refining process?" said the doctor, as they moved off. "i have often contemplated the want of it," said fleda; "but it is best not to try to do too much. i should like to make sure of something worth refining in the first place." "mr. douglass and i," said the doctor � "i hope � a � he's a very good-hearted man, miss fleda, but, ha! ha! � he wouldn't suffer loss from a little refining himself. haw! you rascal � where are you going? haw! i tell ye" � "i am very sorry, dr. quackenboss," said fleda, when she had the power and the chance to speak again � "i am very sorry you should have to take this trouble; but, unfortunately, the art of driving oxen is not among mr. skillcorn's accomplishments." "my dear miss ringgan!" said the doctor, "i � i � nothing, i assure you, could give me greater pleasure than to drive my oxen to any place where you would like to have them go." poor fleda wished she could have despatched them and him in one direction while she took another; the art of driving oxen _quietly_ was certainly not among the doctor's accomplishments. she was almost deafened. she tried to escape from the immediate din by running before to show philetus about tapping the trees and fixing the little spouts, but it was a longer operation than she had counted upon, and by the time they were ready to leave the tree the doctor was gee-hawing alongside of it; and then if the next maple was not within sight she could not in decent kindness leave him alone. the oxen went slowly, and though fleda managed to have no delay longer than to throw down a trough as the sled came up with each tree which she and philetus had tapped, the business promised to make a long day of it. it might have been a pleasant day in pleasant company; but fleda's spirits were down to set out with, and doctor quackenboss was not the person to give them the needed spring; his long-winded complimentary speeches had not interest enough even to divert her. she felt that she was entering upon an untried and most weighty undertaking; charging her time and thoughts with a burden they could well spare. her energies did not flag, but the spirit that should have sustained them was not strong enough for the task. it was a blustering day of early march, with that uncompromising brightness of sky and land which has no shadow of sympathy with a heart overcast. the snow still lay a foot thick over the ground, thawing a little in sunny spots; the trees quite bare and brown, the buds even of the early maples hardly showing colour; the blessed evergreens alone doing their utmost to redeem the waste, and speaking of patience and fortitude that can brave the blast and outstand the long waiting, and cheerfully bide the time when "the winter shall be over and gone." poor fleda thought they were like her in their circumstances, but she feared she was not like them in their strong endurance. she looked at the pines and hemlocks as she passed, as if they were curious preachers to her; and when she had a chance, she prayed quietly that she might stand faithfully like them to cheer a desolation far worse, and she feared far more abiding than snows could make or melt away. she thought of hugh, alone in his mill-work that rough chilly day, when the wind stalked through the woods and over the country as if it had been the personification of march just come of age and taking possession of his domains. she thought of her uncle, doing what? � in michigan � leaving them to fight with difficulties as they might � why? � why? and her gentle aunt at home sad and alone, pining for the want of them all, but most of him, and fading with their fortunes. and fleda's thoughts travelled about from one to the other, and dwelt with them all by turns till she was heart-sick; and tears, tears fell hot on the snow many a time when her eyes had a moment's shield from the doctor and his somewhat more obtuse coadjutor. she felt half superstitiously, as if with her taking the farm were beginning the last stage of their falling prospects, which would leave them with none of hope's colouring. not that in the least she doubted her own ability and success; but her uncle did not deserve to have his affairs prosper under such a system, and she had no faith that they would. "it is most grateful," said the doctor, with that sideway twist of his jaw and his head at once, in harmony � "it is a most grateful thing to see such a young lady � haw! there now! � what are you about? � haw � haw? then! it is a most grateful thing to see �" but fleda was not at his side � she had bounded away and was standing under a great maple-tree a little a-head, making sure that philetus screwed his auger _up_ into the tree instead of _down_, which he had several times shown an unreasonable desire to do. the doctor had steered his oxen by her little grey hood and black cloak all the day. he made for it now. "have we arrived at the termination of our � a � adventure?" said he, as he came up and threw down the last trough. "why, no, sir," said fleda, "for we have yet to get home again." " 'tain't so fur going that way as it were this'n," said philetus. "my! aint i glad?" "glad of what?" said the doctor. "here's miss ringgan's walked the whole way, and she a lady � aint you ashamed to speak of being tired?" "i ha'n't said the first word o' being tired!" said philetus, in an injured tone of voice � "but a man ha'n't no right to kill hisself, if he aint a gal!" "i'll qualify to your being safe enough," said the doctor. "but, miss ringgan, my dear, you are � a � you have lost something since you came out �" "what?" said fleda, laughing. "not my patience?" "no," said the doctor, "no � you're � a � you're an angel! but your cheeks, my dear miss ringgan, show that you have exceeded your � a �" "not my intentions, doctor," said fleda, lightly. "i am very well satisfied with our day's work, and with my share of it, and a cup of coffee will make me quite up again. don't look at my cheeks till then." "i shall disobey you constantly," said the doctor; "but, my dear miss fleda, we must give you some felicities for reaching home, or mrs. rossitur will be � a � distressed when she sees them. might i propose � that you should just bear your weight on this wood-sled, and let my oxen and me have the honour � the cup of coffee, i am confident, would be at your lips considerably earlier �" "the sun wont be a great haighth by the time we get there," said philetus, in a cynical manner; "and i ha'n't took the first thing to-day!" "well, who has?" said the doctor; "you aint the only one. follow your nose down hill, mr. skillcorn, and it'll smell supper directly. now, my dear miss ringgan, will you?" fleda hesitated, but her relaxed energies warned her not to despise a homely mode of relief. the wood-sled was pretty clean, and the road decently good over the snow. so fleda gathered her cloak about her, and sat down flat on the bottom of her rustic vehicle � too grateful for the rest to care if there had been a dozen people to laugh at her � but the doctor was only delighted, and philetus regarded every social phenomenon as coolly, and in the same business light, as he would the butter to his bread, or any other infallible every- day matter. fleda was very glad presently that she had taken this plan, for, besides the rest of body, she was happily relieved from all necessity of speaking. the doctor, though but a few paces off, was perfectly given up to the care of his team, in the intense anxiety to show his skill and gallantry in saving her harmless from every ugly place in the road that threatened a jar or a plunge. why his oxen didn't go distracted was a question; but the very vehemence and iteration of his cries at last drowned itself in fleda's ear, and she could hear it like the wind's roaring, without thinking of it. she presently subsided to that. with a weary frame, and with that peculiar quietness of spirits that comes upon the ending of a day's work in which mind and body have both been busily engaged, and the sudden ceasing of any call upon either, fancy asked no leave, and dreamily roved hither and thither between the material and the spirit world; the will too subdued to stir. days gone by came marshalling their scenes and their actors before her; again she saw herself a little child under those same trees that stretched their great black arms over her head, and, swaying their tops in the wind, seemed to beckon her back to the past. they talked of their old owner, whose steps had so often passed beneath them with her own light tread � light now, but how dancing then! � by his side; and of her father, whose hand perhaps had long ago tapped those very trees where she had noticed the old closed-up scars of the axe. at any rate, his boyhood had rejoiced there, and she could look back to one time at least in his manhood when she had taken a pleasant walk with him in summer weather among those same woods � in that very ox-track she believed. gone � two generations that she had known there; hopes and fears and disappointments, akin to her own, at rest, � as hers would be; and how sedately the old trees stood telling her of it, and waving their arms in grave and gentle commenting on the folly of anxieties that came and went with the wind. fleda agreed to it all; she heard all they said; and her own spirit was as sober and quiet as their quaint moralizing. she felt as if it would never dance again. the wind had greatly abated of its violence; as if satisfied with the show of strength it had given in the morning, it seemed willing to make no more commotion that day. the sun was far on his way to the horizon, and many a broad hill-side slope was in shadow; the snow had blown or melted from off the stones and rocks, leaving all their roughness and bareness unveiled; and the white crust of snow that lay between them looked a cheerless waste in the shade of the wood and the hill. but there were other spots where the sunbeams struck, and bright streams of light ran between the trees, smiling and making them smile. and as fleda's eye rested there, another voice seemed to say � "at evening time it shall be light," and "sorrow may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning." she could have cried, but spirits were too absolutely at an ebb. she knew this was partly physical, because she was tired and faint, but it could not the better be overcome. yet those streaks of sunlight were pleasant company, and fleda watched them, thinking how bright they used to be once; till the oxen and sled came out from the woods, and she could see the evening colours on the hill-tops beyond the village, lighting up the whole landscape with promise of the morrow. she thought her day had seen its brightest; but she thought too that if she must know sorrows, it was a very great blessing to know them at queechy. the smoke of the chimney-tops came in sight, and fancy went home � a few minutes before her. "i wonder what you'll take and do to yourself next," said barby, in extreme vexation, when she saw her come in. "you're as white as the wall, and as cold, aint you? i'd ha' let philetus cut all the trees, and drink all the sap afterwards. i wonder which you think is the worst, the want o' you, or the want o' sugar." a day's headache was pretty sure to visit fleda after any overexertion or exhaustion, and the next day justified barby's fears. she was the quiet prisoner of pain. but earl douglass and mr. skillcorn could now do without her in the woods; and her own part of the trouble fleda always took with speechless patience. she had the mixed comfort that love could bestow � hugh's sorrowful kiss and look before setting off for the mill, mrs. rossitur's caressing care, and barby's softened voice, and sympathizing hand on her brow, and hearty heart- speaking kiss; and poor little king lay all day with his head in her lap, casting grave wistful glances up at his mistress's face, and licking her hand with intense affection when even in her distress it stole to his head to reward and comfort him. he never would budge from her side, or her feet, till she could move herself, and he knew that she was well. as sure as king came trotting into the kitchen, barby used to look into the other room, and say, "so you're better, aint you, fleda? i knowed it." after hours of suffering, the fit was at last over; and in the evening, though looking and feeling racked, fleda would go out to see the sap-boilers. earl douglass and philetus had had a very good day of it, and now were in full blast with the evening part of the work. the weather was mild, and having the stay of hugh's arm, fleda grew too amused to leave them. it was a very pretty scene. the sap-boilers had planted themselves near the cellar door on the other side of the house from the kitchen door and the woodyard � the casks and tubs for syrup being under cover there; and there they had made a most picturesque work-place. two strong crotched sticks were stuck in the ground some six or eight feet apart, and a pole laid upon them, to which by the help of some very rustic hooks two enormous iron kettles were slung. under them a fine fire of smallish split sticks was doing duty, kept in order by a couple of huge logs which walled it in on the one side and on the other. it was a dark night, and the fire painted all this in strong lights and. shadows threw a faint, fading, aurora- like light over the snow, beyond the shade of its log barriers; glimmered by turns upon the paling of the garden fence, whenever the dark figures that were passing and repassing between gave it a chance; and invested the cellar- opening and the outstanding corner of the house with striking and unwonted dignity, in a light that revealed nothing except to the imagination. nothing was more fancifully dignified, or more quaintly travestied by that light than the figures around it, busy and flitting about, and showing themselves in every novel variety of grouping and colouring. there was earl douglass, not a hair different from what he was every day in reality, but with his dark skin and eyes, and a hat that, like its master, had concluded to abjure all fashions; and perhaps, for the same reason, he looked now like any bandit, and now, in a more pacific view, could pass for nothing less than a spanish shepherd at least, with an iron ladle in lieu of crook. there was dr. quackenboss, who had come too, determined, as earl said, "to keep his eend up," excessively bland, and busy, and important; the fire would throw his one- sidedness of feature into such aspects of gravity or sternness that fleda could make nothing of him but a poor clergyman or a poor schoolmaster alternately. philetus, who was kept handing about a bucket of sap, or trudging off for wood, defied all comparison � he was philetus still; but when barby came once or twice and peered into the kettle, her strong features, with the handkerchief she always wore about her head, were lit up into a very handsome gipsy. fleda stood some time unseen in the shadow of the house to enjoy the sight, and then went forward on the same principle that a sovereign princess shows herself to her army, to grace and reward the labours of her servants. the doctor was profuse in inquiries after her health, and earl informed her of the success of the day. "we've had first-rate weather," he said; � "i don't want to see no better weather for sugar-makin'; it's as good kind o' weather as you need to have. it friz everythin' up tight in the night, and it thew in the sun this morning as soon as the sun was anywhere; the trees couldn't do no better than they have done. i guess we ha'n't got much this side o' two hundred gallon � i aint sure about it, but that's what i think; there's nigh two hundred gallon we've fetched down; i'll qualify to better than a hundred and fifty, or a hundred and sixty either. we should ha' had more yet if mr. skillcorn hadn't managed to spill over one cask of it � i reckon he wanted it for sass for his chicken." "now, mr. douglass!" said philetus, in a comical tone of deprecation. "it is an uncommonly fine lot of sugar trees," said the doctor; "and they stand so on the ground as to give great felicities to the oxen." "now, fleda," earl went on, busy all the while with his iron ladle in dipping the boiling sap from one kettle into the other � "you know how this is fixed when we've done all we've got to do with it? � it must be strained out o' this biler into a cask or a tub, or somethin' nother � anythin' that'll hold it � and stand a day or so; � you may strain it through a cotton cloth, or through a woollen cloth, or through any kind of a cloth, � and let it stand to settle; and then when it's biled down � barby knows about bilin' down � you can tell when it's comin' to the sugar when the yellow blobbers rises thick to the top and puffs off; and then it's time to try it in cold water � it's best to be a leetle the right side o' the sugar and stop afore it's done too much, for the molasses will dreen off afterwards" � "it must be clarified in the commencement," put in the doctor. "o' course it must be clarified," said earl � "barby knows about clarifyin' � that's when you first put it on � you had ought to throw in a teeny drop o' milk fur to clear it � milk's as good as a'most anything � or, if you can get it, calf's blood's better" � "eggs would be a more preferable ingredient on the present occasion, i presume," said the doctor. "miss ringgan's delicacy would be � a � would shrink from � a � and the albumen of eggs will answer all the same purpose." "well, anyhow you like to fix it," said earl, � "eggs or calf's blood � i wont quarrel with you about the eggs, though i never heerd o' blue ones afore, 'cept the robin's and bluebird's � and i've heerd say the swamp blackbird lays a handsome blue egg, but i never happened to see the nest myself; � and there's the chippin' sparrow; but you'd want to rob all the bird's nests in creation to get enough of 'em, and they aint here in sugar time, nother; but, anyhow, any eggs 'll do, i s'pose, if you can get 'em � or milk 'll do, if you ha'n't nothin' else � and after it is turned out into the barrel, you just let it stand still a spell, till it begins to grain and look clean on top" � "may i suggest an improvement?" said the doctor. "many persons are of the opinion that if you take and stir it up well from the bottom for a length of time, it will help the coagulation of the particles. i believe that is the practice of mr. plumfield and others." " 'taint the practice of as good men as him, and as good sugar bilers besides," said earl; "though i don't mean to say nothin' agin' seth plumfield nor agin' his sugar, for the both is as good as you'd need to have; he's a good man and he's a good farmer � there aint no better man in town than seth plumfield, nor no better farmer, nor no better sugar nother; but i hope there's as good; and i've seen as handsome sugar that wa'n't stirred as i'd want to see or eat either." "it would lame a man's arms the worst kind," said philetus. fleda stood listening to the discussion and smiling, when hugh, suddenly wheeling about, brought her face to face with mr. olmney. "i have been sitting some time with mrs. rossitur," he said, "and she rewarded me with permission to come and look at you. i mean � not that i wanted a reward, for i certainly did not � " "ah, mr. olmney!" said fleda, laughing, "you are served right. you see how dangerous it is to meddle with such equivocal things as compliments. but we are worth looking at, aren't we? i have been standing here this half hour." he did not say this time what he thought. "pretty, isn't it?" said fleda. "stand a little further back, mr. olmney; isn't it quite a wild looking scene, in that peculiar light, and with the snowy background? look at philetus now, with that bundle of sticks. hugh, isn't he exactly like some of the figures in the old pictures of the martyrdoms, bringing billets to feed the fire? that old martyrdom of st. lawrence � whose was it � spagnoletto! � at mrs. decatur's � don't you recollect? it is fine, isn't it, mr. olmney?" "i am afraid," said he, shaking his head a little, "my eye wants training. i have not been once in your company, i believe, without your showing me something i could not see." "that young lady, sir," said dr. quackenboss, from the far side of the fire, where he was busy giving it more wood; "that young lady, sir, is a patron to her � a � to all young ladies." "a patron!" said mr. olmney. "passively, not actively, the doctor means," said fleda, softly. "well, i wont say but she's a good girl," said mr. douglass, in an abstracted manner, busy with his iron ladle: "she means to be a good girl, she's as clever a girl as you need to have." nobody's gravity stood this, excepting philetus, in whom the principle of fun seemed not to be developed. "miss ringgan, sir," dr. quackenboss went on, with a most benign expression of countenance � "miss ringgan, sir, mr. olmney, sets an example to all ladies who � a � have had elegant advantages. she gives her patronage to the agricultural interest in society." "not exclusively, i hope?" said mr. olmney, smiling, and making the question with his eye of fleda. but she did not meet it. "you know," she said, rather quickly, and drawing back from the fire, "i am of an agricultural turn, perforce; in uncle rolf's absence, i am going to be a farmer myself." "so i have heard� so mrs. rossitur told me; but i fear, pardon me, you do not look fit to grapple with such a burden of care." hugh sighed, and fleda's eyes gave mr. olmney a hint to be silent. "i am not going to grapple with any thing, sir; i intend to take things easily." "i wish i could take an agricultural turn, too," said he, smiling, "and be of some service to you." "oh, i shall have no lack of service," said fleda, gaily; "i am not going unprovided into the business. there is my cousin seth plumfield who has engaged himself to be my counsellor and instructor in general; i could not have a better; and mr. douglass is to be my right hand, i occupying only the quiet and unassuming post of the will, to convey the orders of the head to the hand. and for the rest, sir, there is philetus!" mr. olmney looked, half laughing, at mr. skillcorn, who was at that moment standing with his hands on his sides, eyeing with concentrated gravity the movements of earl douglass and the doctor. "don't shake your head at him!" said fleda. "i wish you had come an hour earlier, mr. olmney." "why?" "i was just thinking of coming out here," said fleda, her eyes flashing with hidden fun; "and hugh and i were both standing in the kitchen, when we heard a tremendous shout from the woodyard. don't laugh, or i can't go on. we all ran out towards the lantern which we saw standing there, and so soon as we got near we heard philetus singing out, 'ho, miss elster! i'm dreadfully on't!' � why he called upon barby i don't know, unless from some notion of her general efficiency, though, to be sure, he was nearer her than the sap-boilers, and perhaps thought her aid would come quickest. and he was in a hurry, for the cries came thick, � 'miss elster! � here! � i'm dreadfully on't' �" "i don't understand �" "no," said fleda, whose amusement seemed to be increased by the gentleman's want of understanding, "and neither did we till we came up to him. the silly fellow had been sent up for more wood, and, splitting a log, he had put his hand in to keep the cleft, instead of a wedge, and when he took out the axe the wood pinched him; and he had the fate of milo before his eyes, i suppose, and could do nothing but roar. you should have seen the supreme indignation with which barby took the axe and released him, with, 'you're a smart man, mr. skillcorn!' " "what was the fate of milo?" said mr. olmney, presently.. "don't you remember the famous wrestler that, in his old age, trying to break open a tree, found himself not strong enough? and the wood closing upon his hands held him fast till the wild beasts came and made an end of him. the figure of our unfortunate wood-cutter, though, was hardly so dignified as that of the old athlete in the statue. dr. quackenboss, and mr. douglass, you will come in and see us when this troublesome business is done?" "it'll be a pretty spell yet," said earl; "but the doctor, he can go in, he ha'n't nothin' to do. it don't take more'n half a dozen men to keep one pot a-bilin'." "aint there teu on 'em, mr. douglass?" said philetus. end of vol. i. typographical errors: chapter : =go in, grandpa?'= silently corrected as =go in, grandpa?"= chapter : =read it sometime= silently corrected as =read it some time= chapter : =carleton, said at length= silently corrected as =carleton said, at length= chapter : =ain't tright well= silently corrected as =ain't right well= chapter : =trust in him!= silently corrected as =trust in him!'= chapter : =hand, aunt miriam said.= silently corrected as =hand, aunt miriam said,= chapter : =if large possessions= silently corrected as ="if large possessions= chapter : =these places;= silently corrected as =these places,= chapter : =were to mine.= silently corrected as =were to mine."= chapter : =said he. smiling= silently corrected as =said he, smiling= chapter : =memoires de sully' � in french= silently corrected as =mémoires de sully' � in french= chapter : =newton' � 'what's= silently corrected as =newton' � what's= chapter : =mem. de sully= silently corrected as =mém. de sully= chapter : =that monsieur emilie= silently corrected as =that monsieur emile= chapter : =other people had.= silently corrected as =other people had."= chapter : =down to mis' douglases= silently corrected as =down to mis' douglass's= chapter : =hull on't;= silently corrected as =hull on't,= chapter : =nowork particular= silently corrected as =no work particular= chapter : =well, god-bye= silently corrected as =well, good- bye= chapter : =came in. folding= silently corrected as =came in, folding= cbapter : =this is me, ma'am,= said silently corrected as =this is me, ma'am,"= chapter : =in the army.= silently corrected as =in the army."= chapter : =taking the place.= silently corrected as =taking the place."= chapter : =house, a believe= silently corrected as =house, i believe= chapter : =he's took= silently corrected as ="he's took= chapter : =as a child!= silently corrected as =as a child!"= chapter : =entremêts= silently corrected as =entremets= chapter : =tired, fleda.= silently corrected as =tired, fleda."= chapter : =on't' �= silently corrected as =on't' �"= tome collection of british authors tauchnitz edition. vol. queechy. by elizabeth wetherell . in two volumes. vol. ii. tauchnitz edition by the same author, the wide wide world vol. the hills of the shatemuc vols. say and seal vols. the old helmet vols. queechy. by elizabeth wetherell author of "the wide, wide world." in two volumes. _author's edition_. in two volumes vol. ii leipzig bernhard tauchnitz contents of volume ii. chapter i. the brook's old song, and the new ii. flighty and unsatisfactory iii. disclosures by mr. skillcorn iv. mr. olmney's cause argued v. sometimes inconvenient, "from the loop-hole of retreat, to peep at such a world" vi. fleda's white muslin vii. how the fairy engaged two englishmen viii. fleda forgets herself ix. the roses and the gentlemen x. "an unseen enemy round the corner" xi. the fairy at her work again xii. a night of uncertain length xiii. a thorn enters xiv. dealings with the press xv. ends with soft music xvi. how fleda was watched by blue eyes xvii. what pleasant people one meets in society xviii. how much trouble one may have about a note xix. aromatic vinegar xx. the fur-cloak on a journey xxi. quarrenton to queechy xxii. montepoole becomes a point of interest xxiii. the house on "the hill" once more xxiv. the first one that left queechy xxv. the last sunset there xxvi. fleda alone on an isthmus xxvii. the gothic chapel before breakfast queechy. vol. ii. chapter i. "he that has light within his own clear breast, may sit i' th' centre and enjoy bright day." milton. the farming plan succeeded beyond fleda's hopes � thanks not more to her wisdom than to the nice tact with which the wisdom was brought into play. the one was eked out with seth plumfield's; the other was all her own. seth was indefatigably kind and faithful. after his own day's work was done, he used to walk down to see fleda, go with her often to view the particular field or work just then in question, and give her the best counsel dictated by great sagacity and great experience. it was given, too, with equal frankness and intelligence, so that fleda knew the steps she took, and could maintain them against the. prejudice or the ignorance of her subordinates. but fleda's delicate handling stood her yet more in stead than her strength. earl douglass was sometimes unmanageable, and held out in favour of an old custom or a prevailing opinion in spite of all the weight of testimony and light of discovery that could be brought to bear upon him. fleda would let the thing go. but seizing her opportunity another time, she would ask him to try the experiment on a piece of the ground, so pleasantly and skilfully, that earl could do nothing but shut his mouth and obey, like an animal fairly stroked into good humour. and as fleda always forgot to remind him that she had been right and he wrong, he forgot it too, and presently took to the new way kindly. in other matters he could be depended on, and the seed-time and harvest prospered well. there was hope of making a good payment to dr. gregory in the course of a few months. as the spring came forward, fleda took care that her garden should � both gardens, indeed. there she and philetus had the game in their own hands, and beautifully it was managed. hugh had full occupation at the mill. many a dollar this summer was earned by the loads of fine fruits and vegetables which philetus carried to montepoole; and accident opened a new source of revenue. when the courtyard was in the full blaze of its beauty, one day an admiring passer-by modestly inquired if a few of those exquisite flowers might be had for money. they were given him most cheerfully that time; but the demand returned, accompanied by the offer, and fleda obliged herself not to decline it. a trial it was, to cut her roses and jessamines for anything but her own or her friends' pleasure, but, according to custom, she bore it without hesitation. the place became a resort for all the flower-lovers who happened to be staying at the pool; and rose-leaves were changed into silver pennies as fast as in a fairy-tale. but the delicate mainspring that kept all this machinery in order suffered from too severe a strain. there was too much running, too much considering, too much watchfulness. in the garden, pulling peas, and seeing that philetus weeded the carrots right � in the field or the wood-yard, consulting and arranging, or maybe debating, with earl douglass, who acquired by degrees an unwonted and concentrated respect for womankind in her proper person; breakfast waiting for her often before she came in; � in the house, her old housewifery concerns, her share in barby's cares or difficulties, her sweet countenancing and cheering of her aunt, her dinner, her work; � then when evening came, budding her roses, or tying her carnations, or weeding, or raking the ground between them (where philetus could do nothing), or training her multiflora and sweet-brier branches; and then often, after all, walking up to the mill to give hugh a little earlier a home smile, and make his way down pleasant. no wonder if the energies which owed much of their strength to love's nerving, should at last give out, and fleda's evening be passed in wearied slumbers. no wonder if many a day was given up to the forced quietude of a headache, the more grievous to fleda, because she knew that her aunt and hugh always found the day dark that was not lightened by her sun-beam. how brightly it shone out the moment the cloud of pain was removed, winning the shadow from their faces and a smile to their lips, though solitude always saw her own settle into a gravity as fixed as it was soft. "you have been doing too much, fleda," said mrs. rossitur, one morning when she came in from the garden. "i didn't know it would take me so long," said fleda, drawing a long breath: "but i couldn't help it. i had those celery plants to prick out � and then i was helping philetus to plant another patch of corn." "he might have done that without help, i should think." "but it must be put in to-day, and he had other things to do." "and then you were at your flowers?" � "oh, well! � budding a few roses � that's only play. it was time they were done. but i am tired; and i am going up to see hugh � it will rest me and him too." the gardening frock and gloves were exchanged for those of ordinary wear, and fleda set off slowly to go up to the saw- mill. she stopped a moment when she came upon the bridge, to look off to the right where the waters of the little run came hurrying along through a narrow wooded chasm in the hill, murmuring to her of the time when a little child's feet had paused there, and a child's heart danced to its music. the freshness of its song was unchanged, the glad rush of its waters was as joyous as ever, but the spirits were quieted that used to answer it with sweeter freshness and lighter joyousness. its faint echo of the old-time laugh was blended now in fleda's ear with a gentle wail for the rushing days and swifter-fleeing delights of human life; � gentle, faint, but clear � she could hear it very well. taking up her walk again, with a step yet slower, and a brow yet more quiet, she went on till she came in sight of the little mill; and presently, above the noise of the brook, could hear the saw going. to her childish ears what a signal of pleasure that had always been! � and now � she sighed, and stopping at a little distance, looked for hugh. he was there; she saw him in a moment going forward to stop the machinery, the piece of timber in hand having walked its utmost length up to the saw; she saw him throwing aside the new-cut board, and adjusting what was left till it was ready for another march up to head-quarters. when it stopped the second time, fleda went forward. hugh must have been busy in his own thoughts, for he did not see her until he had again adjusted the log, and set the noisy works in motion. she stood still. several huge timbers lay close by, ready for the saw; and on one of them where he had been sitting, fleda saw his bible lying open. as her eye went from it to him, it struck her heart with a pang that he looked tired, and that there was a something of delicacy, even of fragility, in the air of face and figure both. he came to meet her, and welcomed her with a smile, that coming upon this feeling set fleda's heart a-quivering. hugh's smile was always one of very great sweetness, though never unshadowed; there was often something ethereal in its pure gentleness. this time it seemed even sweeter than usual; but though not sadder, perhaps less sad, fleda could hardly command herself to reply to it. she could not at the moment speak; her eye glanced at his open book. "yes, it rests me," he said, answering her. "rests you, dear hugh!" � he smiled again. "here is somebody else that wants resting, i am afraid," said he, placing her gently on the log; and before she had found anything to say, he went off again to his machinery. fleda sat looking at him, and trying to clear her bosom of its thick breathing. "what has brought you up here through the hot sun?" said he, coming back after he had stopped the saw, and sitting down beside her. fleda's lip moved nervously, and her eye shunned meeting his. softly pushing back the wet hair from his temples, she said � "i had one of my fits of doing nothing at home � i didn't feel very bright, and thought perhaps you didn't � so, on the principle that two negatives make an affirmative �" "i feel bright," said hugh, gently. fleda's eye came down to his, which was steady and clear as the reflection of the sky in deepwater lake � and then hers fell lower. "why don't you, dear fleda?" "i believe i am a little tired," fleda said, trying, but in vain, to command herself and look up � "and there are states of body when anything almost is enough to depress one." "and what depresses you now?" said he, very steadily and quietly. "oh � i was feeling a little down about things in general," said fleda, in a choked voice, trying to throw off her load with a long breath; "it's because i am tired, i suppose �" "i felt so too, a little while ago," said hugh. "but i have concluded to give all that up, fleda." fleda looked at him. her eyes were swimming full, but his were clear and gentle as ever, only glistening a little in sympathy with hers. "i thought all was going wrong with us," he went on. "but i found it was only i that was wrong; and since that, i have been quite happy, fleda." fleda could not speak to him; his words made her pain worse. "i told you this rested me," said he, reaching across her for his book; "and now i am never weary long. shall i rest you with it? what have you been troubling yourself about to-day?" she did not answer while he was turning over the leaves, and he then said, � "do you remember this, fleda � '_truly god is good to israel, even to them that are of a clean heart_.' " fleda bent her head down upon her hands. "i was moody and restless the other day," said hugh; "desponding of everything; and i came upon this psalm; and it made me ashamed of myself. i had been disbelieving it; and because i could not see how things were going to work good, i thought they were going to work evil. i thought we were wearing out our lives alone here in a wearisome way, and i forgot that it must be the very straightest way that we could get home. i am sure we shall not want anything that will do us good; and the rest i am willing to want � and so are you, fleda?" fleda squeezed his hand � that was all. for a minute he was silent, and then went on, without any change of tone. "i had a notion, awhile ago, that i should like if it were possible for me to go to college; but i am quite satisfied now. i have good time and opportunity to furnish myself with a better kind of knowledge, that i shall want where college learning wouldn't be of much use to me; and i can do it, i dare say, better here in this mill, than if we had stayed in new york, and i had lived in our favourite library." "but, dear hugh," said fleda, who did not like this speech in any sense of it; "the two things do not clash! the better man, the better christian always, other things being equal. the more precious kind of knowledge should not make one undervalue the less?" "no," he said; but the extreme quietness and simplicity of his reply smote fleda's fears; it answered her words and waved her thought. she dared not press him further. she sat looking over the road with an aching heart. "you haven't taken enough of my medicine," said hugh, smiling. "listen, fleda � '_all the paths of the lord are mercy and truth unto such as keep his covenant and his testimonies_.' " but that made fleda cry again. " 'all his paths,' fleda; then, whatever may happen to you, and whatever may happen to me, or to any of us, i can trust him. i am willing any one should have the world, if i may have what abraham had � '_fear not; i am thy shield and thy exceeding great reward;_' � and i believe i shall, fleda; for it is not the hungry that he has threatened to send empty away." fleda could say nothing, and hugh just then said no more. for a little while, near and busy as thoughts might be, tongues were silent. fleda was crying quietly, the utmost she could do being to keep it quiet; hugh, more quietly, was considering again the strong pillars on which he had laid his hope, and trying their strength and beauty, till all other things were to him as the mist rolling off from he valley is to the man planted on a watch-tower. his meditations were interrupted by the tramp of horse; and a party of riders, male and female, came past them up the hill. hugh looked on as they went by; fleda's head was not raised. "there are some people enjoying themselves," said hugh. "after all, dear fleda, we should be very sorry to change places with those gay riders. i would not, for a thousand worlds, give my hope and treasure for all other they can possibly have in possession or prospect." "no, indeed!" said fleda, energetically, and trying to rouse herself, � "and, besides that, hugh, we have, as it is, a great deal more to enjoy than most other people. we are so happy �" in each other, she was going to say, but the words choked her. "those people looked very hard at us, or at one of us," said hugh. "it must have been you, i think, fleda." "they are welcome," said fleda; "they couldn't have made much out of the back of my sun-bonnet." "well, dear fleda, i must content myself with little more than looking at you now, for mr. winegar is in a hurry for his timber to be sawn, and i must set this noisy concern a-going again." fleda sat and watched him, with rising and falling hopes and fears, forcing her lips to a smile when he came near her, and hiding her tears at other times; till the shadows stretching well to the east of the meridian, admonished her she had been there long enough; and she left him still going backward and forward tending the saw. as she went down the hill, she pressed involuntarily her hands upon her heart, for the dull heavy pain there. but that was no plaster for it; and when she got to the bridge the soft singing of the little brook was just enough to shake her spirits from the doubtful poise they had kept. giving one hasty glance along the road and up the hill, to make sure that no one was near, she sat down on a stone in the edge of the woods, and indulged in such weeping as her gentle eyes rarely knew; for the habit of patience so cultivated for others' sake constantly rewarded her own life with its sweet fruits. but deep and bitter in proportion was the flow of the fountain once broken up. she struggled to remind herself that "providence runneth not on broken wheels;" she struggled to repeat to herself what she did not doubt, that, "_all_ the ways of the lord are mercy and truth" to his people; � in vain. the slight check for a moment to the torrent of grief but gave it greater head to sweep over the barrier; and the self-reproach that blamed its violence and needlessness only made the flood more bitter. nature fought against patience for awhile; but when the loaded heart had partly relieved itself, patience came in again, and she rose up to go home. it startled her exceedingly to find mr. olmney standing before her, and looking so sorrowful that fleda's eyes could not bear it. "my dear miss ringgan! � forgive me � i hope you will forgive me � but i could not leave you in such distress. i knew that in you it could only be from some very serious cause of grief." "i cannot say it is from anything new, mr. olmney � except to my apprehensions." "you are all _well?_" he said, inquiringly, after they had walked a few steps in silence. "well? � yes, sir," said fleda, hesitatingly; "but i do not think that hugh looks very well." the trembling of her voice told him her thought. but he remained silent. "you have noticed it?" she said, hastily looking up. "i think you have told me he always was delicate?" "and you have noticed him looking so, lately, mr. olmney!" "i have thought so � but you say he always was that. if you will permit me to say so, i have thought the same of you, miss fleda." fleda was silent: her heart ached again. "we would gladly save each other from every threatening trouble," said mr. olmney again, after a pause; � "but it ought to content us that we do not know how. hugh is in good hands, my dear miss ringgan." "i know it, sir," said fleda, unable quite to keep back her tears; "and i know very well this thread of our life will not bear the strain always � and i know that the strands must, in all probability, part unevenly � and i know it is in the power of no blind fate � but that �" "does not lessen our clinging to each other. o no! � it grows but the tenderer and the stronger for the knowledge." fleda could but cry. "and yet," said he, very kindly, "we who are christians may and ought to learn to take troubles hopefully, for 'tribulation worketh patience, and patience,' that is, quiet waiting on god, 'works experience' of his goodness and faithfulness; and 'experience worketh hope,' and that 'hope,' we know, 'maketh not ashamed.' " "i know it," said fleda; "but, mr. olmney, how easily the brunt of a new affliction breaks down all that chain of reasoning!" "yes!" he said, sadly and thoughtfully; "but, my dear miss fleda, you know the way to build it up again. i would be very glad to bear all need for it away from you." they had reached the gate. fleda could not look up to thank him; the hand she held out was grasped, more than kindly, and he turned away. fleda's tears came hot again as she went up the walk; she held her head down to hide them, and went round the back way. chapter ii. "now the melancholy god protect thee: and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal." twelfth night. "well, what did you come home for?" was barby's salutation; "here's company been waiting for you till they're tired, and i am sure i be." "company!" said fleda. "yes, and it's ungrateful in you to say so," said barby; "for she's been in a wonderful hurry to see you, or to get somethin' to eat � i don't know which; a little o' both, i hope in charity." "why didn't you give her something to eat? who is it?" "i don't know who it is! it's one of your highfliers, that's all i can make out. she 'a'n't a hat a bit better than a man's beaver; one 'ud think she had stole her little brother's for a spree, if the rest of her was like common folks; but she's got a tail to her dress as long as from here to queechy run, and she's been tiddling in and out here, with it puckered up under her arm, sixty times. i guess she belongs to some company of female militie, for the body of it is all thick with braid and buttons. i believe she ha'n't sot still five minutes since she come into the house, till i don't know whether i am on my head or my heels." "but why didn't you give her something to eat?" said fleda, who was hastily throwing off her gloves, and smoothing her disordered hair with her hands into something of composure. "did!" said barby; "i give her some o' them cold biscuit and butter and cheese, and a pitcher of milk � sot a good enough meal for anybody; but she didn't take but a crumb, and she turned up her nose at that. come, go! you've slicked up enough; you're handsome enough to show yourself to her any time o' day, for all her jig-em bobs." "where is aunt lucy?" "she's up stairs; there's been nobody to see to her but me. she's had the hull lower part of the house to herself, kitchen and all, and she's done nothing but go out of one room into another ever since she come. she'll be in here again directly, if you aint spry." fleda went in, round to the west room, and there found herself in the arms of the second miss evelyn, who jumped to meet her, and half-stifled her with caresses. "you wicked little creature! what have you been doing? here have i been growing melancholy over the tokens of your absence, and watching the decline of the sun, with distracted feelings these six hours." "six hours!" said fleda, smiling. "my dear little fleda! it's so delicious to see you again!" said miss evelyn, with another prolonged hug and kiss. "my dear constance! i am very glad! but where are the rest?" "it's unkind of you to ask after anybody but me, when i came here this morning on purpose to talk the whole day to you. now, dear little fleda," said miss constance, executing an impatient little persuasive caper round her, � "won't you go out and order dinner? for i'm raging. your woman did give me something, but i found the want of you had taken away all my appetite; and now the delight of seeing you has exhausted me, and i feel that nature is sinking. the stimulus of gratified affection is too much for me." "you absurd child!" said fleda; "you haven't mended a bit. but i told barby to put on the tea-kettle, and i will administer a composing draught as soon as it can be got ready; we don't indulge in dinners here in the wilderness. meanwhile, suppose that exhausted nature try the support of this easy-chair." she put her visitor gently into it, and, seating herself upon the arm, held her hand, and looked at her with a smiling face, and yet with eyes that were almost too gentle in their welcoming. "my dear little fleda! you're as lovely as you can be! are you glad to see me?" "very." "why don't you ask after somebody else?" "i was afraid of overtasking your exhausted energies." "come, and sit down here upon my lap! � you shall, or i won't say another word to you. fleda! you've grown thin! what have you been doing to yourself?" "nothing, with that particular purpose." "i don't care � you've done something. you have been insanely imagining that it is necessary for you to be in three or four places at the same time; and in the distracted effort after ubiquity, you are in imminent danger of being nowhere; there's nothing left of you!" "i don't wonder you were overcome at the sight of me," said fleda. "but you are looking charmingly for all that," constance went on; "so charmingly, that i feel a morbid sensation creeping all over me while i sit regarding you. really, when you come to us next winter, if you persist in being � by way of showing your superiority to ordinary human nature � a rose without a thorn, the rest of the flowers may all shut up at once. and the rose reddens in my very face, to spite me!" "is 'ordinary human nature' typified by a thorn? you give it rather a poor character." "i never heard of a thorn that didn't bear an excellent character," said constance, gravely. "hush!" said fleda, laughing; "i don't want to hear about mr. thorn. tell me of somebody else." "i haven't said a word about mr. thorn!" said constance, ecstatically; "but since you ask about him, i will tell you. he has not acted like himself since you disappeared from our horizon � that is, he has ceased to be at all pointed in his attentions to me; his conversation has lost all the acuteness for which i remember you admired it; he has walked broadway in a moody state of mind all winter, and grown as dull as is consistent with the essential sharpness of his nature. i ought to except our last interview, though, for his entreaties to mamma that she would bring you home with her were piercing." fleda was unable, in spite of herself, to keep from laughing; but entreated that constance would tell her of somebody else. "my respected parents are at montepoole, with all their offspring � that is, florence and edith; i am at present anxiously inquired after, being nobody knows where, and to be fetched by mamma this evening. wasn't i good, little fleda, to run away from mr. carleton, to come and spend a whole day in social converse with you!" "carleton!" said fleda. "yes? oh, you don't know who he is! he's a new attraction; there's been nothing like him this great while, and all new york is topsy-turvy about him; the mothers are dying with anxiety, and the daughters with admiration; and it's too delightful to see the cool superiority with which he takes it all; like a new star that all the people are pointing their telescopes at, as thorn said, spitefully, the other day. oh, he has turned my head! i have looked till i cannot look at anything else. i can just manage to see a rose, but my dazzled powers of vision are equal to nothing more." "my dear constance!" "it's perfectly true! why, as soon as we knew he was coming to montepoole, i wouldn't let mamma rest till we all made a rush after him; and when we got here first, and i was afraid he wasn't coming, nothing can express the state of my feelings! but he appeared the next morning, and then i was quite happy," said constance, rising and falling in her chair, on what must have been ecstatic springs, for wire ones it had none. "constance," said fleda, with a miserable attempt at rebuke, "how can you talk so!" "and so we were all riding round here this morning, and i had the self-denial to stop to see you, and leave florence and the marlboroughs to monopolize him all the way home. you ought to love me for ever for it. my dear fleda!" said constance, clasping her hands, and elevating her eyes in mock ecstasy, "if you had ever seen mr. carleton!" "i dare say i have seen somebody as good," said fleda, quietly. "my dear fleda!" said constance, a little scornfully this time; "you haven't the least idea what you are talking about! i tell you, he is an englishman; he's of one of the best families in england: not such as you ever see here but once in an age; he's rich enough to count mr. thorn over, i don't know how many times." "i don't like anybody the better for being an englishman," said fleda; "and it must be a small man whose purse will hold his measure." constance made an impatient gesture. "but i tell you it isn't! we knew him when we were abroad; and we know what he is; and we know his mother very well. when we were in england, we were a week with them down at their beautiful place in � shire � the loveliest time! you see, she was over here with mr. carleton once before, a good while ago; and mamma and papa were polite to them, and so they showed us a great deal of attention when we were in england. we had the loveliest time down there you can possibly conceive. and, my dear fleda, he wears such a fur cloak! � lined with the most exquisite black fox." "but, constance!" said fleda, a little vexed, though laughing � "any man may wear a fur cloak; the thing is, what is inside of it." "it is perfectly indifferent to me what is inside of it," said constance, ecstatically. "i can see nothing but the edges of the black fox, especially when it is worn so very gracefully." "but, in some cases, there might be a white fox within." "there is nothing of the fox about mr. carleton," said constance, impatiently. "if it had been anybody else, i should have said he was a bear two or three times; but he wears everything as he does his cloak, and makes you take what he pleases from him � what i wouldn't take from any- body else, i know." "with a fox lining," said fleda, laughing. "then foxes haven't got their true character, that's all. now i'll just tell you an instance � it was at a party somewhere � it was at that tiresome mrs. swinburne's, where the evenings are always so stupid, and there was nothing worth going or staying for but the supper � except mr. carleton � and he never stays five minutes, except at two or three places; and it drives me crazy, because they are places i don't go to very often �" "suppose you keep your wits, and tell me your story." "well � don't interrupt me � he was there, and he had taken me into the supper-room, when mamma came along, and took it into her head to tell me not to take something � i forget what � punch, i believe � because i had not been well in the morning. now, you know, it was absurd. i was perfectly well then, and i told her i shouldn't mind her; but do you believe, mr. carleton wouldn't give it to me? � absolutely told me he wouldn't, and told me why, as coolly as possible, and gave me a glass of water, and made me drink it; and if it had been anybody else, i do assure you i would have flung it in his face, and never spoken to him again; and i have been in love with him ever since. now, is that tea going to be ready?" "presently. how long have you been here?" "oh, a day or two � and it has poured with rain every single day since we came, till this one; and just think," said constance with a ludicrously scared face � "i must make haste, and be back again. you see, i came away on principle, that i may strike with the effect of novelty when i appear again; but if i stay _too_ long, you know � there is a point �" "on the principle of the ice-boats," said fleda, "that back a little to give a better blow to the ice, where they find it tough?" "tough!" said constance. "does florence like this paragon of yours as well as you do?" "i don't know � she don't talk so much about him, but that proves nothing; she's too happy to talk _to_ him. i expect our family concord will be shattered by and by," said constance, shaking her head. "you seem to take the prospect philosophically," said fleda, looking amused. "how long are you going to stay at the pool?" constance gave an expressive shrug, intimating that the deciding of that question did not rest with her. "that is to say, you are here to watch the transit of this star over the meridian of queechy?" "of queechy! � of montepoole." "very well � of montepoole. i don't wonder that nature is exhausted. i will go and see after this refection." the prettiest little meal in the world was presently forth for the two. fleda knew her aunt would not come down, and hugh was yet at the mill; so she led her visitor into the breakfast- room alone � constance, by the way, again fondly embracing her, and repeating, "my dear little fleda, how glad i am to see you!" the lady was apparently hungry, for there was a minute of silence while the refection begun, and then constance claimed, perhaps with a sudden appreciation of the delicious bread and butter, and cream and strawberries � "what a lovely old room this is � and what lovely times you have here, don't you, fleda?" "yes � sometimes," fleda said, with a sigh. "but i shall tell mamma you are growing thin, and the first minute we get home i shall send for you to come us. mrs. thorn will be amazingly glad to see you." "has she got back from europe?" said fleda. "ages! � and she's been entertaining the world as hard as she could ever since. i have no doubt lewis has confided to the maternal bosom all his distresses; and there never was anything like the rush that i expect will be made to our greenhouse next winter. oh, fleda, you should see mr. carleton's greenhouses!" "should i?" said fleda. "dear me! i hope mamma will come!" said constance, with a comical, fidgety shake of herself; "when i think of those greenhouses i lose my self-command. and the park! � fleda, it's the loveliest thing you ever saw in your life; and it's all that delightful man's doing; only he wont have a geometric flower-garden, as i did everything i could think of to persuade him. i pity the woman that will be his wife � she wont have her own way in a single thing; but then he will fascinate her into thinking that his way is the best � so it will do just as well, i suppose. do you know, i can't conceive what he has come over here for. he has been here before, you know, and he don't seem to me to know exactly what he means to do; at least, i can't find out, and i have tried." "how long has he been here?" "oh, a month or two � since the beginning of april, i believe. he came over with some friends of his � a sir george egerton and his family; � he is going to canada, to be established in some post there, i forget what; and they are spending part of the summer here before they fix themselves at the north. it is easy to see what _they_ are here for � they are strangers, and amusing themselves; but mr. carleton is at home, and _not_ amusing himself, at least, he don't seem to be. he goes about with the egertons, but that is just for his friendship for them; and he puzzles me. he don't know whether he is going to niagara � he has been once already � and 'perhaps' he may go to canada � and 'possibly' he will make a journey to the west � and i can't find out that he wants anything in particular." "perhaps he don't mean that you shall," said fleda. "perhaps he don't; but you see that aggravates my state of mind to a distressing degree. and then i'm afraid he will go somewhere where i can't keep watch of him!" fleda could not help laughing. "perhaps he was tired of home, and came for mere weariness." "weariness! it's my opinion he has no idea there is such a word in the language � i am certain, if he heard it, he would call for a dictionary the next minute. why, at carleton, it seems to me he was half the time on horseback, flying about from one end of the country to the other; and, when he is in the house, he is always at work at something; it's a piece of condescension to get him to attend to you at all; only when he does, my dear fleda! � he is so enchanting that you live in a state of delight till next time. and yet, i never could get him to pay me a compliment to this minute � i tried two or three times, and he rewarded me with some very rude speeches." "rude!" said fleda. "yes � that is, they were the most graceful and fascinating things possible, but they would have been rudeness in anybody else. where is mamma?" said constance, with another comic counterfeit of distress. "my dear fleda, it's the most captivating thing to breakfast at carleton!" "i have no idea the bread and butter is sweeter there than in some other parts of the world," said fleda. "i don't know about the bread and butter," said constance, "but those exquisite little sugar-dishes! my dear fleda, every one has his own sugar-dish and cream-ewer � the loveliest little things!" "i have heard of such things before," said fleda. "i don't care about the bread and butter," � said constance � "eating is immaterial, with those perfect little things right opposite to me. they weren't like any you ever saw, fleda � the sugar-bowl was just a little, plain, oval box, with the lid on a hinge, and not a bit of chasing, only the arms on the cover � like nothing i ever saw but a old-fashioned silver tea-caddy; and the cream-jug, a little, straight, up-and-down thing to match. mamma said they were clumsy, but they bewitched me!" "i think everything bewitched you," said fleda, smiling. "can't your head stand a sugar-dish and milk-cup?" "my dear fleda, i never had your superiority to the ordinary weaknesses of human nature � i can stand _one_ sugar-bowl, but i confess myself overcome by a dozen. how we have all wanted to see you, fleda! and papa � you have captivated papa! � and he says �" "never mind; don't tell me what he says," said fleda. "there! � that's your modesty that everybody rave about: i wish i could catch it. fleda, where did you get that little bible? while i was waiting for you i tried to soothe my restless anticipations with examining all the things in all the rooms. where did you get it?" "it was given me a long while ago," said fleda. "but it is real gold on the outside � the clasps and all. do you know it? it is not washed." "i know it," said fleda, smiling; "and it is better than gold inside." "wasn't that mamma's favourite, mr. olmney, that parted from you at the gate?" said constance, after a minute's silence. "yes." "is he a favourite of yours, too?" "you must define what you mean by a favourite," said fleda, gravely. "well, how do you like him?" "i believe everybody likes him," said fleda, colouring, and vexed at herself that she could not help it. the bright eyes opposite her took note of the fact with a sufficiently wide- awake glance. "he's very good!" said constance, hugging herself, and taking a fresh supply of butter; "but don't let him know i have been to see you, or he'll tell you all sorts of evil things about me, for fear you should innocently be contaminated. don't you like to be taken care of?" "very much," said fleda, smiling, "by people that know how." "i can't bear it!" said constance, apparently with great sincerity; "i think it is the most impertinent thing in the world people can do; i can't endure it, except from � ! oh, my dear fleda, it is perfect luxury to have him put a shawl round your shoulders!" "fleda," said earl douglass, putting his head in from the kitchen, and before he said any more, bobbing it frankly at miss evelyn, half in acknowledgment of her presence, and half, as it seemed, in apology for his own; "fleda, will you let barby pack up somethin' 'nother for the men's lunch? � my wife would ha' done it, as she had ought to, if she wa'n't down with the teethache, and catherine's away on a jig to kenton, and the men wont do so much work on nothin', and i can't say nothin' to 'em if they don't; and i'd like to get that 'ere clover-field down afore night: it's goin' to be a fine spell o' weather. i was a-goin' to try to get along without it, but i believe we can't." "very well," said fleda. "but, mr. douglass, you'll try the experiment of curing it in cocks?" "well, i don't know," said earl, in a tone of very discontented acquiescence; "i don't see how anythin' should be as sweet as the sun for dryin' hay; i know folks says it is, and i've heerd 'em say it is, and they'll stand to it, and you can't beat 'em off the notion it is, but somehow or 'nother i can't seem to come into it. i know the sun makes sweet hay, and i think the sun was meant to make hay, and i don't want to see no sweeter hay than the sun makes; it's as good hay as you need to have." "but you wouldn't mind trying it for once, mr. douglass, just for me?" "i'll do just what you please," said he, with a little exculpatory shake of his head; " 'tain't my concern � it's no concern of mine; the gain or the loss 'll be your'n, and it's fair you should have the gain or the loss, whichever on 'em you choose to have. i'll put it in cocks: how much heft should be in 'em?" "about a hundred pounds; and you don't want to cut any more than you can put up to-night, mr. douglass. we'll try it." "very good! and you'll send along somethin' for the men. barby knows," said earl, bobbing his head again intelligently at fleda; "there's four on 'em, and it takes somethin' to feed 'em: workin' men 'll put away a good deal o' meat." he withdrew his head and closed the door, happily for constance, who went off into a succession of ecstatic convulsions. "what time of day do your eccentric hay-makers prefer for the rest of their meals, if they lunch at three o'clock? i never heard anything so original in my life." "this is lunch number two," said fleda, smiling; "lunch number one is about ten in the morning, and dinner at twelve." "and do they gladden their families with their presence at the other ordinary convivial occasions?" "certainly." "and what do they have for lunch?" "varieties. bread and cheese, and pies, and quirl-cakes; at every other meal they have meat." "horrid creatures!" "it is only during haying and harvesting." "and you have to see to all this, poor little fleda! i declare, if i was you, i'd do something �" "no," said fleda, quietly, "mrs. douglass and barby manage the lunch between them. i am not at all desperate." "but to have to talk to these people!" "earl douglass is not a very polished specimen," said fleda, smiling; "but i assure you, in some of 'these people' there is an amount of goodness and wit, and shrewd practical sense and judgment, that would utterly distance many of those that would call them bears." constance looked a good deal more than she said. "my dear little fleda! you're too sensible for anything; but as i don't like sense from anybody but mr. carleton, i would rather look at you in the capacity of a rose, smiling a gentle rebuke upon me while i talk nonsense." and she did talk, and fleda did smile and laugh, in spite of herself, till mrs. evelyn and her other daughters made their appearance. then barby said she thought they'd have talked the house down; and she expected there'd be nothing left of fleda after all the kissing she got. but it was not too much for fleda's pleasure. mrs. evelyn was so tenderly kind, and miss evelyn as caressing as her sister had been, and edith, who was but a child, so joyously delighted, that fleda's eyes were swimming in happiness as she looked from one to the other, and she could hardly answer kisses and questions fast enough. "them is good-looking enough girls," said barby, as fleda came back to the house after seeing them to their carriage, if they knowed how to dress themselves. i never see this fly-away one afore. i knowed the old one as soon as i clapped my eyes onto her. be they stopping at the pool again?" "yes." "well, when are you going up there to see 'em?" "i don't know," said fleda, quietly. and then, sighing as the thought of her aunt came into her head, she went off to find her and bring her down. fleda's brow was sobered, and her spirits were in a flutter that was not all of happiness, and that threatened not to settle down quietly. but as she went slowly up the stairs, faith's hand was laid, even as her own grasped the balusters, on the promise � "all the paths of the lord are mercy and truth unto such as keep his covenant and his testimonies." she set faith's foot down on those sure stepping-stones; and she opened her aunt's door and looked in with a face that was neither troubled nor afraid. chapter iii. "_ant_. he misses not much. _seb_. no, he doth but mistake the truth totally." tempest. it was the very next morning that several ladies and gentlemen were gathered on the piazza of the hotel at montepoole, to brace minds or appetites with the sweet mountain air while waiting for breakfast. as they stood there, a young countryman came by bearing on his hip a large basket of fruit and vegetables. "oh, look at those lovely strawberries!" exclaimed constance evelyn, running down the steps. "stop, if you please � where are you going with these?" "marm!" responded the somewhat startled carrier. "what are you going to do with them?" "i aint going to do nothin' with 'em." "whose are they? are they for sale?" "well, 'twon't deu no harm, as i know," said the young man, making a virtue of necessity, for the fingers of constance were already hovering over the dainty little leaf-strewn baskets, and her eyes complacently searching for the most promising; "i ha'n't got nothin' to deu with 'ern." "constance!" said mrs. evelyn, from the piazza, "don't take that. i dare say they are for mr. sweet." "well, mamma," said constance, with great equanimity, "mr. sweet gets them for me, and i only save him the trouble of spoiling them. my taste leads me to prefer the simplicity of primitive arrangements this morning." "young man!" called out the landlady's reproving voice, "wont you never recollect to bring that basket round the back way!" " 't aint no handier than this way," said philetus, with so much belligerent demonstration, that the landlady thought best, in presence of her guests, to give over the question. "where do you get them?" said mrs. evelyn. "how?" said philetus. "where do they come from? are they fresh picked?" "just afore i started." "started from where?" said a gentleman, standing by mrs. evelyn. "from mr. rossitur's, down to queechy." "mr. rossitur's!" said mrs. evelyn. "does he send them here?" "he doos not," said philetus � "he doosn't keep to hum for a long spell." "who does send them, then?" said constance. "who doos? it's miss fliddy ringgan." "mamma!" exclaimed constance, looking up. "what does she have to do with it?" said mrs. evelyn. "there don't nobody else have nothin' to deu with it � i guess she's pretty much the hull," said her coadjutor. "her and me was a-picking 'em afore sunrise." "all that basketful?" " 't aint all strawberries � there's garden sass up to the top." "and does she send that, too?" "she sends that teu," said philetus, succinctly. "but hasn't she any help in taking care of the garden?" said constance. "yes, marm � i calculate to help considerable in the back garden � she wont let no one into the front where she grows her posies." "but where is mr. hugh?" "he's to hum." "but has he nothing to do with all this? does he leave it all to his cousin?" "he's to the mill." "and miss ringgan manages farm, and garden, and all?" said mrs. evelyn. "she doos," said philetus. and receiving a gratuity, which he accepted without demonstration of any kind whatever, the basket-bearer, at length released, moved off. "poor fleda!" said miss evelyn, as he disappeared with his load. "she's a very clever girl," said mrs. evelyn, dismissing the subject. "she's too lovely for anything!" said constance. "mr. carleton, if you will just imagine we are in china, and introduct a pair of familiar chopsticks into this basket, i shall be repaid for the loss of a strawberry by the expression of ecstasy which will immediately spread itself over your features. i intend to patronize the natural mode of eating in future. i find the ends of my fingers decidedly odoriferous." he smiled a little as he complied with the young lady's invitation, but the expression of ecstasy did not come. "are mr. rossitur's circumstances so much reduced?" he said, drawing nearer to mrs. evelyn. "do you know them?" exclaimed both the daughters at once. "i knew mrs. rossitur very well some years ago, when she was in paris." "they are all broken to pieces," said mrs. evelyn, as mr. carleton's eye went back to her for his answer; "mr. rossitur failed and lost everything � bankrupt � a year or two after they came home." "and what has he been doing since?" "i don't know � trying to farm it here; but i am afraid he has not succeeded well � i am afraid not. they don't look like it. mrs. rossitur will not see anybody, and i don't believe they have done any more than struggle for a living since they came here." "where is mr. rossitur now?" "he is at the west, somewhere � fleda tells me he is engaged in some agencies there; but i doubt," said mrs. evelyn, shaking her head, compassionately, "there is more in the name of it than anything else. he has gone down hill sadly since his misfortunes. i am very sorry for them." "and his niece takes care of his farm in the meantime?" "do you know her?" asked both the miss evelyns again. "i can hardly say that," he replied. "i had such a pleasure formerly. do i understand that she is the person to fill mr. rossitur's place when he is away?" "so she says." "and so she acts," said constance. "i wish you had heard her yesterday. it was beyond everything. we were conversing very amicably, regarding each other through a friendly vista formed by the sugar-bowl and tea-pot, when a horrid man, that looked as if he had slept all his life in a haycock, and only waked up to turn it over, stuck his head in, and immediately introduced a clover-field; and fleda and he went to tumbling about the cocks till, i do assure you, i was deluded into a momentary belief that hay-making was the principal end of human nature, and looked upon myself as a burden to society; and after i had recovered my locality, and ventured upon a sentence of gentle commiseration for her sufferings, fleda went off into a eulogium upon the intelligence of hay-makers in general, and the strength of mind barbarians are universally known to possess." the manner, still more than the matter of this speech, was beyond the withstanding of any good-natured muscles, though the gentleman's smile was a grave one, and quickly lost in gravity. mrs. evelyn laughed and reproved in a breath, but the laugh was admiring, and the reproof was stimulative. the bright eye of constance danced in return with the mischievous delight of a horse that has slipped his bridle and knows you can't catch him. "and this has been her life ever since mr. rossitur lost his property?" "entirely, � sacrificed!" said mrs. evelyn, with a compassionately resigned air; � education, advantages, and everything given up, and set down here, where she has seen nobody from year's end to year's end but the country people about � very good people � but not the kind of people she ought to have been brought up among." "oh, mamma!" said the eldest miss evelyn, in a deprecatory tone, "you shouldn't talk so � it isn't right � i am sure she is very nice � nicer now than anybody else i know, and clever too." "nice!" said edith. "i wish i had such a sister." "she is a good girl� a very good girl," said mrs. evelyn, in a tone which would have deterred any one from wishing to make her acquaintance. "and happy, mamma � fleda don't look miserable � she seems perfectly happy and contented." "yes," said mrs. evelyn, "she has got accustomed to this state of things � it's her life � she makes delicious bread and puddings for her aunt, and raises vegetables for market, and oversees her uncle's farmers; and it isn't a hardship to her � she finds her happiness in it. she is a very good girl, but she might have been made something much better than a farmer's wife." "you may set your mind at rest on that subject, mamma," said constance, still using her chopsticks with great complacency; "it's my opinion that the farmer is not in existence who is blessed with such a conjugal futurity. i think fleda's strong pastoral tastes are likely to develop themselves in a new direction." mrs. evelyn looked, with a partial smile, at the pretty features which the business of eating the strawberries displayed in sundry novel and picturesque points of view, and asked what she meant? "i don't know," said constance, intent upon her basket; "i feel a friend's distress for mr. thorn � it's all your doing, mamma � you wont be able to look him in the face when we have fleda next fall. i am sure i shall not want to look at his. he'll be too savage for anything." "mr. thorn!" said mr. carleton. "yes," said mrs. evelyn, in an indulgent tone � "he was very attentive to her last winter when she was with us, but she went away before anything was decided. i don't think he has forgotten her." "i shouldn't think anybody could forget her," said edith. "i am confident he would be here at this moment," said constance, "if he wasn't in london." "but what is 'all mamma's doing,' constance?" inquired her sister. "the destruction of the peace of the whole family of thorns; i shouldn't sleep sound in my bed if i were she, with such a reflection. i look forward to heart-rending scenes, with a very disturbed state of mind." "but what have i done, my child?" said mrs. evelyn. "didn't you introduce your favourite, mr. olmney, to miss ringgan, last summer? i don't know" � her native delicacy shrunk from making any disclosures, and, of course, the tongue of friendship is silent � "but they were out ages yesterday while i was waiting for her, and their parting at the gate was � i feel myself unequal to the task of describing it," said constance, ecstatically; "and she was in the most elevated tone of mind during our whole interview afterwards, and took all my brilliant remarks with as much coolness as if they had been drops of rain � more, i presume, considering that it was hay-time." "did you see him?" said mrs. evelyn. "only at that impracticable distance, mamma; but i introduced his name afterwards, in my usual happy manner, and i found that miss ringgan's cheeks were by no means indifferent to it. i didn't dare go any further." "i am very glad of it. i hope it is so," said mrs. evelyn, energetically. "it would be a most excellent match. he is a charming young man, and would make her very happy." "you are exciting gloomy feelings in mr. carleton's mind, mamma, by your felicitous suggestions. mr. carleton, did your ears receive a faint announcement of ham and eggs, which went quite through and through mine just now?" he bowed, and handed the young lady in; but constance declared, that though he sat beside her, and took care of her at breakfast, he had on one of his intangible fits, which drove her to the last extreme of impatience and captivation. the sun was not much more than two hours high the next morning, when a rider was slowly approaching mr. rossitur's house from the bridge, walking his horse, like a man who wished to look well at all he was passing. he paused behind a clump of locusts and rose-acacias, in the corner of the court- yard, as a figure, bonneted and gloved, came out of the house, and began to be busy among the rose-bushes. another figure presently appeared at the hall door, and called out � "fleda!" "well, barby �" this second voice was hardly raised, but it came from so much nearer that the words could be distinctly heard. "mr. skillcorn wants to know if you're going to fix the flowers for him to carry?" "they're not ready, and it wont do for him to wait � mr. sweet must send for them if he wants them. philetus must make haste back, for you know mr. douglass wants him to help in the barn meadow. lucas wont be here, and now the weather is so fine, i want to make haste with the hay." "well, will you have the samp for breakfast?" "no � we'll keep that for dinner. i'll come in and poach some eggs, barby, � if you'll make me some thin pieces of toast � and call me when it's time. thin, barby." the gentleman turned his horse, and galloped back to montepoole. some disappointment was created among a portion of mr. sweet's guests that afternoon, by the intelligence that mr. carleton purposed setting off the next morning to join his english friends at saratoga, on their way to the falls and canada. which purpose was duly carried into effect. chapter iv. "with your leave, sir, an' there were no more men living upon the face of the earth, i should not fancy him, by st. george." every man out of his humour. october had come, and a fair season and a fine harvest, had enabled fleda to ease her mind by sending a good remittance to dr. gregory. the family were still living upon her and hugh's energies. mr. rossitur talked of coming home, that was all. it sometimes happened that a pause in the urgency of business permitted hugh to take a day's holiday. one of these falling soon after the frosts had opened the burrs of the chestnut- trees, and the shells of the hickories, fleda seized upon it for a nutting frolic. they took philetus, and went up to the fine group of trees on the mountain, the most difficult to reach, and the best worth reaching of all their nut wood. the sport was very fine; and after spoiling the trees, philetus was left to "shuck" and bring home a load of the fruit, while fleda and hugh took their way slowly down the mountain. she stopped him, as usual, on the old look-out place. the leaves were just then in their richest colouring, and the october sky, in its strong vitality, seemed to fill all inanimate nature with the breath of life. if ever, then on that day, to the fancy, "the little hills rejoiced on every side." the woods stood thick with honours, and earth lay smiling under the tokens of the summer's harvest, and the promise for the coming year; and the wind came in gusts over the lower country and up the hill-side, with a hearty good-will that blew away all vapours, physical and mental, from its path, bidding everything follow its example and be up and doing. fleda drew a long breath or two that seemed to recognise its freshening power. "how long it seems," she said � "how very long � since i was here with mr. carleton; � just nine years ago. how changed everything is! i was a little child then. it seems such an age ago!" � "it is very odd he didn't come to see us," said hugh. "he did � don't you know? � the very next day after we heard he was here � when, most unluckily, i was up at aunt miriam's." "i should think he might have come again, considering what friends you used to be." "i dare say he would, if he had not left montepoole so soon. but, dear hugh, i was a mere child � how could he remember me much?" "you remember him," said hugh. "ah, but i have good reason. besides, i never forget anything. i would have given a great deal to see him � if i had it." "i wish the evelyns had staid longer," said hugh. "i think you have wanted something to brighten you up. they did you a great deal of good last year. i am afraid all this taking care of philetus and earl douglass is too much for you." fleda gave him a very bright smile, half affection, half fun. "don't you admire my management?" said she. "because i do. philetus is firmly persuaded that he is an invaluable assistant to me in the mystery of gardening; and the origin of earl douglass's new ideas is so enveloped in mist, that he does not himself know where they come from. it was rich to hear him the other day descanting to lucas upon the evil effects of earthing up corn, and the advantages of curing hay in cocks, as to both which matters lucas is a thorough unbeliever, and earl was a year ago." "but that doesn't hinder your looking pale and thin, and a great deal soberer than i like to see you," said hugh. "you want a change, i know. i don't know how you are to get it. i wish they would send for you to new york again." "i don't know that i should want to go, if they did," said fleda. "they don't raise my spirits, hugh. i am amused sometimes � i can't help that � but such excessive gaiety rather makes me shrink within myself; i am, too, out of tone with it. i never feel more absolutely quiet than sometimes when i am laughing at constance evelyn's mad sallies � and sometimes i cannot laugh at them. i do not know what they must think of me; it is what they can have no means of understanding." "i wish you didn't understand it, either, fleda." "but you shouldn't say that. i am happier than they are, now, hugh � now that you are better � with all their means of happiness. they know nothing of our quiet enjoyments; they must live in a whirl, or they would think they are not living at all; and i do not believe that all new york can give them the real pleasure that i have in such a day as this. they would see almost nothing in all this beauty that my eyes 'drink in,' as cowper says; and they would be certain to quarrel with the wind, that to me is like the shake of an old friend's hand. delicious!" said fleda, as the wind rewarded this eulogium with a very hearty shake indeed. "i believe you would make friends with everything, fleda, said hugh, laughing. "the wind is always that to me," said fleda; "not always in such a cheerful mood as to-day, though. it talks to me often of a thousand old-time things, and sighs over them with me, a most sympathizing friend! but to-day he invites me to a waltz � come!" and pulling hugh after her, away she went down the rocky path, with a step too light to care for the stones; the little feet capering down the mountain with a disdain of the ground that made hugh smile to see her; and eyes dancing for company, till they reached the lower woodland. "a most spirited waltz!" said hugh. "and a most slack partner. why didn't you keep me company?" "i never was made for waltzing," said hugh, shaking his head. "not to the tune of the north wind? that has done me good, hugh." "so i should judge, by your cheeks." "poverty need not always make people poor," said fleda, talking breath and his arm together. "you and i are rich, hugh." "and our riches cannot take to themselves wings and fly away," said hugh. "no, but besides those riches, there are the pleasures of the eye and the mind, that one may enjoy everywhere � everywhere in the country at least � unless poverty bear one down very hard; and they are some of the purest and most satisfying of any. oh, the blessing of a good education! how it makes one independent of circumstances!" "and circumstances are education, too," said hugh, smiling. "i dare say we should not appreciate our mountains and woods so well, if we had had our old plenty of everything else." "i always loved them," said fleda. "but what good company they have been to us for years past, hugh! � to me especially; i have more reason to love them." they walked on quietly and soberly to the brow of the table- land, where they parted; hugh being obliged to go home, and fleda wishing to pay a visit to her aunt miriam. she turned off alone to take the way to the high road, and went softly on, no longer, certainly, in the momentary spirits with which she had shaken hands with the wind, and skipped down the mountain; but feeling, and thankful that she felt, a cheerful patience to tread the dusty highway of life. the old lady had been rather ailing, and from one or two expressions she had let fall, fleda could not help thinking that she looked upon her ailments with a much more serious eye than anybody else thought was called for. it did not, however, appear to-day. she was not worse, and fleda's slight anxious feeling could find nothing to justify it, if it were not the very calm and quietly happy face and manner of the old lady; and that, if it had something to alarm, did much more to soothe. fleda had sat with her a long time, patience and cheerfulness all the while unconsciously growing in her company; when, catching up her bonnet with a sudden haste very unlike her usual collectedness of manner, fleda kissed her aunt and was rushing away. "but stop! where are you going, fleda?" "home, aunt miriam; i must, don't keep me." "but what are you going that way for? you can't go home that way?" "yes, i can." "how?" "i can cross the blackberry hill behind the barn, and then over the east hill, and then there's nothing but the water- cress meadow." "i sha'n't let you go that way alone; sit down and tell me what you mean � what is this desperate hurry?" but, with equal precipitation, fleda had cast her bonnet out of sight behind the table, and the next moment turned, with the utmost possible quietness, to shake hands with mr. olmney. aunt miriam had presence of mind enough to make no remark, and receive the young gentleman with her usual dignity and kindness. he stayed some time, but fleda's hurry seemed to have forsaken her. she had seized upon an interminable long gray stocking her aunt was knitting, and sat in the corner working at it most diligently, without raising her eyes unless spoken to. "do you give yourself no rest, at home or abroad, miss fleda?" said the gentleman. "put that stocking down, fleda," said her aunt; "it is in no hurry." "i like to do it, aunt miriam." but she felt, with warming cheeks, that she did not like to do it with two people sitting still and looking at her. the gentleman presently rose. "don't go till we have had tea, mr. olmney," said mrs. plumfield. "thank you, ma'am; i cannot stay, i believe, unless miss fleda will let me take care of her down the hill by and by." "thank you, mr. olmney," said fleda, "but i am not going home before night, unless they send for me." "i am afraid," said he, looking at her, "that the agricultural turn has proved an overmatch for your energies." "the farm don't complain of me, does it?" said fleda, looking up at him with a comic, grave expression of countenance. "no," said he, laughing, "certainly not; but, if you will forgive me for saying so, i think you complain of it, tacitly � and that will raise a good many complaints in other quarters, if you do not take care of yourself." he shook hands and left them; and mrs. plumfield sat silently looking at fleda, who, on her part, looked at nothing but the gray stocking. "what is all this, fleda?" "what is what, aunt miriam?" said fleda, picking up a stitch with desperate diligence. "why did you want to run away from mr. olmney?" "i didn't wish to be delayed, � i wanted to get home." "then, why wouldn't you let him go home with you?" "i liked better to go alone, aunt miriam." "don't you like him, fleda?" "certainly, aunt miriam; very much." "i think he likes you fleda," said her aunt, smiling. "i am very sorry for it," said fleda, with great gravity. mrs. plumfield looked at her for a few minutes in silence, and then said � "fleda, love, come over here and sit by me, and tell me what you mean. why are you sorry? it has given me a great deal of pleasure to think of it." but fleda did not budge from her seat or her stocking, and seemed tongue-tied. mrs. plumfield pressed for an answer. "because, aunt miriam," said fleda, with the prettiest red cheeks in the world, but speaking very clearly and steadily, "my liking only goes to a point which, i am afraid, will not satisfy either him or you." "but why? � it will go further." "no, ma'am." "why not? � why do you say so?" "because i must, if you ask me." "but what can be more excellent and estimable, fleda? � who could be more worth liking? i should have thought he would just please you. he is one of the most lovely young men i have ever seen." "dear aunt miriam," said fleda, looking up beseechingly, "why should we talk about it?" "because i want to understand you, fleda, and to be sure that you understand yourself." "i do," said fleda, quietly, and with a quivering lip. "what is there that you dislike about mr. olmney?" "nothing in the world, aunt miriam." "then, what is the reason you cannot like him enough?" "because, aunt miriam," said fleda, speaking in desperation, "there isn't enough of him. he is very good and excellent in every way, nobody feels that more than i do; i don't want to say a word against him, but i do not think he has a very strong mind, and he isn't cultivated enough." "but you cannot have everything, fleda." "no, ma'am, i don't expect it." "i am afraid you have set up too high a standard for yourself," said mrs. plumfield, looking rather troubled. "i don't think that is possible, aunt miriam." "but i am afraid it will prevent your ever liking anybody." "it will not prevent my liking the friends i have already; it may prevent my leaving them for somebody else," said fleda, with a gravity that was touching in its expression. "but mr. olmney is sensible, and well educated." "yes, but his tastes are not. he could not at all enter into a great many things that give me the most pleasure. i do not think he quite understands above half of what i say to him." "are you sure? i know he admires you, fleda." "ah, but that is only half enough, you see, aunt miriam, unless i could admire him too." mrs. plumfield looked at her in some difficulty; mr. olmney was not the only one, clearly, whose powers of comprehension were not equal to the subject. "fleda," said her aunt, inquiringly, "is there anybody else that has put mr. olmney out of your head?" "nobody in the world!" exclaimed fleda, with a frank look and tone of astonishment at the question, and cheeks colouring as promptly. "how could you ask? � but he never was in my head, aunt miriam." "mr. thorn?" said mrs. plumfield. "mr. thorn!" said fleda, indignantly. "don't you know me better than that, aunt miriam? but you do not know him." "i believe i know you, dear fleda; but i heard he had paid you a great deal of attention last year; and you would not have been the first unsuspecting nature that has been mistaken." fleda was silent, flushed, and disturbed; and mrs. plumfield was silent and meditating; when hugh came in. he came to fetch fleda home. dr. gregory had arrived. in haste again, fleda sought her bonnet, and exchanging a more than usually wistful and affectionate kiss and embrace with her aunt, set off with hugh down the hill. hugh had a great deal to say to her all the way home, of which fleda's ears alone took the benefit, for her understanding received none of it; and when she at last came into the breakfast-room where the doctor was sitting, the fact of his being there was the only one which had entered her mind. "here she is, i declare!" said the doctor, holding her back to look at her after the first greetings had passed. "i'll be hanged if you aint handsome. now, what's the use of pinking your cheeks any more at that, as if you didn't know it before? � eh?" "i will always do my best to deserve your good opinion, sir," said fleda, laughing. "well, sit down now," said he, shaking his head, "and pour me out a cup of tea � your mother can't make it right." and sipping his tea for some time, the old doctor sat listening to mrs. rossitur, and eating bread and butter, saying little, but casting a very frequent glance at the figure opposite him, behind the tea-board. "i am afraid," said he, after a while, "that your care for my good opinion wont outlast an occasion. is _that_ the way you look for every day?" the colour came with the smile; but the old doctor looked at her in a way that made the tears come too. he turned his eyes to mrs. rossitur for an explanation. "she is well," said mrs. rossitur, fondly � "she has been very well � except her old headaches now and then; i think she has grown rather thin, lately." "thin!" said the old doctor � "etherealized to a mere abstract of herself; only that is a very bad figure, for an abstract should have all the bone and muscle of the subject; and i should say you had little left but pure spirit. you are the best proof i ever saw of the principle of the homeopaths � i see now, that though a little corn may fatten a man, a great deal may be the death of him." "but i have tried it both ways, uncle orrin," said fleda, laughing. "i ought to be a happy medium between plethora and starvation. i am pretty substantial, what there is of me." "substantial!" said the doctor; "you look as substantial a personage as your old friend, the 'faire una' � just about. well, prepare yourself, gentle saxon, to ride home with me the day after to-morrow. i'll try a little humanizing regimen with you." "i don't think that is possible, uncle orrin," said fleda, gently. "we'll talk about the possibility afterwards � at present, all you have to do is to get ready. if you raise difficulties, you will find me a very hercules to clear them away � i'm substantial enough, i can tell you � so it's just as well to spare yourself and me the trouble." "there are no difficulties," mrs. rossitur and hugh said, both at once. "i knew there weren't. put a pair or two of clean stockings in your trunk � that's all you want � mrs. pritchard and i will find the rest. there's the people in fourteenth street want you the first of november, and i want you all the time till then, and longer too. stop � i've got a missive of some sort here for you." he foisted out of his breast-pocket a little package of notes � one from mrs. evelyn, and one from florence, begging fleda to come to them at the time the doctor had named; the third from constance: "my darling little fleda, "i am dying to see you � so pack up and come down with dr. gregory, if the least spark of regard for me is slumbering in your breast. mamma and florence are writing to beg you � but though an insignificant member of the family, considering that instead of being 'next to head', only little edith prevents my being at the less dignified end of this branch of the social system, i could not prevail upon myself to let the representations of my respected elders go unsupported by mine � especially as i felt persuaded of the superior efficacy of the motives i had it in my power to present to your truly philanthropical mind. "i am in a state of mind that baffles description � mr. carleton is going home! � "i have not worn ear-rings in my ears for a fortnight; my personal appearance is become a matter of indifference to me; any description of mental exertion is excruciating; i sit constantly listening for the ringing of the door-bell, and when it sounds, i rush frantically to the head of the staircase, and look over to see who it is; the mere sight of pen and ink excites delirious ideas � judge what i suffer in writing to you. "to make the matter worse (if it could be), i have been informed privately, that he is going home to crown at the altar of hymen an old attachment to one of the loveliest of all england's daughters. conceive the complication of my feelings! � "nothing is left me but the resources of friendship � so come, darling fleda, before a barrier of ice interposes itself between my chilled heart and your sympathy. "mr. thorn's state would move my pity if i were capable of being moved by anything � by this you will comprehend he is returned. he has been informed by somebody, that there is a wolf in sheep's clothing prowling about queechy, and his head is filled with the idea that you have fallen a victim, of which, in my calmer moments, i have in vain endeavoured to dispossess him. every morning we are wakened up at an unseasonable hour by a furious ringing at the door-bell � joe manton pulls off his nightcap, and slowly descending the stairs, opens the door, and finds mr. thorn, who inquires distractedly whether miss ringgan has arrived; and being answered in the negative, gloomily walks off towards the east river. the state of anxiety in which his mother is thereby kept is rapidly depriving her of all her flesh � but we have directed joe lately to reply, 'no, sir, but she is expected' � upon which mr. thorn regularly smiles faintly, and rewards the 'fowling-piece' with a quarter dollar � "so make haste, dear fleda, or i shall feel that we are acting the part of innocent swindlers. c.e." there was but one voice at home on the point whether fleda should go. so she went. chapter v. _host_. now, my young guest! methinks you're allycholy; i pray you why is it? _jul_. marry, mine host, because i cannot be merry. two gentlemen of verona. some nights after their arrival, the doctor and fleda were seated at tea in the little snug old-fashioned back parlour, where the doctor's nicest of housekeepers, mrs. pritchard, had made it ready for them. in general, mrs. pritchard herself poured it out for the doctor, but she descended most cheerfully from her post of elevation, whenever fleda was there to fill it. the doctor and fleda sat cozily looking at each other across the toast and chipped beef, their glances grazing the tea-urn, which was just on one side of their range of vision. a comfortable liverpool-coal fire in a state of repletion burned away indolently, and gave everything else in the room somewhat of its own look of sonsy independence � except, perhaps, the delicate creature at whom the doctor, between sips of his tea, took rather wistful observations. "when are you going to mrs. evelyn?" he said, breaking the silence. "they say next week, sir." "i shall be glad of it!" said the doctor. "glad of it?" said fleda, smiling. "do you want to get rid of me, uncle orrin?" "yes!" said he. "this isn't the right place for you. you are too much alone." "no, indeed, sir. i have been reading voraciously, and enjoying myself as much as possible. i would quite as lieve be here as there, putting you out of the question." "i wouldn't as lieve have you," said he, shaking his head. "what were you musing about before tea? your face gave me the heartache." "my face!" said fleda, smiling, while an instant flush of the eyes answered him; "what was the matter with my face?" "that is the very thing i want to know." "before tea? � i was only thinking," said fleda, her look going back to the fire from association � "thinking of different things � not disagreeably; taking a kind of bird's- eye view of things, as one does sometimes." "i don't believe you ever take other than a bird's-eye view of anything," said her uncle. "but what were you viewing just then, my little saxon?" "i was thinking of them at home," said fleda, smiling, thoughtfully; "and i somehow had perched myself on a point of observation, and was taking one of those wider views which are always rather sobering." "views of what?" "of life, sir." "as how?" said the doctor. "how near the end is to the beginning, and how short the space between, and how little the ups and downs of it will matter if we take the right road and get home." "pshaw!" said the doctor. but fleda knew him too well to take his interjection otherwise than most kindly. and, indeed, though he whirled round and ate his toast at the fire discontentedly, his look came back to her after a little, with even more than its usual gentle appreciation. "what do you suppose you have come to new york for?" said he. "to see you, sir, in the first place, and the evelyns in the second." "and who in the third?" "i am afraid the third place is vacant," said fleda, smiling. "you are, eh? well � i don't know � but i know that i have been inquired of by two several and distinct people as to your coming. ah! you needn't open your bright eyes at me, because i shall not tell you. only let me ask � you have no notion of fencing off, my queechy rose, with a hedge of blackthorn, or anything of that kind, have you?" "i have no notion of any fences at all, except invisible ones, sir," said fleda, laughing, and colouring very prettily. "well, those are not american fences," said the doctor; "so, i suppose, i am safe enough. whom did i see you out riding with yesterday?" "i was with mrs. evelyn," said fleda. "i didn't want to go, but i couldn't very well help myself." "mrs. evelyn! mrs. evelyn wasn't driving, was she?" "no, sir; mr. thorn was driving." "i thought so. have you seen your old friend, mr. carleton, yet?" "do you know him, uncle orrin?" "why shouldn't i? what's the difficulty of knowing people? have you seen him?" "but how did you know that he was an old friend of mine?" "question!" said the doctor. "hum � well, i won't tell you; so there's the answer. now, will you answer me?" "i have not seen him, sir." "haven't met him, in all the times you have been to mrs. evelyn's?" "no, sir. i have been there but once in the evening, uncle orrin. he is just about sailing for england." "well, you're going there to-night, aren't you? run, and bundle yourself up, and i'll take you there before i begin my work." there was a small party that evening at mrs. evelyn's. fleda was very early. she ran up to the first floor � rooms lighted and open, but nobody there. "fleda ringgan," called out the voice of constance from over the stairs, "is that you?" "no," said fleda. "well, just wait till i come down to you. my darling little fleda, it's delicious of you to come so early. now, just tell me, am i captivating?" "well, i retain self-possession," said fleda. "i cannot tell about the strength of head of other people." "you wretched little creature! fleda, don't you admire my hair? it's new style, my dear � just come out; the delancys brought it out with them; eloise delancy taught it us; isn't it graceful? nobody in new york has it yet, except the delancys and we." "how do you know but they have taught somebody else?" said fleda. "i won't talk to you! don't you like it?" "i am not sure that i do not like you in your ordinary way better." constance made a gesture of impatience, and then pulled fleda after her into the drawing-rooms. "come in here; i wont waste the elegancies of my toilet upon your dull perceptions; come here and let me show you some flowers � aren't those lovely? this bunch came to-day, 'for miss evelyn', so florence will have it it is hers, and it's very mean of her, for i am perfectly certain it is mine; it's come from somebody who wasn't enlightened on the subject of my family circle, and has innocently imagined that two miss evelyns could not belong to the same one! i know the floral representatives of all florence's dear friends and admirers, and this isn't from any of them. i have been distractedly endeavouring all day to find who it came from, for if i don't, i can't take the least comfort in it." "but you might enjoy the flowers for their own sake, i should think," said fleda, breathing the sweetness of myrtle and heliotrope. "no, i can't, for i have all the time the association of some horrid creature they might have come from, you know; but it will do just as well to humbug people: i shall make cornelia schenck believe that this came from my dear mr. carleton!" "no, you wont, constance," said fleda, gently. "my dear little fleda, i shock you, don't i? but i sha'n't tell any lies; i shall merely expressively indicate a particular specimen, and say, 'my dear cornelia, do you perceive that this is an english rose?' and then it's none of my business, you know, what she believes; and she will be dying with curiosity and despair all the rest of the evening." "i shouldn't think there would be much pleasure in that, i confess," said fleda, gravely. "how very ungracefully and stiffly those are made up!" "my dear little queechy rose," said constance, impatiently, "you are, pardon me, as fresh as possible. they can't cut the flowers with long stems, you know; the gardeners would be ruined. that is perfectly elegant; it must have cost at least ten dollars. my dear little fleda!" said constance, capering off before the long pier-glass, "i am afraid i am not captivating! do you think it would be an improvement if i put drops in my ears? � or one curl behind them? i don't know which mr. carleton likes best!" � and with her head first on one side and then on the other, she stood before the glass looking at herself and fleda by turns with such a comic expression of mock doubt and anxiety, that no gravity but her own could stand it. "she is a silly girl, fleda, isn't she?" said mrs. evelyn, coming up behind them. "mamma! am i captivating?" cried constance, wheeling round. the mother's smile said "very!" "fleda is wishing she were out of the sphere of my influence, mamma. wasn't mr. olmney afraid of my corrupting you?" she said, with a sudden pull-up in front of fleda. "my blessed stars! there's somebody's voice i know. well, i believe it is true that a rose without thorns is a desideratum. mamma, is mrs. thorn's turban to be an invariable _pendant_ to your _coiffure_ all the while miss ringgan is here?" "hush!" with the entrance of company came constance's return from extravaganzas to a sufficiently graceful every-day manner, only enough touched with high spirits and lawlessness to free it from the charge of commonplace. but the contrast of these high spirits with her own rather made fleda's mood more quiet, and it needed no quieting. of the sundry people that she knew among those presently assembled there were none that she wanted to talk to; the rooms were hot, and she felt nervous and fluttered, partly from encounters already sustained, and partly from a little anxious expecting of mr. carleton's appearance. the evelyns had not said he was to be there, but she had rather gathered it; and the remembrance of old times was strong enough to make her very earnestly wish to see him, and dread to be disappointed. she swung clear of mr. thorn, with some difficulty, and ensconced herself under the shadow of a large cabinet, between that and a young lady who was very good society, for she wanted no help in carrying on the business of it. all fleda had to do was to sit still and listen, or not listen, which she generally preferred. miss tomlinson discoursed upon varieties, with great sociableness and satisfaction; while poor fleda's mind, letting all her sense and nonsense go, was again taking a somewhat bird's-eye view of things, and from the little centre of her post in mrs. evelyn's drawing-room, casting curious glances over the panorama of her life � england, france, new york, and queechy! � half coming to the conclusion that her place henceforth was only at the last, and that the world and she had nothing to do with each other. the tide of life and gaiety seemed to have thrown her on one side, as something that could not swim with it, and to be rushing past too strongly and swiftly for her slight bark ever to launch upon it again. perhaps the shore might be the safest and happiest place; but it was sober in the comparison; and, as a stranded bark might look upon the white sails flying by, fleda saw the gay faces and heard the light tones with which her own could so little keep company. but as little they with her. their enjoyment was not more foreign to her than the causes which moved it were strange. merry? � she might like to be merry, but she could sooner laugh with the north wind than with one of those vapid faces, or with any face that she could not trust. conversation might be pleasant, but it must be something different from the noisy cross-fire of nonsense that was going on in one quarter, or the profitless barter of nothings that was kept up on the other side of her. rather queechy and silence, by far, than new york and _this!_ and through it all, miss tomlinson talked on and was happy. "my dear fleda! what are you back here for?" said florence, coming up to her. "i was glad to be at a safe distance from the fire." "take a screen � here! miss tomlinson, your conversation is too exciting for miss ringgan; look at her cheeks! i must carry you off; i want to show you a delightful contrivance for transparencies that i learned the other day." the seat beside her was vacated, and, not casting so much as a look towards any quarter whence a possible successor to miss tomlinson might be arriving, fleda sprang up and took a place in the far corner of the room by mrs. thorn, happily not another vacant chair in the neighbourhood. mrs. thorn had shown a very great fancy for her, and was almost as good company as miss tomlinson � not quite, for it was necessary sometimes to answer, and therefore necessary always to hear. but fleda liked her; she was thoroughly amiable, sensible, and good-hearted; and mrs. thorn, very much gratified at fleda's choice of a seat, talked to her with a benignity which fleda could not help answering with grateful pleasure. "little queechy, what has driven you into the corner?" said constance, pausing a moment before her. "it must have been a retiring spirit," said fleda. "mrs. thorn, isn't she lovely?" mrs. thorn's smile at fleda might almost have been called that, it was so full of benevolent pleasure. but she spoiled it by her answer. "i don't believe i am the first one to find it out.". "but what are you looking so sober for?" constance went on, taking fleda's screen from her hand and fanning her diligently with it � "you don't talk. the gravity of miss ringgan's face casts a gloom over the brightness of the evening. i couldn't conceive what made me feel chilly in the other room till i looked about and found that the shade came from this corner; and mr. thorn's teeth, i saw, were chattering." "constance," said fleda, laughing and vexed, and making the reproof more strongly with her eyes � "how can you talk so?" "mrs. thorn, isn't it true?" mrs. thorn's look at fleda was the essence of good humour. "will you let lewis come and take you a good long ride to- morrow?" "no, mrs. thorn, i believe not � i intend to stay perseveringly at home to-morrow, and see if it is possible to be quiet a day in new york." "but you will go with me to the concert to-morrow night? � both of you � and hear truffi; � come to my house and take tea, and go from there? will you, constance?" "my dear mrs. thorn," said constance, "i shall be in ecstasies, and miss ringgan was privately imploring me last night to find some way of getting her to it. we regard such material pleasures as tea and muffins with great indifference, but when you look up after swallowing your last cup you will see miss ringgan and miss evelyn, cloaked and hooded, anxiously awaiting your next movement. my dear fleda, there is a ring!" � and giving her the benefit of a most comic and expressive arching of her eyebrows, constance flung back the screen into fleda's lap, and skimmed away. fleda was too vexed for a few minutes to understand more of mrs. thorn's talk than that she was first enlarging upon the concert, and afterwards detailing to her a long shopping expedition in search of something which had been a morning's annoyance. she almost thought constance was unkind, because she wanted to go to the concert herself, to lug her in so unceremoniously, and wished herself back in her uncle's snug, little, quiet parlour, unless m. carleton would come. and there he is, said a quick beat of her heart, as his entrance explained constance's "ring." such a rush of associations came over fleda that she was in imminent danger of losing mrs. thorn altogether. she managed, however, by some sort of instinct, to disprove the assertion that the mind cannot attend to two things at once, and carried on a double conversation with herself and with mrs. thorn for some time very vigorously. "just the same! � he has not altered a jot," she said to herself as he came forward to mrs. evelyn; � "it is himself! � his very self � he doesn't look a day older � i'm very glad! � (yes, ma'am, it's extremely tiresome �). how exactly as when he left me in paris, � and how much pleasanter than anybody else! � more pleasant than ever, it seems, to me, but that is because i have not seen him in so long; he only wanted one thing. that same grave eye � but quieter, isn't it than it used to be? � i think so � (it's the best store in town, i think, mrs. thorn, by far � yes, ma'am �). those eyes are certainly the finest i ever saw. how i have seen him stand and look just so when he was talking to his workmen � without that air of consciousness that all these people have, comparatively � what a difference! (i know very little about it, ma'am; � i am not learned in laces � i never bought any �). i wish he would look this way � i wonder if mrs. evelyn does not mean to bring him to see me � she must remember; � now there is that curious old smile and looking down! how much better i know what it means than mrs. evelyn does! � (yes, ma'am, i understand � i mean! � it is very convenient � i never go anywhere else to get anything � at least, i should not if i lived here �). she does not know whom she is talking to. she is going to walk him off into the other room! how very much more gracefully he does everything than anybody else � it comes from that entire high-mindedness and frankness, i think � not altogether, a fine person must aid the effect, and that complete independence of other people � i wonder if mrs. evelyn has forgotten my existence? � he has not, i am sure � i think she is a little odd � (yes, ma'am, my face is flushed � the room is very warm �.)" "but the fire has gone down � it will be cooler now," said mrs. thorn. which were the first words that fairly entered fleda's understanding. she was glad to use the screen to hide her face now, not the fire. apparently the gentleman and lady found nothing to detain them in the other room, for, after sauntering off to it, they sauntered back again, and placed themselves to talk just opposite her. fleda had an additional screen now in the person of miss tomlinson, who had sought her corner, and was earnest talking across her to mrs. thorn, so that she was sure, even if mr. carleton's eyes should chance to wander that way, they would see nothing but the unremarkable skirt of her green silk dress, most unlikely to detain them. the trade in nothings going on over the said green silk was very brisk indeed; but, disregarding the buzz of tongues near at hand, fleda's quick ears were able to free the barrier, and catch every one of the quiet tones beyond. "and you leave us the day after to-morrow?" said mrs. evelyn. "no, mrs. evelyn, i shall wait another steamer." the lady's brow instantly revealed to fleda a trap setting beneath to catch his reason. "i'm very glad!" exclaimed little edith, who, in defiance of conventionalities and proprieties, made good her claim to be in the drawing-room on all occasions � "then you will take me another ride, wont you, mr. carleton?" "you do not flatter us with a very long stay," pursued mrs. evelyn. "quite as long as i expected � longer than i meant it to be," he answered, rather thoughtfully. "mr. carleton," said constance, sidling up in front of him. "i have been in distress to ask you a question, and i am afraid � " "of what are you afraid, miss constance?" "that you would reward me with one of your severe looks, which would petrify me; and then, i am afraid i should feel uncomfortable" � "i hope he will!" said mrs. evelyn, settling herself back in the corner of the sofa, and with a look at her daughter which was complacency itself � "i hope mr. carleton will, if you are guilty of any impertinence." "what is the question, miss constance?" "i want to know what brought you out here?" "fie, constance," said her mother. "i am ashamed of you. do not answer her, mr. carleton." "mr. carleton will answer me, mamma � he looks benevolently upon my faults, which are entirely those of education. what was it, mr. carleton?" "i suppose," said he, smiling, "it might be traced more or less remotely to the restlessness incident to human nature." "but you are not restless, mr. carleton," said florence, with a glance which might be taken as complimentary. "and knowing that i am," said constance, in comic impatience, "you are maliciously prolonging my agonies. it is not what i expected of you, mr. carleton." "my dear," said her father, "mr. carleton, i am sure, will fulfil all reasonable expectations. what is the matter?" "i asked him where a certain tribe of indians was to be found, papa, and he told me they were supposed originally to have come across behring's strait, one cold winter." mr. evelyn looked a little doubtfully, and constance with so unhesitating gravity, that the gravity of nobody else was worth talking about. "but it is so uncommon," said mrs. evelyn, when they had done laughing, "to see an englishman of your class here at all, that when he comes a second time we may be forgiven for wondering what has procured us such an honour." "women may always be forgiven for wondering, my dear," said mr. evelyn, "or the rest of mankind must live at odds with them." "your principal object was to visit our western prairies, wasn't it, mr. carleton?" said florence. "no," he replied, quietly, "i cannot say that. i should choose to give a less romantic explanation of my movements. from, some knowledge growing out of my former visit to this country, i thought there were certain negotiations i might enter into here with advantage; and it was for the purpose of attending to these, miss constance, that i came." "and have you succeeded?" said mrs. evelyn, with an expression of benevolent interest. "no, ma'am � my information had not been sufficient." "very likely," said mr. evelyn. "there isn't one man in a hundred whose representations on such a matter are to be trusted at a distance." "on such a matter," repeated his wife, funnily; "you don't know what the matter was, mr. evelyn � you don't know what you are talking about." "business, my dear � business � i take only what mr. carleton said; it doesn't signify a straw what business. a man must always see with his own eyes." whether mr. carleton had seen or had not seen, or whether even he had his faculty of hearing in present exercise, a glance at his face was incompetent to discover. "i never should have imagined," said constance, eyeing him keenly, "that mr. carleton's errand to this country was one of business, and not of romance. i believe it's a humbug!" for an instant this was answered by one of those looks of absolute composure, in every muscle and feature, which put an effectual bar to all further attempts from without, or revelations from within � a look fleda remembered well, and felt even in her corner. but it presently relaxed, and he said with his usual manner, "you cannot understand, then, miss constance, that there should be any romance about business?" "i cannot understand," said mrs. evelyn, "why romance should not come after business. mr. carleton, sir, you have seen american scenery this summer; isn't american beauty worth staying a little while longer for?" "my dear," said mr. evelyn, "mr. carleton is too much of a philosopher to care about beauty � every man of sense is." "i am sure he is not," said mrs. evelyn, smoothly. "mr. carleton, you are an admirer of beauty, are you not, sir ?" "i hope so, mrs. evelyn," he said smiling; "but perhaps, i shall shock you by adding � not of beauties." "that sounds very odd," said florence. "but let us understand," said mrs. evelyn, with the air of a person solving a problem; "i suppose we are to infer that your taste in beauty is of a peculiar kind?" "that may be a fair inference," he said. "what is it, then?" said constance, eagerly. "yes � what is it you look for in a face?" said mrs. evelyn. "let us hear whether america has any chance," said mr. thorn, who had joined the group, and placed himself precisely so as to hinder fleda's view. "my fancy has no stamp of nationality, in this, at least," he said, pleasantly. "now, for instance, the miss delancys � don't you call them handsome, mr. carleton?" said florence. "yes," he said, half smiling. "but not beautiful? now, what is it they want?" "i do not wish, if i could, to make the want visible to other eyes than my own." "well, cornelia schenck � how do you like her face?" "it is very pretty-featured." "pretty-featured! why, she is called beautiful! she has a beautiful smile, mr. carleton!" "she has only one." "only one! and how many smiles ought the same person to have?" cried florence, impatiently. but that which instantly answered her said forcibly, that a plurality of them was possible. "i have seen one face," he said, gravely, and his eye seeking the floor, "that had, i think, a thousand." "different smiles!" said mrs. evelyn, in a constrained voice. "if they were not all absolutely that, they had so much of freshness and variety that they all seemed new." "was the mouth so beautiful?" said florence. "perhaps it would not have been remarked for beauty when it was perfectly at rest, but it could not move with the least play of feeling, grave or gay, that it did not become so in a very high degree. i think there was no touch or shade of sentiment in the mind that the lips did not give with singular nicety; and the mind was one of the most finely wrought i have ever known." "and what other features went with this mouth?" said florence. "the usual complement, i suppose," said thorn. " '_item_, two lips indifferent red; _item_, two gray eyes, with lids to them; _item_, one neck, one chin, and so forth." "mr. carleton, sir," said mrs. evelyn, blandly," as mr. evelyn says, women may be forgiven for wondering, wont you answer florence's question?" "mr. thorn has done it, mrs. evelyn, for me." "but i have great doubts of the correctness of mr. thorn's description, sir; wont you indulge us with yours?" "word-painting is a difficult matter, mrs. evelyn, in some instances; if i must do it, i will borrow my colours. in general, 'that which made her fairness much the fairer was, that it was but an ambassador of a most fair mind.' " "a most exquisite picture!" said thorn; "and the originals don't stand so thick that one is in any danger of mistaking them. is the painter shakespeare? � i don't recollect." "i think sidney, sir; i am not sure." "but still, mr. carleton," said mrs. evelyn, "this is only in general � i want very much to know the particulars; what style of features belonged to this face?" "the fairest, i think, i have ever known," said mr. carleton. "you asked me, miss evelyn, what was my notion of beauty; this face was a good illustration of it. not perfection of outline, though it had that, too, in very uncommon degree; but the loveliness of mind and character to which these features were only an index; the thoughts were invariably telegraphed through eye and mouth more faithfully than words could give them." "what kind of eyes?" said florence. his own grew dark as he answered � "clear and pure as one might imagine an angel's � through which i am sure my good angel many a time looked at me." good angels were at a premium among the eyes that were exchanging glances just then. "and mr. carleton," said mrs. evelyn, "is it fair to ask � this paragon � is she living, still?" "i hope so," he answered, with his old light smile, dismissing the subject. "you spoke so much in the past tense," said mrs. evelyn, apologetically. "yes; i have not seen it since it was a child's." "a child's face! oh," said florence, "i think you see a great many children's faces with that kind of look." "i never saw but the one," said mr. carleton, drily. so far fleda listened, with cheeks that would certainly have excited mrs. thorn's alarm, if she had not been happily engrossed with miss tomlinson's affairs; though up to the last two minutes the idea of herself had not entered fleda's head in connection with the subject of conversation. but then, feeling it impossible to make her appearance in public that evening, she quietly slipped out of the open window close by, which led into a little greenhouse on the piazza, and by another door gained the hall and the dressing-room. when dr. gregory came to mrs. evelyn's an hour or two after, a figure all cloaked and hooded ran down the stairs and met him in the hall. "ready!" said the doctor, in surprise. "i have been ready some time, sir," said fleda. "well," said he, "then we'll go straight home, for i've not done my work yet." "dear uncle orrin," said fleda, "if i had known you had work to do, i wouldn't have come." "yes, you would," said he, decidedly. she clasped her uncle's arm, and walked with him briskly home through the frosty air, looking at the silent lights and shadows on the walls of the street, and feeling a great desire to cry. "did you have a pleasant evening?" said the doctor, when they were about half way. "not particularly, sir," said fleda, hesitating. he said not another word till they got home, and fleda went up to her room. but the habit of patience overcame the wish to cry; and though the outside of her little gold-clasped bible awoke it again, a few words of the inside were enough to lay it quietly to sleep. "well," said the doctor, as they sat at breakfast the next morning, "where are you going next?" "to the concert, i must, to-night," said fleda. "i couldn't help myself." "why should you want to help yourself?" said the doctor. "and to mrs. thorn's to-morrow night?" "no, sir; i believe not." "i believe you will," said he, looking at her. "i am sure i should enjoy myself more at home, uncle orrin. there is very little rational pleasure to be had in these assemblages." "rational pleasure!" said he. "didn't you have any rational pleasure last night?" "i didn't hear a single word spoken, sir, that was worth listening to; at least, that was spoken to me; and the hollow kind of rattle that one hears from every tongue, makes me more tired than anything else, i believe. i am out of tune with it, somehow." "out of tune!" said the old doctor, giving her a look made up of humourous vexation and real sadness; "i wish i knew the right tuning-key to take hold of you!" "i become harmonious rapidly, uncle orrin, when i am in this pleasant little room alone with you." "that wont do!" said he, shaking his head at the smile with which this was said � "there is too much tension upon the strings. so that was the reason you were all ready waiting for me last night? well, you must tune up, my little piece of discordance, and go with me to mrs. thorn's to-morrow night � i wont let you off." "with you, sir!" said fleda. "yes," he said. "i'll go along and take care of you, lest you get drawn into something else you don't like." "but, dear uncle orrin, there is another difficulty � it is to be a large party, and i have not a dress exactly fit." "what have you got?" said he, with a comic kind of fierceness. "i have silks, but they are none of them proper for this occasion � they are ever so little old-fashioned." "what do you want?" "nothing, sir," said fleda; "for i don't want to go." "you mend a pair of stockings to put on," said he, nodding at her, "and i'll see to the rest." "apparently you place great importance in stockings," said fleda, laughing, "for you always mention them first. but, please don't get anything for me, uncle orrin � please don't! i have plenty for common occasions, and i don't care to go to mrs. thorn's." "i don't care either," said the doctor, working himself into his great coat. "by the by, do you want to invoke the aid of st. crispin?" he went off, and fleda did not know whether to cry or to laugh at the vigorous way in which he trod through the hall, and slammed the front door after him. her spirits just kept the medium, and did neither. but they were in the same doubtful mood still an hour after, when he came back with a paper parcel he had brought home under his arm, and unrolled a fine embroidered muslin; her eyes were very unsteady in carrying their brief messages of thankfulness, as if they feared saying too much. the doctor, however, was in the mood for doing, not talking, by looks or otherwise. mrs. pritchard was called into consultation, and with great pride and delight engaged to have the dress and all things else in due order by the following night; her eyes saying all manner of gratulatory things as they went from the muslin to fleda, and from fleda to dr. gregory. the rest of the day was, not books, but needlefuls of thread; and from the confusion of laces and draperies, fleda was almost glad to escape, and go to the concert � but for one item; that spoiled it. they were in their seats early. fleda managed successfully to place the two evelyns between her and mr. thorn, and then prepared herself to wear out the evening with patience. "my dear fleda!" whispered constance, after some time spent in restless reconnoitring of everything � "i don't see my english rose anywhere!" "hush!" said fleda, smiling. "that happened not to be an english rose, constance." "what was it?" "american, unfortunately; it was a noisette; the variety, i think, that they call 'conque de vénus.' " "my dear little fleda, you're too wise for anything!" said constance, with a rather significant arching of her eye-brows. "you mustn't expect other people to be as rural in their acquirements as yourself. i don't pretend to know any rose by sight but the queechy," she said, with a change of expression, meant to cover the former one. fleda's face, however, did not call for any apology. it was perfectly quiet. "but what has become of him?" said constance, with her comic impatience. "my dear fleda! if my eyes cannot rest upon that development of elegance, the parterre is become a wilderness to me!" "hush, constance!" fleda whispered earnestly � "you are not safe � he may be near you." "safe!" ejaculated constance; but a half backward hasty glance of her eye brought home so strong an impression that the person in question was seated a little behind her, that she dared not venture another look, and became straightway extremely well-behave. he was there; and being presently convinced that he was in the neighbourhood of his little friend of former days, he resolved with his own excellent eyes to test the truth of the opinion he had formed as to the natural and inevitable effect of circumstances upon her character; whether it could by possibility have retained its great delicacy and refinement, under the rough handling and unkindly bearing of things seemingly foreign to both. he had thought not. truffi did not sing, and the entertainment was of a very secondary quality. this seemed to give no uneasiness to the miss evelyns, for if they pouted, they laughed and talked in the same breath, and that incessantly. it was nothing to mr. carleton, for his mind was bent on something else. and with a little surprise, he saw that it was nothing to the subject of his thoughts, either because her own were elsewhere, too, or because they were in league with a nice taste, that permitted them to take no interest in what was going on. even her eyes, trained as they had been to recluse habits, were far less busy than those of her companions; indeed, they were not busy at all; for the greater part of the time, one hand was upon the brow, shielding them from the glare of the gas-lights. ostensibly � but the very quiet air of the face led him to guess that the mind was glad of a shield too. it relaxed sometimes. constance, and florence, and mr. thorn, and mr. thorn's mother, were every now and then making demands upon her, and they were met always with an intelligent well-bred eye, and often with a smile of equal gentleness and character; but her observer noticed that though the smile came readily, it went as readily, and the lines of the face quickly settled again into what seemed to be an habitual composure. there were the same outlines, the same characters, he remembered very well; yet there was a difference; not grief had changed them, but life had. the brow had all its fine chiselling and high purity of expression; but now there sat there a hopelessness, or rather a want of hopefulness, that a child's face never knows. the mouth was sweet and pliable as ever, but now often patience and endurance did not quit their seat upon the lip even when it smiled. the eye, with all its old clearness and truthfulness, had a shade upon it that, nine years ago, only fell at the bidding of sorrow; and in every line of the face there was a quiet gravity that went to the heart of the person who was studying it. whatever causes had been at work, he was very sure, had done no harm to the character; its old simplicity had suffered no change, as every look and movement proved; the very unstudied careless position of the fingers over the eyes showed that the thoughts had nothing to do there. on one half of his doubt mr. carleton's mind was entirely made up; but education? the training and storing of the mind � how had that fared? he would know! perhaps he would have made some attempt that very evening towards satisfying himself; but noticing that, in coming out, thorn permitted the evelyns to pass him, and attached himself determinately to fleda, he drew back, and resolved to make his observations indirectly, and on more than one point, before he should seem to make them at all. chapter vi. "hark: i hear the sound of coaches, the hour of attack approaches." gay. mrs. pritchard had arrayed fleda in the white muslin, with an amount of satisfaction and admiration that all the lines of her face were insufficient to express. "now," she said, "you must just run down and let the doctor see you, afore you take the shine off, or he wont be able to look at anything else when you get to the place." "that would be unfortunate!" said fleda, and she ran down, laughing, into the room where the doctor was waiting for her; but her astonished eyes encountering the figure of dr. quackenboss, she stopped short, with an air that no woman of the world could have bettered. the physician of queechy, on his part, was at least equally taken aback. "dr. quackenboss!" said fleda. "i � i was going to say, miss ringgan!" said the doctor, with a most unaffected obeisance, "but � a � i am afraid, sir, it is a deceptive influence!" "i hope not," said dr. gregory, smiling; one corner of his mouth for his guest and the other for his niece. "real enough to do real execution, or i am mistaken, sir." "upon my word, sir," said dr. quackenboss, bowing again, "i hope � a � miss ringgan � will remember the acts of her executive power at home, and return in time to prevent an unfortunate termination!" dr. gregory laughed heartily now, while fleda's cheeks relieved her dress to admiration. "who will complain of her if she don't?" said the doctor. "who will complain of her if she don't?" but fleda put in her question. "how are you all at home, dr. quackenboss?" "all queechy, sir," answered the doctor, politely, on the principle of 'first come, first served' � "and individuals � i shouldn't like to specify" � "how are you all in queechy, dr. quackenboss?" said fleda. "i � have the pleasure to say � we are coming along as usual," replied the doctor, who seemed to have lost his power of standing up straight. "my sister flora enjoys but poor health lately � they are all holding their heads up at your house. mr. rossitur has come home." "uncle rolf! has he?" exclaimed fleda, the colour of joy quite supplanting the other. "oh, i'm very glad!" "yes," said the doctor � "he's been home now � i guess, going on four days." "i am very glad!" repeated fleda. "but wont you come and see me another time, dr. quackenboss? � i am obliged to go out." the doctor professed his great willingness, adding that he had only come down to the city to do two or three chores, and thought she might perhaps like to take the opportunity � which would afford him such very great gratification. "no, indeed, faire una," said dr. gregory, when they were on their way to mrs. thorn's � "they've got your uncle at home now, and we've got you; and i mean to keep you till i'm satisfied. so you may bring home that eye that has been squinting at queechy ever since you have been here, and make up your mind to enjoy yourself; i shan't let you go till you do." "i ought to enjoy myself, uncle orrin," said fleda, squeezing his arm gratefully. "see you do," said he. the pleasant news from home had given fleda's spirits the needed spur, which the quick walk to mrs. thorn's did not take off. "did you ever see fleda look so well, mamma?" said florence, as the former entered the drawing-room. "that is the loveliest and best face in the room," said mr. evelyn; "and she looks like herself to-night." "there is a matchless simplicity about her," said a gentleman, standing by. "her dress is becoming," said mrs. evelyn. "why, where did you ever see her, mr. stackpole, except at our house?" said constance. "at mrs. decatur's � i have had that pleasure � and once at her uncle's." "i didn't know you ever noticed ladies' faces, mr. stackpole," said florence. "how mrs. thorn does look at her!" said constance, under her breath. "it is too much." it was almost too much for fleda's equanimity, for the colour began to come. "and there goes mr. carleton!" said constance. "i expect momentarily to hear the company strike up, 'sparkling and bright.' " "they should have done that some time ago, miss constance," said the gentleman. which compliment, however, constance received with hardly disguised scorn, and turned her attention again to mr. carleton. "i trust i do not need presentation," said his voice and his smile at once, as he presented himself to fleda. how little he needed it, the flash of feeling which met his eyes said sufficiently well. but apparently the feeling was a little too deep, for the colour mounted, and the eyes fell, and the smile suddenly died on the lips. mr. thorn came up to them, and releasing her hand, mr. carleton stepped back and permitted him to lead her away. "what do think of _that_ face?" said constance, finding herself a few moments after at his side. " 'that' must define itself," said he, "or i can hardly give a safe answer." "what face? why, i mean, of course, the one mr. thorn carried off just now." "you are her friend, miss .constance," he said, coolly. "may i ask for your judgment upon it before i give mine?" "mine? why, i expected every minute that mr. thorn would make the musicians play 'sparkling and bright,' and tell miss ringgan that to save trouble he had directed them to express what he was sure were the sentiments of the whole company in one burst." he smiled a little, but in a way that constance could not understand, and did not like. "those are common epithets," he said. "must i use uncommon?" said constance, significantly. "no; but these may say one thing or another." "i have said one thing," said constance; "and now you may say the other." "pardon me � you have said nothing. these epithets are deserved by a great many faces, but on very different grounds; and the praise is a different thing, accordingly." "well, what is the difference?" said constance. "on what do you think this lady's title to it rests?" "on what? � why, on that bewitching little air of the eyes and mouth, i suppose." "bewitching is a very vague term," said he, smiling again, more quietly. "but you have had an opportunity of knowing it much better of late than i � to which class of bright faces would you refer this one? where does the light come from?" "i never studied faces in a class," said constance, a little scornfully. "come from? � a region of mist and clouds, i should say, for it is sometimes pretty well covered up." "there are some eyes whose sparkling is nothing more than the play of light upon a bright bead of glass." "it is not that," said constance, answering in spite of herself, after delaying as long as she dared. "there is the brightness that is only the reflection of outward circumstances, and passes away with them." "it isn't that in fleda ringgan," said constance, "for her outward circumstances have no brightness, i should think, that reflection would not utterly absorb." she would fain have turned the conversation, but the questions were put so lightly and quietly that it could not be gracefully done. she longed to cut it short, but her hand was upon mr. carleton's arm, and they were slowly sauntering down the rooms � too pleasant a state of things to be relinquished for a trifle. "there is the broad day-light of mere animal spirits," he went on, seeming rather to be suggesting these things for her consideration than eager to set forth any opinions of his own � "there is the sparkling of mischief, and the fire of hidden passions � there is the passing brilliance of wit, as satisfactory and resting as these gaslights � and there is now and then the light of refined affections out of a heart unspotted from the world, as pure and abiding as the stars, and, like them, throwing its soft ray especially upon the shadows of life." "i have always understood," said constance, "that cat's eyes are brightest in the dark." "they do not love the light, i believe," said mr. carleton, calmly. "well," said constance, not relishing the expression of her companion's eye, which, from glowing, had suddenly be come cool and bright � "where would you put me, mr. carleton, among all these illuminators of the social system?" "you may put yourself � where you please, miss constance," he said, again turning upon her an eye so deep and full in its meaning, that her own and her humour fell before it; for a moment she looked most unlike the gay scene around her. "is not that the best brightness," he said speaking low, "that will last forever? � and is not that lightness of heart best worth having which does not depend on circumstances, and will find its perfection just when all other kinds of happiness fail utterly?" "i can't conceive," said constance, presently rallying, or trying to rally herself � "what you and i have to do in a place where people are enjoying themselves at this moment, mr. carleton!" he smiled at that, and led her out of it into the conservatory, close to which they found themselves. it was a large and fine one, terminating the suite of rooms in this direction. few people were there; but, at the far end stood a group, among whom fleda and mr. thorn were conspicuous. he was busying himself in putting together a quantity of flowers for her; and mrs. evelyn and old mr. thorn stood looking on; with mr. stackpole. mr. stackpole was an englishman, of certainly not very prepossessing exterior, but somewhat noted as an author, and a good deal sought after in consequence. at present he was engaged by mrs. evelyn. mr. carleton and constance sauntered up towards them, and paused at a little distance to look at some curious plants. "don't try for that, mr. thorn," said fleda, as the gentleman was making rather ticklish efforts to reach a superb fuchsia that hung high. "you are endangering sundry things besides yourself." "i have learned, miss fleda," said thorn, as with much ado he grasped the beautiful cluster, "that what we take the most pains for is apt to be reckoned the best prize � a truth i should never think of putting into a lady's head if i believed it possible that a single one of them was ignorant of its practical value." "i have this same rose in my garden at home," said fleda. "you are a great gardener, miss fleda, i hear," said the old gentleman. "my son says you are an adept in it." "i am very fond of it, sir," said fleda, answering him with an entirely different face. "i thought the delicacy of american ladies was beyond such a masculine employment as gardening," said mr. stackpole, edging away from mrs. evelyn. "i guess this young lady is an exception to the rule," said old mr. thorn. "i guess she is an exception to most rules that you have got in your note-book, mr. stackpole," said the younger man. "but there is no guessing about the garden, for i have with my own eyes seen these gentle hands at one end of a spade, and her foot at the other � a sight that, i declare, i don't know whether i was most filled with astonishment or admiration." "yes," said fleda, half laughing and colouring, "and he ingenuously confessed in his surprise that he didn't know whether politeness ought to oblige him to stop and shake hands, or to pass by without seeing me; evidently showing that he thought i was about something equivocal." the laugh was now turned against mr. thorn, but he went on cutting his geraniums with a grave face. "well," said he at length, "i think it is something of very equivocal utility. why should such gentle hands and feet spend their strength in clod-breaking, when rough ones are at command?" there was nothing equivocal about fleda's merriment this time. "i have learned, mr. thorn, by sad experience, that the rough hands break more than the clods. one day i set philetus to work among my flowers; and the first thing i knew, he had pulled up a fine passion-flower which didn't make much show above ground, and was displaying it to me with the grave commentary, 'well! that root did grow to a great haigth!' " "some mental clod-breaking to be done up there, isn't there?" said thorn, in a kind of aside. "i cannot express my admiration at the idea of your dealing with those boors, as it has been described to me." "they do not deserve the name, mr. thorn," said fleda. "they are many of them most sensible and excellent people, and friends that i value very highly." "ah! your goodness would make friends of everything." "not of boors, i hope," said fleda, coolly. "besides, what do you mean by the name?" "anybody incapable of appreciating that of which you alone should be unconscious," he said, softly. fleda stood impatiently tapping her flowers against her left hand. "i doubt their power of appreciation reaches a point that would surprise you, sir." "it does indeed � if i am mistaken in my supposition," he said, with a glance which fleda refused to acknowledge. "what proportion, do you suppose," she went on, "of all these roomfuls of people behind us � without saying anything uncharitable � what proportion of them, if compelled to amuse themselves for two hours at a bookcase, would pitch upon macaulay's essays, or anything like them, to spend the time?" "hum � really, miss fleda," said thorn, "i should want to brush up my algebra considerably before i could hope to find x, y, and z in such a confusion of the alphabet." "or extract the small sensible root of such a quantity of light matter," said mr. stackpole. "will you bear with my vindication of my country friends? � hugh and i sent for a carpenter to make some new arrangement of shelves in a cupboard where we kept our books; he was one of these boors, mr. thorn, in no respect above the rest. the right stuff for his work was wanting, and while it was sent for, he took up one of the volumes that were lying about, and read perseveringly until the messenger returned. it was a volume of macaulay's miscellanies; and afterwards he borrowed the book of me." "and you lent it to him?" said constance. "most assuredly; and with a great deal of pleasure." "and is this no more than a common instance, miss ringgan?" said mr. carleton. "no, i think not," said fleda; the quick blood in her cheeks again answering the familiar voice and old associations; � "i know several of the farmers' daughters around us that have studied latin and greek; and philosophy is a common thing; and i am sure there is more sense �" she suddenly checked herself, and her eye which had been sparkling grew quiet. "it is very absurd!" said mr. stackpole. "why, sir?" "oh, these people have nothing to do with such things � do them nothing but harm!" "may i ask again, what harm?" said fleda, gently. "unfit them for the duties of their station, and make them discontented with it." "by making it pleasanter?" "no, no � not by making it pleasanter." "by what then, mr. stackpole?" said thorn, to draw him on, and to draw her out, fleda was sure. "by lifting them out of it." "and what objection to lifting them out of it?" said thorn. "you can't lift every body out of it," said the gentleman, with a little irritation in his manner � "that station must be filled � there must always be poor people." "and what degree of poverty ought to debar a man from the pleasures of education and a cultivated taste, such as he can attain?" "no, no, not that," said mr. stackpole; "but it all goes to fill them with absurd notions about their place in society, inconsistent with proper subordination." fleda looked at him, but shook her head slightly, and was silent. "things are in very different order on our side the water," said mr. stackpole, hugging himself. "are they?" said fleda. "yes � we understand how to keep things in their places a little better." "i did not know," said fleda, quietly, "that it was by _design_ of the rulers of england that so many of her lower class are in the intellectual condition of our slaves." "mr. carleton," said mrs. evelyn, laughing, "what do you say to that, sir?" fleda's face turned suddenly to him with a quick look of apology, which she immediately knew was not needed. "but this kind of thing don't make the people any happier," pursued mr. stackpole; � "only serves to give them uppish and dissatisfied longings that cannot be gratified." "somebody says," observed thorn, "that 'under a despotism all are contented, because none can get on, and in a republic, none are contented, because all can get on.' " "precisely," said mr. stackpole. "that might do very well if the world were in a state of perfection," said fleda. "as it is, commend me to discontent and getting on. and the uppishness, i am afraid, is a national fault, sir; you know our state motto is 'excelsior.' " "we are at liberty to suppose," said thorn, "that miss ringgan has followed the example of her friends, the farmers' daughters? � or led them in it?" "it is dangerous to make surmises," said fleda, colouring. "it is a pleasant way of running into danger," said mr. thorn, who was leisurely pruning the prickles from the stem of a rose. "i was talking to a gentleman once," said fleda, "about the birds and flowers we find in our wilds; and he told me afterwards gravely, that he was afraid i was studying too many things at once! � when i was innocent of all ornithology but what my eyes and ears had picked up in the wood, except some childish reminiscences of audubon." "that is just the right sort of learning for a lady," said mr. stackpole, smiling at her, however; "women have nothing to do with books." "what do you say to that, miss fleda?" said thorn. "nothing, sir; it is one of those positions that are unanswerable." "but, mr. stackpole," said mrs. evelyn, "i don't like that doctrine, sir. i do not believe in it at all." "that is unfortunate � for my doctrine," said the gentleman. "but i do not believe it is yours. why must women have nothing to do with books? what harm do they do, mr. stackpole?" "not needed, ma'am; a woman, as somebody says, knows intuitively all that is really worth knowing." "of what use is a mine that is never worked?" said mr. carleton. "it is worked," said mr. stackpole. "domestic life is the true training for the female mind. one woman will learn more wisdom from the child on her breast than another will learn from ten thousand volumes." "it is very doubtful how much wisdom the child will ever learn from her," said mr. carleton, smiling. "a woman who never saw a book," pursued mr. stackpole, unconsciously quoting his author, "may be infinitely superior, even in all those matters of which books treat, to the woman who has read, and read intelligently, a whole library." "unquestionably; and it is, likewise, beyond question, that a silver sixpence may be worth more than a washed guinea." "but a woman's true sphere is in her family � in her home duties, which furnish the best and most appropriate training for her faculties � pointed out by nature itself." "yes!" said mr. carleton � "and for those duties, some of the very highest and noblest that are entrusted to human agency, the fine machinery that is to perform them should be wrought to its last point of perfectness. the wealth of a woman's mind, instead of lying in the rough, should be richly brought out and fashioned for its various ends, while yet those ends are in the future, or it will never meet the demand. and, for her own happiness, all the more because her sphere is at home, her home stores should be exhaustless � the stores she cannot go abroad to seek. i would add to strength beauty, and to beauty grace, in the intellectual proportions, so far as possible. it were ungenerous in man to condemn the _best_ half of human intellect to insignificance, merely because it is not his own." mrs. evelyn wore a smile of admiration that nobody saw, but fleda's face was a study while mr. carleton was saying this. her look was fixed upon him with such intent satisfaction and eagerness, that it was not till he had finished that she became aware that those dark eyes were going very deep into hers, and suddenly put a stop to the inquisition. "very pleasant doctrine to the ears that have an interest in it," said mr. stackpole, rather discontentedly. "the man knows little of his own interest," said mr. carleton, "who would leave that ground waste, or would cultivate it only in the narrow spirit of a utilitarian. he needs an influence in his family not more refreshing than rectifying; and no man will seek that in one greatly his inferior. he is to be pitied who cannot fall back upon his home with the assurance that he has there something better than himself." "why, mr. carleton, sir," said mrs. evelyn, with every line of her mouth saying funny things � "i am afraid you have sadly neglected your own interest � have you anything at carleton better than yourself?" suddenly cool again, he laughed, and said, "you were there, mrs. evelyn." "but, mr. carleton," pursued the lady, with a mixture of insinuation and fun � "why were you never married?" "circumstances have always forbade it," he answered, with a smile, which constance declared was the most fascinating thing she ever saw in her life. fleda was arranging her flowers, with the help of some very unnecessary suggestions from the donor. "mr. lewis," said constance, with a kind of insinuation very different from her mother's, made up of fun and dating, � "mr. carleton has been giving me a long lecture on botany, while my attention was distracted by listening to your _spirituel_ conversation." "well, miss constance?" "and i am morally certain i sha'n't recollect a word of it if i don't carry away some specimens to refresh my memory, and in that case he would never give me another." it was impossible to help laughing at the distressful position of the young lady's eyebrows, and, with at least some measure of outward grace, mr. thorn set about complying with her request. fleda again stood tapping her left hand with her flowers, wondering a little that somebody else did not come and speak to her, but he was talking to mrs. evelyn and mr. stackpole. fleda did not wish to join them, and nothing better occurred to her than to arrange her flowers over again; so, throwing them all down before her on a marble slab, she began to pick them up one by one, and put them together, with, it must be confessed, a very indistinct realization of the difference between myrtle and lemon blossoms; and as she seemed to be laying acacia to rose, and disposing some sprigs of beautiful heath behind them, in reality she was laying kindness alongside of kindness, and looking at the years beyond years where their place had been. it was with a little start that she suddenly found the person of her thoughts standing at her elbow, and talking to her in bodily presence. but while he spoke with all the ease and simplicity of old times, almost making fleda think it was but last week they had been strolling through the place de la concorde together, there was a constraint upon her that she could not get rid of, and that bound eye and tongue. it might have worn off, but his attention was presently claimed again by mrs. evelyn, and fleda thought best, while yet constance's bouquet was unfinished, to join another party, and make her escape into the drawing-rooms. chapter vii. "have you observed a sitting hare, list'ning, and, fearful of the storm of horns and hounds, clap back her ear, afraid to keep or leave her form? prior. by the evelyns' own desire, fleda's going to them was delayed for a week, because, they said, a furnace was to be brought into the house, and they would be all topsy-turvy till that fuss was over. fleda kept herself very quiet in the meantime, seeing almost nobody but the person whom it was her especial object to shun. do her best, she could not quite escape him, and was even drawn into two or three walks and rides, in spite of denying herself utterly to gentlemen at home, and losing, in consequence, a visit from her old friend. she was glad at last to go to the evelyns, and see company again, hoping that mr. thorn would be merged in a crowd. but she could not merge him, and sometimes was almost inclined to suspect that his constant prominence in the picture must be owing to some mysterious and wilful conjuration going on in the background. she was at a loss to conceive how else it happened that, despite her utmost endeavours to the contrary, she was so often thrown upon his care, and obliged to take up with his company. it was very disagreeable. mr. carleton she saw almost as constantly, but, though frequently near, she had never much to do with him. there seemed to be a dividing atmosphere always in the way, and whenever he did speak to her, she felt miserably constrained, and unable to appear like herself. why was it? she asked herself, in a very vexed state of mind. no doubt, partly from the remembrance of that overheard conversation which she could not help applying, but much more from an indefinable sense that at these times there were always eyes upon her. she tried to charge the feeling upon her consciousness of their having heard that same talk, but it would not the more go off. and it had no chance to wear off, for somehow, the occasions never lasted long � something was sure to break them up � while an unfortunate combination of circumstances, or of connivers, seemed to give mr. thorn unlimited facilities in the same kind. fleda was quick-witted and skilful enough to work herself out of them once in a while; more often the combination was too much for her simplicity and straightforwardness. she was a little disappointed and a little surprised at mr. carleton's coolness. he was quite equal to withstand or out- general the schemes of any set of manoeuvrers; therefore it was plain he did not care for the society of his little friend and companion of old time. fleda felt it, especially as she now and then heard him in delightful talk with somebody else, making himself so interesting that, when fleda could get a chance to listen, she was quite ready to forgive his not talking to her for the pleasure of hearing him talk at all. but at other times she said, sorrowfully to herself, "he will be going home presently, and i shall not have seen him." one day she had successfully defended herself against taking a drive which mr. thorn came to propose, though the proposition had been laughingly backed by mrs. evelyn. raillery was much harder to withstand than persuasion, but fleda's quiet resolution had proved a match for both. the better to cover her ground, she declined to go out at all, and remained at home, the only one of the family, that fine day. in the afternoon mr. carleton was there. fleda sat a little apart from the rest, industriously bending over a complicated piece of embroidery belonging to constance, and in which that young lady had made a great blunder, which she declared her patience unequal to the task of rectifying. the conversation went gaily forward among the others, fleda taking no part in it beyond an involuntary one. mr. carleton's part was rather reserved and grave, according to his manner in ordinary society. "what do you keep bothering yourself with that for?" said edith, coming to fleda's side. "one must be doing something, you know," said fleda, lightly. "no, you mustn't � not when you're tired � and i know you are. i'd let constance pick out her own work." "i promised her i would do it," said fleda. "well, you didn't promise her when. come! � everybody's been out but you, and you have sat here over this the whole day. why don't you come over there and talk with the rest? i know you want to, for i've watched your mouth going." "going! � how!" "going � off at the corners. i've seen it! come." but fleda said she could listen and work at once, and would not budge. edith stood looking at her a little while in a kind of admiring sympathy, and then went back to the group. "mr. carleton," said the young lady, who was treading with laudable success in the steps of her sister constance � "what has become of that ride you promised to give me?" "i do not know, miss edith," said mr. carleton, smiling, "for my conscience never had the keeping of it." "hush, edith!" said her mother; "do you think mr. carleton has nothing to do but to take you riding?" "i don't believe he has much to do," said edith, securely. "but, mr. carleton, you did promise, for i asked you, and you said nothing; and i always have been told that silence gives consent; so what is to become of it?" "will you go now, miss edith?" "now? � o, yes! and will you go out to manhattanville, mr. carleton � along by the river?" "if you like. but, miss edith, the carriage will hold another � cannot you persuade one of these ladies to go with us?" "fleda!" said edith, springing off to her with extravagant capers of joy � "fleda, you shall go! you haven't been out to- day." "and i cannot go out to-day," said fleda, gently. "the air is very fine," said mr. carleton, approaching her table, with no want of alacrity in step or tone, her ears knew; "and this weather makes everything beautiful. has that piece of canvas any claims upon you that cannot be put aside for a little?" "no, sir," said fleda, "but, i am sorry i have a stronger reason that must keep me at home." "she knows how the weather looks," said edith; "mr. thorn takes her out every other day. it's no use to talk to her, mr. carleton � when she says she wont, she wont." "every other day!" said fleda. "no, no," said mrs. evelyn, coming up, and with that smile which fleda had never liked so little as at that minute � "not _every other_ day, edith; what are you talking of? go, and don't keep mr. carleton waiting." fleda worked on, feeling a little aggrieved. mr. carleton stood still by her table, watching her, while his companions were getting themselves ready; but he said no more, and fleda did not raise her head till the party were off. florence had taken her resigned place. "i dare say the weather will be quite as fine to-morrow, dear fleda," said mrs. evelyn, softly. "i hope it will," said fleda, in a tone of resolute simplicity. "i only hope it will not bring too great a throng of carriages to the door," mrs. evelyn went on, in a tone of great internal amusement; "i never used to mind it, but i have lately a nervous fear of collisions." "to-morrow is not your reception-day?" said fleda. "no, not mine," said mrs. evelyn, softly � "but that doesn't signify � it may be one of my neighbours." fleda pulled away at her threads of worsted, and wouldn't know anything else. "i have read of the servants of lot and the servants of abraham quarrelling," mrs. evelyn went on, in the same undertone of delight � "because the land was too strait for them � i should be very sorry to have anything of the sort happen again, for i cannot imagine where lot would go to find a plain that would suit him." "lot and abraham, mamma," said constance, from the sofa � "what on earth are you talking about?" "none of your business," said mrs. evelyn; "i was talking of some country friends of mine that you don't know." constance knew her mother's laugh very well, but mrs. evelyn was impenetrable. the next day fleda ran away, and spent a good part of the morning with her uncle in the library, looking over new books, among which she found herself quite a stranger, so many had made their appearance since the time when she had much to do with libraries or book stores. living friends, male and female, were happily forgotten in the delighted acquaintance- making with those quiet companions, which, whatever their deficiencies in other respects, are at least never importunate nor variable. fleda had come home rather late, and was dressing for dinner, with constance's company and help, when mrs. evelyn came into her room. "my dear fleda," said the lady, her face and voice as full as possible of fun, "mr. carleton wants to know if you will ride with him this afternoon. i told him i believed you were, in general, shy of gentlemen that drove their own horses; that i thought i had noticed you were; but i would come up and see." "mrs. evelyn! � you did not tell him that?" "he said he was sorry to see you looked pale yesterday when he was asking you; and he was afraid that embroidery is not good for you. he thinks you are a very charming girl �" and mrs. evelyn went off into little fits of laughter, which unstrung all fleda's nerves. she stood absolutely trembling. "mamma, don't plague her!" said constance. "he didn't say so." "he did! � upon my word!" said mrs. evelyn, speaking with great difficulty � "he said she was very charming, and it might be dangerous to see too much of her." "you made him say that, mrs. evelyn," said fleda, reproachfully. "well, i did ask him if you were not very charming, but he answered � without hesitation," said the lady � "i am only so afraid that lot will make his appearance �" fleda turned round to the glass, and went on arranging her hair, with a quivering lip. "lot! mamma," said constance, somewhat indignantly. "yes," said mrs. evelyn, in ecstasies; "because the land will not bear both of them. but mr. carleton is very much in earnest for his answer, fleda, my dear � what shall i tell it him? you need be under no apprehensions about going � he will perhaps tell you that you are charming, but i don't i think he will say anything more. you know, he is a kind of patriarch; and when i asked him if he didn't think it might be dangerous to see too much of you, he said he thought it might to some people, so, you see, you are safe." "mrs. evelyn, how could you use my name so?" said fleda, with a voice that carried a good deal of reproach. "my dear fleda, shall i tell him you will go? you need not be afraid to go riding, only you must not let yourself be seen walking with him." "i shall not go, ma'am," said fleda, quietly. "i wanted to send edith with you, thinking it would be pleasanter; but i knew mr. carleton's carriage would hold but two to-day. so what shall i tell him?" "i am not going, ma'am," repeated fleda. "but what shall i tell him? i must give him some reason. shall i say that you think a sea-breeze is blowing, and you don't like it? or shall i say that prospects are a matter of indifference to you?" fleda was quite silent, and went on dressing herself with trembling fingers. "my dear fleda," said the lady, bringing her face a little into order, "wont you go? i am very sorry �" "so am i sorry," said fleda. "i can't go, mrs. evelyn." "i will tell mr. carleton you are very sorry," said mrs. evelyn, every line of her face drawing again � "that will console him; and let him hope that you will not mind sea- breezes by and by, after you have been a little longer in the neighbourhood of them. i will tell him you are a good republican, and have an objection, at present, to an english equipage, but i have no doubt that is a prejudice which will wear off." she stopped to laugh, while fleda had the greatest difficulty not to cry. the lady did not seem to see her disturbed brow; but recovering herself after a little, though not readily, she bent forward and touched her lips to it in kind fashion. fleda did not look up, and saying again, "i will tell him, dear fleda," mrs. evelyn left the room. constance, after a little laughing and condoling, neither of which fleda attempted to answer, ran off, too, to dress herself; and fleda, after finishing her own toilette, locked her door, sat down, and cried heartily. she thought mrs. evelyn had been, perhaps unconsciously, very unkind; and to say that unkindness has not been meant, is but to shift the charge from one to another vital point in the character of a friend, and one, perhaps, sometimes not less grave. a moment's passionate wrong may consist with the endurance of a friendship worth having, better than the thoughtlessness of obtuse wits that can never know how to be kind. fleda's whole frame was still in a tremor from disagreeable excitement, and she had serious causes of sorrow to cry for. she was sorry she had lost what would have been a great pleasure in the ride � and her great pleasures were not often � but nothing would have been more impossible than for her to go after what mrs. evelyn had said. she was sorry mr. carleton should have asked her twice in vain � what must he think? � she was exceeding sorry that a thought should have been put into her head that never before had visited the most distant dreams of her imagination, so needlessly, so gratuitously � she was very sorry, for she could not be free of it again, and she felt it would make her miserably hampered and constrained, in mind and manner both, in any future intercourse with the person in question. and then again, what would he think of that? poor fleda came to the conclusion that her best place was at home, and made up her mind to take the first good opportunity of getting there. she went down to dinner with no traces of either tears or unkindness on her sweet face, but her nerves were quivering all the afternoon � she could not tell whether mrs. evelyn and her daughters found it out; and it was impossible for her to get back even her old degree of freedom of manner before either mr. carleton or mr. thorn, all the more, because mrs. evelyn was every now and then bringing out some sly allusion, which afforded herself intense delight, and wrought fleda to the last degree of quietness. unkind � fleda thought now it was but half from ignorance of the mischief she was doing, and the other half from the mere desire of selfish gratification. the times and ways in which lot and abraham were walked into the conversation were incalculable, and unintelligible, except to the person who understood it only too well. on one occasion, mrs. evelyn went on with a long rigmarole to mr. thorn about sea-breezes, with a face of most exquisite delight at his mystification and her own hidden fun, till fleda was absolutely trembling. fleda shunned both the gentlemen, at length, with a kind of nervous horror. one steamer had left new york, and another, and still mr. carleton did not leave it. why he staid, constance was as much in a puzzle as ever, for no mortal could guess. clearly, she said, he did not delight in new york society, for he honoured it as slightly and partially as might be; and it was equally clear, if he had a particular reason for staying, he didn't mean anybody should know it. "if he don't mean it, you wont find it out, constance," said fleda. "but it is that very consideration, you see, which inflames my impatience to a most dreadful degree. i think our house is distinguished with his regards, though i am sure i can't imagine why, for he never condescends to anything beyond general benevolence when he is here, and not always to that. he has no taste for embroidery, or miss ringgan's crewels would receive more of his notice � he listens to my spirited conversation with a self-possession which invariably deprives me of mine! �and his ear is evidently dull to musical sensibilities, or florence's harp would have greater charms. i hope there is a web weaving somewhere that will catch him � at present he stands in an attitude of provoking independence of all the rest of the world. it is curious," said constance, with an indescribable face � "i feel that the independence of another is rapidly making a slave of me!" � "what do you mean, constance?' said edith, indignantly. but the others could do nothing but laugh. fleda did not wonder that mr. carleton made no more efforts to get her to ride, for the very next day after his last failure he had met her driving with mr. thorn. fleda had been asked by mr. thorn's mother, in such a way as made it impossible to get off; but it caused her to set a fresh seal of unkindness to mrs. evelyn's behaviour. one evening, when there was no other company at mrs. evelyn's mr. stackpole was entertaining himself with a long dissertation upon the affairs of america, past, present, and future. it was a favourite subject; mr. stackpole always seemed to have more complacent enjoyment of his easy chair when he could succeed in making every american in the room sit uncomfortably. and this time, without any one to thwart him, he went on to his heart's content disposing of the subject as one would strip a rose of its petals, with as much seeming _nonchalance_ and ease, and with precisely the same design, to make a rose no rose. leaf after leaf fell under mr. stackpole's touch, as if it had been a black frost. the american government was a rickety experiment � go to pieces presently; american institutions an alternative between fallacy and absurdity, the fruit of raw minds and precocious theories; american liberty a contradiction; american character a compound of quackery and pretension; american society (except at mrs. evelyn's) an anomaly; american destiny the same with that of a cactus, or a volcano � a period of rest followed by a period of excitement; not, however, like the former, making successive shoots towards perfection, but, like the latter, grounding every new face of things upon the demolition of that which went before. smoothly and pleasantly mr. stackpole went on compounding this cup of entertainment for himself and his hearers, smacking his lips over it, and all the more, fleda thought, when they made wry faces; throwing in a little truth, a good deal of fallacy, a great deal of perversion and misrepresentation; while mrs. evelyn listened and smiled, and half parried and half assented to his positions; and fleda sat impatiently drumming upon her elbow with the fingers of her other hand, in the sheer necessity of giving some expression to her feelings. mr. stackpole at last got his finger upon the sore spot of american slavery, and pressed it hard. "this is the land of the stars and the stripes!" said the gentleman, in a little fit of virtuous indignation; � "this is the land where all are brothers! where 'all men are born free and equal!' " "mr. stackpole," said fleda, in a tone that called his attention; "are you well acquainted with the popular proverbs of your country?" "not particularly," he said. he had never made it a branch of study. "i am a great admirer of them." he bowed, and begged to be excused for remarking that he didn't see the point yet. "do you remember this one, sir," said fleda, colouring a little; " 'those that live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones?' " "i have heard it; but, pardon me, though your remark seems to imply the contrary, i am in the dark yet. what unfortunate points of vitrification have i laid open to your fire?" "i thought they were probably forgotten by you, sir." "i shall be exceedingly obliged to you if you will put me in condition to defend myself." "i think nothing could do that, mr. stackpole. under whose auspices and fostering care was this curse of slavery laid upon america?" "why, of course � but you will observe, miss ringgan, that at that day the world was unenlightened on a great many points; since then, we have cast off the wrong which we then shared with the rest of mankind." "ay, sir, but not until we had first repudiated it, and englishmen had desired to force it back upon us at the point of the sword. four times �" "but, my dear fleda," interrupted mrs. evelyn, "the english nation have no slaves, nor slave-trade; they have put an end to slavery entirely, everywhere under their flag." "they were very slow about it," said fleda. "four times the government of massachusetts abolished the slave-trade under their control, and four times the english government thrust it back upon them. do you remember what burke says about that, in his speech on conciliation with america?" "it don't signify what burke says about it," said mr. stackpole, rubbing his chin � "burke is not the first authority; but, miss ringgan, it is undeniable that slavery, and the slave-trade too, does at this moment exist in the interior of your own country." "i will never excuse what is wrong, sir; but i think it becomes an englishman to be very moderate in putting forth that charge." "why?" said he, hastily: "we have done away with it entirely in our own dominions � wiped that stain clean off. not a slave can touch british ground but he breathes free air from that minute." "yes, sir; but candour will allow that we are not in a condition in this country to decide the question by a _tour de force_." "what is to decide it, then!" said he, a little arrogantly. "the progress of truth in public opinion." "and why not the government, as well as our government!" "it has not the power, you know, sir." "not the power! well, that speaks for itself." "nothing against us, on a fair construction," said fleda, patiently. "it is well known, to those who understand the subject" � "where did you learn so much about it, fleda?" said mrs. evelyn, humourously. "as the birds pick up their supplies, ma'am � here and there. it is well known, mr. stackpole, that our constitution never could have been agreed upon, if that question of slavery had not been, by common consent, left where it was � with the separate state governments." "the separate state governments! � well, why do not _they_ put an end to it? the disgrace is only shifted." "of course, they must first have the consent of the public mind of those states." "ah! their consent! and why is their consent wanting?" "we cannot defend ourselves there," said mrs. evelyn. "i wish we could." "the disgrace, at least, is shifted from the whole to a part. but will you permit me," said fleda, "to give another quotation from my despised authority, and remind you of an englishman's testimony, that beyond a doubt that point of emancipation would never have been carried in parliament had the interests of even a part of the electors been concerned in it!" "it was done, however, and done at the expense of twenty millions of money." "and i am sure that was very noble," said florence. "it was what no nation but the english would ever have done," said mrs. evelyn. "i do not wish to dispute it," said fleda; "but still it was doing what did not touch the sensitive point of their own well-being." "_we_ think there is a little national honour concerned in it," said mr. stackpole, drily, stroking his chin again. "so does every right-minded person," said mrs. evelyn. "i am sure i do." "and i am sure so do i," said fleda; "but i think the honour of a piece of generosity is considerably lessened by the fact that it is done at the expense of another." "generosity!" said mr. stackpole; "it was not generosity, it was justice � there was no generosity about it." "then it deserves no honour at all," said fleda, "if it was merely that; the tardy execution of justice is but the removal of a reproach." "we englishmen are of opinion, however," said mr. stackpole, contentedly, "that the removers of a reproach are entitled to some honour, which those who persist in retaining it cannot claim." "yes," said fleda, drawing rather a long breath, "i acknowledge that; but i think that, while some of these same englishmen have shown themselves so unwilling to have the condition of their own factory slaves ameliorated, they should be very gentle in speaking of wrongs which we have far less ability to rectify." "ah! i like consistency," said mr. stackpole. "america shouldn't dress up poles with liberty caps, till all who walk under are free to wear them. she cannot boast that the breath of her air and the breath of freedom are one." "can england?" said fleda, gently � "when her own citizens are not free from the horrors of impressment?" "pshaw!" said mr. stackpole, half in a pet and half laughing; "why where did you get such a fury against england? you are the first _fair_ antagonist i have met on this side of the water." "i wish i was a better one, sir," said fleda, laughing. "miss ringgan has been prejudiced by an acquaintance with one or two unfortunate specimens," said mrs. evelyn. "ay!" said mr. stackpole, a little bitterly; "america is the natural birthplace of prejudice � always was." "displayed, first, in maintaining the rights against the swords of englishmen; latterly, how, mr. stackpole?" "it isn't necessary to enlighten _you_ on any part of the subject," said he, a little pointedly. "fleda, my dear, you are answered," said mrs. evelyn, apparently with great internal amusement. "yet you will indulge me so far as to indicate what part of the subject you are upon?" said fleda, quietly. "you must grant so much as that to so gentle a requisition, mr. stackpole," said the older lady. "i venture to assume that you do not say that on your own account, mrs. evelyn?" "not at all � i agree with you, that americans are prejudiced; but i think it will pass off, mr. stackpole, as they learn to know themselves and other countries better." "but how do they deserve such a charge and such a defence? or how have they deserved it?" said fleda. "tell her, mr. stackpole," said mrs. evelyn. "why," said mr. stackpole, "in their absurd opposition to all the old and tried forms of things, and rancorous dislike of those who uphold them; and in their pertinacity on every point where they might be set right, and impatience of hearing the truth." "are they singular in that last item?" said fleda. "now," said mr. stackpole, not heeding her, "there's your treatment of the aborigines of this country � what do call that, for a _free_ people?" "a powder magazine, communicating with a great one of your own somewhere else; so, if you are a good subject, sir, you will not carry a lighted candle into it." "one of our own � where?" said he. "in india," said fleda with a glance � "and there are i don't know how many trains leading to it � so, better hands off, sir." "where did you pick up such a spite against us?" said mr. stackpole, drawing a little back and eyeing her as one would a belligerent mouse or cricket. "will you tell me now that americans are not prejudiced?" "what do you call prejudice?" said fleda, smiling. "oh, there is a great deal of it, no doubt, here, mr. stackpole," said mrs. evelyn, blandly; "but we shall grow out of it in time; it is only the premature wisdom of a young people." "and young people never like to hear their wisdom rebuked," said. mr. stackpole, bowing. "fleda, my dear, what for is that little significant shake of your head?" said mrs. evelyn, in her amused voice. "a trifle, ma'am." "covers a hidden rebuke, mrs. evelyn, i have no doubt, for both our last remarks. what is it, miss fleda? � i dare say we can bear it." "i was thinking, sir, that none would trouble themselves much about our foolscap if we had not once made them wear it." "mr. stackpole, you are worsted! � i only wish mr. carleton had been here!" said mrs. evelyn, with a face of excessive delight. "i wish he had," said fleda, "for then i need not have spoken a word." "why," said mr. stackpole, a little irritated, "you suppose he would have fought for you against me?" "i suppose he would have fought for truth against anybody, sir," said fleda. "even against his own interests?" "if i am not mistaken in him," said fleda, "he reckons his own and those of truth identical." the shout that was raised at this by all the ladies of the family made her look up in wonderment. "mr. carleton," said mrs. evelyn, "what do you say to that, sir?" the direction of the lady's eye made fleda spring up and face about. the gentleman in question was standing quietly at the back of her chair � too quietly, she saw, to leave any doubt of his having been there some time. mr. stackpole uttered an ejaculation, but fleda stood absolutely motionless, and nothing could be prettier than her colour. "what do you say to what you have heard, mr. carleton?" said mrs. evelyn. fleda's eyes were on the floor, but she thoroughly appreciated the tone of the question. "i hardly know whether i have listened with most pleasure or pain, mrs. evelyn." "pleasure!" said constance. "pain!" said mr. stackpole. "i am certain miss ringgan was pure from any intention of giving pain," said mrs. evelyn, with her voice of contained fun. "she has no national antipathies, i am sure � unless in the case of the jews � she is too charming a girl for that." "miss ringgan cannot regret less than i a word that she has spoken," said mr. carleton, looking keenly at her as she drew back and took a seat a little off from the rest. "then why was the pain?" said mr. stackpole. "that there should have been any occasion for them, sir." "well, i wasn't sensible of the occasion, so i didn't feel the pain," said mr. stackpole, drily � for the other gentleman's tone was almost haughtily significant. "but if i had, the pleasure of such sparkling eyes would have made me forget it. good evening, mrs. evelyn � good evening, my gentle antagonist � it seems to me you have learned, if it is permissible to alter one of your favourite proverbs, that it is possible to _break two windows_ with one stone. however, i don't feel that i go away with any of mine shattered." "fleda, my dear," said mrs. evelyn, laughing, "what do you say to that?" "as he is not here, i will say nothing to it, mrs. evelyn," said fleda, quietly drawing off to the table with her work, and again in a tremor from head to foot. "why, didn't you see mr. carleton come in?" said edith, following her; "i did � he came in long before you had done talking, and mamma held up her finger and made him stop; and he stood at the back of your chair the whole time listening. mr. stackpole didn't know he was there either. but what's the matter with you?" "nothing," said fleda; but she made her escape out of the room the next instant. "mamma," said edith, "what ails fleda?" "i don't know, my love," said mrs. evelyn. "nothing, i hope." "there does, though," said edith, decidedly. "come here, edith," said constance, "and don't meddle with matters above your comprehension. miss ringgan has probably hurt her hand with throwing stones." "hurt her hand!" said edith. but she was taken possession of by her eldest sister. "that is a lovely girl, mr. carleton," said mrs. evelyn, with an indescribable look � outwardly benign, but beneath that most keen in its scrutiny. he bowed rather abstractedly. "she will make a charming little farmer's wife � don't you think so?" "is that her lot, mrs. evelyn?" he said, with a somewhat incredulous smile. "why, no � not precisely," said the lady; "you know, in the country, or you do not know, the ministers are half farmers, but i suppose not more than half; just such a mixture as will suit fleda, i should think. she has not told me in so many words, but it is easy to read so ingenuous a nature as hers, and i have discovered that there is a most deserving young friend of mine settled at queechy that she is by no means indifferent to. i take it for granted that will be the end of it," said mrs. evelyn, pinching her sofa cushion in a great many successive places, with a most composed and satisfied air. but mr. carleton did not seem at all interested in the subject, and presently introduced another. chapter viii. "it is a hard matter for friends to meet: but mountains may be removed with earthquakes, and so encounter." as you like it. "what have we to do to-night?" said florence, at breakfast the next morning. "you have no engagement, have you?" said her mother. "no, mamma," said constance, arching her eyebrows � "we are to taste the sweets of domestic life � you, as head of the family, will go to sleep in the _dormeuse_, and florence and i shall take turns in yawning by your side." "and what will fleda do?" said mrs. evelyn, laughing. "fleda, mamma, will be wrapped in remorseful recollections of having enacted a mob last evening, and have enough occupation in considering how she shall repair damages." "fleda , my dear, she is very saucy," said mrs. evelyn, sipping her tea with great comfort. "why should we yawn to-night any more than last night?" said fleda � a question which edith would certainly have asked if she had not been away at school. the breakfast was too late for both her and her father. "last night, my dear, your fractious disposition kept us upon half breath; there wasn't time to yawn. i meant to have eased my breast by laughing afterwards, but that expectation was stifled." "what stifled it?" "i was afraid!" said constance, with a little flutter of her person up and down in her chair. "afraid of what?" "and besides, you know, we can't have our drawing-rooms filled with distinguished foreigners every evening we are not at home. i shall direct the fowling-piece to be severe in his execution of orders to-night, and let nobody in. i forgot!" exclaimed constance, with another flutter � "it is mr. thorn's night! my dearest mamma, will you consent to have the dormeuse wheeled round with its back to the fire? � and florence and i will take the opportunity to hear little edith's lessons in the next room, unless mr. decatur comes. i must endeavour to make the manton comprehend what he has to do." "but what is to become of mr. evelyn?" said fleda; "you make mrs. evelyn the head of the family very unceremoniously." "mr. evelyn, my dear," said constance, gravely, "makes a futile attempt semi-weekly to beat his brains out with a club; and every successive failure encourages him to try again; the only effect being a temporary decapitation of his family; and i believe this is the night on which he periodically turns a frigid eye upon their destitution." "you are too absurd!" said florence, reaching over for a sausage. "dear constance!" said fleda, half laughing, "why do you talk so?" "constance, behave yourself," said her mother. "mamma," said the young lady, "i am actuated by a benevolent desire to effect a diversion of miss ringgan's mind from its gloomy meditations, by presenting to her some more real subjects of distress." "i wonder if you ever looked at such a thing," said fleda. "what 'such a thing'?" "as a real subject of distress." "yes; i have one incessantly before me in your serious countenance. why in the world, fleda, don't you look like other people?" "i suppose, because i don't feel like them." "and why don't you? i am sure you ought to be as happy as most people." "i think i am a great deal happier," said fleda. "than i am?" said the young lady, with arched eyebrows. but they went down, and her look softened in spite of herself, at the eye and smile which answered her. "i should be very glad, dear constance, to know you were as happy as i." "why do you think i am not?" said the young lady, a little tartly. "because no happiness would satisfy me that cannot last." "and why can't it last?" "it is not built upon lasting things." "pshaw!" said constance, "i wouldn't have such a dismal kind of happiness as yours, fleda, for anything." "dismal!" said fleda, smiling; "because it can never disappoint me? or because it isn't noisy?" "my dear little fleda," said constance, in her usual manner, "you have lived up there among the solitudes till you have got morbid ideas of life, which it makes me melancholy to observe. i am very much afraid they verge towards stagnation." "no, indeed!" said fleda, laughing; "but, if you please, with me the stream of life has flowed so quietly, that i have looked quite to the bottom, and know how shallow it is, and growing shallower; i could not venture my bark of happiness there; but with you it is like a spring torrent � the foam and the roar hinder your looking deep into it." constance gave her a significant glance; a strong contrast to the earnest simplicity of fleda's face, and presently inquired if she ever wrote poetry. "shall i have the pleasure, some day, of discovering your uncommon signature in the secular corner of some religious newspaper?" "i hope not," said fleda, quietly. joe manton just then brought in a bouquet for miss evelyn, a very common enlivener of the breakfast-table, all the more when, as in the present case, the sisters could not divine where it came from. it moved fleda's wonder to see how very little the flowers were valued for their own sake; the probable cost, the probable giver, the probable _éclat_, were points enthusiastically discussed and thoroughly appreciated; but the sweet messengers themselves were carelessly set by for other eyes, and seemed to have no attraction for those they were destined to. fleda enjoyed them at a distance, and could not help thinking that heaven sends almonds to those that have no teeth. "this camellia will just do for my hair to-morrow night!" said florence; "just what i want with my white muslin." "i think i will go with you to-morrow, florence," said fleda; "mrs. decatur has asked me so often." "well, my dear, i shall be made happy by your company," said florence abstractedly, examining her bouquet. "i am afraid it hasn't stem enough, constance; never mind � i'll fix it � where is the end of this myrtle? i shall be very glad, of course, fleda, my dear, but" � picking her bouquet to pieces � "i think it right to tell you, privately, i am afraid you will find it very stupid." "oh, i dare say she will not," said mrs. evelyn; "she can go and try, at any rate; she would find it very stupid with me here alone, and constance at the concert; i dare say she will find some one there whom she knows." "but the thing is, mamma, you see, at these _conversaziones_ they never talk anything but french and german � i don't know � _of course_ i should be delighted to have fleda with me, and i have no doubt mrs. decatur would be very glad to have her; but i am afraid she wont enjoy herself." "i do not want to go where i shall not enjoy myself," said fleda, quietly; "that is certain." "of course, you know, dear, i would a great deal rather have you than not; i only speak for what i think would be for your pleasure." "i would do just as i felt inclined, fleda," said mrs. evelyn. "i shall let her encounter the dullness alone, ma'am," said fleda, lightly. but it was not in a light mood that she put on her bonnet after dinner, and set out to pay a visit to her uncle at the library; she had resolved that she would not be near the _dormeuse_ in whatsoever relative position that evening. very, very quiet she was; her grave little face walked through the crowd of busy, bustling, anxious people, as if she had nothing in common with them; and fleda felt that she had very little. half unconsciously, as she passed along the streets, her eye scanned the countenances of that moving panorama; and the report it brought back made her draw closer within herself. she wondered that her feet had ever tripped lightly up those library stairs. "ha! my fair saxon," said the doctor, "what has brought you down here to-day?" "i felt in want of something fresh, uncle orrin, so i thought i would come and see you." "fresh!" said he. "ah! you are pining for green fields, i know. but, you little piece of simplicity, there are no green fields now at queechy, they are two feet deep with snow by this time." "well, i am sure _that_ is fresh," said fleda, smiling. the doctor was turning over great volumes one after another in a delightful confusion of business. "when do you think you shall go north, uncle orrin?" "north?" said he � "what do you want to know about the north?" "you said, you know, sir, that you would go a little out of your way to leave me at home." "i wont go out of my way for anybody. if i leave you there, it will be in my way. why, you are not getting home-sick?" "no sir, not exactly; but i think i will go with you when you go." "that wont be yet awhile; i thought those people wanted you to stay till january." "ay, but suppose i want to do something else?" he looked at her with a comical kind of indecision, and said � "you don't know what you want; i thought when you came in you needn't go further than the glass to see something fresh; but i believe the sea-breezes haven't had enough of you yet. which part of you wants freshening?" he said, in his mock-fierce way. fleda laughed, and said she didn't know. "out of humour, i guess," said the doctor. "i'll talk to you. take this and amuse yourself awhile with something that isn't fresh till i get through, and then you shall go home with me." fleda carried the large volume into one of the reading-rooms, where there was nobody, and sat down at the baize-covered table. but the book was not of the right kind, or her mood was not, for it failed to interest her. she sat nonchalantly turning over the leaves; but mentally she was busy turning over other leaves, which had by far most of her attention. the pages that memory read � the record of the old times passed in that very room, and the old childish light-hearted feelings that were, she thought, as much beyond recall. those pleasant times, when the world was all bright and friends all fair, and the light heart had never been borne down by the pressure of care, nor sobered by disappointment, nor chilled by experience. the spirit will not spring elastic again from under that weight; and the flower that has closed upon its own sweetness will not open a second time to the world's breath. thoughtfully, softly, she was touching and feeling of the bands that years had fastened about her heart � they would not be undone � though so quietly and almost stealthily they had been bound there. she was remembering the shadows that, one after another, had been cast upon her life, till now one soft veil of a cloud covered the whole; no storm-cloud certainly, but also there was nothing left of the glad sunlight that her young eyes rejoiced in. at queechy the first shadow had fallen; it was a good while before the next one, but then they came thick. there was the loss of some old comforts and advantages, that could have been borne; then, consequent upon that, the annoyances and difficulties that had wrought such a change in her uncle, till fleda could hardly look back and. believe that he was the same person. once manly, frank, busy, happy and making his family so � now reserved, gloomy, irritable, unfaithful to his duty, and selfishly throwing down the burden they must take up, but were far less able to bear. and so hugh was changed too; not in loveliness of character and demeanour, nor even much in the always gentle and tender expression of countenance; but the animal spirits and frame, that should have had all the strong cherishing and bracing that affection and wisdom together could have applied, had been left to wear themselves out under trials his father had shrunk from, and other trials his father had made. and mrs. rossitur� it was hard for fleda to remember the face she wore at paris � the bright eye and joyous corners of the mouth, that now were so utterly changed. all by his fault � that made it so hard to bear. fleda had thought all this a hundred times; she went over it now as one looks at a thing one is well accustomed to; not with new sorrow, only in a subdued mood of mind just fit to make the most of it. the familiar place took her back to the time when it became familiar; she compared herself sitting there, and feeling the whole world a blank, except for the two or three at home, with the child who had sat there years before in that happy time "when the feelings were young and the world was new." then the evelyns � why should they trouble one so inoffensive, and so easily troubled as her poor little self? they did not know all they were doing; but if they had eyes, they must see a little of it. why could she not have been allowed to keep her old free, simple feeling with everybody, instead of being hampered, and constrained, and miserable, from this pertinacious putting of thoughts in her head that ought not to be there? it had made her unlike herself, she knew, in the company of several people. and perhaps _they_ might be sharp- sighted enough to read it; but, even if not, how it had hindered her enjoyment! she had taken so much pleasure in the evelyns last year, and in her visit; well, she would go home and forget it, and maybe they would come to their right minds by the next time she saw them. "what pleasant times we used to have here once, uncle orrin!" she said, with half a sigh, the other half quite made up by the tone in which she spoke. but it was not, as she thought, uncle orrin that was standing by her side, and looking up as she finished speaking � fleda saw, with a start, that it was mr. carleton. there was such a degree of life and pleasantness in his eyes, that, in spite of the start, her own quite brightened. "that is a pleasure one may always command," he said, answering part of her speech. "ay, provided one has one's mind always under command," said fleda. "it is possible to sit down to a feast with a want of appetite." "in such a case, what is the best tonic?" his manner, even in those two minutes, had put fleda perfectly at her ease, ill-bred eyes and ears being absent. she looked up and answered, with such entire trust in him, as made her forget that she had ever had any cause to distrust herself. "for me," she said, "as a general rule, nothing is better than to go out of doors � into the woods or the garden � they are the best fresheners i know of. i can do myself good there at times when books are a nuisance." "you are not changed from your old self," he said. the wish was strong upon fleda to know whether _he_ was, but it was not till she saw the answer in his face that she knew how plainly hers had asked the question. and then she was so confused that she did not know what the answer had been. "i find it so, too," he said. "the influences of pure nature are the best thing i know for some moods � after the company of a good horse." "and you on his back, i suppose?" "that was my meaning. what is the doubt thereupon?" said he, laughing. "did i express any doubt?" "or my eyes were mistaken." "i remember they never used to be that," said fleda. "what was it?" "why," said fleda, thinking that mr. carleton had probably retained more than one of his old habits, for she was answering with her old obedience � "i was doubting what the influence is in that case � worth analyzing, i think. i am afraid the good horse's company has little to do with it." "what, then, do you suppose?" said he, smiling. "why," said fleda � "it might be � but i beg your pardon, mr. carleton! i am astonished at my own presumption." "go on, and let me know why," he said, with that happiness of manner which was never resisted. fleda went on, reassuring her courage now and then with a glance. "the relief _might_ spring, sir, from the gratification of a proud feeling of independence � or from a dignified sense of isolation � or an imaginary riding down of opposition � or the consciousness of being master of what you have in hand." she would have added to the general category, "the running away from one's-self;" but the eye and bearing of the person before her forbade even such a thought as connected with him. he laughed, but shook his head. "perhaps, then," said fleda, "it may be nothing worse than the working off of a surplus of energy or impatience that leaves behind no more than can be managed." "you have learned something of human nature since i had the pleasure of knowing you," he said, with a look at once amused and penetrating. "i wish i hadn't," said fleda. her countenance absolutely fell. "i sometimes think," said he, turning over the leaves of her book, "that these are the best companionship one can have � the world at large is very unsatisfactory." "o, how much!" said fleda, with a long breath. "the only pleasant thing that my eyes rested upon as i came through the streets this afternoon, was a huge bunch of violets that somebody was carrying. i walked behind them as long as i could." "is your old love for queechy in full force?" said mr. carleton, still turning over the leaves, and smiling. "i believe so � i should be very sorry to live here long � at home i can always go out and find society that refreshes me." "you have set yourself a high standard," he said, with no displeased expression of the lips. "i have been charged with that," said fleda; "but is it possible to set too high a standard, mr. carleton?" "one may leave one's-self almost alone in the world." "well, even then," said fleda, "i would rather have only the image of excellence than be contented with inferiority." "isn't it possible to do both?" said he, smiling again. "i don't know," said fleda; "perhaps i am too easily dissatisfied � i believe i have grown fastidious, living alone � i have sometimes almost a disgust at the world and everything in it." "i have often felt so," he said; "but i am not sure that it is a mood to be indulged in � likely to further our own good or that of others." "i am sure it is not," said fleda; "i often feel vexed with myself for it; but what can one do, mr. carleton?" "don't your friends the flowers help you in this?" "not a bit," said fleda � "they draw the other way; their society is so very pure and satisfying, that one is all the less inclined to take up with the other." she could not tell quite what to make of the smile with which he began to speak; it half abashed her. "when i spoke, a little while ago," said he, "of the best cure for an ill mood, i was speaking of secondary means simply � the only really humanizing, rectifying, peace-giving thing i ever tried, was looking at time in the light of eternity, and shaming or melting my coldness away in the rays of the sun of righteousness." fleda's eyes, which had fallen on her book, were raised again with such a flash of feeling that it quite prevented her seeing what was in his. but the feeling was a little too strong � the eyes went down, lower than ever, and the features showed that the utmost efforts of self-command were needed to control them. "there is no other cure," he went on in the same tone; � "but disgust and weariness and selfishness shrink away and hide themselves before a word or a look of the redeemer of men. when we hear him say, 'i have bought thee � thou art mine,' it is like one of those old words of healing, 'thou art loosed from thine infirmity' � 'be thou clean' � and the mind takes sweetly the grace and the command together, 'that he who loveth god love his brother also.' only the preparation of the gospel of peace can make our feet go softly over the roughnesses of the way." fleda did not move, unless her twinkling eyelashes might seem to contradict that. "i need not tell you," mr. carleton went on, a little lower, "where this medicine is to be sought." "it is strange," said fleda, presently, "how well one may know, and how well one may forget. but i think the body has a great deal to do with it sometimes � these states of feeling, i mean." "no doubt it has; and in these cases the cure is a more complicated matter. i should think the roses would be useful there?" fleda's mind was crossed by an indistinct vision of peas, asparagus, and sweet corn; she said nothing. "an indirect remedy is sometimes the very best that can be employed. however, it is always true that the more our eyes are fixed upon the source of light, the less we notice the shadows that things we are passing fling across our way." fleda did not know how to talk for a little while; she was too happy. whatever kept mr. carleton from talking, he was silent also. perhaps it was the understanding of her mood. "mr. carleton," said fleda, after a little time, "did you ever carry out that plan of a rose-garden that you were talking of a long while ago?" "you remember it?" said he, with a pleased look. "yes, that was one of the first things i set about, after i went home � but i did not follow the regular fashion of arrangement that one of your friends is so fond of." "i should not like that for anything," said fleda, "and least of all for roses." "do you remember the little shrubbery path that opened just in front of the library windows �leading, at the distance of half a mile, to a long, narrow, winding glen?" "perfectly well," said fleda, � "through the wood of evergreens � oh, i remember the glen very well." "about half way from the house," said he, smiling at her eyes, "a glade opens, which merges at last in the head of the glen � i planted my roses there � the circumstances of the ground were very happy for disposing them according to my wish." "and how far?" "the roses? � oh, all the way, and some distance down the glen. not a continuous thicket of them," he added, smiling again � "i wished each kind to stand so that its peculiar beauty should be fully relieved and appreciated; and that would have been lost in a crowd." "yes, i know it," said fleda; "one's eye rests upon the chief objects of attraction, and the others are hardly seen � they do not even serve as foils. and they must show beautifully against that dark background of firs and larches!" "yes; and the windings of the ground gave me every sort of situation and exposure. i wanted room, too, for the different effects of masses of the same kind growing together, and of fine individuals or groups standing alone, where they could show the full graceful development of their nature." "what a pleasure! � what a beauty it must be!" "the ground is very happy � many varieties of soil and exposure were needed for the plants of different habits, and i found or made them all. the rocky beginnings of the glen even furnished me with south walls for the little tea-roses, and the macartneys, and musk roses; the banksias i kept nearer home." "do you know them all, mr. carleton?" "not quite," said he, smiling at her. "i have seen one banksia � the macartney is a name that tells me nothing." "they are evergreens � with large white flowers � very abundant and late in the season, but they need the shelter of a wall with us." "i should think you would say 'with me,' " said fleda. "i cannot conceive that the head-quarters of the rose tribe should be anywhere else." "one of the queens of the tribe is there, in the neighbourhood of the macartneys � the difficult _rosa sulphurea_ � it finds itself so well accommodated, that it condescends to play its part to perfection. do you know that?" "not at all." "it is one of the most beautiful of all, though not my favourite � it has large double yellow flowers, shaped like the provence � very superb, but as wilful as any queen of them all." "which is your favourite, mr. carleton?" "not that which shows itself most splendid to the eye, but which offers fairest indications to the fancy." fleda looked a little wistfully, for there was a smile rather of the eye than of the lips, which said there was a hidden thought beneath. "don't you assign characters to your flowers?" said he, gravely. "always." "that _rosa sulphurea_ is a haughty high-bred beauty, that disdains even to show herself beautiful, unless she is pleased � i love better what comes nearer home to the charities and wants of every-day life." he had not answered her, fleda knew; she thought of what he had said to mrs. evelyn about liking beauty, but not _beauties_. "then." said he, smiling again in that hidden way, "the head of the glen gave me the soil i needed for the bourbons and french roses." "bourbons?" said fleda. "those are exceeding fine � a hybrid between the chinese and the _rose-à-quatre-saisons_ � i have not confined them all to the head of the glen; many of them are in richer soil, grafted on standards." "i like standard roses," said fleda, "better than any." "not better than climbers?" "better than any climbers i ever saw � except the banksia." "there is hardly a more elegant variety than that, though it is not strictly a climber; and, indeed, when i spoke, i was thinking as much of the training roses. many of the _noisettes_ are very fine. but i have the climbers all over � in some parts nothing else, where the wood closes in upon the path � there the evergreen roses or the ayrshire, cover the ground under the trees, or are trained up the trunks, and allowed to find their own way through the branches down again � the _multiflora_ in the same manner. i have made the _boursault_ cover some unsightly rocks that were in my way. then in wider parts of the glade, nearer home, are your favourite standards � the damask, and provence, and moss, which, you know, are varieties of the _centifolia_, and the _noisette_ standards � some of them are very fine, and the chinese roses, and countless hybrids and varieties of all these, with many bourbons; and your beautiful american yellow rose, and the austrian briar and eglantine, and the scotch, and white and dog roses, in their innumerable varieties, change admirably well with the others, and relieve the eye very happily." "relieve the eye!" said fleda; "my imagination wants relieving! isn't there � i have a fancy that there is � a view of the sea from some parts of that walk, mr. carleton?" "yes � you have a good memory," said he, smiling. "on one side the wood is rather dense, and in some parts of the other side; but elsewhere the trees are thinned off towards the south- west, and in one or two points the descent of the ground and some cutting have given free access to the air and free range to the eye, bounded only by the sea-line in the distance; if, indeed, that can be said to bound anything." "i haven't seen it since i was a child," said fleda. "and for how long a time in the year is this literally a garden of roses, mr. carleton?" "the perpetual roses are in bloom for eight months � the damask and the chinese, and some of their varieties; the provence roses are in blossom all the summer." "ah! we can do nothing like that in this country," said fleda, shaking her head; "our winters are unmanageable." she was silent a minute, turning over the leaves of her book in an abstracted manner. "you have struck out upon a grave path of reflection," said mr. carleton, gently, "and left me bewildered among the roses." "i was thinking," said fleda, looking up and laughing, "i was moralizing to myself upon the curious equalization of happiness in the world; i just sheered off from a feeling of envy, and comfortably reflected that one measures happiness by what one knows � not by what one does not know; and so, that in all probability i have had near as much enjoyment in the little number of plants that i have brought up and cherished, and know intimately, as you, sir, in your superb walk through fairy-land." "do you suppose," said he, laughing, "that i leave the whole care of fairy-land to my gardener? no, you are mistaken; when the roses are to act as my correctors, i find i must become theirs. i seldom go among them without a pruning knife, and never without wishing for one. and you are certainly right so far � that the plants on which i bestow most pains give me the most pleasure. there are some that no hand but mine ever touches, and those are by far the best loved of my eye." a discussion followed � partly natural, partly moral � on the manner of pruning various roses, and on the curious connection between care and complacency, and the philosophy of the same. "the rules of the library are to shut up at sundown, sir," said one the bookmen, who had come into the room. "sundown!" exclaimed fleda, jumping up; "is my uncle not here, mr. frost?" "he has been gone half an hour, ma'am." "and i was to have gone home with him; i have forgotten myself." "if that is at all the fault of my roses," said mr. carleton, smiling, "i will do my best to repair it." "i am not disposed to call it a fault," said fleda, tying her bonnet-strings; "it is rather an agreeable thing once in a while. i shall dream of those roses, mr. carleton." "that would be doing them too much honour." very happily she had forgotten herself; and during all the walk home her mind was too full of one great piece of joy, and, indeed, too much engaged with conversation to take up her own subject again. her only wish was that they might not meet any of the evelyns; mr. thorn, whom they did meet, was a matter of entire indifference. the door was opened by dr. gregory himself. to fleda's utter astonishment, mr. carleton accepted his invitation to come in. she went up stairs to take off her things, in a kind of maze. "i thought he would go away without my seeing him; and now, what a nice time i have had � in spite of mrs. evelyn!" that thought slipped in without fleda's knowledge, but she could not get it out again. "i don't know how much it has been her fault either, but one thing is certain � i never could have had it at her house. how very glad i am! � how _very_ glad i am! � that i have seen him, and heard all this from his own lips. but how very funny that he will be here to tea!" "well!" said the doctor, when she came down, "you _do_ look freshened up, i declare. here is this girl, sir, was coming to me a little while ago, complaining that she wanted something _fresh_, and begging me to take her back to queechy, forsooth, to find it with two feet of snow on the ground. who wants to see you at queechy?" he said, facing round upon her with a look half fierce, half quizzical. fleda laughed, but was vexed to feel that she could not help colouring, and colouring exceedingly, partly from the consciousness of his meaning, and partly from a vague notion that somebody else was conscious of it, too. dr. gregory, however, dashed right off into the thick of conversation with his guest, and kept him busily engaged till tea-time. fleda sat still on the sofa, looking and listening with simple pleasure � memory served her up a rich entertainment enough. yet she thought her uncle was the most heartily interested of the two in the conversation; there was a shade more upon mr. carleton, not than he often wore, but than he had worn a little while ago. dr. gregory was a great bibliopole, and in the course of the hour hauled out, and made his guest overhaul, no less than several musty old folios, and fleda could not help fancying that he did it with an access of gravity greater even than the occasion called for. the grace of his manner, however, was unaltered; and at tea, she did not know whether she had been right or not. demurely as she sat there behind the tea-urn � for dr. gregory still engrossed all the attention of his guest, as far as talking was concerned � fleda was again inwardly smiling to herself at the oddity and the pleasantness of the chance that had brought those three together in such a quiet way, after all the weeks she had been seeing mr. carleton at a distance. and she enjoyed the conversation, too; for though dr. gregory was a little fond of his hobby, it was still conversation worthy the name. "i have been so unfortunate in the matter of the drives," mr. carleton said, when he was about to take leave, and standing before fleda, "that i am half afraid to mention it again." "i could not help it both those times, mr. carleton," said fleda, earnestly. "both the last? � or both the first?" said he, smiling. "the last!" said fleda. "i have had the honour of making such an attempt twice within the last ten days � to my disappointment." "it was not by my fault then, either, sir," fleda said, quietly. but he knew very well from the expression of her face a moment before, where to put the emphasis her tongue would not make. "dare i ask you to go with me, to-morrow?" "i don't know," said fleda, with the old childish sparkle of her eye; "but if you ask me, sir, i will go." he sat down beside her immediately, and fleda knew, by his change of eye, that her former thought had been right. "shall i see you at mrs. decatur's, to-morrow?" "no, sir." "i thought i understood," said he, in an explanatory tone, "from your friends, the miss evelyns, that they were going." "i believe they are, and i did think of it; but i have changed my mind, and shall stay at home with mrs. evelyn." after some further conversation, the hour for the drive was appointed, and mr. carleton took leave. "come for me twice, and mrs. evelyn refused without consulting me!" thought fleda. "what could make her do so? how very rude he must have thought me! and how glad i am i have had an opportunity of setting that right!" so, quitting mrs. evelyn, her thoughts went off upon a long train of wandering over the afternoon's talk. "wake up!" said the doctor, laying his hand kindly upon her shoulder; "you'll want something fresh again presently. what mine of profundity are you digging into now?" fleda looked up, and came back from her profundity with a glance and smile as simple as a child's. "dear uncle orrin, how came you to leave me alone in the library?" "was that what you were trying to discover?" "oh no, sir! but why did you, uncle orrin? i might have been left utterly alone." "why," said the doctor, "i was going out, and a friend, that i thought i could confide in, promised to take care of you." "a friend! � nobody came near me," said fleda. "then i'll never trust anybody again," said the doctor. "but what were you hammering at, mentally, just now? � come, you shall tell me." "o nothing, uncle orrin," said fleda, looking grave again, however; "i was thinking that i had been talking too much to- day." "talking too much? � why, whom have you been talking to?" "oh, nobody but mr. carleton." "mr. carleton! why, you didn't say six and a quarter words while he was here." "no, but i mean in the library, and walking home." "talking too much! i guess you did," said the doctor; � "your tongue is like 'the music of the spheres, so loud it deafens human ears.' how came you to talk too much? i thought you were too shy to talk at all in company." "no, sir, i am not; i am not at all shy unless people frighten me. it takes almost nothing to do that; but i am very bold if i am not frightened." "were you frightened this afternoon?" "no, sir?" "well, if you weren't frightened, i guess nobody else was," said the doctor. chapter ix. "whence came this? this is some token from a newer friend." shakespeare. the snow-flakes were falling softly and thick when fleda got up the next morning. "no ride for me to-day � but how very glad i am that i had a chance of setting that matter right. what could mrs. evelyn have been thinking of? very false kindness! if i had disliked to go ever so much, she ought to have made me, for my own sake, rather than let me seem so rude � it is true she didn't know _how_ rude. o snow-flakes, how much purer and prettier you are than most things in this place!" no one was in the breakfast-parlour when fleda came down, so she took her book and the _dormeuse_, and had an hour of luxurious quiet before anybody appeared. not a footfall in the house, nor even one outside to be heard, for the soft carpeting of snow which was laid over the streets. the gentle breathing of the fire the only sound in the room, while the very light came subdued through the falling snow and the thin muslin curtains, and gave an air of softer luxury to the apartment. "money is pleasant," thought fleda, as she took a little complacent review of all this before opening her book. "and yet how unspeakably happier one may be without it, than another with it. happiness never was locked up in a purse vet. i am sure hugh and i � they must want me at home!" � there was a little sober consideration of the lumps of coal and the contented-looking blaze in the grate, a most essentially home-like thing � and then fleda went to her book, and for the space of an hour turned over her pages without interruption. at the end of the hour "the fowling-piece," certainly the noisiest of his kind, put his head in, but seeing none of his ladies, took it and himself away again, and left fleda in peace for another half-hour. then appeared mrs. evelyn in her morning wrapper, and only stopping at the bell- handle, came up to the _dormeuse_, and stooping down, kissed fleda's forehead with so much tenderness that it won a look of most affectionate gratitude in reply. "fleda, my dear, we set you a sad example. but you won't copy it. joe, breakfast. has mr. evelyn gone down town?" "yes, ma'am, two hours ago." "did it ever occur to you, fleda, my dear," said mrs. evelyn, breaking the lumps of coal with the poker, in a very leisurely satisfied kind of a way � "did it ever occur to you to rejoice that you were not born a business man? what a life �" "i wonder how it compares with that of a business woman," said fleda, laughing. "there is an uncompromising old proverb which says � 'man's work is from sun to sun � but a woman's work is never done.' " a saying which, she instantly reflected, was entirely beyond the comprehension of the person to whose consideration she had offered it. and then came in florence, rubbing her hands and knitting her eyebrows. "why, you don't look as bright as the rest of the world this morning," said fleda. "what a wretched storm!" "wretched! this beautiful snow! here have i been enjoying it for this hour." but florence rubbed her hands, and looked as if fleda were no rule for other people. "how horrid it will make the going out to-night, if it snows all day!" "then you, can stay at home," said her mother, composedly. "indeed i shall not, mamma." "mamma," said constance, now coming in with edith, "isn't breakfast ready? it strikes me that the fowling-piece wants polishing up. i have an indistinct impression that the sun would be upon the meridian, if he was anywhere." "not quite so bad as that," said fleda, smiling; "it is only an hour and a half since i came down stairs." "you horrid little creature! � mamma, i consider it an act of inhospitality to permit studious habits on the part of your guests. and i am surprised your ordinary sagacity has not discovered that it is the greatest impolicy towards the objects of your maternal care. we are labouring under growing disadvantages; for when we have brought the enemy to, at long shot, there is a mean little craft that comes in and unmans him, in a close fight, before we can get our speaking-trumpets up." "constance! � do hush!" said her sister. "you are too absurd." "fact," said constance, gravely. "captain lewiston was telling me the other night how the thing is managed; and i recognised it immediately, and told him i had often seen it done." "hold your tongue, constance," said her mother, smiling, "and come to breakfast." half, and but half, of the mandate the young lady had any idea of obeying. "i can't imagine what you are talking about, constance," said edith. "and then, being a friend, you see," pursued constance, "we can do nothing but fire a salute, instead of demolishing her." "can't you!" said fleda. "i am sure many a time i have felt as if you had left me nothing but my colours." "except your prizes, my dear. i am sure i don't know about your being a friend, either, for i have observed that you engage english and american alike." "she is getting up her colours now," said mrs. evelyn, in mock gravity � "you call tell what she is." "blood-red!" said constance. "a pirate! � i thought so," she exclaimed, with an ecstatic gesture. "i shall make it my business to warn everybody." "oh, constance!" said fleda, burying her face in her hands. but they all laughed. "fleda, my dear, i would box her ears," said mrs. evelyn, commanding herself. it is a mere envious insinuation � i have always understood those were the most successful colours carried." "dear mrs. evelyn!" � "my dear fleda, that is not a hot roll � you shan't eat it � take this. florence, give her a piece of the bacon � fleda, my dear, it is good for the digestion � you must try it. constance was quite mistaken in supposing yours were those obnoxious colours � there is too much white with the red � it is more like a very different flag." "like what, then, mamma!" said constance; "a good american would have blue in it." "you may keep the american yourself," said her mother. "only," said fleda, trying to recover herself, "there is a slight irregularity; with you the stars are blue and the ground white." "my dear little fleda," exclaimed constance, jumping up, and capering round the table to kiss her, "you are too delicious for anything; and in future i will be blind to your colours, which is a piece of self-denial i am sure nobody else will practise." "mamma," said edith, "what _are_ you all talking about? can't constance sit down and let fleda eat her breakfast?" "sit down, constance, and eat your breakfast." "i will do it, mamma, out of consideration for the bacon. nothing else would move me." "are you going to mrs. decatur's to-night, fleda?" "no, edith, i believe not." "i'm very glad; then there'll be somebody at home. but why don't you?" "i think, on the whole, i had rather not." "mamma," said constance, "you have done very wrong in permitting such a thing. i know just how it will be. mr. thorn and mr. stackpole will make indefinite voyages of discovery round mrs. decatur's rooms, and then, having a glimmering perception that the light of miss ringgan's eyes is in another direction, they will sheer off; and you will presently see them come sailing blandly in, one after the other, and cast anchor for the evening; when, to your extreme delight, mr. stackpole and miss ringgan will immediately commence fighting. i shall stay at home to see!" exclaimed constance, with little bounds of delight up and down upon her chair, which this time afforded her the additional elasticity of springs; "i will not go. i am persuaded how it will be, and i would not miss it for anything." "dear constance," said fleda, unable to help laughing through all her vexation, "please do not talk so. you know very well mr. stackpole only comes to see your mother." "he was here last night," said constance, in an extreme state of delight, "with all the rest of your admirers, ranged in the hall, with their hats in a pile at the foot of the staircase, as a token of their determination not to go till you came home; and, as they could not be induced to come up to the drawing-room, mr. evelyn was obliged to go down, and with some difficulty persuaded them to disperse." fleda was by this time in a state of indecision betwixt crying and laughing, assiduously attentive to her breakfast. "mr. carleton asked me if you would go to ride with him again the other day, fleda," said mrs. evelyn, with her face of delighted mischief, "and i excused you, for i thought you would thank me for it." "mamma," said constance, "the mention of that name rouses all the bitter feelings i am capable of. my dear fleda, we have been friends; but if i see you abstracting my english rose �" "look at those roses behind you!" said fleda. the young lady turned and sprang at the word, followed by both her sisters; and for some moments nothing but a hubbub of exclamations filled the air. "joe, you are enchanting! but did you ever see such flowers? oh, those rose-buds!" "and these camellias," said edith; "look, florence, how they are cut � with such splendid long stems!" "and the roses, too � all of them � see, mamma, just cut from the bushes, with the buds all left on, and immensely long stems! mamma, these must have cost an immensity!" "that is what i call a bouquet," said fleda, fain to leave the table, too, and draw near the tempting show in florence's hand. "this is the handsomest you have had all winter, florence," said edith. "handsomest! i never saw anything like it. i shall wear some of these to-night, mamma." "you are in a great hurry to appropriate it," said constance; "how do you know but it is mine?" "which of us is it for, joe?" "say it is mine, joe, and i will vote you � the best article of your kind," said constance, with an inexpressible glance at fleda. "who brought it, joe?" said mrs. evelyn. "yes, joe, who brought it? where did it come from, joe?" joe had hardly a chance to answer. "i really couldn't say, miss florence; the man wasn't known to me." "but did he say it was for florence or for me?" "no, ma'am � he �" "_which_ did he say it was for?" "he didn't say it was either for miss florence or for you, miss constance; he �" "but didn't he say who sent it?" "no, ma'am. it's �" "mamma, here is a white moss that is beyond everything! with two of the most lovely buds. oh!" said constance, clasping her hands, and whirling about the room in comic ecstasy, "i sha'n't survive it if i cannot find out where it is from." "how delicious the scent of these tea-roses is!" said fleda. "you ought not to mind the snow-storm to-day, after this, florence. i should think you would be perfectly happy." "i shall be, if i can contrive to keep them fresh to wear to- night. mamma, how sweetly they would dress me!" "they're a great deal too good to be wasted so," said mrs. evelyn; "i sha'n't let you do it." "mamma! it wouldn't take any of them at all for my hair, and the _bouquet de corsage_, too; there'd be thousands left. well, joe, what are you waiting for?" "i didn't say," said joe, looking a good deal blank and a little afraid � "i should have said � that the bouquet � is �" "what is it?" "it is � i believe, ma'am � the man said it was for miss ringgan." "for me!" exclaimed fleda, her cheeks forming instantly the most exquisite commentary on the gift that the giver could have desired. she took in her hand the superb bunch of flowers from which the fingers of florence unclosed as if it had been an icicle. "why didn't you say so before?" she inquired sharply; but the "fowling-piece" had wisely disappeared. "i am very glad!" exclaimed edith. "they have had plenty all winter, and you haven't had one. i am very glad it is yours, fleda." but such a shadow had come upon every other face that fleda's pleasure was completely overclouded. she smelled at her roses, just ready to burst into tears, and wishing sincerely that they had never come. "i am afraid, my dear fleda," said mrs. evelyn, quietly going on with her breakfast, "that there is a thorn somewhere among those flowers." fleda was too sure of it; but not by any means the one mrs. evelyn intended. "he never could have got half those from his own green-house, mamma," said florence, "if he had cut every rose that was in it; and he isn't very free with his knife, either." "i said nothing about anybody's greenhouse," said mrs. evelyn, "though i don't suppose there is more than one lot in the city they could have come from." "well," said constance, settling herself back in her chair and closing her eyes, "i feel extinguished! mamma, do you suppose it possible that a hot cup of tea might revive me? i am suffering from a universal sense of unappreciated merit, and nobody can tell what the pain is that hasn't felt it." "i think you are extremely foolish, constance," said edith. "fleda hasn't had a single flower sent her since she has been here, and you have had them every other day. i think florence is the only one that has a right to be disappointed." "dear florence," said fleda, earnestly, "you shall have as many of them as you please, to dress yourself � and welcome!" "oh, no � of course not!" florence said; "it's of no sort of consequence � i don't want them in the least, my dear. i wonder what somebody would think to see his flowers in my head!" fleda secretly had mooted the same question, and was very well pleased not to have it put to the proof. she took the flowers up stairs after breakfast, resolving that they should not be an eyesore to her friends; placed them in water, and sat down to enjoy and muse over them in a very sorrowful mood. she again thought she would take the first opportunity of going home. how strange! � out of their abundance of tributary flowers, to grudge her this one bunch! to be sure, it was a magnificent one. the flowers were mostly roses, of the rarer kinds, with a very few fine camellias; all of them cut with a freedom that evidently had known no constraint but that of taste, and put together with an exquisite skill that fleda felt sure was never possessed by any gardener. she knew that only one hand had had anything to do with them, and that the hand that had bought, not the one that had sold; and "how very kind!" presently quite supplanted "how very strange!" "how exactly like him! and how singular that mrs. evelyn and her daughters should have supposed they could have come from mr. thorn!" it was a moral impossibility that _he_ should have put such a bunch of flowers together; while to fleda's eye they so bore the impress of another person's character, that she had absolutely been glad to get them out of sight for fear they might betray him. she hung over their varied loveliness, tasted and studied it, till the soft breath of the roses had wafted away every cloud of disagreeable feeling, and she was drinking in pure and strong pleasure from. each leaf and bud. what a very apt emblem of kindness and friendship she thought them; when their gentle preaching and silent sympathy could alone so nearly do friendship's work; for to fleda there was both counsel and consolation in flowers. so she found it this morning. an hour's talk with them had done her a great deal of good; and, when she dressed herself and went down to the drawing-room, her grave little face was not less placid than the roses she had left; she would not wear even one of them down to be a disagreeable reminder. and she thought that still snowy day was one of the very pleasantest she had had in new york. florence went to mrs. decatur's; but constance, according to her avowed determination, remained at home to see the fun. fleda hoped most sincerely there would be none for her to see. but, a good deal to her astonishment, early in the evening, mr. carleton walked in, followed very soon by mr. thorn. constance and mrs. evelyn were forthwith in a perfect effervescence of delight, which as they could not very well give it full play, promised to last the evening; and fleda, all her nervous trembling awakened again, took her work to the table, and endeavoured to bury herself in it. but ears could not be fastened as well as eyes; and the mere sound of mrs. evelyn's voice sometimes sent a thrill over her. "mr. thorn," said the lady, in her smoothest manner, "are you a lover of floriculture, sir?" "can't say that i am, mrs. evelyn � except as practised by others." "then you are not a _connoisseur_ in roses? miss ringgan's happy lot � sent her a most exquisite collection this morning, and she has been wanting to apply to somebody who could tell her what they are � i thought you might know. oh, they are not here," said mrs. evelyn, as she noticed the gentleman's look round the room; "miss ringgan judges them too precious for any eyes but her own. fleda, my dear, wont you bring down your roses to let mr. thorn tell us their names?" "i am sure mr. thorn will excuse me, mrs. evelyn � i believe he would find it a puzzling task." "the surest way, mrs. evelyn, would be to apply at the fountain head for information," said thorn, drily. "if i could get at it," said mrs. evelyn (fleda knew, with quivering lips) � "but it seems to me i might as well try to find the dead sea!" "perhaps mr. carleton might serve your purpose," said thorn. that gentleman was at the moment talking to constance. "mr. carleton," said mrs. evelyn, "are you a judge, sir?" "of what, mrs. evelyn? � i beg your pardon." the lady's tone somewhat lowered. "are you a judge of roses, mr. carleton?" "so far as to know a rose when i see it," he answered, smiling, and with an imperturbable coolness that it quieted fleda to hear. "ay, but the thing is," said constance, "do you know twenty roses when you see them?" "miss ringgan, mr. carleton," said mrs. evelyn, "has received a most beautiful supply this morning; but, like a true woman, she is not satisfied to enjoy unless she can enjoy intelligently � they are strangers to us all, and she would like to know what name to give them; mr. thorn suggested that perhaps you might help us out of our difficulty." "with great pleasure, so far as i am able � if my judgment may be exercised by day-light. i cannot answer for shades of green in the night-time." but he spoke with an ease and simplicity that left no mortal able to guess whether he had ever heard of a particular bunch of roses in his life before. "you give me more of eve in my character, mrs. evelyn, than i think belongs to me," said fleda, from her work at the far centre-table, which certainly did not get its name from its place in the room. "my enjoyment to-day has not been in the least troubled by curiosity." which none of the rest of the family could have affirmed. "do you mean to say, mr. carleton," said constance, "that it is necessary to distinguish between shades of green in judging of roses?" "it is necessary to make shades of distinction in judging of almost anything, miss constance. the difference between varieties of the same flower is often extremely nice." "i have read of magicians," said thorn, softly, bending down towards fleda's work � "who did not need to see things to answer questions respecting them." fleda thought that was a kind of magic remarkably common in the world; but even her displeasure could not give her courage to speak. it gave her courage to be silent, however; and mr. thorn's best efforts, in a conversation of some length, could gain nothing but very uninterested rejoinders. a sudden pinch from constance then made her look up, and almost destroyed her self-possession, as she saw mr. stackpole male his way into the room. "i hope i find my fair enemy in a mollified humour," he said, approaching them. "i suppose you have repaired damages, mr. stackpole," said constance, "since you venture into the region of broken windows again." "mr. stackpole declared there were none to repair," said mrs. evelyn, from the sofa. "more than i knew of," said the gentleman, laughing � "there were more than i knew of; but you see i court the danger, having rashly concluded that i might as well know all my weak points at once." "miss ringgan will break nothing to-night, mr. stackpole � she promised me she would not." "not even her silence?" said the gentleman. "is she always so desperately industrious?" said mr. thorn. "miss ringgan, mr. stackpole," said constance, "is subject to occasional fits of misanthropy, in which cases her retreating with her work to the solitude of the centre-table is significant of her desire to avoid conversation � as mr. thorn has been experiencing." "i am happy to see that the malady is not catching, miss constance." "mr. stackpole," said constance, "i am in a morose state of mind! � miss ringgan, this morning, received a magnificent bouquet of roses, which, in the first place, i rashly appropriated to myself; and ever since i discovered my mistake, i have been meditating the renouncing of society � it has excited more bad feelings than i thought had existence in my nature." "mr. stackpole," said mrs. evelyn, "would you ever have supposed that roses could be a cause of discord?" mr. stackpole looked as if he did not exactly know what the ladies were driving at. "there have five thousand emigrants arrived at this port within a week!" said he, as if that were something worth talking about. "poor creatures! where will they all go?" said mrs. evelyn, comfortably. "country's large enough," said thorn. "yes � but such a stream of immigration will reach the pacific, and come back again before long; and then there will be a meeting of the waters! this tide of german and irish will sweep over everything." "i suppose, if the land will not bear both, one party will have to seek other quarters," said mrs. evelyn, with an exquisite satisfaction, which fleda could hear in her voice. "you remember the story of lot and abraham, mr. stackpole � when a quarrel arose between them? � not about roses." mr. stackpole looked as if women were � to say the least � incomprehensible. "five thousand a week!" he repeated. "i wish there was a dead sea for them all to sheer off into!" said thorn. "if you had seen the look of grave rebuke that speech called forth, mr. thorn," said constance, "your feelings would have been penetrated � if you have any." "i had forgotten," he said, looking round with a bland change of manner, "what gentle charities were so near me." "mamma!" said constance, with a most comic show of indignation, "mr. thorn thought that with miss ringgan he had forgotten all the gentle charities in the room! � i am of no further use to society! � i will trouble you to ring that bell, mr. thorn, if you please. i shall request candles, and retire to the privacy of my own apartment." "not till you have permitted me to expiate my fault," said mr. thorn, laughing. "it cannot be expiated! � my worth will be known at some future day. mr. carleton, will you have the goodness to summon our domestic attendant?" "if you will permit me to give the order," he said, smiling, with his hand on the bell. "i am afraid you are hardly fit to be trusted alone." "why?" "may i delay obeying you long enough to give my reasons?" "yes." "because," said he, coming up to her, "when people turn away from the world in disgust, they generally find worse company in themselves." "mr. carleton! � i would not sit still another minute, if curiosity didn't keep me. i thought solitude was said to be such a corrector!" "like a clear atmosphere � an excellent medium if your object is to take an observation of your position; worse than lost if you mean to shut up the windows and burn sickly lights of your own." "then, according to that, one shouldn't seek solitude unless one doesn't want it." "no," said mr. carleton, with that eye of deep meaning to which constance always rendered involuntary homage � "every one wants, it; if we do not daily take an observation to find where we are, we are sailing about wildly, and do not know whither we are going." "an observation?" said constance, understanding part, and impatient of not catching the whole of his meaning. "yes," he said, with a smile of singular fascination � "i mean, consulting the unerring guides of the way to know where we are, and if we are sailing safely and happily in the right direction � otherwise we are in danger of striking upon some rock, or of never making the harbour; and in either case, all is lost." the power of eye and smile was too much for constance, as it had happened more than once before; her own eyes fell, and for a moment she wore a look of unwonted sadness and sweetness, at what from any other person would have roused her mockery. "mr. carleton," said she, trying to rally herself, but still not daring to look up, knowing that would put it out of her power, "i can't understand how you ever came to be such a grave person." "what is your idea of gravity?" said he smiling. "to have a mind so at rest about the future, as to be able to enjoy thoroughly all that is worth enjoying in the present?" "but i can't imagine how _you_ ever came to take up such notions." "may i ask again, why not i?" "oh, you know, you have so much to make you otherwise." "what degree of present contentment ought to make one satisfied to leave that of the limitless future an uncertain thing?" "do you think it can be made certain?" "undoubtedly! � why not? the tickets are free � the only thing is, to make sure that ours has the true signature. do you think the possession of that ticket makes life a sadder thing? the very handwriting of it is more precious to me, by far, miss constance, than everything else i have." "but you are a very uncommon instance," said constance, still unable to look up, and speaking without any of her usual attempt at jocularity. "no, i hope not," he said, quietly. "i mean," said constance, "that it is very uncommon language to hear from a person like you." "i suppose i know your meaning," he said, after a minute's pause; "but, miss constance, there is hardly a graver thought to me, than that power and responsibility go hand in hand." "it don't generally work so," said constance, rather uneasily. "what are you talking about, constance?" said mrs. evelyn. "mr. carleton, mamma, has been making me melancholy." "mr. carleton," said mrs. evelyn, "i am going to petition that you will turn your efforts in another direction. i have felt oppressed all the afternoon, from the effects of that funeral service i was attending � i am only just getting over it. the preacher seemed to delight in putting together all the gloomy thoughts he could think of." "yes," said mr. stackpole, putting his hands in his pockets, "it is the particular enjoyment of some of them, i believe, to do their best to make other people miserable." mr. thorn said nothing, being warned by the impatient little hammering of fleda's worsted needle upon the marble, while her eye was no longer considering her work, and her face rested anxiously upon her hand. "there wasn't a thing," the lady went on, "in anything he said; in his prayer or his speech, there wasn't a single cheering or elevating consideration � all he talked and prayed for was, that the people there might be filled with a sense of their wickedness �" "it's their trade, ma'am," said mr. stackpole � "it's their trade! i wonder if it ever occurs to them to include themselves in that petition." "there wasn't the slightest effort made, in anything he said, or prayed for � and one would have thought that would have been so natural; there was not the least endeavour to do away with that superstitious fear of death which is so common � and one would think it was the very occasion to do it; he never once asked that we might be led to look upon it rationally and calmly. it's so unreasonable, mr. stackpole � it is so dissonant with our views of a benevolent supreme being � as if it could be according to _his_ will that his creatures should live lives of tormenting themselves � it so shows a want of trust in his goodness." "it's a relic of barbarism, ma'am," said mr. stackpole � it's a popular delusion, and it is like to be, till you can get men to embrace wider and more liberal views of things." "what do you suppose it proceeds from?" said mr. carleton, as if the question had just occurred to him. "i suppose from false notions received from education, sir." "hardly," said mr. carleton; "it is too universal. you find it everywhere; and to ascribe it everywhere to education would be but shifting the question back one generation." "it is a root of barbarous ages," said mr. stackpole � "a piece of superstition handed down from father to son � a set of false ideas which men are bred up and almost born with, and that they can hardly get rid of." "how can that be a root of barbarism, which the utmost degree of intelligence and cultivation has no power to do away, nor even to lessen, however it may afford motive to control? men may often put a brave face upon it, and show none of their thoughts to the world; but i think, no one, capable of reflection, has not at times felt the influence of that dread." "men have often sought death, of purpose and choice," said mr. stackpole, drily, and rubbing his chin. "not from the absence of this feeling, but from the greater momentary pressure of some other." "of course," said mr. stackpole, rubbing his chin still, "there is a natural love of life � the world could not get on if there was not." "if the love of life is natural, the fear of death must be so, by the same reason." "undoubtedly," said mrs. evelyn, "it is natural � it is part of the constitution of our nature." "yes," said mr. stackpole, settling himself again in his chair, with his hands in his pockets � "it is not unnatural, i suppose � but then that is the first view of the subject � it is the business of reason to correct many impressions and prejudices that are, as we say, natural." "and there was where my clergyman of to-day failed utterly," said mrs. evelyn � "he aimed at strengthening that feeling, and driving it down as hard as he could into everybody's mind � not a single lisp of anything to do it away, or lessen the gloom with which we are, naturally, as you say, disposed to invest the subject." "i dare say he has held it up as a bugbear till it has become one to himself," said mr. stackpole. "is it nothing more than the mere natural dread of dissolution?" said mr. carleton. "i think it is that," said mrs. evelyn � "i think that is the principal thing." "is there not, besides, an undefined fear of what lies beyond � an uneasy misgiving, that there may be issues which the spirit is not prepared to meet?" "i suppose there is," said mrs. evelyn � "but, sir �" "why, that is the very thing," said mr. stackpole � "that is the mischief of education i was speaking of � men are brought up to it." "you cannot dispose of it so, sir, for this feeling is quite as universal as the other, and so strong, that men have not only been willing to render life miserable, but even to endure death itself, with all the aggravation of torture, to smooth their way in that unknown region beyond." "it is one of the maladies of human nature," said mr. stackpole, "that it remains for the progress of enlightened reason to dispel." "what is the cure for the malady?" said mr. carleton, quietly. "why, sir, the looking upon death as a necessary step in the course of our existence, which simply introduces us from a lower to a higher sphere � from a comparatively narrow to a wider and nobler range of feeling and intellect." "ay, but how shall we be sure that it is so?" "why, mr. carleton, sir," said mrs. evelyn, "do you doubt that? do you suppose it possible, for a moment, that a benevolent being would make creatures to be anything but happy?" "you believe the bible, mrs. evelyn?" he said, smiling slightly. "certainly, sir; but, mr. carleton, the bible, i am sure, holds out the same views, of the goodness and glory of the creator � you cannot open it but you find them on every page. if i could take such views of things as some people have," said mrs. evelyn, getting up to punch the fire in her extremity � "i don't know what i should do! mr. carleton, i think i would rather never have been born, sir!" "every one runs to the bible!" said mr. stackpole. "it is the general armoury, and all parties draw from it to fight each other." "true," said mr. carleton, "but only while they draw partially. no man can fight the battle of truth but in the whole panoply, and no man so armed can fight any other." "what do you mean, sir?" "i mean that the bible is not a riddle, neither inconsistent with itself; but if you take off one leg of a pair of compasses, the measuring power is gone." "but, mr. carleton, sir," said mrs. evelyn � "do you think that reading the bible is calculated to give one gloomy ideas of the future?" "by no means," he said, with one of those meaning-fraught smiles; "but is it safe, mrs. evelyn, in such a matter, to venture a single grasp of hope without the direct warrant of god's word?" "well, sir?" "well, ma'am, that says, 'the soul that sinneth, it shall die.' " "that disposes of the whole matter comfortably at once," said mr. stackpole. "but, sir," said mrs. evelyn � "that doesn't stand alone � the bible everywhere speaks of the fulness and freeness of christ's salvation!" "full and free as it can possibly be," he answered, with something of a sad expression of countenance; "but, mrs. evelyn, _never offered but with conditions_." "what conditions?" said mr. stackpole, hastily. "i recommend you to look for them, sir," answered mr. carleton, gravely; � "they should not be unknown to a wise man." "then you would leave mankind ridden by this nightmare of fear? � or what is your remedy?" "there is a remedy, sir," said mr. carleton, with that dilating and darkening eye which showed him deeply engaged in what he was thinking about; "it is not mine. when men feel themselves lost, and are willing to be saved in god's way, then the breach is made up � then hope can look across the gap and see its best home and its best friend on the other side � then faith lays hold on forgiveness, and trembling is done � then, sin being pardoned, the sting of death is taken away and the fear of death is no more, for it is swallowed up in victory. but men will not apply to a physician while they think themselves well; and people will not seek the sweet way of safety by christ till they know there is no other; and so, do you see, mrs. evelyn, that when the gentleman you were speaking of sought to-day to persuade his hearers that they were poorer than they thought they were, he was but taking the surest way to bring them to be made richer than they ever dreamed." there was a power of gentle earnestness in his eye that mrs. evelyn could not answer; her look fell as that of constance had done, and there was a moment's silence. thorn had kept quiet, for two reasons � that he might not displease fleda, and that he might watch her. she had left her work and turning half round from the table, had listened intently to the conversation, towards the last, very forgetful that there might be anybody to observe her � with eyes fixed and cheeks flushing, and the corners of the mouth just indicating delight � till the silence fell; and then she turned round to the table and took up her worsted-work. but the lips were quite grave now, and thorn's keen eyes discerned that upon one or two of the artificial roses there lay two or three very natural drops. "mr. carleton," said edith, "what makes you talk such sober things? � you have set miss ringgan to crying." "mr. carleton could not be better pleased than at such a tribute to his eloquence," said mr. thorn, with a saturnine expression. "smiles are common things," said mr. stackpole, a little maliciously; "but any man may be flattered to find his words drop diamonds." "fleda, my dear," said mrs. evelyn, with that trembling tone of concealed ecstasy which always set every one of fleda's nerves a-jarring � "you may tell the gentlemen that they do not always know when they are making an unfelicitous compliment � i never read what poets say about 'briny drops' and 'salt tears', without imagining the heroine immediately to be something like lot's wife." "nobody said anything about briny drops, mamma," said edith; "why, there's florence!" her entrance made a little bustle, which fleda was very glad of. unkind! � she was trembling again in every finger. she bent down over her canvas and worked away as hard as she could. that did not hinder her becoming aware presently that mr. carleton was standing close beside her. "are you not trying your eyes?" said he. the words were nothing, but the tone was a great deal; there was a kind of quiet intelligence in it. fleda looked up, and something in the clear steady self-reliant eye she met wrought an instant change in her feeling. she met it a moment, and then looked at her work again with nerves quieted. "cannot i persuade them to be of my mind?" said mr. carleton, bending down a little nearer to their sphere of action. "mr. carleton is unreasonable to require more testimony of that this evening," said mr. thorn; "his own must have been ill employed." fleda did not look up, but the absolute quietness of mr. carleton's manner could be felt; she felt it, almost with sympathetic pain. thorn immediately left them, and took leave. "what are you searching for in the papers, mr. carleton?" said mrs. evelyn, presently coming up to them. "i was looking for the steamers, mrs. evelyn." "how soon do you think of bidding us good-bye?" "i do not know, ma'am," he answered, coolly; "i expect my mother." mrs. evelyn walked back to her sofa. but in the space of two minutes she came over to the centre- table again, with an open magazine in her hand. "mr. carleton," said the lady, "you must read this for me, and tell me what you think of it, will you, sir? i have been showing it to mr. stackpole, and he can't see any beauty in it; and i tell him it is his fault, and there is some serious want in his composition. now, i want to know what you will say to it." "an arbiter, mrs. evelyn, should be chosen by both parties." "read it and tell me what you think!" repeated the lady, walking away, to leave him opportunity. mr. carleton looked it over. "that is something pretty," he said, putting it before fleda. mrs. evelyn was still at a distance. "what do you think of that print for trying the eyes?" said fleda, laughing as she took it. but he noticed that her colour rose a little. "how do you like it?" "i like it pretty well," said fleda, rather hesitatingly. "you have seen it before?" "why?" fleda said, with a look up at him, at once a little startled and a little curious � "what makes you say so?" "because � pardon me � you did not read it." "oh," said fleda, laughing, but colouring at the same time very frankly, "i can tell how i like some things without reading them very carefully." mr. carleton looked at her, and then took the magazine again. "what have you there, mr. carleton?" said florence. "a piece of english, on which i was asking this lady's opinion, miss evelyn." "now, mr. carleton," exclaimed constance, jumping up � "i am going to ask you to decide a quarrel between fleda and me about a point of english �" "hush, constance!" said her mother � "i want to speak to mr. carleton. mr. carleton, how do you like it?" "like what, mamma?" said florence. "a piece i gave mr. carleton to read. mr. carleton, tell me how you like it, sir." "but what is it, mamma!" "a piece of poetry in an old _excelsior_ � 'the spirit of the fireside.' mr. carleton, wont you read it aloud, and let us all hear? but tell me, first, what you think of it." "it has pleased me particularly, mrs. evelyn." "mr. stackpole says he does not understand it, sir." "fanciful," said mr. stackpole; "it's a little fanciful � and i can't quite make out what the fancy is." "it has been the misfortune of many good things before, not to be prized, mr. stackpole," said the lady, funnily. "true, ma'am," said that gentleman, rubbing his chin, "and the converse is also true, unfortunately, and with a much wider application." "there is a peculiarity of mental development or training," said mr. carleton, "which must fail of pleasing many minds, because of their wanting the corresponding key of nature or experience. some literature has a hidden free-masonry of its own." "very hidden, indeed!" said mr. stackpole; "the cloud is so thick that i can't see the electricity." "mr. carleton," said mrs. evelyn, laughing, "i take that remark as a compliment, sir; i have always appreciated that writer's pieces; i enjoy them very much." "well, wont you, please, read it, mr. carleton?" said florence, "and let us know what we are talking about." mr. carleton obeyed, standing where he was, by the centre- table. "by the old hearthstone a spirit dwells, the child of bygone years � he lieth hid the stones amid, and liveth on smiles and tears. "but when the night is drawing on, and the fire burns clear and bright, he cometh out and walketh about in the pleasant grave twilight. "he goeth round on tiptoe soft, and scanneth close each face; if one in the room be sunk in gloom, by him he taketh his place. "and then with fingers cool and soft (their touch who does not know?) with water brought from the well of thought, that was dug long years ago, "he layeth his hand on the weary eyes � they are closed and quiet now; � and he wipeth away the dust of the day which had settled on the brow. "and gently then he walketh away and sits in the corner chair; and the closed eyes swim � it seemeth to him the form that once sat there. "and whisper'd words of comfort and love fall sweet on the ear of sorrow; � 'why weepest thou? � thou art troubled now, but there cometh a bright to-morrow. " 'we, too, have pass'd over life's wild stream in a frail and shatter'd boat, but the pilot was sure � and we sail'd secure when we seem'd but scarce afloat. " 'though toss'd by the rage of waves and wind, the bark held together still, one arm was strong � it bore us along, and has saved from every ill.' "the spirit returns to his hiding-place, but his words have been like balm. the big tears start, but the fluttering heart is sooth'd, and soften'd, and calm." "i remember that," said florence; "it is beautiful." "who's the writer?" said mr. stackpole. "i don't know," said mrs. evelyn, "it is signed 'hugh'. there have been a good many of his pieces in the _excelsior_, for a year past, and all of them pretty." "hugh!" exclaimed edith, springing forward, "that's the one that wrote the chestnuts! fleda, wont you read mr. carleton the chestnuts?" "why, no, edith; i think not." "ah, do! i like it so much, and i want him to hear it; and you know mamma says they're all pretty. wont you?" "my dear edith, you have heard it once already to-day" "but i want you to read it for me again." "let me have it, miss edith," said mr. carleton, smiling. "i will read it for you." "ah, but it would be twice as good if you could hear her read it," said edith, fluttering over the leaves of the magazine, "she reads it so well. it's so funny � about the coffee and buckwheat cakes." "what is that, edith?" said her mother. "something mr. carleton is going to read for me, mamma." "don't you trouble mr. carleton." "it won't trouble him, mamma; he promised of his own accord." "let us all have the benefit of it, mr. carleton," said the lady. it is worthy of remark that fleda's politeness utterly deserted her during the reading of both this piece and the last. she as near as possible turned her back upon the reader. "merrily sang the crickets forth one fair october night; and the stars look'd down, and the northern crown gave its strange fantastic light. "a nipping frost was in the air, on flowers and grass it fell; and the leaves were still on the eastern hill, as if touched by a fairy spell. "to the very top of the tall nut-trees the frost-king seemed to ride; with his wand he stirs the chestnut burrs, and straight they are open'd wide. "and squirrels and children together dream of the coming winter's hoard; and many, i ween, are the chestnuts seen in hole or in garret stored. "the children are sleeping in feather-beds � poor bun in his mossy nest; _he_ courts repose with his tail on his nose, on the others warm blankets rest. "late in the morning the sun gets up from behind the village spire; and the children dream that the first red gleam is the chestnut-trees on fire! "the squirrel had on when he first awoke, all the clothing he could command; and his breakfast was light � he just took a bite of an acorn that lay at hand: "and then he was off to the trees to work: while the children some time it takes to dress and to eat what _they_ think meet of coffee and buckwheat cakes. "the sparkling frost, when they first go out, lies thick upon all around; and earth and grass, as they onward pass, give a pleasant crackling sound. "oh, there is a heap of chestnuts, see!' cried the youngest of the train; for they came to a stone where the squirrel had thrown what he meant to pick up again. "and two bright eyes, from the tree o'er head, look'd down at the open bag where the nuts went in � and so to begin, almost made his courage flag. "away on the hill, outside the wood, three giant trees there stand: and the chestnuts bright, that hang in sight, are eyed by the youthful band. "and one of their number climbs the tree, and passes from bough to bough � and the children run � for with pelting fun the nuts fall thickly now. "some of the burrs are still shut tight � some open with chestnuts three, and some nuts fall with no burrs at all � smooth, shiny, as nuts should be. "oh, who can tell what fun it was to see the prickly shower: to feel what a whack on head or back was within a chestnut's power! "to run beneath the shaking tree, and then to scamper away; and with laughing shout to dance about the grass where the chestnuts lay. "with flowing dresses, and blowing hair, and eyes that no shadow knew, like the growing light of a morning bright � the dawn of the summer blue! "the work was ended � the trees were stripped � the children were 'tired of play:' and they forgot (but the squirrel did not) the wrong they had done that day." whether it was from the reader's enjoyment or good giving of these lines, or from edith's delight in them, he was frequently interrupted with bursts of laughter. "i can understand _that_," said mr. stackpole, "without any difficulty." "you are not lost in the mysteries of chestnutting in open daylight," said mrs. evelyn. "mr. carleton," said edith, "wouldn't you have taken the squirrel's chestnuts?" "i believe i should, miss edith, if i had not been hindered." "but what would have hindered you? don't you think it was right?" "ask your friend, miss ringgan, what she thinks of it," said he, smiling. "now, mr. carleton," said constance, as he threw down the magazine, "will you decide that point of english between miss ringgan and me?" "i should like to hear the pleadings on both sides, miss constance." "well, fleda, will you agree to submit it to mr. carleton?" "i must know by what standards mr. carleton will be guided, before i agree to any such thing," said fleda. "standards! but aren't you going to trust anybody in anything, without knowing what standards they go by ?" "would that be a safe rule to follow in general?" said fleda, smiling. "you wont be a true woman if you don't follow it, sooner or later, my dear fleda," said mrs. evelyn. "every woman must." "the later the better, ma'am, i cannot help thinking." "you will change your mind," said mrs. evelyn, complacently. "mamma's notions, mr. stackpole, would satisfy any man's pride, when she is expatiating upon the subject of woman's dependence," said florence. "the dependence of affection," said mrs. evelyn. "of course! it's their lot. affection always leads a true woman to merge her separate judgment, on anything, in the judgment of the beloved object." "ay," said fleda, laughing, "suppose her affection is wasted on an object that has none?" "my dear fleda!" said mrs. evelyn, with a funny expression, "that can never be, you know; don't you remember what your favourite, longfellow, says, � 'affection never is wasted'? � florence, my love, just hand me 'evangeline,' there � i want you to listen to it, mr. stackpole, here it is � 'talk not of wasted affection: affection never was wasted: if it enrich not the heart of another, its waters returning back to their springs, shall fill them full of refreshment. that which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.' " "how very plain it is that was written by a man," said fleda. "why?" said mr. carleton, laughing. "i always thought it was so exquisite!" said florence. "_i_ was so struck with it," said constance, "that i have been looking ever since for an object to waste _my_ affections upon." "hush, constance!" said her mother. "don't you like it, mr. carleton?" "i should like to hear miss ringgan's commentary," said mr. stackpole; "i can't anticipate it. i should have said the sentiment was quite soft and tender enough for a woman." "don't you agree with it, mr. carleton?" repeated mrs. evelyn. "i beg leave to second mr. stackpole's motion," he said, smiling. "fleda, my dear, you must explain yourself; the gentlemen are at a stand." "i believe, mrs. evelyn," said fleda, smiling and blushing � "i am of the mind of the old woman who couldn't bear to see anything wasted." "but the assertion is, that it _isn't_ wasted," said mr. stackpole. " 'that which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain,' " said mrs. evelyn. "yes, to flood and lay waste the fair growth of nature," said fleda, with a little energy, though her colour rose and rose higher. "did it never occur to you, mrs. evelyn, that the streams which fertilize as they flow, do but desolate if their course be checked?" "but your objection lies only against the author's figure," said mr. stackpole � "come to the fact." "i was speaking as he did, sir, of the fact under the figure � i did not mean to separate them." both the gentlemen were smiling, though with very different expression. "perhaps," said mr. carleton, "the writer was thinking of a gentler and more diffusive flow of kind feeling, which, however it may meet with barren ground and raise no fruit there, is sure, in due time, to come back, heaven-refined, to refresh and replenish its source." "perhaps so," said fleda, with a very pleased answering look � "i do not recollect how it is brought in � i may have answered rather mrs. evelyn than mr. longfellow." "but granting that it is an error," said mr. stackpole, "as you understood it � what shows it to have been made by a man?" "its utter ignorance of the subject, sir." "you think _they_ never waste their affections?" said he. "by no means! but i think they rarely waste so much in any one direction as to leave them quite impoverished." "mr. carleton, how do you bear that, sir?" said mrs. evelyn. "will you let such an assertion pass unchecked?" "i would not, if i could help it, mrs. evelyn." "that isn't saying much for yourself," said constance; "but fleda, my dear, where did you get such an experience of waste and desolation?" "oh, 'man is a microcosm,' you know," said fleda, lightly. "but you make it out that only one-half of mankind can appropriate that axiom," said mr. stackpole. "how can a woman know _men's_ hearts so well?" "on the principle that the whole is greater than a part?' said mr. carleton, smiling. "i'll sleep upon that, before i give my opinion," said mr. stackpole. "mrs. evelyn, good evening!" � "well, mr. carleton!" said constance, "you have said a great deal for women's minds." "some women's minds," he said, with a smile. "and some men's minds," said fleda. "i was speaking only in the general." her eye half unconsciously reiterated her meaning as she shook hands with mr. carleton. and without speaking a word for other people to hear, his look and smile in return were more than an answer. fleda sat for some time after he was gone, trying to think what it was in eye and lip which had given her so much pleasure. she could not make out anything but approbation � the look of loving approbation that one gives to a good child; but she thought it had also something of that quiet intelligence � a silent communication of sympathy which the others in company could not share. she was roused from her reverie by mrs. evelyn. "fleda, my dear, i am writing to your aunt lucy � have you any message to send?" "no, mrs. evelyn � i wrote myself to-day." and she went back to her musings. "i am writing about you, fleda," said mrs. evelyn again, in a few minutes. "giving a good account, i hope, ma'am," said fleda, smiling. "i shall tell her i think sea-breezes have an unfavourable effect upon you," said mrs. evelyn � "that i am afraid you are growing pale; and that you have clearly expressed yourself in favour of a garden at queechy, rather than any lot in the city � or anywhere else � so she had better send for you home immediately." fleda tried to find out what the lady really meant; but mrs. evelyn's delighted amusement did not consist with making the matter very plain. fleda's questions did nothing but aggravate the cause of them, to her own annoyance; so she was fain at last to take her light and go to her own. she looked at her flowers again with a renewal of the first pleasure and of the quieting influence the giver of them had exercised over her that evening; thought again how very kind it was of him to send them, and to choose them so; how strikingly he differed from other people; how glad she was to have seen him again, and how more than glad that he was so happily changed from his old self. and then from that change and the cause of it, to those higher, more tranquillizing, and sweetening influences that own no kindred with earth's dust, and descend like the dew of heaven to lay and fertilize it. and when she laid herself down to sleep, it was with a spirit grave, but simply happy; every annoyance and unkindness as unfelt now as ever the parching heat of a few hours before when the stars are abroad. chapter x. "a snake bedded himself under the threshold of a country house." l'estrange. to fleda's very great satisfaction mr. thorn was not seen again for several days. it would have been to her very great comfort, too, if he could have been permitted to die out of mind as well as out of sight; but he was brought up before her "lots of times," till poor fleda almost felt as if she was really in the moral neighbourhood of the dead sea, every natural growth of pleasure was so withered under the barren spirit of raillery. sea-breezes were never so disagreeable since winds blew; and nervous and fidgety again whenever mr. carleton was present, fleda retreated to her work and the table, and withdrew herself as much as she could from notice and conversation; feeling humbled � feeling sorry, and vexed, and ashamed, that such ideas should have been put into her head, the absurdity of which, she thought, was only equalled by their needlessness. "as much as she could" she withdrew; but that was not entirely; now and then interest made her forget herself, and quitting her needle she would give eyes and attention to the principal speaker as frankly as he could have desired. bad weather and bad roads for those days put riding out of the question. one morning she was called down to see a gentleman, and came eschewing in advance the expected image of mr. thorn. it was a very different person. "charlton rossitur! my dear charlton, how do you do? where did you come from?" "you had better ask me what i have come for," he said, laughing, as he shook hands with her. "what have you come for?" "to carry you home." "home?" said fleda. "i am going up there for a day or two, and mamma wrote me i had better act as your escort, which, of course, i am most willing to do. see what mamma says to you." "when are you going, charlton?" said fleda, as she broke the seal of the note he gave her. "to-morrow morning." "that is too sudden a notice, captain rossitur," said mrs. evelyn. "fleda will hurry herself out of her colour, and then your mother will say there is something in sea-breezes that isn't good for her; and then she will never trust her within reach of them again � which i am sure miss ringgan would be sorry for." fleda took her note to the window, half angry with herself that a kind of banter, in which certainly there was very little wit, should have power enough to disturb her. but though the shaft might be a slight one, it was winged with a will; the intensity of mrs. evelyn's enjoyment in her own mischief gave it all the force that was wanting. fleda's head was in confusion; she read her aunt's note three times over before she had made up her mind on any point respecting it. "my dearest fleda, "charlton is coming home for a day or two � hadn't you better take the opportunity to return with him? i feel as if you had been long away, my dear child � don't you feel so too? your uncle is very desirous of seeing you; and as for hugh and me, we are but half ourselves. i would not still say a word about your coming home if it were for your good to stay; but i fancy from something in mrs. evelyn's letter, that queechy air will by this time do you good again; and opportunities of making the journey are very uncertain. my heart has grown lighter since i gave it leave to expect you. � yours, my darling, r. "p. s. � i will write to mrs. e. soon." "what string has pulled these wires that are twitching me home?" thought fleda, as her eyes went over and over the words which the feeling of the lines of her face would alone have told her were unwelcome. and why unwelcome? � "one likes to be moved by fair means and not by foul," was the immediate answer. "and, besides, it is very disagreeable to be taken by surprise. whenever in any matter of my staying or going, did aunt lucy have any wish but my pleasure?" fleda mused a little while; and then, with a perfect understanding of the machinery that had been at work, though an extremely vague and repulsed notion of the spring that had moved it, she came quietly out from her window and told charlton she would go with him. "but not to-morrow?" said mrs. evelyn, composedly. "you will not hurry her off so soon as that captain rossitur?" "furloughs are the stubbornest things in the world, mrs. evelyn; there is no spirit of accommodation about them. mine lies between to-morrow morning, and one other morning some two days thereafter; and you might as soon persuade atlas to change his place. will you be ready, coz?" "i will be ready," said fleda; and her cousin departed. "now, my dear fleda,"' said mrs. evelyn, but it was with that funny face, as she saw fleda standing thoughtfully before the fire; "you must be very careful in getting your things together �" "why, mrs. evelyn?" "i am afraid you will leave something behind you, my love." "i will take care of that, ma'am, and that i may, i will go and see about it at once." very busy till dinner-time; she would not let herself stop to think about anything. at dinner, mr. evelyn openly expressed his regrets for her going, and his earnest wishes that she would at least stay till the holidays were over. "don't you know fleda better, papa," said florence, "than to try to make her alter her mind? when she says a thing is determined upon, i know there is nothing to do but to submit with as good a grace as you can." "i tried to make captain rossitur leave her a little longer," said mrs. evelyn; "but he says furloughs are immovable, and his begins to-morrow morning � so he was immovable too. i should keep her notwithstanding, though, if her aunt lucy hadn't sent for her." "well, see what she wants, and come back again," said mr. evelyn. "thank you, sir," said fleda, smiling gratefully; "i think not this winter." "there are two or three of my friends that will be confoundedly taken aback," said mr. evelyn, carefully helping himself to gravy. "i expect that an immediate depopulation of new york will commence," said constance, "and go on till the heights about queechy are all thickly settled with elegant country seats, which is the conventional term for a species of mouse-trap." "hush, you baggage," said her father. "fleda, i wish you could spare her a little of your common sense, to go through the world with." "papa thinks, you see, my dear, that you have _more than enough_, which is not, perhaps, precisely the compliment he intended." "i take the full benefit of his and yours," said fleda, smiling. after dinner, she had just time to run down to the library to bid dr. gregory good-bye � her last walk in the city. it wasn't a walk she enjoyed much. "going to-morrow!" said he. "why, i am going to boston in a week, you had better stay, and go with me." "i can't now, uncle orrin, i am dislodged, and you know there is nothing to do then but to go." "come and stay with me till next week." but fleda said it was best not, and went home to finish her preparations. she had no chance till late, for several gentlemen spent he evening with them. mr. carleton was there part of the time, but he was one of the first to go; and fleda could not find an opportunity to say that she should not see him again. her timidity would not allow her to make one. but it grieved her. at last she escaped to her own room, where most of her packing was still to do. by the time half the floor and all the bed was strewn with neat-looking piles of things � the varieties of her modest wardrobe � florence and constance came in to see and talk with her, and sat down on the floor too; partly, perhaps, because the chairs were all bespoken in the service of boxes and baskets, and partly to follow what seemed to be the prevailing style of things. "what do you suppose has become of mr. thorn?" said constance. "i have a presentiment that you will find him cracking nuts sociably with mr. rossitur, or drinking one of aunt lucy's excellent cups of coffee, in comfortable expectation of your return." "if i thought that, i should stay here," said fleda. "my dear, those were my cups of coffee." "i wish i could make you think it, then," said constance. "but you are glad to go home, aren't you, fleda?" said florence. "she isn't," said her sister. "she knows mamma contemplates making a grand entertainment of all the jews, as soon as she is gone. what _does_ mamma mean by that, fleda? i observe you comprehend her with most invariable quickness." "i should be puzzled to explain all that your mother means," said fleda, gently, as she went on bestowing her things in the trunk. "no, i am not particularly glad to go home, but i fancy it is time. i am afraid i have grown too accustomed to your luxury of life, and want knocking about to harden me a little." "harden you!" said constance. "my dear fleda, you are under a delusion. why should any one go through an indurating process? will you inform me?" "i don't say that every one should," said fleda; "but isn't it well for those whose lot does not lie among soft things?" there was extreme sweetness, and a touching insinuation in her manner, and both the young ladies were silent for some time thereafter, watching somewhat wistfully the gentle hands and face that were so quietly busy, till the room was cleared again, and looked remarkably empty, with fleda's trunk standing in the middle of it. and then, reminding them that she wanted some sleep to fit her for the hardening process, and must therefore send them away, she was left alone. one thing fleda had put off till then � the care of her bunch of flowers. they were beautiful still. they had given her a very great deal of pleasure; and she was determined they should be left to no servant's hands to be flung into the street. if it had been summer, she was sure she could have got buds from them; as it was, perhaps she might strike some cuttings; at all events, they should go home with her. so, carefully taking them out of the water, and wrapping the ends in some fresh earth she had got that very afternoon from her uncle's garden, fleda bestowed them in the corner of her trunk that she had left for them, and went to bed, feeling weary in body, and in mind to the last degree quiet. in the same mind and mood she reached queechy the next afternoon. it was a little before january � just the same time that she had come home last year. as then, it was a bright day, and the country was again covered thick with the unspotted snow; but fleda forgot to think how bright and fresh it was. somehow she did not feel this time quite so glad to find herself there. it had never occurred to her so strongly before, that queechy could want anything. this feeling flew away before the first glimpse of her aunt's smile, and, for half an hour after, fleda would have certified that queechy wanted nothing. at the end of that time came in mr. rossitur. his greeting of charlton was sufficiently unmarked; but eye and lip wakened when he turned to fleda. "my dear child," he said, holding her face in both his hands, "how lovely you have grown!" "that's only because you have forgotten her, father," said hugh, laughing. it was a very lovely face just then. mr. rossitur gazed into it a moment, and again kissed first one cheek and then the other, and then suddenly withdrew his hands and turned away, with an air � fleda could not tell what to make of it � an air that struck her with an immediate feeling of pain; somewhat as if for some cause or other he had nothing to do with her or her loveliness. and she needed not to see him walk the room for three minutes to know that michigan agencies had done nothing to lighten his brow, or uncloud his character. if this had wanted confirmation, fleda would have found it in her aunt's face. she soon discovered, even in the course of the pleasant talkative hours before supper, that it was not brightened, as she had expected to find it, by her uncle's coming home; and her ears now caught painfully the occasional long breath, but half smothered, which told of a burden upon the heart but half concealed. fleda supposed that mr. rossitur's business affairs at the west must have disappointed him; and resolved not to remember that michigan was in the map of north america. still they talked on, through the afternoon and evening, all of them except him: he was moody and silent. fleda felt the cloud overshadow sadly her own gaiety; but mrs. rossitur and hugh were accustomed to it, and charlton was much too tall a light to come under any external obscuration whatever. he was descanting brilliantly upon the doings and prospects at fort hamilton, where he was stationed, much to the entertainment of his mother and brother. fleda could not listen to him, while his father was sitting lost in something not half so pleasant as sleep, in the corner of the sofa. her eyes watched him stealthily, till she could not bear it any longer. she resolved to bring the power of her sunbeam to bear, and, going round, seated herself on the sofa close by him, and laid her hand on his arm. he felt it immediately. the arm was instantly drawn away to be put round her, and fleda was pressed nearer to his side, while the other hand took hers; and his lips were again on her forehead. "and how do you like me for a farmer, uncle rolf?" she said, looking up at him, laughingly, and then fearing immediately that she had chosen her subject ill. not from any change in his countenance, however � that decidedly brightened up. he did not answer at once. "my child, you make me ashamed of mankind!" "of the dominant half of them, sir, do you mean?" said charlton � "or is your observation a sweeping one?" "it would sweep the greatest part of the world into the background, sir," answered his father, drily, "if its sense were the general rule." "and what has fleda done to be such a besom of desolation?" fleda's laugh set everybody else a-going, and there was immediately more life and common feeling in the society than had been all day. they all seemed willing to shake off a weight, and even fleda, in the endeavour to chase the gloom that hung over others, as it had often happened, lost half of her own. "but still i am not answered," said charlton, when they were grave again. "what has fleda done to put such a libel upon mankind?" "you should call it a _label_, as dr. quackenboss does," said fleda, in a fresh burst; "he says he never would stand being labelled!" "but come back to the point," said charlton; "i want to know what is the label in this case, that fleda's doings put upon those of other people?" "insignificance," said his father, drily. "i should like to know how bestowed," said charlton. "don't enlighten him, uncle rolf," said fleda, laughing; "let my doings remain in safe obscurity, please." "i stand as a representative of mankind," said charlton, "and i demand an explanation." "look at what this slight frame and delicate nerves have been found equal to, and then tell me if the broad shoulders of all your mess would have borne half the burden, or their united heads accomplished a quarter the results." he spoke with sufficient depth of meaning, though now with no unpleasant expression. but charlton, notwithstanding, rather gathered himself up. "oh, uncle rolf," said fleda, gently, "nerves and muscles haven't much to do with it; after all, you know, i have just served the place of a mouthpiece. seth was the head, and good earl douglass the hand." "i am ashamed of myself and of mankind," mr. rossitur repeated, "when i see what mere weakness can do, and how proudly valueless strength is contended to be. you are looking, captain rossitur; but, after all, a cap and plume really makes a man taller only to the eye." "when i have flung my plume in anybody's face, sir," said charlton, rather hotly, "it will be time enough to throw it back again." mrs. rossitur put her. hand on his arm, and looked her remonstrance. "are you glad to be home again, dear fleda?" she said, turning to her. but fleda was making some smiling communications to her uncle, and did not seem to hear. "fleda, does it seem pleasant to be here again?" "very pleasant, dear aunt lucy, though i have had a very pleasant visit too." "on the whole, you do not wish you were at this moment driving out of town in mr. thorn's cabriolet?" said her cousin. "not in the least," said fleda, coolly. how did you know i ever did such a thing?" "i wonder what should bring mr. thorn to queechy at this time of year," said hugh. fleda started at this confirmation of constance's words; and, what was very odd, she could not get rid of the impression that mr. rossitur had started too. perhaps it was only her own nerves, but he had certainly taken away the arm that was round her. "i suppose he has followed miss ringgan," said charlton, gravely. "no," said hugh, "he has been here some little time." "then he preceded her, i suppose, to see and get the sleighs in order." "he did not know i was coming," said fleda. "didn't!" "no, i have not seen him for several days." "my dear little cousin," said charlton, laughing, "you are not a witch in your own affairs, whatever you may be in those of other people." "why, charlton?" "you are no adept in the art of concealment." "i have nothing to conceal," said fleda. "how do you know he is here, hugh?" "i was anxiously asked the other day," said hugh, with a slight smile, "whether you had come home, and then told that mr. thorn was in queechy. there is no mistake about it, for my informant had actually seen him, and given him the directions to mr. plumfield's, for which he was inquiring." "the direction to mr. plumfield's!" said fleda. "what's your old friend, mr. carleton, doing in new york?" said charlton. "is he there still?" said mrs. rossitur. "large as life," answered her son. "which, though you might not suppose it, aunt lucy, is about the height of captain rossitur, with � i should judge � a trifle less weight." "your eyes are observant!" said charlton. "of a good many things," said fleda, lightly. "he is _not_ my height by half an inch!" said charlton; "i am just six feet without my boots." "an excellent height!" said fleda � " 'your six feet was ever the only height.' " "who said that?" said charlton. "isn't it enough that i say it?" "what's he staying here for?" "i don't know really," said fleda. "it's very difficult to tell what people do things for." "have you seen much of him?" said mrs. rossitur. "yes, ma'am, a good deal � he was often at mrs. evelyn's." "is he going to marry one of her daughters?" "oh, no!" said fleda, smiling; "he isn't thinking of such a thing; � not in america � i don't know what he may do in england." "no!" said charlton, "i suppose he would think himself contaminated by matching with any blood in this hemisphere." "you do him injustice" said fleda, colouring; � "you do not know him, charlton." "you do?" "much better than that." "and he is not one of the most touch-me-not pieces of english birth and wealth that ever stood upon their own dignity?" "not at all," said fleda, � "how people may be misunderstood! � he is one of the most gentle and kind persons i ever saw." "to you!" "to everybody that deserves it." "humph! � and not proud?" "no, not as you understand it," � and she felt it was very difficult to make him understand it, as the discovery involved a very offensive implication; � "he is too fine a character to be proud." "that _is_ arguing in a circle with a vengeance!" said charlton. "i know what you are thinking of," said fleda, "and i suppose it passes for pride with a great many people who cannot comprehend it � he has a singular power of quietly rebuking wrong, and keeping impertinence at a distance � where, captain rossitur, for instance, i suppose, would throw his cap in a man's face, mr. carleton's mere silence would make the offender doff his and ask pardon." the manner in which this was said precluded all taking offence. "well," said charlton, shrugging his shoulders "then i don't know what pride is � that's all!" "take care, captain rossitur," said fleda, laughing � "i have heard of such a thing as american pride before now." "certainly!" said charlton; "and i'm quite willing � but it never reaches quite such a towering height on our side the water." "i am sure i don't know how that may be," said fleda; "but i know i have heard a lady, an enlightened, gentle-tempered american lady, so called � i have heard her talk to a poor irishwoman with whom she had nothing in the world to do, in a style that moved my indignation � it stirred my blood! � and there was nothing whatever to call it out. 'all the blood of all the howards,' i hope, would not have disgraced itself so." "what business have you to 'hope' anything about it?" "none � except from the natural desire to find what one has a right to look for. but, indeed, i wouldn't take the blood of all the howards for any security: pride, as well as high- breeding, is a thing of natural not adventitious growth: it belongs to character, not circumstance." "do you know that your favourite, mr. carleton, is nearly connected with those same howards, and quarters their arms with his own?" "i have a very vague idea of the dignity implied in that expression of 'quartering arms,' which comes so roundly out of your mouth, charlton," said fleda, laughing. "no, i didn't know it. but, in general, i am apt to think that pride is a thing which reverses the usual rules of architecture, and builds highest on the narrowest foundations." "what do you mean?" "never mind," said fleda; "if a meaning isn't plain, it isn't worth looking after. but it will not do to measure pride by its supposed materials. it does not depend on them, but on the individual. you everywhere see people assert that most of which they feel least sure, and then it is easy for them to conclude that where there is so much more of the reality, there must be proportionably more of the assertion. i wish some of our gentlemen and ladies, who talk of pride where they see, and can see nothing but the habit of wealth; i wish they could see the universal politeness with which mr. carleton returns the salutes of his inferiors. not more respectfully they lift their hats to him than he lifts his to them � unless when he speaks." "you have seen it?" "often." "where?" "in england, at his own place, among his own servants and dependents. i remember very well, it struck even my childish eyes." "well, after all, that is nothing still but a refined kind of haughtiness." "it is a kind that i wish some of our americans would copy," said fleda. "but, dear fleda," said mrs. rossitur, "all americans are not like that lady you were talking of � it would be very unfair to make her a sample. i don't think i ever heard any one speak so in my life � you never heard me speak so." "dear aunt lucy! � no � i was only giving instance for instance. i have no idea that mr. carleton is a type of englishmen in general � i wish he were. but i think it is the very people that cry out against superiority, who are the most happy to assert their own where they can; the same jealous feeling that repines on the one hand, revenges itself on the other." "superiority of what kind?" said charlton, stiffly. "of any kind � superiority of wealth, or refinement, or name, or standing. now, it does not follow that an englishman is proud because he keeps liveried servants, and it by no means follows that an american lacks the essence of haughtiness because he finds fault with him for doing so." "i dare say some of our neighbours think we are proud," said hugh, "because we use silver forks instead of steel." "because we're _too good for steel forks_, you ought to say," said fleda. "i am sure they think so. i have been given to understand as much. barby, i believe, has a good opinion of us, and charitably concludes that we mean right; but some other of our country friends would think i was far gone in uppishness if they knew that i never touch fish with a steel knife; and it wouldn't mend the matter much to tell them that the combination of flavours is disagreeable to me � it hardly suits the doctrine of liberty and equality that my palate should be so much nicer than theirs." "absurd!" said charlton. "very," said fleda; "but on which side, in all probability, is the pride?" "it wasn't for liveried servants that i charged mr. carleton," said her cousin. "how do the evelyns like this paragon of yours?" "oh, everybody likes him, " said fleda, smiling, "except you and your friend, mr. thorn." "thorn don't like him, eh?" "i think not." "what do you suppose is the reason?" said charlton, gravely. "i don't think mr. thorn is particularly apt to like anybody," said fleda, who knew very well the original cause of both exceptions, but did not like to advert to it. "apparently you don't like mr. thorn?" said mr. rossitur, speaking for the first time. "i don't know who does, sir, much � except his mother." "what is he?" "a man not wanting in parts, sir, and with considerable force of character � but i am afraid more for ill than good. i should be very sorry to trust him with anything dear to me." "how long were you in forming that opinion?" said charlton, looking at her curiously. "it was formed, substantially, the first evening i saw him, and i have never seen cause to alter it since." the several members of the family therewith fell into a general muse, with the single exception of hugh, whose eyes and thoughts seemed to be occupied with fleda's living presence. mr. rossitur then requested that breakfast might be ready very early � at six o'clock. "six o'clock!" exclaimed mrs. rossitur. "i have to take a long ride, on business, which must be done early in the day." "when will you be back?" "not before nightfall." "but going on _another_ business journey!" said mrs. rossitur. "you have but just these few hours come home from one." "cannot breakfast be ready?" "yes, uncle rolf," said fleda, bringing her bright face before him � "ready at half-past five, if you like � now that _i_ am to the fore, you know." he clasped her to his breast and kissed her again, but with a face so very grave that fleda was glad nobody else saw it. then charlton went, averring that he wanted at least a night and a half of sleep between two such journeys as the one of that day and the one before him on the next � especially as he must resign himself to going without anything to eat. him also fleda laughingly promised that, precisely half an hour before the stage time, a cup of coffee and a roll should be smoking on the table, with whatever substantial appendages might be within the bounds of possibility, or the house. "i will pay you for that beforehand with a kiss," said he. "you will do nothing of the kind," said fleda, stepping back; "a kiss is a favour taken, not given � and i am entirely ignorant what you have done to deserve it." "you make a curious difference between me and hugh," said charlton, half in jest, half in earnest. "hugh is my brother, captain rossitur," said fleda, smiling � "and that is an honour you never made any pretensions to." "come, you shall not say that any more," said he, taking the kiss that fleda had no mind to give him. half laughing, but with eyes that were all too ready for something else, she turned again to hugh, when his brother had left the room, and looked wistfully in his face, stroking back the hair from his temples with a caressing hand. "you are just as you were when i left you!" she said, with lips that seemed too unsteady to say more, and remained parted. "i am afraid so are you," he replied; "not a bit fatter. i hoped you would be." "what have you been smiling at so this evening?" "i was thinking how well you talked." "why, hugh! you should have helped me � i talked too much." "i would much rather listen," said hugh. "dear fleda, what a different thing the house is with you in it!" fleda said nothing, except an inexplicable little shake of her head, which said a great many things; and then she and her aunt were left alone. mrs. rossitur drew her to her bosom, with a look so exceeding fond that its sadness was hardly discernible. it was mingled, however, with an expression of some doubt. "what has made you keep so thin?" "i have been very well, aunt lucy � thinness agrees with me." "are you glad to be home again, dear fleda?" "i am very glad to be with you, dear aunt lucy!" "but not glad to be home?" "yes, i am," said fleda; "but somehow � i don't know � i believe i have got a little spoiled � it is time i was at home, i am sure. i shall be quite glad after a day or two, when i have got into the works again. i am glad now, aunt lucy." mrs. rossitur seemed unsatisfied, and stroked the hair from fleda's forehead, with an absent look. "what was there in new york, that you were so sorry to leave?" "nothing, ma'am, in particular," said fleda, brightly; "and i am not sorry, aunt lucy � i tell you, i am a little spoiled with company and easy living � i am glad to be with you again." mrs. rossitur was silent. "don't you get up to uncle rolf's breakfast, to-morrow, aunt lucy." "nor you." "i sha'n't, unless i want to; but there'll be nothing for you to do; and you must just lie still. we will all have our breakfast together when charlton has his." "you are the veriest sunbeam that ever came into a house," said her aunt, kissing her. chapter xi. "my flagging soul flies under her own pitch." dryden. fleda mused as she went up stairs, whether the sun were a luminous body to himself or no, feeling herself at that moment dull enough. bright was she, to others? nothing seemed bright to her. every old shadow was darker than ever. her uncle's unchanged gloom � her aunt's unrested face � hugh's unaltered, delicate, sweet look, which always, to her fancy, seemed to write upon his face, "passing away!" � and the thickening prospects whence sprang the miasm that infected the whole moral atmosphere � alas, yes! � "money is a good thing," thought fleda; "and poverty need not be a bad thing, if people can take it right; but if they take it wrong!" with a very drooping heart, indeed, she went to the window. her old childish habit had never been forgotten; whenever the moon or the stars were abroad, fleda rarely failed to have a talk with them from her window. she stood there, now, looking out into the cold, still night, with eyes just dimmed with tears � not that she lacked sadness enough, but she did lack spirit enough to cry. it was very still; after the rattle and confusion of the city streets, that extent of snow-covered country, where the very shadows were motionless � the entire absence of soil and of disturbance � the rest of nature � the breathlessness of the very wind � all preached a quaint kind of sermon to fleda. by the force of contrast, they told her what should be; and there was more yet � she thought that by the force of example, they showed what might be. her eyes had not long travelled over the familiar old fields and fences before she came to the conclusion that she was home in good time � she thought she had been growing selfish, or in danger of it; and she made up her mind she was glad to be back again among the rough things of life, where she could do so much to smooth them for others, and her own spirit might grow to a polish it would never gain in the regions of ease and pleasure. " to do life's work!" thought fleda, clasping her hands � "no matter where � and mine is here. i am glad i am in my place again � i was forgetting i had one." it was a face of strange purity and gravity that the moon shone upon, with no power to brighten as in past days; the shadows of life were upon the child's brow. but nothing to brighten it from within! one sweet, strong ray of other light suddenly found its way through the shadows, and entered her heart. "the lord reigneth! let the earth be glad!" and then the moonbeams, pouring down with equal ray upon all the unevenness of this little world, seemed to say the same thing over and over. even so! not less equally his providence touches all � not less impartially his faithfulness guides. "the lord reigneth! let the earth be glad!" there was brightness in the moonbeams now that fleda could read this in them; she went to sleep, a very child again, with these words for her pillow. it was not six, and darkness yet filled the world, when mr. rossitur came down stairs, and softly opened the sitting-room door. but the home fairy had been at work; he was greeted with such a blaze of cheerfulness as seemed to say what a dark place the world was everywhere but at home; his breakfast- table was standing ready, well set and well supplied; and even as he entered by one door, fleda pushed open the other, and came in from the kitchen, looking as if she had some strange spirit-like kindred with the cheery, hearty glow which filled both rooms. "fleda! � you up at this hour!" "yes, uncle rolf," she said, coming forward to put her hands upon his; "you are not sorry to see me, i hope." but he did not say he was glad; and he did not speak at all; he busied himself gravely with some little matters of preparation for his journey. evidently, the gloom of last night was upon him yet. but fleda had not wrought for praise, and could work without encouragement; neither step nor hand slackened, till all she and barby had made ready was in nice order on the table, and she was pouring out a cup of smoking coffee. "you are not fit to be up," said mr. rossitur, looking at her; "you are pale, now. put yourself in that arm-chair, fleda, and go to sleep; i will do this for myself." "no, indeed, uncle rolf," she answered, brightly: "l have enjoyed getting breakfast very much at this out-of-the-way hour, and now i am going to have the pleasure of seeing you eat it. suppose you were to take a cup of coffee instead of my shoulder!" he took it and sat down; but fleda found that the pleasure of seeing him was to be a very qualified thing. he ate like a business man, in unbroken silence and gravity; and her cheerful words and looks got no return. it became an effort at length to keep either bright. mr. rossitur's sole remarks during breakfast were, to ask if charlton was going back that day, and if philetus was getting the horse ready? mr. skillcorn had been called in good time by barby, at fleda's suggestion, and coming down stairs had opined discontentedly that "a man hadn't no right to be took out of bed in the morning afore he could see himself." but this, and barby's spirited reply, that "there was no chance of his doing _that_ at any time of day, so it was no use to wait," fleda did not repeat. her uncle was in no humour to be amused. she expected almost that he would go off without speaking to her. but he came up kindly to where she stood watching him. "you must bid me good-bye for all the family, uncle rolf, as i am the only one here," she said, laughing. but she was sure that the embrace and kiss which followed were very exclusively for her. they made her face almost as sober as his own. "there will be a blessing for you," said he, "if there is a blessing anywhere!" "_if_, uncle rolf," said fleda, her heart swelling to her eyes. he turned away, without answering her. fleda sat down in the easy chair, then, and cried, but that lasted very few minutes; she soon left crying for herself to pray for him, that he might have the blessing he did not know. that did not stop tears. she remembered the poor man sick of the palsy, who was brought in by friends to be healed, and that "jesus seeing _their_ faith, said unto the sick of the palsy, 'son, thy sins be forgiven thee.' " it was a handle that faith took hold of and held fast, while love made its petition. it was all she could do, she thought; _she_ never could venture to speak to her uncle on the subject. weary and tired, tears and longing at length lost themselves in sleep. when she awaked, she found the daylight broadly come, little king in her lap, the fire, instead of being burnt out, in perfect preservation, and barby standing before it, and looking at her. "you ha'n't got one speck o' good by _this_ journey to new york," was miss elster's vexed salutation. "do you think so?" said fleda, rousing herself. "i wouldn't venture to say as much as that, barby." "if you have, 'tain't in your cheeks," said barby, decidedly. "you look just as if you was made of anything that wouldn't stand wear, and that isn't the way you used to look." "i have been up a good while without breakfast � my cheeks will be a better colour when i have had that, barby � they feel pale." the second breakfast was a cheerfuller thing. but when the second traveller was despatched, and the rest fell back upon their old numbers, fleda was very quiet again. it vexed her to be so, but she could not change her mood. she felt as if she had been whirled along in a dream, and was now just opening her eyes to daylight and reality. and reality � she could not help it � looked rather dull after dream-land. she thought it was very well she was waked up; but it cost her some effort to appear so. and then she charged herself with ingratitude, her aunt and hugh were so exceedingly happy in her company. "earl douglass is quite delighted with the clover hay, fleda. said hugh, as the three sat at an early dinner. "is he?" said fleda. "yes � you know he was very unwilling to cure it in your way, and he thinks there never was anything like it now." "did you ever see finer ham, fleda?" inquired her aunt. "mr. plumfield says it could not be better." "very good!" said fleda, whose thoughts had somehow got upon mr. carleton's notions about female education, and were very busy with them. "i expected you would have remarked upon our potatoes before now," said hugh. "these are the elephants � have you seen anything like them in new york?" "there cannot be more beautiful potatoes," said mrs. rossitur. "we had not tried any of them before you went away, fleda, had we?" "i don't know, aunt lucy � no, i think not." "you needn't talk to fleda, mother," said hugh, laughing � "she is quite beyond attending to all such ordinary matters; her thoughts have learned to take a higher flight since she has been in new york." "it is time they were brought down, then, said fleda, smiling; "but they have not learned to fly out of sight of home, hugh." "where were they, dear fleda?" said her aunt. "i was thinking, a minute ago, of something i heard talked about in new york, aunt lucy; and, afterwards, i was trying to find out by what possible or imaginable road i had got round to it." "could you tell?" fleda said, "no," and tried to bear her part in the conversation. but she did not know whether to blame the subjects which had been brought forward, or herself, for her utter want of interest in them. she went into the kitchen, feeling dissatisfied with both. "did you ever see potatoes that would beat them elephants?" said barby. "never, certainly," said fleda, with a most involuntary smile. "i never did," said barby. "they beat all, for bigness and goodness both. i can't keep 'em together. there's thousands of 'em, and i mean to make philetus eat 'em for supper � such potatoes and milk is good enough for him, or anybody. the cow has gained on her milk wonderful, fleda, since she begun to have them roots fed out to her." "which cow?" said fleda. "which cow? � why � the blue cow � there aint none of the others that's giving any, to speak of," said barby, looking at her. "don't you know � the cow you said them carrots should be kept for?" fleda half laughed, as there began to rise up before her the various magazines of vegetables, grain, hay, and fodder, that for many weeks had been deliciously distant from her imagination. "i made butter for four weeks, i guess, after you went away," barby went on; � "just come in here and see � and the carrots makes it as yellow and sweet as june � i churned as long as i had anything to churn, and longer; and now we live on cream � you can make some cheesecakes just as soon as you're a mind to � see! aint that doing pretty well? � and fine it is � put your nose down to it �" "bravely, barby � and it is very sweet." "you ha'n't left nothing behind you in new york, have you?" said barby, when they returned to the kitchen. "left anything! no � what do you think i have left?" "i didn't know but you might have forgotten to pack up your memory," said barby, drily. fleda laughed, and then in walked mr. douglass. "how d'ye do?" said he. "got back again. i heerd you was hum, and so i thought i'd just step up and see. been getting along pretty well?" fleda answered, smiling internally at the wide distance between her "getting along," and his idea of it. "well, the hay's first rate!" said earl, taking off his hat, and sitting down in the nearest chair �"i've been feedin' it out now for a good spell, and i know what to think about it. we've been feedin' it out ever since some time this side o' the middle o' november � i never see nothin' sweeter, and i don't want to see nothin' sweeter than it is! and the cattle eats it liked may roses � they don't know how to thank you enough for it." "to thank _you_, mr. douglass," said fleda, smiling. "no," said he, in a decided manner � "i don't want no thanks for it, and i don't deserve none! 'twa'n't thanks to none or _my_ foresightedness that the clover wa'n't served the old way. i didn't like new notions, and i never did like new notions, and i never see much good of 'em; but i suppose there's some on 'em that aint moonshine � my woman says there is, and i suppose there is, and after this clover hay i'm willin' to allow that there is. it's as sweet as a posie if you smell to it � and all of it's cured alike; and i think, fleda, there's a quarter more weight of it. i ha'n't proved it nor weighed it, but i've an eye and a hand as good as most folks, and i'll qualify to there being a fourth part more weight of it � and it's a beautiful colour. the critters is as fond of it as you and i be of strawberries." "well, that is satisfactory, mr. douglass," said fleda. "how is mrs. douglass and catherine?" "i ha'n't heerd 'em sayin' nothin' about it," he said; "and if there was anythin' the matter, i suppose they'd let me know. there don't much go wrong in a man's house without his hearin' tell of it. so i think. maybe 'tan't the same in other men's houses. that's the way it is in mine." "mrs. douglass would not thank you," said fleda, wholly unable to keep from laughing. earl's mouth gave way a very little, and then he went on. "how be you?" he said. "you ha'n't gained much, as i see. i don't see but you're as poor as when you went away." "i am very well, mr. douglass." "i guess new york aint the place to grow fat. well, fleda, there ha'n't been seen in the hull country, or by any man in it, the like of the crop of corn we took off that 'ere twenty- acre lot � they're all beat to hear tell of it � they wont believe me � seth plumfield ha'n't showed as much himself; he says you're the best farmer in the state." "i hope he gives you part of the credit, mr. douglass � how much was there?" "i'll take my share of credit whenever i can get it," said earl, "and i think it's right to take it, as long as you ha'n't nothing to be ashamed of; but i wont take no more than my share; and i will say i thought we was a-goin' to choke the corn to death, when we seeded the field in that way. well, there's better than two thousand bushel � more or less � and as handsome corn as i want to see � there never was handsomer corn. would you let it go for five shillings? � there's a man i've heerd of wants the hull of it." "is that a good price, mr. douglass? why don't you ask mr. rossitur?" "do you s'pose mr. rossitur knows much about it?" inquired earl, with a curious turn of feature, between sly and contemptuous. "the less he has to do with that heap of corn, the bigger it'll be � that's my idee. i aint a-goin' to ask him nothin' � you may ask him what you like to ask him � but i don't think he'll tell you much that'll make you and me wiser in the matter o' farmin'." "but now that he is at home, mr. douglass, i certainly cannot decide without speaking to him." "very good," said earl, uneasily � " 'taint no affair of nine � as you like to have it, so you'll have it � just as you please! but now, fleda, there's another thing i want to speak to you about � i want you to let me take hold of that 'ere piece of swamp land and bring it in. i knew a man that fixed a piece of land like that, and cleared nigh a thousand dollars off it the first year." "which piece?" said fleda. "why, you know which 'tis � just the other side of the trees over there between them two little hills. there's six or seven acres of it � nothin' in the world but mud and briers � will you let me take hold of it. i'll do the hull job if you'll give me half the profits for one year. come over and look at it, and i'll tell you � come! � the walk wont hurt you, and it aint fur." all fleda's inclinations said no, but she thought it was not best to indulge them. she put on her hood and went off with him; and was treated to a long and most implicated detail of ways and means, from which she at length disentangled the _rationale_ of the matter, and gave mr. douglass the consent he asked for, promising to gain that of her uncle. the day was fair and mild, and in spite of weariness of body, a certain weariness of mind prompted fleda, when she had got rid of earl douglass, to go and see her aunt miriam. she went, questioning with herself all the way, for her want of goodwill to these matters. true, they were not pleasant mind-work; but she tried to school herself into taking them patiently as good life-work. she had had too much pleasant company, and enjoyed too much conversation she said. it had unfitted her for home duties. mrs. plumfield, she knew, was no better. but her eye found no change for the worse. the old lady was very glad to see her, and very cheerful and kind as usual. "well, are you glad to be home again?" said aunt miriam, after a pause in the conversation. "everybody asks me that question," said fleda, smiling. "perhaps for the same reason i did � because they thought you didn't look very glad." "i am glad," said fleda, "but i believe not so glad as i was last year." "why not?" "i suppose i had a pleasanter time. i have got a little spoiled, i believe, aunt miriam," fleda said, with glistening eyes and an altering voice � "i don't take up my old cares and duties kindly at first � i shall be myself again in a few days." aunt miriam looked at her with that fond, wistful, benevolent look which made fleda turn away. "what has spoiled you, love?" "oh! � easy living and pleasure, i suppose," fleda said, but said with difficulty. "pleasure?" said aunt miriam, putting one arm gently round her. fleda struggled with herself. "it is so pleasant, aunt miriam, to forget these money cares! � to lift one's eyes from the ground, and feel free to stretch out one's hand � not to be obliged to think about spending sixpences, and to have one's mind at liberty for a great many things that i haven't time for here. and hugh � and aunt lucy � somehow things seem sad to me." � nothing could be more sympathizingly kind than the way in which aunt miriam brought fleda closer to her side, and wrapped her in her arms. "i am very foolish," fleda whispered. "i am very wrong � i shall get over it." "i am afraid, dear fleda," mrs. plumfield said, after a pause, "it isn't best for us always to be without sad things � though i cannot bear to see your dear little face look sad � but it wouldn't fit us for the work we have to do � it wouldn't fit us to stand where i stand now, and look forward happily." "where you stand?" said fleda, raising her head. "yes, and i would not be without a sorrow i have ever known. they are bitter now, when they are present � but the sweet fruit comes after." "but what do you mean by 'where you stand?' " "on the edge of life." "you do not think so, aunt miriam!" fleda said, with a terrified look. "you are not worse?" "i don't expect ever to be better," said mrs. plumfield, with a smile. "nay, my love," she said, as fleda's head went down on her bosom again � "not so! i do not wish it either, fleda. i do not expect to leave you soon, but i would not prolong the time by a day. i would not have spoken of it now if i had recollected myself; but i am so accustomed to think and speak of it, that it came out before i knew it. my darling child, it is nothing to cry for." "i know it, aunt miriam." "then don't cry," whispered aunt miriam, when she had stroked fleda's head for five minutes. "i am crying for myself, aunt miriam," said fleda. "i shall be left alone." "alone, my dear child?" "yes � there is nobody but you that i feel i can talk to." she would have added that she dared not say a word to hugh, for fear of troubling him. but that pain at her heart stopped her, and pressing her hands together, she burst into bitter weeping. "nobody to talk to but me?" said mrs. plumfield, after again soothing her for some time � "what do you mean, dear?" "oh, i can't say anything to them at home," said fleda, with a forced effort after voice; "and you are the only one i can look to for help � hugh never says anything � almost never � anything of that kind; he would rather others should counsel him." "there is one friend to whom you may always tell everything, with no fear of wearying him � of whom you may at all times ask counsel, without any danger of being denied � more dear, more precious, more rejoiced in, the more he is sought unto. thou mayest lose friend after friend, and gain more than thou losest � in that one." "i know it," said fleda; "but dear aunt miriam, don't you think human nature longs for some human sympathy and help too?" "my sweet blossom! yes," said mrs. plumfield, caressingly, stroking her bowed head; "but let him do what he will; he hath said, 'i will never leave thee nor forsake thee.' " "i know that too," said fleda, weeping. "how do people bear life that do not know it?" "or that cannot take the comfort of it. thou art not poor nor alone while thou hast him to go to, little fleda. and you are not losing me yet, my child; you will have time, i think, to grow as well satisfied as i with the prospect." "is that possible, for _others?_" said fleda. the mother sighed as her son entered the room. he looked uncommonly grave, fleda thought. that did not surprise her, but it seemed that it did his mother, for she asked an explanation, which, however, he did not give. "so you've got back from new york," said he. "just got back yesterday," said fleda. "why didn't you stay longer?" "i thought my friends at home would be glad to see me," said fleda. "was i mistaken?" he made no answer for a minute, and then said � "is your uncle at home?" "no," said fleda; "he went away this morning on business, and we do not expect him home before nightfall. do you want to see him?" "no," said seth, very decidedly. "i wish he had staid in michigan, or gone further west � anywhere that queechy'd never have heard of him." "why, what has he done?" said fleda, looking up, half laughing, and half amazed at her cousin. but his face was disagreeably dark, though she could not make out that the expression was one of displeasure. it did not encourage her to talk. "do you know a man in new york by the name of thorn?" he said, after standing still a minute or two. "i know two men of that name," said fleda, colouring and wondering. "is either on 'em a friend of your'n?" "no" "he aint?" said mr. plumfield, giving the forestick on the fire an energetic kick, which fleda could not help thinking was mentally aimed at the said new yorker. "no, certainly, what makes you ask?" "oh," said seth, drily, "folks' tongues will find work to do; i heerd say something like that; i thought you must take to him more than i do." "why what do you know of him?" "he's been here a spell lately," said seth, "poking round; more for ill than for good, i reckon." he turned, and quitted the room abruptly; and fleda bethought her that she must go home while she had light enough. chapter xii. "nothing could be more obliging and respectful than the lion's letter was, in appearance; but there was death in the true intent." l'estrange. the landscape had grown more dark since fleda came up the hill, or else the eyes that looked at it. both, probably. it was just after sundown, and that is a very sober time of day in winter, especially in some states of the weather. the sun had left no largesses behind him; the scenery was deserted to all the coming poverty of night, and looked grim and threadbare already. not one of the colours of prosperity left. the land was in mourning dress; all the ground, and even the ice on the little mill-ponds, a uniform spread of white, while the hills were draperied with black stems, here just veiling the snow, and there on a side view making a thick fold of black. every little unpainted workshop or mill showed uncompromisingly all its forbidding sharpness of angle and outline darkening against the twilight. in better days, perhaps, some friendly tree had hung over it, shielding part of its faults, and redeeming the rest. now nothing but the gaunt skeleton of a friend stood there � doubtless to bud forth again as fairly as ever, should the season smile. still and quiet, all was, as fleda's spirit, and in too good harmony with it; she resolved to choose the morning to go out in future. there was as little of the light of spring or summer in her own mind as on the hills, and it was desirable to catch at least a cheering reflection. she could rouse herself to no bright thoughts, try as she would; the happy voices of nature that used to speak to her were all hushed, or her ear was deaf; and her eye met nothing that did not immediately fall in with the train of sad images that were passing through her mind, and swell the procession. she was fain to fall back and stay herself upon these words, the only stand-by she could lay hold of: � "to them who, by patient continuance in well-doing seek for glory, and honour, and immortality, eternal life!" they toned with the scene and with her spirit exactly; they suited the darkening sky and the coming night; for "glory, honour, and immortality" are not now. they filled fleda's mind after they had once entered, and then nature's sympathy was again as readily given; each barren, stern-looking hill in its guise of present desolation and calm expectancy seemed to echo softly, "patient continuance in well-doing." and the tears trembled then in fleda's eyes; she had set her face, as the old scotchman says, "in the right airth."* [* quarter, direction.] "how sweet is the wind that bloweth out of the airth where christ is!" "well," said hugh, who entered the kitchen with her, "you have been late enough. did you have a pleasant walk? you are pale, fleda." "yes, it was pleasant," said fleda, with one of her winning smiles � "a kind of pleasant. but have you looked at the hills? they are exactly as if they had put on mourning � nothing but white and black � a crape-like dressing of black tree-stems upon the snowy face of the ground, and on every slope and edge of the hills the crape lies in folds. do look at it when you go out! it has a most curious effect." "not pleasant, i should think?" said hugh. "you'll see it is just as i have described it. no; not pleasant, exactly; the landscape wants the sun to light it up just now � it is cold and wilderness-looking. i think i'll take the morning in future. whither are you bound?" "i must go over to queechy run for a minute, on business � i'll be home before supper � i should have been back by this time, but philetus has gone to bed with a headache, and i had to take care of the cows." "three times and out," said barby. "i wont try again. [ didn't know as anything would be too powerful for his head; but i find, as sure as he has apple dumplin' for dinner, he goes to bed for his supper, and leaves the cows without none. and then hugh has to take it. it has saved so many elephants � that's one thing." hugh went out by one door, and fleda by another entered the breakfast-room, the one generally used in winter for all purposes. mrs. rossitur sat there alone in an easy-chair; and fleda no sooner caught the outline of her figure than her heart sank at once to an unknown depth � unknown before and unfathomable now. she was cowering over the fire � her head sunk in her hands, so crouching, that the line of neck and shoulders instantly conveyed to fleda the idea of fancied or felt degradation � there was no escaping it � how, whence, what, was all wild confusion. but the language of mere attitude was so unmistakable � the expression of crushing pain was so strong, that, after fleda had fearfully made her way up beside her, she could do no more. she stood there tongue-tied, spell-bound, present to nothing but a nameless chill of fear and heart-sinking. she was afraid to speak � afraid to touch her aunt, and abode motionless in the grasp of that dread for minutes. but mrs. rossitur did not stir a hair, and the terror of that stillness grew to be less endurable than any other. fleda spoke to her � it did not win the shadow of a reply � again and again. she laid her hand then upon mrs. rossitur's shoulder, but the very significant answer to that, was a shrinking gesture of the shoulder and neck away from the hand. fleda, growing desperate, then implored an answer in words � prayed for an explanation � with an intensity of distress in voice and manner, that no one whose ears were not stopped with a stronger feeling could have been deaf to; but mrs. rossitur would not raise her head, nor slacken in the least the clasp of the fingers that supported it; that of themselves in their relentless tension spoke what no words could. fleda's trembling prayers were in vain � in vain. poor nature at last sought a woman's relief in tears � but they were heart- breaking, not heart-relieving tears � racking both mind and body more than they ought to bear, but bringing no cure. mrs. rossitur seemed as unconscious of her niece's mute agony as she had been of her agony of words; and it was from fleda's own self-recollection alone that she fought off pain, and roused herself above weakness to do what the time called for. "aunt lucy," she said, laying her hand upon her shoulder, and this time the voice was steady, and the hand would not be shaken off � "aunt lucy, hugh will be in presently � hadn't you better rouse yourself and go up stairs � for awhile? � till you are better? � and not let him see you so?" � how the voice was broken and quivering before it got through? the answer this time was a low long-drawn moan, so exceeding plaintive and full of pain that it made fleda shake like an aspen. but after a moment she spoke again, bearing more heavily with her hand to mark her words. "i am afraid he will be in presently � he ought not to see you now. aunt lucy, i am afraid it might do him an injury he might not get over" � she spoke with the strength of desperation; her nerves were unstrung by fear, and every joint weakened, so that she could hardly support herself. she had not, however, spoken in vain; one or two convulsive shudders passed over her aunt, and then mrs. rossitur suddenly rose, turning her face from fleda; neither would she permit her to follow her. but fleda thought she had seen that one or two unfolded letters or papers of some kind � they looked like letters � were in her lap when she raised her head. left alone, fleda sat down on the floor by the easy chair, and rested her head there, waiting � she could do nothing else � till her extreme excitement of body and mind should have quieted itself. she had a kind of vague hope that time would do something for her before hugh came in. perhaps it did; for though she lay in a kind of stupor, and was conscious of no change whatever she was able, when she heard him coming, to get up and sit in the chair in an ordinary attitude. but she looked like the wraith of herself an hour ago. "fleda!" hugh exclaimed, as soon as he looked from the fire to her face; "what is the matter? � what is the matter with you?" "i am not very well � i don't feel very well," said fleda, speaking almost mechanically; "i shall have a headache to- morrow." � "headache! but you look shockingly: what has happened to you? what is the matter, fleda?" "i am not ill � i shall be better by and by. there is nothing the matter with me that need trouble you, dear hugh." "nothing the matter with you," said he, and fleda might see how she looked in the reflection of his face; "where's mother?" "she is up stairs � you mustn't go to her, hugh!" said fleda, laying a detaining hand upon him with more strength than she thought she had; "i don't want anything." "why mustn't i go to her?" "i don't think she wants to be disturbed" � "i must disturb her" � "you mustn't! � i know she don't � she isn't well � something has happened to trouble her" � "what?" "i don't know." "and is that what has troubled you, too?" said hugh, his countenance changing as he gained more light on the subject; "what is it, dear fleda?" "i don't know," repeated fleda, bursting into tears. hugh was quiet enough now, and sat down beside her, subdued and still, without even desiring to ask a question. fleda's tears flowed violently for a minute, then she checked them for his sake, and they sat motionless, without speaking to one another, looking into the fire, and letting it die out before them into embers and ashes, neither stirring to put a hand to it. as the fire died, the moonlight streamed in : how very dismal the room looked! "what do you think about having tea?" said barby, opening the door of the kitchen. neither felt it possible to answer her. "mr. rossitur aint come home, is he?" "no," said fleda, shuddering. "so i thought, and so i told seth plumfield, just now � he was asking for him. my stars! ha'n't you no fire here? what did you let it go out for?" barby came in and began to build it up. "it's growing cold, i can tell you, so you may as well have something in the chimney to look at. you'll want it shortly, if you don't now." "was mr. plumfield here, did you say, barby?" "yes." "why didn't he come in!" "i s'pose he hadn't a mind to," said barby. " 'twa'n't for want of being asked. i did the civil thing by him if he didn't by me; but he said he didn't want to see anybody but mr. rossitur." did not want to see anybody but mr. rossitur, when he had distinctly said he did not wish to see him! fleda felt sick, merely from the mysterious dread which could fasten upon nothing, and therefore took in everything. "well, what about tea?" concluded barby, when the fire was going according to her wishes. "will you have it, or will you wait longer?" "no, we wont wait; we will have it now, barby," said fleda, forcing herself to make the exertion; and she went to the window to put down the hangings. the moonlight was very bright, and fleda's eye was caught in the very act of letting down the curtain, by a figure in the road slowly passing before the courtyard fence. it paused a moment by the horse-gate, and turning, paced slowly back till it was hid behind the rose-acacias. there was a clump of shrubbery in that corner thick enough even in winter to serve for a screen. fleda stood with the curtain in her hand, half let down, unable to move, and feeling almost as if the very currents of life within her were standing still, too. she thought, she was almost sure, she knew the figure; it was on her tongue to ask hugh to come and look, but she checked that. the form appeared again from behind the acacias, moving with the same leisurely pace the other way towards the horse-gate. fleda let down the curtain, then the other two, quietly, and then left the room, and stole, noiselessly, out at the front door, leaving it open, that the sound of it might not warn hugh what she was about; and stepping like a cat down the steps, ran, breathlessly, over the snow to the courtyard gate; there waited, shivering in the cold, but not feeling it for the cold within, while the person she was watching stood still a few moments by the horse-gate, and came again, with leisurely steps towards her. "seth plumfield!" said fleda, almost as much frightened at the sound of her own voice as he was. he stopped immediately, with a start, and came up to the little gate behind which she was standing, but said nothing. "what are you doing here?" "you oughtn't to be out without anything on," said he � "you're fixing to take your death." he had good reason to say so. but she gave him no more heed than the wind. "what are you waiting here for? what do you want?" "i have nothing better to do with my time," said he; "i thought i'd walk up and down here a little. you go in!" "are you waiting to see uncle rolf?" she said, with teeth chattering. "you mustn't stay out here," said he, earnestly; "you're like nothing but a spook this minute � i'd rather see one, or a hull army of 'em. go in, go in!" "tell me if you want to see him, seth." "no, i don't � i told you i didn't." "then why are you waiting for him?" "i thought i'd see if he was coming home to-night � i had a word to say if i could catch him before he got into the house." "_is_ he coming home to-night?" said fleda. "i don't know!" said he, looking at her. "do you!" fleda burst open the gate between them, and putting her hands on his, implored him to tell her what was the matter. he looked singularly disturbed; his fine eye twinkled with compassion; but his face, never a weak one, showed no signs of yielding now. "the matter is," said he, pressing hard both her hands, "that you are fixing to be down sick in your bed by to-morrow. you mustn't stay another second." "come in, then." "no � not to-night." "you wont tell me?" "there is nothing i can tell you � maybe there'll be nothing to tell � run in, run in, and keep quiet." fleda hurried back to the house, feeling that she had gone to the limit of risk already. not daring to show herself to hugh in her chilled state of body and mind, she went into the kitchen. "why, what on earth's come over you!" was barby's terrified ejaculation, when she saw her. "i have been out and got myself cold �" "cold!" said barby � "you're looking dreadful! what on earth ails you, fleda?" "don't ask me, barby," said fleda, hiding her face in her hands, and shivering; "i made myself very cold just now � aunt lucy doesn't feel very well, and i got frightened," she added, presently. "what's the matter with her?" "i don't know � if you'll make me a cup of tea, i'll take it up to her, barby." "you put yourself down there," said barby, placing her with gentle force in a chair; "you'll do no such a thing till i see you look as if there was some blood in you. i'll take it up myself." but fleda held her, though with a hand much too feeble indeed for any but moral suasion. it was enough. barby stood silently, and very anxiously watching her, till the fire had removed the outward chill at least. but even that took long to do, and before it was well done, fleda again asked for the cup of tea. barby made it without a word, and fleda went to her aunt with it, taking her strength from the sheer emergency. her knees trembled under her as she mounted the stairs, and once a glimpse of those words flitted across her mind � "patient continuance in well-doing." it was like a lightning flash in a dark night showing the way one must go. she could lay hold of no other stay. her mind was full of one intense purpose � to end the suspense. she gently tried the door of her aunt's room; it was unfastened, and she went in. mrs. rossitur was lying on the bed; but her first mood had changed, for at fleda's soft word and touch she half rose up, and, putting both arms round her waist, laid her face against her. there were no tears still, only a succession of low moans, so inexpressibly weak and plaintive, that fleda's nature could hardly bear them without giving way. a more fragile support was never clung to. yet her trembling fingers, in their agony, moved caressingly among her aunt's hair and over her brow, as she begged her � when she could, she was not able at first � to let her know the cause that was grieving her. the straitened clasp of mrs. rossitur's arms, and her increased moaning, gave only an answer of pain. but fleda repeated the question. mrs. rossitur still neglecting it, then made her sit down upon the bed, so that she could lay her head higher on fleda's bosom; where she hid it, with a mingling of fondness given and asked � a poor seeking for comfort and rest, that wrung her niece's heart. they sat so for a little time; fleda hoping that her aunt would by degrees come to the point herself. the tea stood cooling on the table, not even offered; not wanted there. "wouldn't you feel better if you told me, dear aunt lucy?" said fleda, when they had been for a little while perfectly still. even the moaning had ceased. "is your uncle come home?" whispered mrs. rossitur, but so low that fleda could but half catch the words. "not yet." "what o'clock is it?" "i don't know � not early � it must be near eight. � why?" "you have not heard anything of him?" "no � nothing." there was silence again for a little, and then mrs. rossitur said in a low, fearful whisper � "have you seen anybody round the house?" fleda's thoughts flew to seth, with that nameless fear to which she could give neither shape nor direction, and after a moment's hesitation she said � "what do you mean?" "have you?" said mrs. rossitur, with more energy. "seth plumfield was here a little while ago." her aunt had the clue that she had not, for with a half scream, half exclamation, she quitted fleda's arms, and fell back upon the pillows, turning from her and hiding her face there. fleda prayed again for her confidence, as well as the weakness and the strength of fear could do; and mrs. rossitur presently grasping a paper that lay on the bed, held it out to her, saying only, as fleda was about quitting the room, "bring me a light." fleda left the letter there and went down to fetch one. she commanded herself under the excitement and necessity of the moment � all but her face; that terrified barby exceedingly. but she spoke with a strange degree of calmness; told her mrs. rossitur was not alarmingly ill; that she did not need barby's services, and wished to see nobody but herself, and didn't want a fire. as she was passing through the hall again, hugh came out of the sitting-room to ask after his mother. fleda kept the light from her face. "she does not want to be disturbed � i hope she will be better to-morrow." "what is the matter, fleda?" "i don't know yet." "and you are ill yourself, fleda? � you are ill?" � "no � i shall do very well � never mind me. hugh, take some tea � i will be down by and by." he went back, and fleda went up stairs. mrs. rossitur had not moved. fleda set down the light, and herself beside it, with the paper her aunt had given her. it was a letter. "queechy, thursday. "it gives me great concern, my dear madam, to be the means of bringing to you a piece of painful information � but it cannot be long kept from your knowledge, and you may perhaps learn it better from me than by any other channel. may i entreat you not to be too much alarmed, since i am confident the cause will be of short duration? "pardon me for what i am about to say. "there are proceedings entered into against mr. rossitur � there are writs out against him � on the charge of having, some years ago, endorsed my father's name upon a note of his own giving. why it has lain so long i cannot explain. there is, unhappily, no doubt of the fact. "i was in queechy some days ago, on business of my own, when i became aware that this was going on � my father had made no mention of it to me. i immediately took strict measures, i am happy to say, i believe with complete success � to have the matter kept a profound secret. i then made my way as fast possible to new york to confer on the subject with the original mover of it � unfortunately i was disappointed. my father had left for a neighbouring city, to be absent several days. finding myself too late to prevent, as i had hoped to do, any open steps from being taken at queechy, i returned hither immediately to enforce secrecy of proceedings and to assure you, madam, that my utmost exertions shall not be wanting to bring the whole matter to a speedy and satisfactory termination. i entertain no doubt of being able to succeed entirely � even to the point of having the whole transaction remain unknown and unsuspected by the world. it is so entirely as yet, with the exception of one or two law officers, whose silence i have means of procuring. "may i confess that i am not entirely disinterested? may the selfishness of human nature ask its reward, and own its moving spring! may i own that my zeal in this cause is quickened by the unspeakable excellencies of mr. rossitur's lovely niece � which i have learned to appreciate with my whole heart � and be forgiven? and may i hope for the kind offices and intercession of the lady i have the honour of addressing, with her niece, miss ringgan, that my reward � the single word of encouragement i ask for � may be given me? having that, i will promise anything � i will guarantee the success of any enterprise, however difficult, to which she may impel me � and i will undertake that the matter which furnishes the painful theme of this letter shall never more be spoken or thought of by the world, or my father, or by mrs. rossitur's obliged, grateful, and faithful servant, lewis thorn." fleda felt, as she read, as if icicles were gathering about her heart. the whirlwind of fear and distress of a little while ago, which could take no definite direction, seemed to have died away and given place to a dead frost � the steady bearing down of disgrace and misery, inevitable, unmitigable, unchangeable; no lessening, no softening of that blasting power, no, nor ever any rising up from under it; the landscape could never be made to smile again. it was the fall of a bright star from their home constellation, but alas! the star was fallen long ago, and the failure of light which they had deplored was all too easily accounted for; yet now they knew that no restoration was to be hoped. and the mother and son � what would become of them? and the father � what would become of him? what further distress was in store? � public disgrace? � and fleda bowed her head forward on her clasped hands with the mechanical, vain endeavour to seek rest or shelter from thought. she made nothing of mr. thorn's professions, she took only the facts of his letter; the rest her eye had glanced over as if she had no concern with it, and it hardly occurred to her that she had any. but the sense of his words she had taken in, and knew, better perhaps than her aunt, that there was nothing to look for from his kind offices. the weight on her heart was too great just then for her to suspect, as she did afterwards, that he was the sole mover of the whole affair. as the first confusion of thought cleared away, two images of distress loomed up and filled the view � her aunt, broken under the news, and hugh still unknowing to them; her own separate existence fleda was hardly conscious of. hugh especially � how was he to be told, and how could he bear to hear, with his most sensitive conformation of both physical and moral nature? and if an arrest should take place there that night! � fleda shuddered, and, unable to go on thinking, rose up and went to her aunt's bedside. it had not entered her mind till the moment she read mr. thorn's letter that seth plumfield was sheriff for the county. she was shaking again from head to foot with fear. she could not say anything � the touch of her lips to the throbbing temples, soft and tender as sympathy itself, was all she ventured. "have you heard anything of him?" mrs. rossitur whispered. "no � i doubt if we do at all to-night." there was a half breathed "oh!" � of indescribable pain and longing; and with a restless change of position mrs. rossitur gathered herself up on the bed and sat with her head leaning on her knees. fleda brought a large cloak and put it round her. "i am in no danger," she said � "i wish i were!" again fleda's lips softly, tremblingly touched her cheek. mrs. rossitur put her arm round her and drew her down to her side, upon the bed, and wrapped half of the big cloak about her; and they sat there still in each other's arms, without speaking or weeping, while quarter after quarter of an hour passed away � nobody knew how many. and the cold bright moonlight streamed in on the floor, mocking them. "go!" whispered mrs. rossitur, at last � "go down stairs, and take care of yourself � and hugh." "wont you come?" mrs. rossitur shook her head. "mayn't i bring you something? � do let me." but mrs. rossitur's shake of the head was decisive. fleda crawled off the bed, feeling as if a month's illness had been making its ravages upon her frame and strength. she stood a moment to collect her thoughts; but alas, thinking was impossible; there was a palsy upon her mind. she went into her own room, and for a minute kneeled down � not to form a petition in words � she was as much beyond that; it was only the mute attitude of appeal, the pitiful outward token of the mind's bearing, that could not be forborne � a silent uttering of the plea she had made her own in happy days. there was something of comfort in the mere feeling of doing it; and there was more in one or two words that even in that blank came to her mind � "_like as a father pitieth his children, so the lord pitieth them that fear him;_" and she again recollected that "providence runneth not upon broken wheels." nothing could be darker than the prospect before her, and these things did not bring light; but they gave her a sure stay to hold on by and keep her feet � a bit of strength to preserve from utterly fainting. ah! the store-house must be filled, and the mind well familiarized with what is stored in it while yet the days are bright, or it will never be able to find what it wants in the dark. fleda first went into the kitchen to tell barby to fasten the doors, and not sit up. "i don't believe uncle rolf will be home to-night; but if he comes, i will let him in." barby looked at her with absolutely a face of distress; but not daring to ask, and not knowing how to propose anything, she looked in silence. "it must be nine o'clock now," fleda went on. "and how long be you going to sit up?" said barby. "i don't know � a while yet." "you look proper for it!" said barby, half sorrowfully and half indignantly; "you look as if a straw would knock you down this minute. there's sense into everything. you catch me a- going to bed, and leaving you up! it wont do me no hurt to sit here the hull night; and i'm the only one in the house that's fit for it, with the exception of philetus, and the little wit he has by day seems to forsake him at night. all the light that ever gets into his head, _i_ believe, comes from the outside; as soon as ever that's gone, he shuts up his shutters. he's been snoozing a'ready now this hour and a half. go yourself off to bed, fleda," she added, with a mixture of reproach and kindness, "and leave me alone to take care of myself and the house too." fleda did not remonstrate, for barby was as determined in her way as it was possible for anything to be. she went into the other room without a particle of notion what she should say or do. hugh was walking up and down the floor � a most unusual sign of perturbation with him. he met and stopped her as she came in. "fleda, i cannot bear it. what is the matter? do you know?" he said, as her eyes fell. "yes �" "what is it?" she was silent, and tried to pass on to the fire. but he stayed her. "what is it?" he repeated. "oh, i wish i could keep it from you!" said fleda, bursting into tears. he was still a moment; and then, bringing her to the arm- chair, made her sit down, and stood himself before her, silently waiting, perhaps because he could not speak, perhaps from the accustomed gentle endurance of his nature. but fleda was speechless too. "you are keeping me in distress," he said, at length. "i cannot end the distress, dear hugh," said fleda. she saw him change colour, and he stood motionless still. "do you remember," said fleda, trembling even to her voice, "what rutherford says about providence 'not running on broken wheels?' " he gave her no answer but the intent look of expectation. its intentness paralysed fleda. she did not know how to go on. she rose from her chair and hung upon his shoulder. "believe it now, if you can; for oh, dear hugh! we have something to try it." "it is strange my father don't come home," said he, supporting her with tenderness, which had very little strength to help it; "we want him very much." whether or not any unacknowledged feeling prompted this remark, some slight involuntary movement of fleda's made him ask, suddenly � "is it about him?" he had grown deadly pale, and fleda answered, eagerly � "nothing that has happened to-day � it is not anything that has happened to-day: he is perfectly well, i trust and believe." "but it is about him?" fleda's head sank, and she burst into such an agony of tears that hugh's distress was for a time divided. "when did it happen, fleda?" "years ago." "and what?" fleda hesitated still, and then said � "it was something he did, hugh." "what?" "he put another person's name on the back of a note he gave." she did not look up, and hugh was silent for a moment. "how do you know?" "mr. thorn wrote it to aunt lucy; it was mr. thorn's father." hugh sat down and leaned his head on the table. a long, long, time passed � unmeasured by the wild coursing of thought to and fro. then fleda came and knelt down at the table beside him, and put her arm round his neck. "dear hugh," she said � and if ever love, and tenderness, and sympathy could be distilled in tones, such drops were those that fell upon the mind's ear � "can't you look up at me?" he did then, but he did not give her a chance to look at him. he locked his arms about her, bringing her close to his breast; and for a few minutes, in utter silence, they knew what strange sweetness pure affection can mingle, even in the communion of sorrow. there were tears shed in those minutes that, bitter as they seemed at the time, memory knew had been largely qualified with another admixture. "dear hugh," said fleda, "let us keep what we can. wont you go to bed and rest?" he looked dreadfully as if he needed it; but the usual calmness and sweetness of his face was not altered; it was only deepened to very great sadness. mentally, fleda thought, he had borne the shock better than his mother; for the bodily frame she trembled. he had not answered, and she spoke again. "you need it worse than i, poor fleda." "i will go, too, presently: i do not think anybody will be here to-night." "is � are there � is this what has taken him away?" said hugh. her silence and her look told him; and then, laying her cheek again alongside of his, she whispered (how unsteadily!) � "we have only one help, dear hugh." they were still and quiet again for minutes, counting the pulses of pain, till fleda came back to her poor wish "to keep what they could." she mixed a restorative of wine and water, which, however little desired, she felt was necessary for both of them, and hugh went up stairs. she staid a few minutes to prepare another glass, with particular care, for her aunt. it was just finished, and, taking her candle, she had bid barby good night, when there came a loud rap at the front door. fleda set down candle and glass, from the quick inability to hold them, as well as for other reasons, and she and barby stood and looked at each other, in such a confusion of doubt and dread, that some little time had passed before either stirred even her eyes. barby then threw down the tongs, with which she had begun to make preparations for covering up the fire, and set off to the front. "you mustn't open the door, barby," cried fleda, following her. "come in here, and let us look out of one of the windows." before this could be reached, however, there was another prolonged repetition of the first thundering burst. it went through fleda's heart, because of the two up stairs who must hear it. barby threw up the sash. "who's there?" "is this mr. rossitur's place?" inquired a gruff voice. "yes, it is." "well will you come round and open the door?" "who wants it open?" "a lady wants it open." "a lady! � what lady?" "down yonder, in the carriage." "what lady? � who is she?" "i don't know who she is: she wanted to come to mr. rossitur's place. will you open the door for her?" barby and fleda both now saw a carriage standing in the road. "we must see who it is first," whispered fleda. "when the lady comes, i'll open the door," was barby's ultimatum. the man withdrew to the carriage, and, after a few moments of intense watching, fleda and barby certainly saw something in female apparel enter the little gate of the court-yard, and come up over the bright, moonlit snow towards the house, accompanied by a child; while the man with whom they had had the interview came behind, transformed into an unmistakable baggage-carrier. chapter xiii. "zeal was the spring whence flowed her hardiment." fairfax. barby undid bolt and lock, and fleda met the traveller in the hall. she was a lady; her air and dress showed that, though the latter was very plain. "does mr. rossitur live here?" was her first word. fleda answered it, and brought her visitor into the sitting- room. but the light falling upon a form and face that had seen more wear and tear than time, gave her no clue as to the who or what of the person before her. the stranger's hurried look around the room seemed to expect something. "are they all gone to bed?" "all but me," said fleda. "we have been delayed � we took a wrong road � we've been riding for hours to find the place � hadn't the right direction." then, looking keenly at fleda, from whose vision an electric spark of intelligence had scattered the clouds, she said � "i am marion rossitur." "i knew it!" said fleda, with lips and eyes that gave her already a sister's welcome; and they were folded in each other's arms almost as tenderly and affectionately, on the part of one at least, as if there had really been the relationship between them. but more than surprise and affection struck fleda's heart. "and where are they all, fleda? can't i see them?" "you must wait till i have prepared them; hugh and aunt lucy are not very well. i don't know that it will do for you to see them at all to-night, marion." "not to-night! they are not ill?" "no � only enough to be taken care of � not ill. but it would be better to wait." "and my father?" "he is not at home." marion exclaimed in sorrow, and fleda, to hide the look that she felt was on her face, stooped down to kiss the child. he was a remarkably fine-looking, manly boy. "that is your cousin fleda," said his mother. "no � _aunt_ fleda," said the person thus introduced � "don't put me off into cousindom, marion. i am uncle hugh's sister � and so i am your aunt fleda. who are you?" "rolf rossitur schwiden." alas, how wide are the ramifications of evil! how was what might have been very pure pleasure utterly poisoned and turned into bitterness! it went through fleda's heart with a keen pang, when she heard that name and looked on the very fair brow that owned it, and thought of the ineffaceable stain that had come upon both. she dared look at nobody but the child. he already understood the melting eyes that were making acquaintance with his, and half felt the pain that gave so much tenderness to her kiss, and looked at her with a grave face of awakening wonder and sympathy. fleda was glad to have business to call her into the kitchen. "who is it?" was barby's immediate question. "aunt lucy's daughter." "she don't look much like her!" said barby, intelligently. "they will want something to eat, barby." "i'll put the kettle on. it'll boil directly. i'll go in there and fix up the fire." a word or two more, and then fleda ran up to speak to her aunt and hugh. her aunt she found in a state of agitation that was frightful. even fleda's assurances, with all the soothing arts she could bring to bear, were some minutes before they could in any measure tranquillize her. fleda's own nerves were in no condition to stand another shock, when she left her and went to hugh's door. but she could get no answer from him, though she spoke repeatedly. she did not return to her aunt's room. she went down stairs, and brought up barby and a light from thence. hugh was lying senseless and white � not whiter than his adopted sister, as she stood by his side. her eye went to her companion. "not a bit of it!" said barby, � "he's in nothing but a faint � just run down stairs and get the vinegar-bottle, fleda � the pepper vinegar. is there any water here?" � fleda obeyed, and watched � she could little more � the efforts of barby, who indeed needed no help, with the cold water, the vinegar, and rubbing of the limbs. they were for some time unsuccessful � the fit was a severe one, and fleda was exceedingly terrified before any signs of returning life came to reassure her. "now, you go down stairs and keep quiet!" said barby, when hugh was fairly restored, and had smiled a faint answer to fleda's kiss and explanations � "go, fleda! you aint fit to stand. go and sit down some place, and i'll be along directly and see how the fire burns. don't you s'pose mis' rossitur could come in, and sit in this easy-chair a spell without hurting herself?" it occurred to fleda immediately, that it might do more good than harm to her aunt if her attention were diverted even by another cause of anxiety. she gently summoned her, telling her no more than was necessary to fit her for being hugh's nurse, and, in a very few minutes, she and barby were at liberty to attend to other claims upon them. but it sank into her heart, "hugh will not get over this!" � and when she entered the sitting-room, what mr. carleton, years before, had said of the wood-flower, was come true in its fullest extent � "a storm- wind had beaten it to the ground." she was able, literally, to do no more than barby had said � sit down and keep herself quiet. miss elster was in her briskest mood, flew in and out, made up the fire in the sitting-room, and put on the kettle in the kitchen, which she had been just about doing when called to see hugh. the much- needed supper of the travellers must be still waited for; but the fire was burning now, the room was cozily warm and bright, and marion drew up her chair with a look of thoughtful contentment. fleda felt as if some conjurer had been at work there for the last few hours � the room looked so like and felt so unlike itself. "are you going to be ill too, fleda?" said marion, suddenly. "you are looking � very far from well!" "i shall have a headache to-morrow," said fleda, quietly, � "i generally know the day beforehand." "does it always make you look so?" "not always � i am somewhat tired." "where is my father gone?" "i don't know. rolf, dear," said fleda, bending forward to the little fellow, who was giving expression to some very fidgety impatience � "what is the matter? � what do you want?" the child's voice fell a little from its querulousness towards the sweet key in which the questions had been put, but he gave utterance to a very decided wish for "bread and butter." "come here," said fleda, reaching out a hand and drawing him, certainly with no force but that of attraction, towards her easy-chair � "come here and rest yourself in this nice place by me � see, there is plenty of room for you � and you shall have bread and butter and tea, and something else, too, i guess, just as soon as barby can get it ready." "who is barby?" was the next question, in a most uncompromising tone of voice. "you saw the woman that came in to put wood on the fire � that was barby � she is very good and kind, and will do anything for you if you behave yourself." the child muttered, but so low as to show some unwillingness that his words should reach the ears that were nearest him, that "he wasn't going to behave himself." fleda did not choose to hear, and went on with composing observations, till the fair little face she had drawn to her side was as bright as the sun, and returned her smile with interest. "you have an admirable talent at moral suasion, fleda," said the mother, half smiling � "i wish i had it." "you don't need it so much here." "why not?" "it may do very well for me, but i think, not so well for you." "why? � what do you mean? i think it is the only way in the world to bring up children � the only way fit for rational beings to be guided." fleda smiled, though the faintest indication that lips could give, and shook her head � ever so little. "why do you do that? � tell me." "because, in my limited experience," said fleda, as she passed her fingers through the boy's dark locks of hair � "in every household where 'moral suasion' has been the law, the children have been the administrators of it. where is your husband?" "i have lost him � years ago" � said marion, with a quick expressive glance towards the child. "i never lost what i at first thought i had, for i never had it. do you understand?" fleda's eyes gave a sufficient answer. "i am a widow � these five years � in all but what the law would require," marion went on. "i have been alone since then � except my child. he was two years old then; and since then i have lived such a life, fleda!" "why didn't you come home?" "couldn't � the most absolute reason in the world. think of it! � come home! it was as much as i could do to stay there!" those sympathizing eyes were enough to make her go on. "i have wanted everything � except trouble. i have done everything � except ask alms. i have learned, fleda, that death is not the worst form in which distress can come." fleda felt stung, and bent down her head to touch her lips to the brow of little rolf. "death would have been a trifle!" said marion. "i mean � not that _i_ should have wished to leave rolf alone in the world; but if i had been left � i mean i would rather wear outside than inside mourning." fleda looked up again, and at her. "oh, i was so mistaken, fleda!" she said, clasping her hands � "so mistaken! � in everything; � so disappointed � in all my hopes. and the loss of my fortune was the cause of it all." nay, verily! thought fleda, but she said nothing; she hung her head again; and marion, after a pause, went on to question her about an endless string of matters concerning themselves and other people, past doings and present prospects, till little rolf, soothed by the uninteresting soft murmur of voices, fairly forgot bread and butter and himself in a sound sleep, his head resting upon fleda. "here is one comfort for you, marion," she said, looking down at the dark eyelashes which lay on a cheek rosy and healthy as ever seven years old knew; " he is a beautiful child, and i am sure, a fine one." "it is thanks to his beauty that i have ever seen home again," said his mother. fleda had no heart this evening to speak words that were not necessary; her eyes asked marion to explain herself. "he was in hyde park one day � i had a miserable lodging not far from it, and i used to let him go in there, because he must go somewhere, you know � i couldn't go with him �" "why not?" "couldn't! � oh fleda! � i have seen changes! � he was there one afternoon, alone, and had got into difficulty with some bigger boys � a little fellow, you know � he stood his ground manfully, but his strength wasn't equal to his spirit, and they were tyrannizing over him after the fashion of boys, who are, i do think, the ugliest creatures in creation!" said mme. schwiden, not apparently reckoning her own to be of the same gender � "and a gentleman, who was riding by, stopped and interfered, and took him out of their hands, and then asked him his name � struck, i suppose, with his appearance. very kind, wasn't it? men so seldom bother themselves about what becomes of children. i suppose there were thousands of others riding by at the same time." "very kind," fleda said. "when he heard what his name was, he gave his horse to his servant, and walked home with rolf; and the next day he sent me a note, speaking of having known my father and mother, and asking permission to call upon me. i never was so mortified, i think, in my life," said marion, after a moment's hesitation. "why?" said fleda, not a little at a loss to follow out the chain of her cousin's reasoning. "why, i was in such a sort of a place, you don't know, fleda; i was working then for a fancy storekeeper, to support myself � living in a miserable little two rooms. if it had been a stranger, i wouldn't have cared so much, but somebody that had known us in different times. i hadn't a thing in the world to answer the note upon but a half-sheet of letter paper." fleda's lips sought rolf's forehead again, with a curious rush of tears and smiles at once. perhaps marion had caught the expression of her countenance, for she added, with a little energy � "it is nothing to be surprised at � you would have felt just the same; for i knew by his note, the whole style of it, what sort of a person it must be." "my pride has been a good deal chastened," fleda said, gently. "i never want _mine_ to be, beyond minding everything," said marion; "and i don't believe yours is. i don't know why in the world i did not refuse to see him � i had fifty minds to � but he had won rolf's heart, and i was a little curious, and it was something strange to see the face of a friend, any better one than my old landlady, so i let him come." "was _she_ a friend?" said fleda. "if she hadn't been, i should not have lived to be here; the best soul that ever was; but still, you know, she could do nothing for me but be as kind as she could live; this was something different. so i let him come, and he came the next day." fleda was silent, a little wondering that marion should be so frank with her, beyond what she had ever been in former years; but, as she guessed, mme. schwiden's heart was a little opened by the joy of finding herself at home, and the absolute necessity of talking to somebody; and there was a further reason, which fleda could not judge of, in her own face and manner. marion needed no questions, and went on again, after stopping a moment. "i was so glad, in five minutes � i can't tell you, fleda � that i had let him come. i forgot entirely about how i looked, and the wretched place i was in. he was all that i had supposed, and a great deal more; but, somehow, he hadn't been in the room three minutes before i didn't care at all for all the things i had thought would trouble me. isn't it strange what a witchery some people have to make you forget everything but themselves!" "the reason is, i think, because that is the only thing they forget," said fleda, whose imagination, however, was entirely busy with the _singular_ number. "i shall never forget him," said marion. "he was very kind to me � i cannot tell how kind � though i never realized it till afterwards; at the time, it always seemed only a sort of elegant politeness which he could not help. i never saw so elegant a person. he came two or three times to see me, and he took rolf out with him, i don't know how often, to drive; and he sent me fruit � such fruit! and game, and flowers; and i had not had anything of the kind, not even seen it, for so long; i can't tell you what it was to me. he said he had known my father and mother well when they were abroad." "what was his name?" said fleda, quickly. "i don't know � he never told me � and i never could ask him. don't you know, there are some people you can't do anything with, but just what they please? there wasn't the least thing like stiffness; you never saw anybody less stiff; but i never dreamed of asking him questions, except when he was out of sight. why, do you know him?" she said, suddenly. "when you tell me who he was, i'll tell you," said fleda, smiling. "have you ever heard this story before?" "certainly not!" "he is somebody that knows us very well," said marion, "for he asked after every one of the family in particular." "but what had all this to do with your getting home?" "i don't wonder you ask. the day after his last visit, came a note, saying, that he owed a debt in my family, which it had never been in his power to repay; that he could not give the enclosure to my father, who would not recognise the obligation; and that if i would permit him to place it in my hands, i should confer a singular favour upon him." "and what was the enclosure?" "five hundred pounds." fleda's head went down again, and tears dropped fast upon little rolf's shoulder. "i suppose my pride has been a little broken, too," marion went on, "or i shouldn't have kept it. but then, if you saw the person, and the whole manner of it � i don't know how i could ever have sent it back. literally i couldn't, though, for i hadn't the least clue. i never saw or heard from him afterwards." "when was this, marion?" "last spring." "last spring! � then what kept you so long?" "because of the arrival of eyes that i was afraid of. i dared not make the least move that would show i could move. i came off the very first packet after i was free." "how glad you must be!" said fleda. "glad!" � "glad of what, mamma?" said rolf,. whose dreams the entrance of barby had probably disturbed. "glad of bread and butter," said his mother; wake up � here it is." the young gentleman declared, rubbing his eyes, that he did not want it now; but, however, fleda contrived to dispel that illusion, and bread and butter was found to have the same dulcifying properties at queechy that it owns in all the rest of the world. little rolf was completely mollified after a hearty meal, and was put with his mother to enjoy most unbroken slumbers in fleda's room. fleda herself, after a look at hugh, crept to her aunt's bed; whither barby very soon despatched mrs. rossitur, taking in her place the arm-chair and the watch with most invincible good-will and determination; and sleep at last took the joys and sorrows of that disturbed household into its kind custody. fleda was the first one awake, and was thinking how she should break the last news to her aunt, when mrs. rossitur put her arms round her, and, after a most affectionate look and kiss, spoke to what she supposed had been her niece's purpose. "you want taking care of more than i do, poor fleda!" "it was not for that i came," said fleda; "i had to give up my room to the travellers." "travellers!" � a very few words more brought out the whole, and mrs. rossitur sprang out of bed, and rushed to her daughter's room. fleda hid her face in the bed to cry � for a moment's passionate indulgence in weeping while no one could see. but a moment was all. there was work to do, and she must not disable herself. she slowly got up, feeling thankful that her headache did not announce itself with the dawn, and that she would be able to attend to the morning affairs and the breakfast, which was something more of a circumstance now with the new additions to the family. more than that, she knew, from sure signs, she would not be able to accomplish. it was all done, and done well, though with what secret flagging of mind and body nobody knew or suspected. the business of the day was arranged, barby's course made clear, hugh visited and smiled upon; and then fleda set herself down in the breakfast-room to wear out the rest of the day in patient suffering. her little spaniel, who seemed to understand her languid step and faint tones, and know what was coming, crept into her lap and looked up at her with a face of equal truth and affection; and after a few gentle acknowledging touches from the loved hand, laid his head on her knees, and silently avowed his determination of abiding her fortunes for the remainder of the day. they had been there for some hours. mrs. rossitur and her daughter were gathered in hugh's room; whither rolf also, after sundry expressions of sympathy for fleda's headache, finding it a dull companion, had departed. pain of body, rising above pain of mind, had obliged, as far as possible, even thought to be still; when a loud lap at the front door brought the blood in a sudden flush of pain to fleda's face. she knew instinctively what it meant. she heard barby's distinct accents saying that somebody was "not well." the other voice was more smothered. but in a moment the door of the breakfast-room opened, and mr. thorn walked in. the intensity of the pain she was suffering effectually precluded fleda from discovering emotion of any kind. she could not move. only king lifted up his head and looked at the intruder, who seemed shocked, and well he might. fleda was in her old headache position � bolt upright on the sofa, her feet on the rung of a chair, while her hands supported her by their grasp upon the back of it. the flush had passed away, leaving the deadly paleness of pain, which the dark rings under her eyes showed to be well seated. "miss ringgan!" said the gentleman, coming up softly, as to something that frightened him � "my dear miss fleda! i am distressed! you are very ill. can nothing be done to relieve you?" fleda's lips rather than her voice said, "nothing." "i would not have come in on any account to disturb you if i had known � i did not understand you were more than a trifle ill." fleda wished he would mend his .mistake, as his understanding certainly by this time was mended. but that did not seem to be his conclusion of the best thing to do. "since i am here, can you bear to hear me say three words, without too much pain? i do not ask you to speak." a faint whispered "yes" gave him leave to go on. she had never looked at him. she sat like a statue; to answer by a motion of her head was more than could be risked. he drew up a chair and sat down, while king looked at him with eyes of suspicious indignation. "i am not surprised," he said gently, "to find you suffering. i knew how your sensibilities must feel the shock of yesterday. i would fain have spared it you. i will spare you all further pain on the same score, if possible. dear miss ringgan, since i am here, and time is precious, may i say one word before i cease troubling you? i take it for granted that you were made acquainted with the contents of my letter to mrs. rossitur? � with _all_ the contents? � were you?" again fleda's lips almost voicelessly gave the answer. "will you give me what i ventured to ask for?" said he, gently, "the permission to work _for you?_ do not trouble those precious lips to speak � the answer of these fingers will be as sure a warrant to me as all words that could be spoken, that you do not deny my request." he had taken one of her hands in his own. but the fingers lay with unanswering coldness and lifelessness for a second in his clasp, and then were drawn away, and took determinate hold of the chair-back. again the flush came to fleda's cheeks, brought by a sharp pain � oh, bodily and mental too! � and, after a moment's pause, with a distinctness of utterance that let him know every word, she said, � "a generous man would not ask it, sir." thorn sprang up, and several times paced the length of the room, up and down, before he said anything more. he looked at fleda, but the flush was gone again, and nothing could seem less conscious of his presence. pain and patience were in every line of her face, but he could read nothing more, except a calmness as unmistakably written. thorn gave that face repeated glances as he walked, then stood still and read it at leisure. then he came to her side again, and spoke in a different voice. "you are so unlike anybody else," he said, "that you shall make me unlike myself. i will do freely what i hoped to do with the light of your smile before me. you shall hear no more of this affair, neither you nor the world � i have the matter perfectly in my own hands � it shall never raise a whisper again. i will move heaven and earth rather than fail � but there is no danger of my failing. i will try to prove myself worthy of your esteem, even where a man is most excusable for being selfish." he took one of her cold hands again � fleda could not help it without more force than she cared to use, and, indeed, pain would by this time almost have swallowed up other sensation if every word and touch had not sent it ill a stronger throb to her very finger-ends. thorn bent his lips to her hand, twice kissed it fervently, and then left her, much to king's satisfaction, who thereupon resigned himself to quiet slumbers. his mistress knew no such relief. excitement had dreadfully aggravated her disorder, at a time when it was needful to banish even thought as far as possible. pain effectually banished it now, and barby, coming in a little after mr. thorn had gone, found her quite unable to speak, and scarce able to breathe, from agony. barby's energies and fainting remedies were again put in use, but pain reigned triumphant for hours; and when its hard rule was at last abated, fleda was able to do nothing but sleep like a child for hours more. towards a late tea-time she was at last awake, and carrying on a very one-sided conversation with rolf, her own lips being called upon for little more than a smile now and then. king, not able to be in her lap, had curled himself up upon a piece of his mistress's dress, and as close within the circle of her arms as possible, where fleda's hand and his head were on terms of mutual satisfaction. "i thought you wouldn't permit a dog to lie in your lap," said marion. do you remember that?" said fleda, with a smile. "ah, i have grown tender-hearted, marion, since i have known what it was to want comfort myself. i have come to the conclusion that it is best to let everything have all the enjoyment it can in the circumstances. king crawled into my lap one day when i had not spirits enough to turn him out, and he has kept the place ever since. little king!" � in answer to which word of intelligence, king looked in her face and wagged his tail, and then earnestly endeavoured to lick all her fingers, which, however, was a piece of comfort she would not give him. "fleda," said barby, putting her head in, "i wish you'd just step out here and tell me which cheese you'd like to have cut." "what a fool !" said marion. "let her cut them all if she likes." "she is no fool," said fleda. she thought barby's punctiliousness, however, a little ill-timed, as she rose from her sofa, and went into the kitchen. "well, you _do_ look as if you wa'n't good for nothing but to be taken care of," said barby. "i wouldn't have riz you up if it hadn't been just tea-time, and i knowed you couldn't stay quiet much longer;" and, with a look which explained her tactics, she put into fleda's hand a letter, directed to her aunt. "philetus give it to me," she said, without a glance at fleda's face; "he said it was give to him by a spry little shaver, who wa'n't a mind to tell nothin' about himself." "thank you, barby!" was fleda's most grateful return, and summoning her aunt up stairs, she took her into her own room, and locked the door before she gave her the letter, which barby's shrewdness and delicacy had taken such care should not reach its owner in a wrong way. fleda watched her as her eye ran over the paper, and caught it as it fell from her fingers. "my dear wife, "that villain thorn has got a handle of me which he will not fail to use � you know it all, i suppose, by this time. it is true that in an evil hour, long ago, when greatly pressed, i did what i thought i should surely undo in a few days. the time never came � i don't know why he has let it lie so long, but he has taken it up now, and he will push it to the extreme. there is but one thing left for me � i shall not see you again. the rascal would never let me rest, i know, in any spot that calls itself american ground. "you will do better without me than with me. "r. r." fleda mused over the letter for several minutes, and then touched her aunt, who had fallen on a chair, with her head sunk in her hands. "what does he mean?" said mrs. rossitur, looking up with a perfectly colourless face. "to leave the country." "are you sure? is that it?" said mrs. rossitur, rising and looking over the words again. "he would do anything, fleda." "that is what he means, aunt lucy; don't you see he says he could not be safe anywhere in america?" mrs. rossitur stood eyeing with intense eagerness, for a minute or two, the note in her niece's hand. "then he is gone! now that it is all settled! � and we don't know where � and we can't get word to him!" her cheek, which had a little brightened, became perfectly white again. "he isn't gone yet � he can't be � he cannot have left queechy till to-day � he will be in new york for several days yet, probably." "new york? � it may be boston!" "no, he would be more likely to go to new york � i am sure he would � he is accustomed to it." "we might write to both places," said poor mrs. rossitur. "i will do it, and send them off at once." "but he might not get the letters," said fleda, thoughtfully; "he might not dare to ask at the post-office." his wife looked at that possibility, and then wrung her hands. "oh, why didn't he give us a clue?" fleda put an arm round her affectionately, and stood thinking; stood trembling, might as well be said, for she was too weak to be standing at all. "what can we do, dear fleda?" said mrs. rossitur, in great distress, "once out of new york, and we can get nothing to him. if he only knew that there is no need, and that it is all over!" "we must do everything, aunt lucy," said fleda, thoughtfully; "and i hope we shall succeed yet. we will write, but i think the most hopeful other thing we could do, would be to put advertisements in the newspapers � he would be very likely to see them." "advertisements! but you couldn't � what would you put in?" "something that would catch his eye, and nobody's else; that is easy, aunt lucy." "but there is nobody to put them in, fleda; you said uncle orrin was going to boston?" "he wasn't going there till next week, but he was to be in philadelphia a few days before that; the letter might miss him." "mr. plumfield! � couldn't he?" but fleda shook her head. "wouldn't do, aunt lucy: he would do all he could, but he don't know new york, nor the papers; he wouldn't know how to manage it; he don't know uncle rolf; i shouldn't like to trust it to him." "who, then? there isn't a creature we could ask." fleda laid her cheek to her poor aunt's, and said, � "i'll do it." "but you must be in new york to do it, dear fleda � you can't do it here." "i will go to new york." "when?" "to-morrow morning." "but, dear fleda, you can't go alone! i can't let you, and you're not fit to go at all, my poor child!" and between conflicting feelings mrs. rossitur sat down and wept without measure. "listen, aunt lucy," said fleda, pressing a hand on her shoulder; "listen, and don't cry so. i'll go and make all right, if efforts can do it. i am not going alone � i'll get seth to go with me, and i can sleep in the cars, and rest nicely in the steamboat. i shall feel happy and well when i know that i am leaving you easier, and doing all that can be done to bring uncle rolf home. leave me to manage, and don't say anything to marion � it is one blessed thing that she need not know anything about all this. i shall feel better than if i were at home, and had trusted this business to any other hands." "you are the blessing of my life," said mrs. rossitur. "cheer up, and come down and let us have some tea," said fleda, kissing her; "i feel as if that would make me up a little; and then i'll write the letters. i sha'n't want but very little baggage; there'll be nothing to pack up." philetus was sent up the hill with a note to seth plumfield, and brought home a favourable answer. fleda thought, as she went to rest, that it was well the mind's strength could sometimes act independently of its servant, the body, � hers felt so very shattered and unsubstantial. chapter xiv. "i thank you for your company; but, good faith, i had as lief have been myself alone." as you like it. the first thing next morning, seth plumfield came down to say that he had seen dr. quackenboss the night before, and had chanced to find out that he was going to new york, too, this very day; and knowing that the doctor would be just as safe an escort as himself, seth had made over the charge of his cousin to him; "calculating," he said, "that it would make no difference to fleda, and that he had better stay at home with his mother." fleda said nothing, and looked as little as possible of her disappointment, and her cousin went away wholly unsuspecting of it. "seth plumfield ha'n't done a smarter thing than that in a good while," barby remarked, satirically, as he was shutting the door. "i should think he'd ha' hurt himself." "i dare say the doctor will take good care of me," said fleda; "as good as he knows how." "men beat all!" said barby, impatiently. "the little sense there is into them." fleda's sinking heart was almost ready to echo the sentiment; but nobody knew it. coffee was swallowed, her little travelling-bag and bonnet on the sofa � all ready. then came the doctor. "my dear miss ringgan, i am most happy of this delightful opportunity � i had supposed you were located at home for the winter. this is a sudden start." "is it sudden to you, dr. quackenboss?" said fleda. "why � a � not disagreeably so," said the doctor, smiling; "nothing could be that in the present circumstances � but i � a � i hadn't calculated upon it for much of a spell beforehand." fleda was vexed, and looked � only unconversable. "i suppose," said the doctor, after a pause, "that we have not much time to waste � a � in idle moments. which route do you intend to travel?" "i was thinking to go by the north river, sir." "but the ice has collected, i am afraid." "at albany, i know; but when i came up, there was a boat every other day, and we could get there in time by the stage � this is her day." "but we have had some pretty tight weather since, if you remember," said the doctor; "and the boats have ceased to connect with the stage. we shall have to go to greenfield to take the housatonic, which will land us at bridgeport on the sound." "have we time to reach greenfield this morning?" "oceans of time," said the doctor, delightedly; "i've got my team here, and they're jumping out of their skins with having nothing to do, and the weather � they'll carry us there as spry as grasshoppers � now, if you're ready, my dear miss ringgan." there was nothing more but to give and receive those speechless lip-messages that are out of the reach of words, and mrs. rossitur's half-spoken last charge, to take care of herself; and with these seals upon her mission, fleda set forth and joined the doctor, thankful for one foil to curiosity in the shape of a veil, and only wishing that there were any invented screen that she could place between her and hearing. "i hope your attire is of a very warm description," said the doctor, as he helped her into the wagon; "it friz pretty hard last night, and i don't think it has got out of the notion yet. if i had been consulted in any other� a � form, than that of a friend, i should have disapprobated, if you'll excuse me, miss ringgan's travelling again before her 'rose of cassius' there was in blow. i hope you have heard no evil tidings? dr. � a � gregory, i hope, is not taken ill?" "i hope not, sir," said fleda. "he didn't look like it. a very hearty old gentleman. not very old either, i should judge. was he the brother of your mother or your father?" "neither, sir." "ah! � i misunderstood � i thought, but of course i was mistaken � i thought i heard you speak to him under the title of uncle. but that is a title we sometimes give to elderly people as a term of familiarity; there is an old fellow that works for me, he has been a long time in our family, and we always call him 'uncle jenk.' " fleda was ready to laugh, cry, and be angry, in a breath. she looked straight before her, and was mum. "that 'rose of cassius' is a most exquisite thing," said the doctor, recurring to the cluster of bare bushy stems in the corner of the garden. "did mr. rossitur bring it with him when he came to his present residence?" "yes, sir." "where is mr. rossitur now?" fleda replied, with a jump of her heart, that business affairs had obliged him to be away for a few days. "and when does he expect to return?" said the doctor. "i hope he will be home as soon as i am," said fleda. "then you do not expect to remain long in the city this time?" "i shall not have much of a winter at home if i do," said fleda. "we are almost at january." "because," said the doctor, "in that case i should have no higher gratification than in attending upon your motions. i � a � beg you to believe, my dear miss ringgan, that it would afford me the � a � most particular � it would be most particularly grateful to me to wait upon you to � a � the confines of the world." fleda hastened to assure her officious friend that the time of her return was altogether uncertain, resolving rather to abide a guest with mrs. pritchard than to have dr. quackenboss hanging upon her motions every day of her being there. but, in the meantime, the doctor got upon captain rossitur's subject, then came to mr. thorn, and then wanted to know the exact nature of mr. rossitur's business affairs in michigan, through all which matters poor fleda had to run the gauntlet of questions, interspersed with gracious speeches which she could bear even less well. she was extremely glad to reach the cars, and take refuge in seeming sleep from the mongrel attentions, which, if for the most part prompted by admiration, owned so large a share of curiosity. her weary head and heart would fain have courted the reality of sleep, as a refuge from more painful thoughts, and a feeling of exhaustion that could scarcely support itself; but the restless roar and jumble of the rail-cars put it beyond her power. how long the hours were � how hard to wear out, with no possibility of a change of position that would give rest! fleda would not even raise her head when they stopped, for fear of being talked to; how trying that endless noise to her racked nerves! it came to an end at last, though fleda would not move for fear they might be only taking in wood and water. "miss ringgan!" said the doctor in her ear, "my dear miss ringgan, we are here" � "are we?" said fleda, looking up; "what other name has the place, doctor?" "why, bridgeport," said the doctor; "we're at bridgeport. now we have leave to exchange conveyances. a man feels constrained after a prolonged length of time in a place. how have you enjoyed the ride?" "not very well � it has seemed long. i am glad we are at the end of it." but as she rose and threw back her veil, the doctor looked startled. "my dear miss ringgan, are you faint?" "no, sir." "you are not well, indeed! � i am very sorry � the ride has been � take my arm! � ma'am," said the doctor, touching a black satin cloak which filled the passage-way, "will you have the goodness to give this lady a passport?" but the black satin cloak preferred a straightforward manner of doing this, so their egress was somewhat delayed. happily faintness was not the matter. "my dear miss ringgan," said the doctor, as they reached the ground and the outer air, "what was it? � the stove too powerful? you are looking � you are of a dreadfully delicate appearance!" "i had a headache yesterday," said fleda; "it always leaves me with a disagreeable reminder the next day. i am not ill." but he looked frightened, and hurried her, as fast as he dared, to the steamboat; and there proposed half a dozen restoratives, the simplest of which fleda took, and then sought delicious rest from him and from herself on the cushions of a settee. delicious! � though she was alone, in the cabin of a steamboat, with strange forms and noisy tongues around her, the closed eyelids shut it out all; and she had time but for one resting thought of "patient continuance in well-doing," and one happy heart-look up to him who has said that he cares for his children, a look that laid her anxieties down there � when past misery and future difficulty faded away before a sleep that lasted till the vessel reached her moorings and was made fast. she was too weary and faint even to think during the long drive up to bleecker street. she was fain to let it all go � the work she had to do, and the way she must set about it, and rest in the assurance that nothing could be done that night. she did not so much as hear dr. quackenboss's observations, though she answered a few of them, till, at the door, she was conscious of his promising to see her to-morrow, and of her instant conclusion to take measures to see nobody. how strange everything seemed! she walked through the familiar hall, feeling as if her acquaintance with every old thing was broken. there was no light in the back parlour, but a comfortable fire. "is my � is dr. gregory at home?" she asked of the girl who had let her in. "no, ma'am; he hasn't got back from philadelphia." "tell mrs. pritchard a lady wants to see her." good mrs. pritchard was much more frightened than dr. quackenboss had been when she came into the back parlour to see "a lady," and found fleda in. the great arm-chair, taking off her things. she poured out questions, wonderings, and lamentings, not "in a breath," but in a great many; quite forgot to be glad to see her, she looked so dreadfully; and "what had been the matter?" fleda answered her � told of yesterday's illness and to-day's journey; and met all her shocked inquiries with so composed a face, and such a calm smile and bearing, that mrs. pritchard was almost persuaded not to believe her eyes. "my uncle is not at home?" "o no, miss fleda! i suppose he's in philadelphy � but his motions is so little to be depended on, that i never know when i have him; maybe he'll stop going through to boston, and maybe no, and i don't know when; so anyhow i had to have a fire made, and this room all ready; and aint it lucky it was ready for you to-night? � and now he aint here, you can have the great chair all to yourself, and make yourself comfortable � we can keep warmer here, i guess, than you can in the country," said the good housekeeper, giving some skilful admonishing touches to the fire; � "and you must just sit there and read and rest, and see if you can't get back your old looks again. if i thought it was _that_ you came for, i'd be happy. i never did see such a change in any one in five days." she stood looking down at her guest with a face of very serious concern, evidently thinking much more than she chose to give utterance to. "i am tired, mrs. pritchard," said fleda, smiling up at her. "i wish you had somebody to take care of you, miss fleda, that wouldn't let you tire yourself. it's a sin to throw your strength away so � and you don't care for looks, nor nothing else when it's for other people. you're looking just as handsome, too, for all," she said, her mouth giving way a little, as she stooped down to take off fleda's overshoes; "but that's only because you can't help it. now, what is there you'd like to have for supper? � just say, and you shall have it � whatever would seem best � because i mightn't hit the right thing." fleda declared her indifference to everything but a cup of tea, and her hostess bustled away to get that, and tax her own ingenuity and kindness for the rest. and, leaning her weary head back in the lounge, fleda tried to think � but it was not time yet; she could only feel � feel what a sad change had come over her since she had sat there last � shut her eyes and wish she could sleep again. but mrs. pritchard's hospitality must be gone through with first. the nicest of suppers was served in the bright little parlour, and her hostess was a compound of care and good-will; nothing was wanting to the feast but a merry heart. fleda could not bring that, so her performance was unsatisfactory, and mrs. pritchard was distressed. fleda went to her own room, promising better doings to-morrow. she awoke in the morning to the full burden of care and sorrow which sheer weakness and weariness the day before had in part laid down � to a quicker sense of the state of things than she had had yet. the blasting evil that had fallen upon them � fleda writhed on her bed when she thought of it. the sternest, cruellest, most inflexible grasp of distress. poverty may be borne, death may be sweetened, even to the survivors; but _disgrace_ � fleda hid her head, as if she would shut the idea out with the light. and the ruin it had wrought! affection killed at the root � her aunt's happiness withered for this world � hugh's life threatened � the fair name of his family gone � the wear and weariness of her own spirit � but that had hardly a thought. himself! � oh! no one could tell what a possible wreck, now that self-respect and the esteem of others � those two safeguards of character � were lost to him. "so much security has any woman in a man without religion;" she remembered those words of her aunt miriam now; and she thought, if mr. thorn had sought an ill wind to blow, upon his pretensions, he could not have pitched them better. what fairer promise, without religion, could be than her uncle had given! reproach had never breathed against his name, and no one less than those who knew him best could fancy that he had ever given it occasion. and who could have more at stake? � and the stake was lost � that was the summing up thought. no, it was not � for fleda's mind presently sprang beyond � to the remedy; and after a little swift and earnest flitting about of thought over feasibilities and contingencies, she jumped up, and dressed herself with a prompt energy which showed a mind made up to its course. and yet when she came down to the parlour, though bending herself with nervous intentness to the work she had to do, her fingers and her heart were only stayed in their trembling by some of the happy assurances she had been fleeing to � "commit thy works unto the lord, and all thy thoughts shall be established." "in all thy ways acknowledge him: he shall direct thy paths." � assurances, not, indeed, that her plans should meet with success, but that they should have the issue best for them. she was early, but the room was warm, and in order, and the servant had left it. fleda sought out paper and pencil, and sat down to fashion the form of an advertisement � the first thing to be done. she had no notion how difficult a thing, till she came to do it. "_r. r. is entreated to communicate with his niece at the old place in bleecker street, on business of the greatest importance_." "it will not do," said fleda, to herself, as she sat and looked at it � "there is not enough to catch his eye, and there is _too much_, if it caught anybody else's eye � 'r. r.', and 'his niece,' and 'bleecker street,' � that would tell plain enough." "_dear uncle, f. has followed you here on business of the greatest importance. pray let her see you; she is at the old place_." "it will not do," thought fleda, again � "there is still less to catch his eye � i cannot trust it. and if i were to put 'queechy' over it, that would give the clue to the evelyns, and everybody. but i had better risk anything rather than his seeing it." the miserable needlessness of the whole thing, the pitiful weighing of sorrow against sorrow, and shame against shame, overcame her for a little; and then, dashing away the tears she had no time for, and locking up the strong-box of her heart, she took her pencil again. "_queechy_. "_let me see you at the old place. i have come here on urgent business for you. do not deny me, for h�'s sake!_" with a trifle of alteration, she thought this would do; and went on to make a number of fair copies of it for so many papers. this was done, and all traces of it out of the way before mrs. pritchard came in and the breakfast; and after bracing herself with coffee, though the good housekeeper was still sadly dissatisfied with her indifference to some more substantial brace in the shape of chickens and ham, fleda prepared herself inwardly and outwardly to brave the wind and the newspaper offices, and set forth. it was a bright, keen day; she was sorry; she would it had been cloudy. it seemed as if she could not hope to escape some eyes in such an atmosphere. she went to the library first, and there requested the librarian, whom she knew, to bring her from the reading-room the files of morning and evening papers. they were many more than she had supposed; she had not near advertisements enough. paper and ink were at hand, however, and making carefully her list of the various offices, morning and evening separate, she wrote out a copy of the notice for each of them. the morning was well on by the time she could leave the library. it was yet far from the fashionable hour, however, and sedulously shunning the recognition of anybody, in hopes that it would be one step towards her escaping theirs, she made her way down the bright thoroughfare as far as the city hall, and then crossed over the park and plunged into a region where it was very little likely she would see a face that she knew. she saw nothing else either that she knew; in spite of having studied the map of the city in the library, she was forced several times to ask her way, as she visited office after office, of the evening papers first, till she had placed her notice with each one of them. her courage almost failed her � her heart did quite, after two or three. it was a trial from which her whole nature shrank, to go among the people, to face the eyes, to exchange talk with the lips that were at home in those purlieus; look at them she did not. making her slow way through the choked narrow streets, where the mere confusion of business was bewildering � very, to any one come from queechy; among crowds, of what mixed and doubtful character, hurrying along and brushing with little ceremony past her; edging by loitering groups that filled the whole sidewalk, or perhaps edging through them � groups whose general type of character was sufficiently plain and _un_mixed; entering into parley with clerk after clerk, who looked at such a visitor as an anomaly � poor fleda almost thought so too, and shrank within herself; venturing hardly her eyes beyond her thick veil, and shutting her ears resolutely as far as possible to all the dissonant rough voices that helped to assure her she was where she ought not to be. sometimes she felt that it was _impossible_ to go on and finish her task; but a thought or two nerved her again to plunge into another untried quarter, or make good her entrance to some new office through a host of loungers and waiting newsboys collected round the door. sometimes, in utter discouragement, she went on and walked to a distance and came back, in the hope of a better opportunity. it was a long business; and she often had to wait. the end of her list was reached at last, and the paper was thrown away; but she did not draw free breath till she had got to the west side of broadway again, and turned her back upon them all. it was late then, and the street was thinned of a part of its gay throng. completely worn in body as well as mind, with slow faltering steps, fleda moved on among those still left; looking upon them with a curious eye, as if they and she belonged to different classes of beings; so very far her sobered and saddened spirit seemed to herself from their stir of business and gaiety; if they had been a train of lady-flies or black ants, fleda would hardly have felt that she had less in common with them. it was a weary, long way up to bleecker street, as she was forced to travel it. the relief was unspeakable to find herself within her uncle's door, with the sense that her dreaded duty was done, and well and thoroughly. now her part was to be still and wait. but with the relief came also a reaction from the strain of the morning. before her weary feet had well mounted the stairs, her heart gave up its control; and she locked herself in her room to yield to a helpless outpouring of tears which she was utterly unable to restrain, though conscious that long time could not pass before she would be called to dinner. dinner had to wait. "miss fleda," said the housekeeper, in a vexed tone, when the meal was half over � "i didn't know you ever did anything wrong." "you were sadly mistaken, mrs. pritchard," said fleda, half lightly, half sadly. "you're looking not a bit better than last night, and, if anything, rather worse," mrs. pritchard went on. "it isn't right, miss fleda. you oughtn't to ha' set the first step out of doors, i know you oughtn't, this blessed day; and you've been on your feet these seven hours � and you show it! you're just ready to drop." "i will rest to-morrow," said fleda, "or try to." "you are fit for nothing but bed," said the housekeeper � "and you've been using yourself, miss fleda, as if you had the strength of an elephant. now, do you think you've been doing right?" fleda would have made some cheerful answer, but she was not equal to it; she had lost all command of herself, and she dropped knife and fork to burst into a flood of exceeding tears. mrs. pritchard, equally astonished and mystified, hurried questions, apologies, and consolations, one upon another; and made up her mind that there was something mysterious on foot, about which she had better ask no questions. neither did she from that time. she sealed up her mouth, and contented herself with taking the best care of her guest that she possibly could. needed enough, but all of little avail. the reaction did not cease with that day. the next sunday was spent on the sofa, in a state of utter prostration. with the necessity for exertion the power had died. fleda could only lie upon the cushions and sleep helplessly, while mrs. pritchard sat by, anxiously watching her; curiosity really swallowed up in kind feeling. monday was little better; but towards the after part of the day, the stimulant of anxiety began to work again, and fleda sat up to watch for a word from her uncle. but none came, and tuesday morning distressed mrs. pritchard with its want of amendment. it was not to be hoped for, fleda knew, while this fearful watching lasted. her uncle might not have seen the advertisement � he might not have got her letter � he might be even then setting sail to quit home for ever. and she could do nothing but wait. her nerves were alive to every stir; every touch of the bell made her tremble; it was impossible to read, to lie down, to be quiet or still anywhere. she had set the glass of expectancy, for one thing, in the distance: and all things else were a blur or a blank. they had sat down to dinner that tuesday, when a ring at the door, which had made her heart jump, was followed � yes, it was � by the entrance of the maid-servant holding a folded bit of paper in her hand. fleda did not wait to ask whose it was � she seized it and saw � and sprang away up stairs. it was a sealed scrap of paper, that had been the back of a letter, containing two lines without signature. "i will meet you _at dinah's_ � if you come there alone about sundown." enough! dinah was an old black woman who once had been a very attached servant in mr. rossitur's family, and, having married and become a widow years ago, had set up for herself in the trade of a washerwoman, occupying an obscure little tenement out towards chelsea. fleda had rather a shadowy idea of the locality, though remembering very well sundry journeys of kindness she and hugh had made to it in days gone by. but she recollected it was in sloman street, and she knew she could find it; and dropping upon her knees, poured out thanks too deep to be uttered, and too strong to be even thought, without a convulsion of tears. her dinner after that was but a mental thanksgiving � she was hardly conscious of anything beside � and a thankful rejoicing for all her weary labours. their weariness was sweet to her now. let her but see him � the rest was sure. chapter xv. "how well appaid she was her bird to find!" sidney. fleda counted the minutes till it wanted an hour of sundown, and then, avoiding mrs. pritchard, made her escape out of the house. a long walk was before her, and the latter part of it through a region which she wished to pass while the light was good. and she was utterly unable to travel at any but a very gentle rate; so she gave herself plenty of time. it was a very bright afternoon, and all the world was astir. fleda shielded herself with a thick veil, and went up one of the narrow streets, not daring to venture into broadway, and passing waverly place, which was almost as bright, turned down eighth street. a few blocks now, and she would be out of all danger of meeting any one that knew her. she drew her veil close, and hurried on. but the proverb saith, "a miss is as good as a mile," and with reason; for if fate wills, the chances make nothing. as fleda set her foot down to cross fifth avenue, she saw mr. carleton on the other side coming up from waverly place. she went as slowly as she dared, hoping that he would pass without looking her way, or be unable to recognize her through her thick wrapper. in vain � she soon saw that she was known � he was waiting for her, and she must put up her veil and speak to him. "why, i thought you had left new york," said he � "i was told so." "i had left it � i have left it, sir," said fleda � "i have only come back for a day or two." � "have you been ill?" he said, with a sudden change of tone, the light in his eye, and smile, giving place to a very marked gravity. fleda would have answered with a half smile, but such a sickness of heart came over her, that speech failed, and she was very near bursting into tears. mr. carleton looked at her earnestly a moment, and then put the hand which fleda had forgotten he still held upon his arm, and began to walk forward gently with her. something in the grave tenderness with which this was done, reminded fleda irresistibly of the times when she had been a child under his care; and, somehow, her thoughts went off on a tangent back to the further days of her mother, and father, and grandfather, the other friends from whom she had had the same gentle protection, which now there was no one in the world to give her. and their images did never seem more winning fair than just then � when their place was left most especially empty. her uncle she had never looked up to in the same way, and whatever stay he had been was cut down. her aunt leaned upon _her;_ and hugh had always been more of a younger than an elder brother. the quick contrast of those old happy childish days was too strong; the glance back at what she had had, made her feel the want. fleda blamed herself, reasoned and fought with herself; but she was weak in mind and body, her nerves were unsteady yet, her spirits unprepared for any encounter or reminder of pleasure; and though vexed and ashamed, she _could_ not hold her head up, and she could not prevent tear after tear from falling as they went along; she could only hope that nobody saw them. nobody spoke of them. but then nobody said anything; and the silence at last frightened her into rousing herself. she checked her tears and raised her head; she ventured no more; she dared not turn her face towards her companion. he looked at her once or twice, as if in doubt whether to speak or not. "are you not going beyond your strength?" he said at length, gently. fleda said, "no," although in a tone that half confessed his suspicion. he was silent again, however, and she cast about in vain for something to speak of; it seemed to her that all subjects of conversation in general had been packed up for exportation; neither eye nor memory could light upon a single one. block after block was passed, the pace at which he walked, and the manner of his care for her, alone showing that he knew what a very light hand was resting upon his arm. "how pretty the curl of blue smoke is from that chimney," he said. it was said with a tone so carelessly easy, that fleda's heart jumped for one instant in the persuasion that he had seen and noticed nothing peculiar about her. "i know it," she said, eagerly � "i have often thought of it � especially here in the city �" "why is it? what is it?" fleda's eye gave one of its exploratory looks at his, such as he remembered from years ago, before she spoke. "isn't it contrast? � or at least i think that helps the effect here." "what do you make the contrast?" he said, quietly. "isn't it," said fleda, with another glance, "the contrast of something pure and free and upward-tending, with what is below it? i did not mean the mere painter's contrast. in the country, smoke is more picturesque, but in the city i think it has more character." "to how many people do you suppose it ever occurred that smoke had a character?" said he, smiling. "you are laughing at me, mr. carleton; perhaps i deserve it." "you do not think that," said he, with a look that forbade her to think it. "but i see you are of lavater's mind, that everything has a physiognomy?" "i think he was perfectly right," said fleda. "don't you, mr. carleton?" "to some people, yes! � but the expression is so subtle, that only very nice sensibilities, with fine training, can hope to catch it; therefore, to the mass of the world lavater would talk nonsense." "that is a gentle hint to me. but if i talk nonsense, i wish you would set me right, mr. carleton; i am very apt to amuse myself with tracing out fancied analogies in almost everything, and i may carry it too far � too far to be spoken of wisely. i think it enlarges the field of pleasure very much. where one eye is stopped, another is but invited on." "so," said mr. carleton, "while that puff of smoke would lead one person's imagination only down the chimney to the kitchen fire, it would take another's � where did yours go?" said he, suddenly turning round upon her. fleda met his eye again, without speaking; but her look had, perhaps, more than half revealed her thought, for she was answered with a smile so intelligent and sympathetic, that she was abashed. "how very much religion heightens the enjoyments of life!" mr. carleton said, after a while. fleda's heart throbbed an answer � she did not speak. "both in its direct and indirect action. the mind is set free from influences that narrowed its range and dimmed its vision, and refined to a keener sensibility, a juster perception, a higher power of appreciation, by far, than it had before. and then, to say nothing of religion's own peculiar sphere of enjoyment, technically religious � what a field of pleasure it opens to its possessor in the world of moral beauty, most partially known to any other � and the fine but exquisite analogies of things material with things spiritual � those _harmonies of nature_, to which, talk as they will, all other ears are deaf." "you know," said fleda, with full eyes that she dared not show, "how henry martyn said that he found he enjoyed painting and music so much more after he became a christian." "i remember. it is the substituting a just medium for a false one � it is putting nature within and nature without in tune with each other, so that the chords are perfect now which were jarring before." "and yet how far people would be from believing you, mr. carleton." "yes, they are possessed with the contrary notion. but in all the creation nothing has a one-sided usefulness. what a reflection it would be upon the wisdom of its author, if godliness alone were the exception � if it were not 'profitable for the life that now is, as well as for that which is to come!' " "they make that work the other way, don't they?" said fleda; "not being able to see how thorough religion should be for anybody's happiness, they make use of your argument to conclude that it is not what the bible requires. how i have heard that urged � that god intended his creatures to be happy � as a reason why they should disobey him! they lay hold on the wrong end of the argument, and work backwards." "precisely. " 'god intended his creatures to be happy. " 'strict obedience would make them unhappy. " 'therefore, he does not intend them to obey.' " "they never put it before them quite so clearly," said fleda. "they would startle at it a little. but so they would at the right stating of the case." "and how would that be, mr. carleton?" "it might be somewhat after this fashion � " 'god requires nothing that is not for the happiness of his people. " 'he requires perfect obedience. " 'therefore, perfect obedience is for their happiness.' "but unbelief will not understand that. did it ever strike you how much there is in those words, 'come and see?' all that argument can do, after all, is but to persuade to that. only faith will submit to terms, and enter the narrow gate; and only obedience knows what the prospect is on the other side." "but isn't it true, mr. carleton, that the world have some cause for their opinion � judging as they do by the outside? the peculiar pleasures of religion, as you say, are out of sight, and they do not always find in religious people that enlargement and refinement of which you were speaking." "because they make unequal comparisons. recollect that, as god has declared, the ranks of religion are not for the most part filled from the wise and the great. in making your estimate, you must measure things equal in other respects. compare the same man with himself before he was a christian, or with his unchristianized fellows, and you will find invariably the refining, dignifying, ennobling, influence of true religion � the enlarged intelligence, and the greater power of enjoyment." "and besides those causes of pleasure-giving that your mentioned," said fleda, "there is a mind at ease; and how much that is, alone! if i may judge others by myself, the mere fact of being unpoised, unresting, disables the mind from a thousand things that are joyfully relished by one entirely at ease." "yes," said he; "do you remember that word, � 'the stones of the field shall be at peace with thee?' " "i am afraid people would understand you as little as they would me, mr. carleton," said fleda, laughing. he smiled, rather a prolonged smile, the expression of which fleda could not make out; she felt that _she_ did not quite understand him. "i have thought," said he, after a pause, "that much of the beauty we find in many things is owing to a hidden analogy � the harmony they make with some unknown string of the mind's harp which they have set a-vibrating. but the music of that is so low and soft, that one must listen very closely to find out what it is." "why, that is the very theory of which i gave you a smoky illustration a little while ago," said fleda. "i thought i was on safe ground, after what you said about the characters of flowers, for that was a little �" "fanciful?" said he, smiling. "what you please,"' said fleda, colouring a little � "i am sure it is true. the theory, i mean. i have many a time felt it, though i never put it in words. i shall think of that." "did you ever happen to see the very early dawn of a winter's morning?" said he. but he laughed the next instant at the comical expression of fleda's face as it was turned to him. "forgive me for supposing you as ignorant as myself. i have seen it �once." "appreciated it, i hope, that time?" said fleda. "i shall never forget it." "and it never wrought in you a desire to see it again?" "i might see many a dawn," said he, smiling, "without what i saw then. it was very early, and a cloudy morning, so that night had still almost undisturbed possession of earth and sky; but in the south-eastern quarter, between two clouds, there was a space of fair white promise, hardly making any impression upon the darkness, but only set off by it. and upon this one bright spot in earth or heaven, rode the planet of the morning � the sun's forerunner � bright upon the brightness. all else was dusky, except where overhead the clouds had parted again and showed a faint old moon, glimmering down upon the night it could no longer be said to 'rule.' " "beautiful!" said fleda. "there is hardly any time i like so well as the dawn of a winter morning, with an old moon in the sky. summer weather has no beauty like it � in some things." "once," continued mr. carleton, "i should have seen no more than i have told you � the beauty that every cultivated eye must take in. but now, methought i saw the dayspring that has come upon a longer night; and from out of the midst of it there was the fair face of the morning star looking at me with its sweet reminder and invitation; looking over the world with its aspect of triumphant expectancy: there was its calm assurance of the coming day � its promise that the star of hope, which now there were only a few watching eyes to see, should presently be followed by the full beams of the sun of righteousness making the kingdoms of the world his own. your memory may bring to you the words that came to mine, the promise 'to him that overcometh,' and the beauty of the lips that made it: the encouragement to 'patient continuance in well doing,' 'till the day break, and the shadows flee away.' and there, on the other hand, was the substituted light of earth's wisdom and inventions, dominant yet, but waning, and soon to be put out for ever." fleda was crying again, and perhaps that was the reason why mr. carleton was silent for some time. she was very sorry to show herself so weak, but she could not help it; part of his words had come too close. and when she had recovered again, she was absolutely silent too, for they were nearing sloman- street, and she could not take him there with her. she did not know what to say, nor what he would think; and she said not another word till they came to the corner. there she must stop and speak. "i am very much obliged to you, mr. carleton," she said, drawing her hand from his arm, "for taking care of me all this disagreeable way; i will not give you any more trouble." "you are not going to dismiss me?" said he, looking at her with a countenance of serious anxiety. "i must," said fleda, ingenuously � "i have business to attend to here �" "but you will let me have the pleasure of waiting for you?" "o no," said fleda, hesitating and flushing � "thank you, mr. carleton; but pray do not � i don't know at all how long i may be detained." he bowed, she thought gravely, and turned away; and she entered the little wretched street, with a strange feeling of pain that she could not analyze. she did not know where it came from, but she thought if there only had been a hiding- place for her, she could have sat down and wept a whole heartful. the feeling must be kept back now, and it was soon forgotten in the throbbing of her heart at another thought which took entire possession. the sun was not down � there was time enough � but it was with a step and eye of hurried anxiety that fleda passed along the little street, for fear of missing her quest, or lest dinah should have changed her domicile. yet would her uncle have named it for their meeting if he had not been sure of it? it was very odd he should have appointed that place at all, and fleda was inclined to think he must have seen dinah by some chance, or it never would have come into his head. still her eye passed unheeding over all the varieties of dinginess and misery in her way, intent only upon finding that particular dingy cellar-way which used to admit her to dinah's premises. it was found at last, and she went in. the old woman, herself most unchanged, did not know the young lady, but well remembered the little girl whom fleda brought to her mind. and then she was overjoyed to see her, and asked a multitude of questions, and told a long story of her having met mr. rossitur in the street the other day, "in the last place where she'd have looked to see him;" and how old he had grown, and how surprised she had been to see the gray hairs in his head. fleda at last gave her to understand that she expected him to meet her there, and would like to see him alone; and the good woman immediately took her work into another apartment, made up the fire, and set up the chairs, and leaving her, assured fleda she would lock up the doors, "and not let no one come through." it was sundown, and later, fleda thought, and she felt as if every pulse was doing double duty. no matter, if she were shattered and the work done. but what work! oh, the needlessness, the cruelty, the folly of it! and how much of the ill consequences she might be unable, after all, to ward off. she took off her hat, to relieve a nervous smothered feeling; and walked, and sat down; and then sat still, from trembling inability to do anything else. dinah's poor little room, clean though it was, looked to her the most dismal place in the world, from its association with her errand; she hid her face on her knees, that she might have no disagreeableness to contend with, but that which could not be shut out. it had lain there some time, till a sudden feeling of terror at the growing lateness made her raise it to look at the window. mr. rossitur was standings still before her � he must have come in very softly � and looking � oh, fleda had not imagined him looking so changed. all was forgotten � the wrong, and the needlessness, and the indignation with which she had sometimes thought of it; fleda remembered nothing but love and pity, and threw herself upon his neck with such tears of tenderness and sympathy, such kisses of forgiveness and comfort-speaking, as might have broken a stouter heart than mr. rossitur's. he held her in his arms for a few minutes, passively suffering her caresses, and then gently unloosing her hold, placed her on a seat, sat down a little way off, covered his face and groaned aloud. fleda could not recover herself at once. then shaking off her agitation, she came and knelt down by his side, and putting one arm over his shoulders, laid her cheek against his forehead. words were beyond reach, but his forehead was wet with her tears; and kisses, of soft entreaty, of winning assurance, said all she could say. "what did you come here for, fleda?" said mr. rossitur, at length, without changing his position. "to bring you home, uncle rolf." "home!" said he, with an accent between bitterness and despair. "yes, for it's all over, it's all forgotten � there is no more to be said about it at all," said fleda, getting her words out she didn't know how. what is forgotten?" said he, harshly. "all that you would wish, sir," replied fleda, softly and gently; "there is no more to be done about it; and i came to tell you, if possible, before it was too late. oh, i'm so glad!" and her arms and her cheek pressed closer, as fresh tears stopped her voice. "how do you know, fleda?" said mr. rossitur, raising his head, and bringing hers to his shoulder, while his arms in turn enclosed her. fleda whispered, "he told me so himself." "who?" "mr. thorn." the words were but just spoken above her breath. mr. rossitur was silent for some time. "are you sure you understood him?" "yes, sir; it could not have been spoken plainer." "are you quite sure he meant what he said, fleda?" "perfectly sure, uncle rolf! i know he did." "what stipulation did he make beforehand?" "he did it without any stipulation, sir." "what was his inducement, then? if i know him, he is not a man to act without any." fleda's cheek was dyed, but except that, she gave no other answer. "why has it been left so long?" said her uncle, presently. "i don't know, sir � he said nothing about that. he promised that neither we nor the world should hear anything more of it." "the world!" said mr. rossitur. "no, sir; he said that only one or two persons had any notion of it, and that their secrecy he had the means of securing." "did he tell you anything more?" "only that he had the matter entirely under his control, and that never a whisper of it should be heard again. no promise could be given more fully and absolutely." mr. rossitur drew a long breath, speaking to fleda's ear very great relief, and was silent. "and what reward is he to have for this, fleda?" he said, after some musing. "all that my hearty thanks and gratitude can give, as far as i am concerned, sir." "is that what he expects, fleda?" "i cannot help what he expects," said fleda, in some distress. "what have you engaged yourself to, my child?" "nothing in the world, uncle rolf!" said fleda, earnestly � "nothing in the world. i haven't engaged myself to anything. the promise was made freely, without any sort of stipulation." mr. rossitur looked thoughtful and disquieted. fleda's tears were pouring again. "i will not trust him," he said; "i will not stay in the country!" "but you will come home, uncle?" said fleda, terrified. "yes, my dear child � yes, my dear child!" he said, tenderly, putting his arms round fleda again, and kissing, with an earnestness of acknowledgment that went to her heart, her lips and brow; "you shall do what you will with me; and when i go, we will all go together." from queechy? from america? but she had no time for that thought now. "you said, 'for hugh's sake,' " mr. rossitur observed, after a pause, and with some apparent difficulty; "what of him?" "he is not well, uncle rolf," said fleda; "and i think the best medicine will be the sight of you again." mr. rossitur looked pale, and was silent a moment. "and my wife?" he said. his face, and the thought of those faces at home, were too much for fleda; she could not help it. "oh, uncle rolf," she said, hiding her face, "they only want to see you again now!" mr. rossitur leaned his head in his hands and groaned; and fleda could but cry; she felt there was nothing to say. "it was for marion," he said at length; "it was when i was hard pressed, and i was fearful if it were known that it might ruin her prospects. i wanted that miserable sum � only four thousand dollars � that fellow schwiden asked to borrow it of me for a few days, and to refuse would have been to confess all. i dared not try my credit, and i just madly took that step that proved irretrievable. i counted at the moment upon funds that were coming to me only the next week � sure, i thought, as possible � but the man cheated me, and our embarrassments thickened from that time; that thing has been a weight � oh, a weight of deadening power! � round my neck ever since. i have died a living death these six years!" "i know it, dear uncle � i know it all!" said fleda, bringing the sympathizing touch of her cheek to his again. "the good that it did has been unspeakably overbalanced by the evil. even long ago i knew that." "the good that it did!" it was no time then to moralize, but he must know that marion was at home, or he might incautiously reveal to her what happily there was no necessity for her ever knowing. and the story must give him great and fresh pain. "dear uncle rolf," said fleda, pressing closer to him "we may be happier than we have been in a long time, if you will only take it so. the cloud upon you has been a cloud upon us." "i know it!" he exclaimed � "a cloud that served to show me that my jewels were diamonds!" "you have an accession to your jewels, uncle rolf." "what do you mean?" "i mean," said fleda, trembling, "that there are two more at home." he held her back to look at her. "can't you guess who?" "no!" said he. "what do you mean?" "i must tell you, because they know nothing, and needn't know, of all this matter." "what are you talking about?" "marion is there!" "marion!" exclaimed mr. rossitur, with quick changes of expression � "marion! at queechy! � and her husband?" "no, sir � a dear little child." "marion! � and her husband � where is he?" fleda hesitated. "i don't know � i don't know whether she knows." "is he dead?" "no, sir." mr. rossitur put her away, and got up and walked, or strode up and down the little apartment. fleda dared not look at him, even by the faint glimmer that came from the chimney. but abroad it was perfectly dark � the stars were shining, the only lamps that illumined the poor little street, and for a long time there had been no light in the room but that of the tiny wood fire. dinah never could be persuaded of the superior cheapness of coal. fleda came at last to her uncle's side, and putting her arm within his, said � "how soon will you set off for home, uncle rolf?" "to-morrow morning." "you must take the boat to bridgeport now � you know the river is fast." "yes, i know." "then i will meet you at the wharf, uncle rolf � at what o'clock?" "my dear child," said he, stopping and passing his hand tenderly over her cheek, "are you fit for it to-morrow? you had better stay where you are quietly for a few days � you want rest." "no, i will go home with you," said fleda, "and rest there. but hadn't we better let dinah in, and bid her good-bye? for i ought to be somewhere else to get ready." dinah was called, and a few kind words spoken, and with a more substantial remembrance, or reward, from fleda's hand, they left her. fleda had the support of her uncle's arm till they came within sight of the house, and then he stood and watched her while she went the rest of the way alone. anything more white and spirit-looking, and more spirit-like, in its purity and peacefulness surely did not walk that night. there was music in her ear, and abroad in the star-light, more ethereal than ariel's; but she knew where it came from � it was the chimes of her heart that were ringing; and never a happier peal, nor ever had the mental atmosphere been more clear for their sounding. thankfulness � that was the oftenest note � swelling thankfulness for her success � joy for herself and for the dear ones at home � generous delight at having been the instrument of their relief � the harmonies of pure affections, without any grating now � the hope, well grounded she thought, of improvement in her uncle, and better times for them all � a childlike peace that was at rest with itself and the world � these were mingling and interchanging their music, and again and again, in the midst of it all, faith rang the last chime in heaven. chapter xvi. "as some lone bird at day's departing hour sings in the sunbeam of the transient shower, forgetful though its wings are wet the while." bowles. happily possessed with the notion that there was some hidden mystery in fleda's movements, mrs. pritchard said not a word about her having gone out, and only spoke in looks her pain at the imprudence of which she had been guilty. but when fleda asked to have a carriage ordered to take her to the boat in the morning, the good housekeeper could not hold any longer. "miss fleda," said she, with a look of very serious remonstrance � "i don't know what you're thinking of, but _i_ know you're fixing to kill yourself. you are no more fit to go to queechy to-morrow than you were to be out till seven o'clock this evening; and if you saw yourself, you wouldn't want me to say any more. there is not the least morsel of colour in your face, and you look as if you had a mind to get rid of your body altogether as fast as you can! you want to be in bed for two days running, now this minute." "thank you, dear mrs. pritchard," said fleda, smiling � "you are very careful of me, but i must go home to-morrow, and go to bed afterwards." the housekeeper looked at her a minute in silence, and then said, "don't, dear miss fleda!" with an energy of entreaty, which brought the tears into fleda's eyes. but she persisted in desiring the carriage, and mrs. pritchard was silenced, observing, however, that she shouldn't wonder if she wasn't able to go, after all. fleda herself was not without a doubt on the subject before the evening was over. the reaction, complete now, began to make itself felt, and morning settled the question. she was not able even to rise from her bed. the housekeeper was, in a sort, delighted; and fleda was in too passive a mood of body and mind to have any care on the subject. the agitation of the past days had given way to an absolute quiet, that seemed as if nothing could ever ruffle it again, and this feeling was seconded by the extreme prostration of body. she was a mere child in the hands of her nurse, and had, mrs. pritchard said, "if she wouldn't mind her telling � the sweetest baby-face that ever had so much sense belonging to it." the morning was half spent in dozing slumbers, when fleda heard a rush of footsteps, much lighter and sprightlier than good mrs. pritchard's, coming up the stairs, and pattering along the entry to her room, and, with little ceremony, in rushed florence and constance evelyn. they almost smothered fleda with their delighted caresses, and ran so hard their questions about her looks and her illness, that she was well nigh spared the trouble of answering. "you horrid little creature!" said constance, "why didn't you come straight to our house? just think of the injurious suspicions you have exposed us to! � to say nothing of the extent of fiction we have found ourselves obliged to execute. i didn't expect it of you, little queechy." fleda kept her pale face quiet on the pillow, and only smiled her incredulous curiosity. "but when did you come back, fleda?" said miss evelyn. "we should never have known a breath about your being here," constance went on. "we were sitting last night, in peaceful unconsciousness of there being any neglected calls upon our friendship in the vicinity, when mr. carleton came in and asked for you. imagine our horror! we said you had gone out early in the afternoon, and had not returned." "you didn't say that!" said fleda, colouring. "and he remarked at some length," said constance, "upon the importance of young ladies having some attendance when they are out late in the evening, and that you in particular were one of those persons � he didn't say, but he intimated, of a slightly volatile disposition � whom their friends ought not to lose sight of." "but what brought you to town again, fleda " said the elder sister. "what makes you talk so, constance?" said fleda. "i haven't told you the half!" said constance, demurely. "and then mamma excused herself as well as she could, and mr. carleton said, very seriously, that he knew there was a great element of headstrongness in your character; he had remarked it, he said, when you were arguing with mr. stackpole." "constance, be quiet!" said her sister. "_will_ you tell me, fleda, what you have come to town for? i am dying with curiosity." "then it's inordinate curiosity, and ought to be checked, my dear," said fleda, smiling. "tell me." "i came to take care of some business that could not very well be attended to at a distance." "who did you come with?" "one of our queechy neighbours that i heard was coming to new york." "wasn't your uncle at home?" "of course not. if he had been, there would have been no need of my stirring." "but was there nobody else to do it but you?" "uncle orrin away, you know; and charlton down at his post � fort hamilton, is it? � i forget which fort � he is fast there." "he is not so very fast," said constance, "for i see him every now and then in broadway, shouldering mr. thorn instead of a musket; and he has taken up the distressing idea that it is part of his duty to oversee the progress of florence's worsted-work � (i've made over that horrid thing to her, fleda) � or else his precision has been struck with the anomaly of blue stars on a white ground, and he is studying that � i don't know which; and so every few nights he rushes over from governor's island, or somewhere, to prosecute inquiries. mamma is quite concerned about him; she says he is wearing himself out." the mixture of amusement, admiration, and affection, with which the other sister looked at her, and laughed with her was a pretty thing to see. "but where is your other cousin � hugh?" said florence. "he was not well." "where is your uncle?" "he will be at home to-day, i expect; and so should i have been � i meant to be there as soon as he was, but i found this morning that i was not well enough � to my sorrow." "you were not going alone!" "oh, no! � a friend of ours was going to-day." "i never saw anybody with so many friends, said florence. "but you are coming to us now, fleda. how soon are you going to get up?" "oh, by to-morrow," said fleda, smiling; "but i had better stay where i am the little while i shall be here. i must go home the first minute i can find an opportunity." "but you sha'n't find an opportunity till we've had you," said constance. "i'm going to bring a carriage for you this afternoon. i could bear the loss of your friendship, my dear, but not the peril of my own reputation. mr. carleton is under the impression that you are suffering from a momentary succession of fainting fits; and if we were to leave you here in an empty house, to come out of them at your leisure, what would he think of us?" what would he think? oh, world! is this it? but fleda was not able to be moved in the afternoon; and it soon appeared that nature would take more revenge than a day's sleep for the rough handling she had had the past week. fleda could not rise from her bed the next morning; and instead of that, a kind of nondescript nervous fever set in, nowise dangerous, but very wearying. she was, nevertheless, extremely glad of it, for it would serve to explain to all her friends the change of look which had astonished them. they would make it now the token of coming, not of past, evil. the rest she took with her accustomed patience and quietness, thankful for everything, after the anxiety and the relief she had just before known. dr. gregory came home from philadelphia in the height of her attack, and aggravated it for a day or two with the fear of his questioning. but fleda was surprised at his want of curiosity. he asked her, indeed, what she had come to town for, but her whispered answer of "business," seemed to satisfy him, for he did not inquire what the business was. he did ask her, furthermore, what had made her get sick; but this time he was satisfied more easily still, with a very curious, sweet smile, which was the utmost reply fleda's wits, at the moment, could frame. "well, get well," said he, kissing her heartily once or twice, "and i wont quarrel with you about it." the getting well, however, promised to be a leisurely affair. dr. gregory staid two or three days, and then went on to boston, leaving fleda in no want of him. mrs. pritchard was the tenderest and carefullest of nurses. the evelyns did everything but nurse her. they sat by her, talked to her, made her laugh, and not seldom made her look sober too, with their wild tales of the world and the world's doings. but they were indeed very affectionate and kind, and fleda loved them for it. if they wearied her sometimes with their talk, it was a change from the weariness of fever and silence that on the whole was useful. she was quieting herself one morning, as well as she could, in the midst of both, lying with shut eyes against her pillow, and trying to fix her mind on pleasant things, when she heard mrs. pritchard open the door and come in. she knew it was mrs. pritchard, so she didn't move nor look. but, in a moment, the knowledge that mrs. pritchard's feet had stopped just by the bed, and a strange sensation of something delicious saluting her, made her open her eyes; when they lighted upon a huge bunch of violets just before them, and in most friendly neighbourhood to her nose. fleda started up, and her "oh!" fairly made the housekeeper laugh; it was the very quintessence of gratification. "where did you get them?" "i didn't get them, indeed, miss fleda," said the housekeeper, gravely, with an immense amount of delighted satisfaction. "delicious! � where did they come from?" "well, they must have come from a greenhouse, or hothouse, or something of that kind, miss fleda � these things don't grow nowhere out o' doors at this time." mrs. pritchard guessed fleda had got the clue, from her quick change of colour and falling eye. there was a quick little smile too; and "how kind!" was upon the end of fleda's tongue, but it never got any further. her energies, so far as expression was concerned, seemed to be concentrated in the act of smelling. mrs. pritchard stood by. "they must be put in water," said fleda � "i must have a dish for them � dear mrs. pritchard, will you get me one?" the housekeeper went, smiling to herself. the dish was brought, the violets placed in it, and a little table, at fleda's request, was set by the side of the bed, close to her pillow, for them to stand upon; and fleda lay on her pillow and looked at them. there never were purer-breathed flowers than those. all the pleasant associations of fleda's life seemed to hang about them, from the time when her childish eyes had first made acquaintance with violets, to the conversation in the library a few days ago; and painful things stood aloof � they had no part. the freshness of youth, and the sweetness of spring- time, and all the kindly influences which had ever joined with both to bless her, came back with their blessing in the violets' reminding breath. fleda shut her eyes and she felt it; she opened her eyes, and the little, double blue things smiled at her good-humouredly, and said, "here we are � you may shut them again." and it was curious how often fleda gave them a smile back as she did so. mrs. pritchard thought fleda lived upon the violets that day rather than upon food and medicine; or, at least, she said, they agreed remarkably well together. and the next day it was much the same. "what will you do when they are withered?" she said, that evening. "i shall have to see and get some more for you." "oh, they will last a great while," said fleda, smiling. but the next morning mrs. pritchard came into her room with a great bunch of roses, the very like of the one fleda had had at the evelyns'. she delivered them with a sort of silent triumph, and then, as before, stood by to enjoy fleda and the flowers together. but the degree of fleda's wonderment, pleasure, and gratitude, made her reception of them, outwardly at least, this time rather grave. "you may throw the others away now, miss fleda," said the housekeeper, smiling. "indeed, i shall not!" "the violets, i suppose, is all gone," mrs. pritchard went on; "but i never did see such a bunch of roses as that since i lived anywhere. they have made a rose of you, miss fleda." "how beautiful!" was fleda's answer. "somebody � he didn't say who � desired to know particularly how miss ringgan was to-day." "somebody is _very_ kind!" said fleda, from the bottom of her heart. "but, dear mrs. pritchard, i shall want another dish." somebody was kind, she thought more and more; for there came every day or two the most delicious bouquets, every day different. they were _at least_ equal in their soothing and refreshing influences, to all the efforts of all the evelyns and mrs. pritchard put together. there never came any name with them, and there never was any need. those bunches of flowers certainly had a physiognomy; and to fleda were (not the flowers, but the choosing, cutting, and putting of them together) the embodiment of an amount of grace, refined feeling, generosity, and kindness, that her imagination never thought of in connection with but one person. and his kindness was answered, perhaps mrs. pritchard better than fleda guessed how well, from the delighted colour and sparkle of the eye with which every fresh arrival was greeted as it walked into her room. by fleda's order, the bouquets were invariably put out of sight before the evelyns made their first visit in the morning, and not brought out again till all danger of seeing them any more for the day was past. the regular coming of these floral messengers confirmed mrs. pritchard in her mysterious surmises about fleda, which were still further strengthened by this incomprehensible order; and at last she got so into the spirit of the thing, that if she heard an untimely ring at the door, she would catch up a glass of flowers and run as if they had been contraband, without a word from anybody. the evelyns wrote to mrs. rossitur, by fleda's desire, so as not to alarm her; merely saying that fleda was not quite well, and that they meant to keep her a little while to recruit herself; and that mrs. rossitur must send her some clothes. this last clause was the particular addition of constance. the fever lasted a fortnight, and then went off by degrees, leaving her with a very small portion of her ordinary strength. fleda was to go to the evelyns' as soon as she could bear it; at present she was only able to come down to the little back parlour, and sit in the doctor's arm-chair, and eat jelly, and sleep, and look at constance, and, when constance was not there, look at her flowers. she could hardly bear a book as yet. she hadn't a bit of colour in her face, mrs. pritchard said, but she looked better than when she came to town; and to herself the good housekeeper added, that she looked happier too. no doubt that was true. fleda's principal feeling, ever since she lay down in her bed, had been thankfulness; and now that the ease of returning health was joined to this feeling, her face, with all its subdued gravity, was as untroubled in its expression as the faces of her flowers. she was disagreeably surprised one day, after she had been two or three days down stairs, by a visit from mrs. thorn. in her well-grounded dread of seeing one person, fleda had given strict orders that no _gentleman_ should be admitted; she had not counted upon this invasion. mrs. thorn had always been extremely kind to her, but though fleda gave her credit for thorough good-heartedness, and a true liking for herself, she could not disconnect her attentions from another thought, and therefore always wished them away; and never had her kind face been more thoroughly disagreeable to fleda than when it made its appearance in the doctor's little back parlour on this occasion. with even more than her usual fondness, or fleda's excited imagination fancied so, mrs. thorn lavished caresses upon her, and finally besought her to go out and take the air in her carriage. fleda tried most earnestly to get rid of this invitation, and was gently unpersuadable, till the lady at last was brought to promise that she should see no creature during the drive but herself. an ominous promise! but fleda did not know any longer how to refuse without hurting a person for whom she had really a grateful regard. so she went, and doubted afterwards exceedingly whether she had done well. she took special good care to see nobody again till she went to the evelyns'. but then precautions were at an end. it was no longer possible to keep herself shut up. she had cause, poor child, the very first night of her coming, to wish herself back again. this first evening she would fain have pleaded weakness as her excuse, and gone to her room, but constance laid violent hands on her, and insisted that she should stay at least a little while with them. and she seemed fated to see all her friends in a bevy. first came charlton; then followed the decaturs, whom she knew and liked very well, and engrossed her, happily before her cousin had time to make any inquiries; then came mr. carleton; then mr. stackpole. then mr. thorn, in expectation of whom fleda's breath had been coming and going painfully all the evening. she could not meet him without a strange mixture of embarrassment and confusion with the gratitude she wished to express, an embarrassment not at all lessened by the air of happy confidence with which he came forward to her. it carried an intimation that almost took away the little strength she had. and if anything could have made his presence more intolerable, it was the feeling she could not get rid of, that it was the cause why mr. carleton did not come near her again, though she prolonged her stay in the drawing-room in the hope that he would. it proved to be for mr. thorn's benefit alone. "well, you staid all the evening, after all," said constance, as they were going up stairs. "yes � i wish i hadn't," said fleda. "i wonder when i shall be likely to find a chance of getting back to queechy?" "you're not fit yet, so you needn't trouble yourself about it," said constance. "we'll find you plenty of chances." fleda could not think of mr. thorn without trembling. his manner meant � so much more than it had any right, or than she had counted upon. he seemed � she pressed her hands upon her face to get rid of the impression � he seemed to take for granted precisely that which she had refused to admit; he seemed to reckon as paid for that which she had declined to set a price upon. her uncle's words and manner came up in her memory. she could see nothing best to do but to get home as fast as possible. she had no one here to fall back upon. again that vision of father and mother, and grandfather, flitted across her fancy; and though fleda's heart ended by resting down on that foundation to which it always recurred, it rested with a great many tears. for several days she denied herself absolutely to morning visitors of every kind. but she could not entirely absent herself from the drawing-room in the evening; and whenever the family were at home there was a regular levee. mr. thorn could not be avoided then. he was always there, and always with that same look and manner of satisfied confidence. fleda was as grave, as silent, as reserved, as she could possibly be, and not be rude; but he seemed to take it in excellent good part, as being half indisposition and half timidity. fleda set her face earnestly towards home, and pressed mrs. evelyn to find her an opportunity, weak or strong, of going there; but for those days as yet none presented itself. mr. carleton was at the house almost as often as mr. thorn, seldom staying so long, however, and never having any more to do with fleda than he had that first evening. whenever he did come in contact with her, he was, she thought, as grave as he was graceful. that was, to be sure, his common manner in company, yet she could not help thinking there was some difference since the walk they had taken together � and it grieved her. chapter xvii. "the best-laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft ajee." after a few days, charlton verified what constance had said about his not being very fast at fort hamilton, by coming again to see them one morning. fleda asked him if he could not get another furlough to go with her home, but he declared he was just spending one which was near out; and he could not hope for a third in some time; he must be back at his post by the day after to-morrow. "when do you want to go, coz?" "i would to-morrow, if i had anybody to go with me," said fleda, sighing. "no, you wouldn't," said constance; "you are well enough to go out now, and you forget we are all to make mrs. thorn happy to-morrow night." "i am not," said fleda. "not? you can't help yourself � you must; you said you would." "i did not, indeed." "well, then, i said it for you, and that will do just as well. why, my dear, if you don't � just think! � the thorns will be in a state � i should prefer to go through a hedge of any description rather than meet the trying demonstrations which will encounter me on every side." "i am going to mrs. decatur's," said fleda; "she invited me first, and i owe it to her; she has asked me so often and so kindly." "i shouldn't think you'd enjoy yourself there," said florence; "they don't talk a bit of english these nights. if i was going, my dear, i would act as your interpreter, but my destiny lies in another direction." "if i cannot make anybody understand my french, i will get somebody to condescend to my english," said fleda. "why, do you talk french?" was the instant question from both mouths. "unless she has forgotten herself strangely," said charlton. "talk! she will talk to anybody's satisfaction � that happens to differ from her; and i think her tongue cares very little which language it wags in. there is no danger about fleda's enjoying herself, where people are talking." fleda laughed at him, and the evelyns rather stared at them both. "but we are all going to mrs. thorn's? you can't go alone?" "i will make charlton take me," said fleda; "or rather i will take him, if he will let me. will you, charlton? will you take care of me to mrs. decatur's to-morrow night?" "with the greatest pleasure, my dear coz; but i have another engagement in the course of the evening." "oh, that is nothing," said fleda; "if you will only go with me, that is all i care for. you needn't stay but ten minutes. and you can call for me," she added, turning to the evelyns, "as you come back from mrs. thorn's." to this no objection could be made, and the ensuing raillery fleda bore with steadiness at least, if not with coolness; for charlton heard it, and she was distressed. she went to mrs. decatur's the next evening in greater elation of spirits than she had known since she left her uncle's; delighted to be missing from the party at mrs. thorn's, and hoping that mr. lewis would be satisfied with this very plain hint of her mind. a little pleased, too, to feel quite free, alone from too friendly eyes, and ears that had too lively a concern in her sayings and doings. she did not in the least care about going to mrs. decatur's; her joy was that she was not at the other place. but there never was elation so outwardly quiet. nobody would have suspected its existence. the evening was near half over when mr. carleton came in. fleda had half hoped he would be there, and now immediately hoped she might have a chance to see him alone, and to thank him for his flowers; she had not been able to do that yet. he presently came up to speak to her, just as charlton, who had found attraction enough to keep him so long, came to tell her he was going. "you are looking better," said the former, as gravely as ever, but with an eye of serious interest that made the words something. "i am better," said fleda, gratefully. "so much better that she is in a hurry to make herself worse," said her cousin. "mr. carleton, you are a professor of medicine, i believe. i have an indistinct impression of your having once prescribed a ride on horseback for somebody; wouldn't you recommend some measure of prudence to her consideration?" "in general," mr. carleton answered, gravely; "but in the present case i could not venture upon any special prescription, captain rossitur." "as, for instance, that she should remain in new york till she is fit to leave it. by the way, what brought you here again in such a hurry, fleda? i haven't heard that yet." the question was rather sudden. fleda was a little taken by surprise. her face showed some pain and confusion both. mr. carleton prevented her answer, she could not tell whether with design. "what imprudence do you charge your cousin with, captain rossitur?" "why, she is in a great hurry to get back to queechy, before she is able to go anywhere � begging me to find an escort for her. it is lucky i can't. i didn't know i ever should be glad to be 'posted up' in this fashion, but i am." "you have not sought very far, captain rossitur," said the voice of thorn behind him. "here is one that will be very happy to attend miss fleda, whenever she pleases." fleda's shocked start and change of countenance was seen by more eyes than one pair. thorn's fell, and a shade crossed his countenance, too, for an instant, that fleda's vision was too dazzled to see. mr. carleton moved away. "why are _you_ going to queechy?" said charlton, astonished. his friend was silent a moment, perhaps for want of power to speak. fleda dared not look at him. "it is not impossible � unless this lady forbid me. i am not a fixture." "but what brought you here, man, to offer your services?" said charlton; "most ungallantly leaving so many pairs of bright eyes to shine upon your absence." "mr. thorn will not find himself in darkness here, captain rossitur," said mrs. decatur. "it's my opinion he ought, ma'am," said charlton. "it is my opinion every man ought, who makes his dependance on gleams of sunshine," said mr. thorn, rather cynically. "i cannot say i was thinking of brightness, before or behind me." "i should think not," said charlton; "you don't look as if you had seen any in a good while." "a light goes out every now and then," said thorn; "and it takes one's eyes some time to get accustomed to it. what a singular world we live in, mrs. decatur!" "that is so new an idea," said the lady, laughing, "that i must request an explanation." "what new experience of its singularity has your wisdom made?" said his friend. "i thought you and the world knew each other's faces pretty well before." "then you have not heard the news?" "what news?" "hum � i suppose it is not about, yet," said thorn, composedly. "no � you haven't heard it." "but what, man?" said charlton; "let's hear your news, for i must be off." "why � but it is no more than rumour yet � but it is said that strange things are coming to light about a name that used to be held in very high respect." "in this city?" "in this city? � yes; it is said proceedings are afoot against one of our oldest citizens, on charge of a very grave offence." "who � and what offence? what do you mean?" "is it a secret, mr. thorn?" said mrs. decatur. "if you have not heard, perhaps it is as well not to mention names too soon; if it comes out, it will be all over directly; possibly the family may hush it up, and, in that case, the less said the better; but those have it in hand that will not let it slip through their fingers." mrs. decatur turned away, saying, "how shocking such things were!" and thorn, with a smile which did not, however, light up his face, said � "you may be off, charlton, with no concern for the bright eyes you leave behind you; i will endeavour to atone for my negligence elsewhere, by my mindfulness of them." "don't excuse you," said charlton; but his eye catching at the moment another attraction opposite in the form of man or woman, instead of quitting the room, he leisurely crossed it to speak to the new-comer; and thorn, with an entire change of look and manner, pressed forward, and offered his arm to fleda, who was looking perfectly white. if his words had needed any commentary, it was given by his eye as it met hers, in speaking the last sentence to mrs. decatur. no one was near whom she knew, and mr. thorn led her out to a little back room where the gentlemen had thrown off their cloaks, where the air was fresher, and placing her on a seat, stood waiting before her till she could speak to him. "what do you mean, mr. thorn?" fleda looked as much as said, when she could meet his face. "i may rather ask you what _you_ mean, miss fleda," he answered, gravely. fleda drew breath painfully. "i mean nothing," she said, lowering her head again; "i have done nothing." "did you think i meant nothing when i agreed to do all you wished?" "i thought you said you would do it freely," she said, with a tone of voice that might have touched anybody, there was such a sinking of heart in it. "didn't you understand me?" "and is it all over now?" said fleda, after a pause. "not yet; but it soon may be. a weak hand may stop it now � it will soon be beyond the power of the strongest." "and what becomes of your promise that it should no more be heard of?" said fleda, looking up at him with a colourless face, but eyes that put the question forcibly, nevertheless. "is any promise bound to stand without its conditions?" "i made no conditions," said fleda, quickly. "forgive me! but did you not permit me to understand them?" "no! or if i did, i could not help it." "did you say that you wished to help it?" said he, gently. "i must say so now, then, mr. thorn," said fleda, withdrawing the hand he had taken; "i did not mean or wish you to think so, but i was too ill to speak � almost to know what i did. it was not my fault." "you do not make it mine, that i chose such a time, selfishly, i grant, to draw from your lips the words that are more to me than life?" "cannot you be generous ?" _for once_, she was very near saying. "where you are concerned, i do not know how." fleda was silent a moment, and then bowed her face in her hands. "may i not ask that question of you?" said he, bending down and endeavouring to remove them; "will you not say � or look � that word that will make others happy beside me?" "i cannot, sir." "not for their sakes?" he said, calmly. "can you ask me to do for theirs, what i would not for my own?" "yes � for mine," he said, with a meaning deliberateness. fleda was silent, with a face of white determination. "it will be beyond _eluding_, as beyond recal, the second time. i may seem selfish � i am selfish � but, dear miss ringgan, you do not see all � you, who make me so, can make me anything else with a touch of your hand � it is selfishness that would be bound to your happiness, if you did but entrust it to me." fleda neither spoke nor looked at him, and rose up from her chair. "is this _your_ generosity?" he said, pointedly, though gently. "that is not the question now, sir," said fleda, who was trembling painfully. "i cannot do evil that good may come." "but _evil?_" said he, detaining her � "what evil do i ask of you? to _remove_ evil, i do." fleda clasped her hands, but answered calmly � "i cannot make any pretences, sir; i cannot promise to give what is not in my power." "in whose power, then?" said he, quickly. a feeling of indignation came to fleda's aid, and she turned away. but he stopped her still. "do you think i do not understand?" he said, with a covert sneer, that had the keenness, and hardness, and the brightness of steel. "_i_ do not, sir," said fleda. "do you think i do not know whom you came here to meet?" fleda's glance of reproach was a most innocent one, but it did not check him. "has that fellow renewed his old admiration of you?" he went on, in the same tone. "do not make me desire his old protection," said fleda, her gentle face roused to a flush of displeasure. "protection!" said charlton, coming in, "who wants protection? here it is � protection from what? my old friend lewis? what the deuce does this lady want of protection, mr. thorn?" it was plain enough that fleda wanted it, from the way she was drooping upon his arm. "you may ask the lady herself," said thorn, in the same tone he had before used; � "i have not the honour to be her spokesman." "she don't need one," said charlton; "i addressed myself to you � speak for yourself, man." "i am not sure that it would be her pleasure i should," said thorn. "shall i tell this gentleman, miss ringgan, who needs protection, and from what?" fleda raised her head, and, putting her hand on his arm, looked a concentration of entreaty � lips were sealed. "will you give me," said he, gently taking the hand in his own, "your sign-manual for captain rossitur's security? it is not too late. ask it of her, sir." "what does this mean?" said charlton, looking from his cousin to his friend. "you shall have the pleasure of knowing, sir, just so soon as i find it convenient." "i will have a few words with you on this subject, my fine fellow," said captain rossitur, as the other was preparing to leave the room. "you had better speak to somebody else," said thorn. "but i am ready." charlton muttered an imprecation upon his absurdity, and turned his attention to fleda, who needed it, and yet desired anything else. for a moment she had an excuse for not answering his questions in her inability; and then, opportunely, mrs. decatur came in to look after her; and she was followed by her daughter. fleda roused all her powers to conceal and command her feelings; rallied herself; said she had been a little weak and faint; drank water, and declared herself able to go back into the drawing-room. to go home would have been her utmost desire, but at the instant her energies were all bent to the one point of putting back thought, and keeping off suspicion. and in the first hurry and bewilderment of distress, the dread of finding herself alone with charlton, till she had had time to collect her thoughts, would of itself have been enough to prevent her accepting the proposal. she entered the drawing-room again on mrs. decatur's arm, and had stood a few minutes talking or listening, with that same concentration of all her faculties upon the effort to bear up outwardly, when charlton came up to ask if he should leave her. fleda made no objection, and he was out of her sight, far enough to be beyond reach or recal, when it suddenly struck her that she ought not to have let him go without speaking to him � without entreating him to see her in the morning before he saw thorn. the sickness of this new apprehension was too much for poor fleda's power of keeping up. she quietly drew her arm from mrs. decatur's, saying that she would sit down; and sought out a place for herself, apart from the rest, by an engraving-stand, where for a little while, not to seem unoccupied, she turned over print after print, that she did not see. even that effort failed at last; and she sat gazing at one of sir thomas lawrence's bright-faced children, and feeling as if in herself the tides of life were setting back upon their fountain preparatory to being still for ever. she became sensible that some one was standing beside the engravings, and looked up at mr. carleton. "are. you ill?" he said, very gently and tenderly. the answer was a quick motion of fleda's hand to her head, speaking sudden pain, and perhaps sudden difficulty of self- command. she did not speak. "will you have anything?" a whispered "no." "would you like to return to mrs. evelyn's? � i have a carriage here." with a look of relief that seemed to welcome him as her good angel, fleda instantly rose up, and took the arm he offered her. she would have hastened from the room then, but he gently checked her pace; and fleda was immediately grateful for the quiet and perfect shielding from observation that his manner secured her. he went with her up the stairs, and to the very door of the dressing-room. there fleda hurried on her shoes and mufflers in trembling fear that some one might come and find her, gained mr. carleton's arm again, and was placed in the carriage. the drive was in perfect silence, and fleda's agony deepened and strengthened with every minute. she had freedom to think, and thought did but carry a torch into chamber after chamber of misery. there seemed nothing to be done. she could not get hold of charlton; and if she could? � nothing could be less amenable than his passions to her gentle restraints. mr. thorn was still less approachable or manageable, except in one way � that she did not even think of. his insinuations about mr. carleton did not leave even a tinge of embarrassment upon her mind; they were cast from her as insulting absurdities, which she could not think of a second time without shame. the carriage rolled on with them a long time without a word being said. mr. carleton knew that she was not weeping nor faint. but as the light of the lamps was now and then cast within the carriage, he saw that her face looked ghastly; and he saw too, that its expression was not of a quiet sinking under sorrow, nor of an endeavour to bear up against it, but a wild searching gaze into the darkness of _possibilities_. they had near reached mrs. evelyn's. "i cannot see you so," he said, gently touching the hand which lay listlessly beside him. "you are ill!" again the same motion of the other hand to her face, the quick token of great pain suddenly stirred. "for the sake of old times, let me ask," said he � "can nothing be done?" those very gentle and delicate tones of sympathy and kindness were too much to bear. the hand was snatched away to be pressed to her face. o that those old times were back again, and she a child that could ask his protection! � no one to give it now. he was silent a moment. fleda's head bowed beneath the mental pressure. "has dr. gregory returned?" the negative answer was followed by a half-uttered exclamation of longing � checked midway, but sufficiently expressive of her want. "do you trust me?" he said, after another second of pausing. "perfectly!" said fleda, amidst her tears, too much excited to know what she was saying, and in her simplicity half forgetting that she was not a child still; � "more than any one in the world!" the few words he had spoken, and the manner of them, had curiously borne her back years in a minute; she seemed to be under his care more than for the drive home. he did not speak again for a minute; when he did, his tone was very quiet, and lower than before. "give me what a friend can have in charge to do for you, and it shall be done." fleda raised her head, and looked out of the window, in a silence of doubt. the carriage stopped at mrs. evelyn's. "not now," said mr. carleton, as the servant was about to open the door � "drive round the square � till i speak to you." fleda was motionless and almost breathless with uncertainty. if charlton could be hindered from meeting mr. thorn � but how could mr. carleton effect it? but there was that in him or in his manner, which invariably created confidence in his ability, or fear of it, even in strangers; and how much more in her who had a childish but very clear recollection of several points in his character which confirmed the feeling. and might not something be done, through his means, to facilitate her uncle's escape? of whom she seemed to herself now the betrayer. but to tell him the story! � a person of his high nice notions of character � what a distance it would put even between his friendship and her � but that thought was banished instantly, with one glance at mr. thorn's imputation of ungenerousness. to sacrifice herself to _him_ would not have been generosity � to lower herself in the esteem of a different character, she felt, called for it. there was time even then, too, for one swift thought of the needlessness and bitter fruits of wrong-doing. but here they were � should she make them known, and trouble mr. carleton, friend though he were, with these miserable matters in which he had no concern? she sat with a beating heart and a very troubled brow, but a brow as easy to read as a child's. it was the trouble of anxious questioning. mr. carleton watched it for a little while � undecided as ever, and more pained. "you said you trusted me," he said quietly, taking her hand again. "but � i don't know what you could do, mr. carleton," fleda said, with a trembling voice. "will you let me be the judge of that?" "i cannot bear to trouble you with these miserable things �" "you cannot," said he, with that same quiet tone, "but by thinking and saying so. i can have no greater pleasure than to take pains for you." fleda heard these words precisely, and with the same simplicity as a child would have heard them, and answered with a very frank burst of tears � soon, as soon as possible, according to her custom, driven back, though even in the act of quieting herself, they broke forth again as uncontrollably as at first. but mr. carleton had not long to wait. she raised her head again after a short struggle, with the wonted look of patience sitting upon her brow, and wiping away her tears, paused merely for breath and voice. he was perfectly silent. "mr. carleton, i will tell you," she began; "i hardly know whether i ought or ought not" � and her hand went to her forehead for a moment � "but i cannot think to-night � and i have not a friend to apply to" � she hesitated; and then went on, with a voice that trembled and quavered sadly. "mr. thorn has a secret � of my uncle's � in his power � which he promised � without conditions � to keep faithfully; and now insists that he will not � but upon conditions" � "and cannot the conditions be met?" "no � and, oh, i may as well tell you at once!" said fleda in bitter sorrow; "it is a crime that he committed" � "mr. thorn?" "no � o no!" said fleda, weeping bitterly, "not he" � her agitation was excessive for a moment; then she threw it off, and spoke more collectedly, though with exceeding depression of manner. "it was long ago � when he was in trouble � he put mr. thorn's name to a note, and never was able to take it up; and nothing was ever heard about it till lately; and last week he was going to leave the country, and mr. thorn promised that the proceedings should be entirely given up; and that was why i came to town, to find uncle rolf, and bring him home; and i did, and he is gone; and now mr. thorn says, it is all going on again, and that he will not escape this time; and i have done it!" � fleda writhed again in distress. "thorn promised without conditions?" "certainly � he promised freely � and now he insists upon them; and you see uncle rolf would have been safe out of the country now, if it hadn't been for me" � "i think i can undo this snarl," said mr. carleton, calmly. "but that is not all," said fleda, a little quieted; "charlton came in this evening when we were talking, and he was surprised to find me so, and mr. thorn was in a very ill humour, and some words passed between them, and charlton threatened to see him again; and oh, if he does!" said poor fleda � "that will finish our difficulties! � for charlton is very hot, and i know how it will end � how it must end" � "where is your cousin to be found?" "i don't know where he lodges when he is in town." "you did not leave him at mrs. decatur's. do you know where he is this evening?" "yes!" said fleda, wondering that she should have heard and remembered; "he said he was going to meet a party of his brother officers at mme. fouché's � a sister-in-law of his colonel, i believe." "i know her. this note � was it the name of the young mr. thorn, or of his father that was used?" "of his father." "has _he_ appeared at all in this business?" "no," said fleda, feeling for the first time that there was something notable about it. "what sort of person do you take him to be?" "very kind � very pleasant, always, he has been to me, and i should think to everybody � very unlike the son." mr. carleton had ordered the coachman back to mrs. evelyn's. "do you know the amount of the note? it may be desirable that i should not appear uninformed." "it was for four thousand dollars," fleda said, in the low voice of shame. "and when given?" "i don't know exactly � but six years ago � some time in the winter of ' , it must have been." he said no more till the carriage stopped; and then, before handing her out of it, lifted her hand to his lips. that carried all the promise fleda wanted, from him. how oddly � how curiously, her hand kept the feeling of that kiss upon it all night! chapter xviii. "heat not a furnace for your friend so hot that it may singe yourself." shakespeare. mr. carleton went to madame fouché's, who received most graciously, as any lady would, his apology for introducing himself unlooked-for, and begged that he would commit the same fault often. as soon as practicable, he made his way to charlton, and invited him to breakfast with him the next morning. mrs. carleton always said it never was known that guy was refused anything he had a mind to ask. charlton, though taken by surprise, and certainly not too much prepossessed in his favour, was won by an influence that, where its owner chose to exert it, was generally found irresistible; and not only accepted the invitation, but was conscious to himself of doing it with a good deal of pleasure. even when mr. carleton made the further request that captain rossitur would, in the meantime, see no one on business of any kind, intimating that the reason would then be given, charlton, though startling a little at this restraint upon his freedom of motion, could do no other than give the desired promise, and with the utmost readiness. guy then went to mr. thorn's. it was, by this time, not early. "mr. lewis thorn � is he at home?" "he is, sir," said the servant, admitting him rather hesitatingly. "i wish to see him a few moments on business." "it is no hour for business," said the voice of mr. lewis from over the balusters � "i can't see anybody to-night." "i ask but a few minutes," said mr. carleton. "it is important." "it may be anything!" said thorn. "i wont do business after twelve o'clock." mr. carleton desired the servant to carry his card, with the same request, to mr. thorn the elder. "what's that?" said thorn, as the man came up stairs � "my father? � pshaw! _he_ can't attend to it. well, walk up, sir, if you please! � may as well have it over and done with it." mr. carleton mounted the stairs and followed the young gentleman into an apartment, to which he rapidly led the way. "you've no objection to this, i suppose?" thorn remarked, as he locked the door behind them. "certainly not," said mr. carleton, coolly, taking out the key and putting it in his pocket � "my business is private � it needs no witnesses." "especially as it so nearly concerns yourself," said thorn, sneeringly. "which part of it, sir?" said mr. carleton, with admirable breeding. it vexed, at the same time that it constrained thorn. "i'll let you know, presently!" he said, hurriedly proceeding to the lower end of the room, where some cabinets stood, and unlocking door after door in mad haste. the place had somewhat the air of a study � perhaps thorn's private room. a long table stood in the middle of the floor, with materials for writing, and a good many books were about the room, in cases and on the tables, with maps, and engravings, and portfolio's, and a nameless collection of articles � the miscellaneous gathering of a man of leisure and some literary taste. their owner presently came back from the cabinets with tokens of a very different kind about him. "there, sir!" he said, offering to his guest a brace of most inhospitable-looking pistols � "take one, and take your stand, as soon as you please � nothing like coming to the point at once!" he was heated and excited even more than his manner indicated. mr. carleton glanced at him, and stood quietly examining the pistol he had taken. it was already loaded. "this is a business that comes upon me by surprise," he said, calmly. "i don't know what i have to do with this, mr. thorn." "well, i do," said thorn, "and that's enough. take your place, sir! you escaped me once, but " � and he gave his words dreadful emphasis � "you wont do it the second time!" "you do not mean," said the other, "that your recollection of such an offence has lived out so many years?" "no, sir! no sir!" said thorn � "it is not that. i despise it, as i do the offender. you have touched me more nearly." "let me know ill what," said mr. carleton, turning his pistol's mouth down upon the table, and leaning on it. "you know already � what do you ask me for?" said thorn, who was foaming; "if you say you don't, you lie heartily. i'll tell you nothing but out of _this_." "i have not knowingly injured you, sir � in a whit." "then a carleton may be a liar," said thorn, "and you are one � i dare say not the first. put yourself there, sir, will you?" "well," said guy, carelessly, "if it is decreed that i am to fight, of course there's no help for it; but as i have business on hand that might not be so well done afterwards, i must beg your attention to that in the first place." "no, sir," said thorn, "i'll attend to nothing � i'll hear nothing from you. i know you! i'll not hear a word. i'll see to the business! take your stand." "i will not have anything to do with pistols," said mr. carleton, coolly, laying his out of his hand; "they make too much noise." "who cares for the noise?" said thorn. "it wont hurt you; and the door is locked." "but people's ears are not," said guy. neither tone, nor attitude, nor look, had changed in the least its calm gracefulness. it began to act upon thorn. "well, in the devil's name, have your own way," said he, throwing down his pistol too, and going back to the cabinets at the lower end of the room � "there are rapiers here, if you like them better � _i_ don't � the shortest the best for me � but here they are � take your choice." guy examined them carefully for a few minutes, and then laid them both, with a firm hand upon them, on the table. "i will choose neither, mr. thorn, till you have heard me. i came here to see you on the part of others � i should be a recreant to my charge if i allowed you or myself to draw me into anything that might prevent my fulfilling it. that must be done first." thorn looked with a lowering brow on the indications of his opponent's eye and attitude; they left him plainly but one course to take. "well, speak and have done," he said, as in spite of himself; "but i know it already." "i am here as a friend of mr. rossitur." "why don't you say a friend of somebody else, and come nearer the truth?" said thorn. there was an intensity of expression in his sneer, but pain was there as well as anger; and it was with even a feeling of pity that mr. carleton answered � "the truth will be best reached, sir, if i am allowed to choose my own words." there was no haughtiness in the steady gravity of this speech, whatever there was in the quiet silence he permitted to follow. thorn did not break it. "i am informed of the particulars concerning this prosecution of mr. rossitur � i am come here to know if no terms can be obtained." "no!" said thorn � "no terms � i wont speak of terms. the matter will be followed up now till the fellow is lodged in jail, where he deserves to be." "are you aware, sir, that this, if done, will be the cause of very great distress to a family who have not deserved it?" "that can't be helped," said thorn. "of course, it must cause distress, but you can't act upon that. of course, when a man turns rogue, he ruins his family � that's part of his punishment � and a just one." "the law is just," said mr. carleton, "but a friend may be merciful." "i don't pretend to be a friend," said thorn, viciously, "and i have no cause to be merciful. i like to bring a man to public shame when he has forfeited his title to anything else; and i intend that mr. rossitur shall become intimately acquainted with the interior of the state's prison." "did it ever occur to you that public shame _might_ fall upon other than mr. rossitur, and without the state prison?" thorn fixed a somewhat startled look upon the steady powerful eye of his opponent, and did not like its meaning. "you must explain yourself, sir," he said, haughtily. "i am acquainted with _all_ the particulars of this proceeding, mr. thorn. if it goes abroad, so surely will they." "she told you, did she?" said thorn, in a sudden flash of fury. mr. carleton was silent, with his air of imperturbable reserve, telling and expressing nothing but a cool independence that put the world at a distance. "ha!" said thorn, "it is easy to see why our brave englishman comes here to solicit 'terms' for his honest friend rossitur � he would not like the scandal of franking letters to sing sing. come, sir!" he said, snatching up the pistol, "our business is ended � come, i say, or i wont wait for you." but the pistol was struck from his hand. "not yet," said mr. carleton, calmly, "you shall have your turn at these � mind, i promise you; but my business must be done first � till then, let them alone." "well, what is it?" said thorn, impatiently. "rossitur will be a convict, i tell you; so you'll have to give up all thoughts of his niece, or pocket her shame along with her. what more have you got to say? that's all your business, i take it." "you are mistaken, mr. thorn," said mr. carleton, gravely. "am i? in what ?" "in every position of your last speech." "it don't affect your plans and views, i suppose, personally, whether this prosecution is continued or not?" "it does not in the least." "it is indifferent to you, i suppose, what sort of a queen consort you carry to your little throne of a provinciality down yonder?" "i will reply to you, sir, when you come back to the subject," said mr. carleton, coldly. "you mean to say that your pretensions have not been in the way of mine?" "i have made none, sir." "doesn't she like you?" "i have never asked her." "then, what possessed her to tell you all this to-night?" "simply because i was an old friend, and the only one at hand, i presume." "and you do not look for any reward of your services, of course?" "i wish for none, sir, but her relief." "well, it don't signify," said thorn, with a mixture of expressions in his face � "if i believed you, which i don't � it don't signify a hair what you do, when once this matter is known. i should never think of advancing my pretensions into a felon's family." "you know that the lady in whose welfare you take so much interest will in that case suffer aggravated distress as having been the means of hindering mr. rossitur's escape." "can't help it," said thorn, beating the table with a ruler; "so she has; she must suffer for it. it isn't my fault." "you are willing, then, to abide the consequences of a full disclosure of all the circumstances? � for part will not come out without the whole." "there is happily nobody to tell them," said thorn, with a sneer. "pardon me � they will not only be told, but known thoroughly in all the circles in this country that know mr. thorn's name." "_the lady_," said thorn, in the same tone, "would hardly relish such a publication of _her_ name � _her welfare_ would be scantily advantaged by it." "i will take the risk of that upon myself," said mr. carleton, quietly; "and the charge of the other." "you dare not !" said thorn. "you shall not go alive out of this room to do it! let me have it, sir! you said you would." his passion was at a fearful height, for the family pride which had been appealed to, felt a touch of fear, and his other thoughts were confirmed again, besides the dim vision of a possible thwarting of all his plans. desire almost concentred itself upon revenge against the object that threatened them. he had thrown himself again towards the weapons which lay beyond his reach, but was met, and forcibly withheld from them. "stand back!" said mr. carleton. "i said i would, but i am not ready � finish this business first." "what is there to finish?" said thorn, furiously � "you will never live to do anything out of these doors again � you are mocking yourself." "my life is not in your hands, sir, and i will settle this matter before i put it in peril. if not with you, with mr. thorn, your father, to whom it more properly belongs." "you cannot leave the room to see him," said thorn, sneeringly. "that is at my pleasure," said the other, "unless hindered by means i do not think you will use." thorn was silent. "will you yield anything of justice, once more, in favour of this distressed family?" "that is, yield the whole, and let the guilty go free?" "when the punishment of the offender would involve that of so many unoffending, who, in this case, would feel it with peculiar severity." "he deserves it, if it was only for the money he has kept me out of; he ought to be made to refund what he has stolen, if it took the skin off his back!" "that part of his obligation," said mr. carleton, "i am authorised to discharge, on condition of having the note given up. i have a cheque with me which i am commissioned to fill up, from one of the best names here. i need only the date of the note, which the giver of the cheque did not know." thorn hesitated, again tapping the table with the ruler in a troubled manner. he knew, by the calm erect figure before him and the steady eye he did not care to meet, that the threat of disclosure would be kept. he was not prepared to brave it, in case his revenge should fail; and if it did not � "it is deuced folly," he said, at length, with a half laugh, "for i shall have it back again in five minutes, if my eye don't play me a trick; however, if you will have it so, i don't care. there are chances in all things." he went again to the cabinets, and presently brought the endorsed note. mr. carleton gave it a cool and careful examination, to satisfy himself of its being the true one, and then delivered him the cheque � the blank duly filled up. "there are chances in nothing, sir," he said, as he proceeded to burn the note effectually in the candle. "what do you mean?" "i mean that there is a supreme disposer of all things, who, among the rest, has our lives in his hand. and now, sir, i will give you that chance at my life for which you have been so eagerly wishing." "well, take your place," said thorn, seizing his pistol, "and take your arms, put yourself at the end of the table, never mind the noise!" "i shall stand here," said mr. carleton, quietly folding his arms; "you may take your place where you please." "but you are not armed," said thorn, impatiently: "why don't you get ready? what are you waiting for?" "i have nothing to do with arms," said mr. carleton, smiling; "i have no wish to hurt you, mr. thorn; i bear you no ill- will. but you may do what you please with me." "but you promised!" said thorn, in desperation. "i abide by my promise, sir." thorn's pistol hand fell � he looked _dreadfully_. there was a silence of several minutes. "well?" said mr. carleton, looking up and smiling. "i can do nothing, unless you will," said thorn, hoarsely, and looking hurriedly away. "i am at your pleasure, sir! but, on my own part, i have none to gratify." there was silence again, during which thorn's face was pitiable in its darkness. he did not stir. "i did not come here in enmity, mr. thorn," said guy, after a little, approaching him � "i have none now. if you believe me, you will throw away the remains of yours, and take my hand in pledge of it." thorn was ashamed and confounded, in the midst of passions that made him at the moment a mere wreck of himself. he inwardly drew back exceedingly from the proposal. but the grace with which the words were said wrought upon all the gentlemanly character that belonged to him, and made it impossible not to comply. the pistol was exchanged for mr. carleton's hand. "i need not assure you," said the latter, "that nothing of what we have talked of to-night shall ever be known or suspected, in any quarter, unless by your means." thorn's answer was merely a bow, and mr. carleton withdrew, his quondam antagonist lighting him ceremoniously to the door. it was easy for mr. carleton the next morning to deal with his guest at the breakfast-table. the appointments of the service were such as of themselves to put charlton in a good humour, if he had not come already provided with that happy qualification; and the powers of manner and conversation which his entertainer brought into play, not only put them into the back-ground of captain rossitur's perceptions, but even made him merge certain other things in fascination, and lose all thought of what probably had called him there. once before, he had known mr. carleton come out in a like manner, but this time he forgot to be surprised. the meal was two-thirds over before the business that had drawn them together was alluded to. "i made an odd request of you last night, captain rossitur," said his host; "you haven't asked for an explanation." "i had forgotten all about it," said rossitur, candidly. "i am inconséquent enough myself not to think everything odd that requires an explanation." "then i hope you will pardon me if mine seem to touch upon what is not my concern. you had some cause to be displeased with mr. thorn's behaviour last night?" who told you as much? � was in rossitur's open eyes, and upon his tongue; but few ever asked naughty questions of mr. carleton. charlton's eyes came back, not indeed to their former dimensions, but to his plate, in silence. "he was incomprehensible," he said, after a minute: "and didn't act like himself; i don't know what was the matter. i shall call him to account for it." "captain rossitur, i am going to ask you a favour." "i will grant it with the greatest pleasure," said charlton � "if it lie within my power." "a wise man's addition," said mr. carleton; "but i trust you will not think me extravagant. i will hold myself much obliged to you, if you will let mr. thorn's folly, or impertinence, go this time without notice." charlton absolutely laid down his knife in astonishment; while at the same moment this slight let to the assertion of his dignity roused it to uncommon pugnaciousness. "sir � mr. carleton" � he stammered � "i would be very happy to grant anything in my power �but this, sir � really goes beyond it." "permit me to say," said mr. carleton, "that i have myself seen thorn upon the business that occasioned his discomposure, and that it has been satisfactorily arranged; so that nothing more is to be gained or desired from a second interview." who gave you authority to do any such thing? was again in charlton's eyes, and an odd twinge crossed his mind; but, as before, his thoughts were silent. "_my_ part of the business cannot have been arranged," he said, "for it lies in a question or two that i must put to the gentleman myself." "what will that question or two probably end in?" said mr. carleton, significantly. "i can't tell!" said rossitur; "depends on himself, it will end according to his answers." "is his offence so great that it cannot be forgiven upon my entreaty?" "mr. carleton!" said rossitur � "i would gladly pleasure you, sir; but, you see, this is a thing a man owes to himself." "what thing, sir?" "why, not to suffer impertinence to be offered him with impunity." "even though the punishment extend to hearts at home that must feel it far more heavily than the offender?" "would you suffer yourself to be insulted, mr. carleton?" said rossitur, by way of a mouth-stopper. "not if i could help it," said mr. carleton, smiling; "but, if such a misfortune happened, i don't know how it would be repaired by being made a matter of life and death." "but honour might," said rossitur. "honour is not reached, captain rossitur. honour dwells in a strong citadel, and a squib against the walls does in no wise affect their security." "but, also, it is not consistent with honour to sit still and suffer it." "question. the firing of a cracker, i think, hardly warrants a sally." "it calls for chastisement, though," said rossitur, a little shortly. "i don't know that," said mr. carleton, gravely. "we have it on the highest authority that it is the glory of man to _pass by_ a transgression." "but you can't go by that," said charlton, a little fidgeted; "the world wouldn't get along so; men must take care of themselves." "certainly. but what part of themselves is cared for in this resenting of injuries?" "why, their good name!" "as how affected? � pardon me." "by the world's opinion," said rossitur; "which stamps every man with something worse than infamy who cannot protect his own standing." "that is to say," said mr. carleton, seriously, "that captain rossitur will punish a fool's words with death, or visit the last extremity of distress upon those who are dearest to him, rather than leave the world in any doubt of his prowess." "mr. carleton!" said rossitur, colouring � "what do you mean by speaking so, sir?" "not to displease you, captain rossitur." "then you count the world's opinion for nothing?" "for less than nothing � compared with the regards i have named." "you would brave it without scruple?" "i do not call him a brave man who would not, sir." "i remember," said charlton, half laughing � "you did it yourself once; and i must confess i believe nobody thought you lost anything by it." "but forgive me for asking," said mr. carleton � "is this terrible world a party to _this_ matter? in the request which i made � and which i have not given up, sir � do i presume upon any more than the sacrifice of a little private feeling?" "why, yes," said charlton, looking somewhat puzzled, "for i promised the fellow i would see to it, and i must keep my word." "and you know how that will of necessity issue." "i can't consider that, sir; that is a secondary matter. i must do what i told him i would." "at all hazards?" said mr. carleton. "what hazards?" "not hazard, but certainty � of incurring a reckoning far less easy to deal with." "what, do you mean with yourself?" said rossitur. "no, sir, said mr. carleton, a shade of even sorrowful expression crossing his face; "i mean with one whose displeasure is a more weighty matter; one who has declared very distinctly, 'thou shalt not kill.' " "i am sorry for it," said rossitur, after a disturbed pause of some minutes � "i wish you had asked me anything else; but we can't take this thing in the light you do, sir. i wish thorn had been in any spot of the world but at mrs. decatur's, last night, or that fleda hadn't taken me there; but since he was, there is no help for it � i must make him account for his behaviour, to her as well as to me. i really don't know how to help it, sir." "let me beg you to reconsider that," mr. carleton said, with a smile which disarmed offence � "for, if you will not help it, i must." charlton looked in doubt for a moment, and then asked how he would help it. "in that case, i shall think it my duty to have you bound over to keep the peace." he spoke gravely now, and with that quiet tone which always carries conviction. charlton stared unmistakably, and in silence. "you are not in earnest?" he then said. "i trust you will permit me to leave you for ever in doubt on that point," said mr. carleton, with again a slight giving way of the muscles of his face. "i cannot, indeed," said rossitur. "do you mean what you said just now?" "entirely." "but, mr. carleton," said rossitur, flushing, and not knowing exactly how to take him up � "is this the manner of one gentleman towards another?" he had not chosen right, for he received no answer but an absolute quietness which needed no interpretation. charlton was vexed and confused, but, somehow, it did not come into his head to pick a quarrel with his host, in spite of his irritation. that was, perhaps, because he felt it to be impossible. "i beg your pardon," he said, most unconsciously verifying fleda's words in his own person � "but, mr. carleton, do me the favour to say that i have misunderstood your words. they are incomprehensible to me, sir." "i must abide by them nevertheless, captain rossitur," mr. carleton answered, with a smile. "i will not permit this thing to be done, while, as i believe, i have the power to prevent it. you see," he said, smiling again, "i put in practice my own theory." charlton looked exceedingly disturbed, and maintained a vexed and irresolute silence for several minutes, realizing the extreme disagreeableness of having more than his match to deal with. "come, captain rossitur," said the other, turning suddenly round upon him � "say that you forgive me what you know was meant in no disrespect to you." "i certainly should not," said rossitur, yielding, however, with a half laugh, "if it were not for the truth of the proverb, that it takes two to make a quarrel." "give me your hand upon that. and now that the question of honour is taken out of your hands, grant, not to me, but to those for whom i ask it, your promise to forgive this man." charlton hesitated, but it was difficult to resist the request, backed as it was with weight of character and grace of manner, along with its intrinsic reasonableness; and he saw no other way so expedient of getting out of his dilemma. "i ought to be angry with somebody," he said, half laughing, and a little ashamed; � "if you will point out any substitute for thorn, i will let him go, since i cannot help myself, with pleasure." "i will bear it," said mr. carleton, lightly. "give me your promise for thorn, and hold me your debtor in what amount you please." "very well � i forgive him," said rossitur; � "and now, mr. carleton i shall have a reckoning with you some day for this." "i will meet it. when you are next in england, you shall come down to � shire, and i will give you any satisfaction you please." they parted in high good-humour; but charlton looked grave as he went down the staircase; and, very oddly, all the way down to whitehall his head was running upon the various excellencies and perfections of his cousin fleda. chapter xix. "there is a fortune coming towards you, dainty, that will take thee thus, and set thee aloft." ben jonson. that day was spent by fleda in the never-failing headache which was sure to visit her after any extraordinary nervous agitation, or too great mental or bodily trial. it was severe this time, not only from the anxiety of the preceding night, but from the uncertainty that weighed upon her all day long. the person who could have removed the uncertainty came, indeed, to the house, but she was too ill to see anybody. the extremity of pain wore itself off with the day, and at evening she was able to leave her room and come down stairs. but she was ill yet, and could do nothing but sit in the corner of the sofa, with her hair unbound, and florence gently bathing her head with cologne. anxiety as well as pain had, in some measure, given place to exhaustion, and she looked a white embodiment of endurance, which gave a shock to her friends' sympathy. visitors were denied, and constance and edith devoted their eyes and tongues at least to her service, if they could do no more. it happened that joe manton was out of the way, holding an important conference with a brother usher next door, � a conference that he had no notion would be so important when he began it, when a ring on his own premises summoned one of the maid-servants to the door. she knew nothing about "not at home," and unceremoniously desired the gentleman to "walk up," � "the ladies were in the drawing-room." the door had been set wide open for the heat, and fleda was close in the corner behind it, gratefully permitting florence's efforts with the _cologne_, which yet she knew could avail nothing but the kind feelings of the operator; for herself � patiently waiting her enemy's time. constance was sitting on the floor looking at her. "i can't conceive how you can bear so much," she said, at length. fleda thought how little she knew what was borne! "why, you could bear it, i suppose, if you had to," said edith, philosophically. "she knows she looks most beautiful," said florence, softly passing her cologned hands down over the smooth hair � "she knows ' il faut souffrir pour être belle.' " "la migraine ne se guérit avec les douceurs," said mr. carleton, entering � "try something sharp, miss evelyn." "where are we to get it?" said constance, springing up, and adding, in a most lack-a-daisical aside to her mother � "mamma! � the fowling-piece! � our last vinegar hardly comes under the appellation; and you don't expect to find anything volatile in this house, mr. carleton?" he smiled. "have you none for grave occasions, miss constance?" "i wont retort the question about 'something sharp,' " said constance, arching her eyebrows, "because it is against my principles to make people uncomfortable; but you have certainly brought in some medicine with you, for miss ringgan's cheeks, a little while ago, were as pure as her mind � from a tinge of any sort � and now, you see �" "my dear constance," said her mother, "miss ringgan's cheeks will stand a much better chance if you come away and leave her in peace. how can she get well with such a chatter in her ears?" "mr. carleton and i, mamma, are conferring upon measures of relief, and miss ringgan gives token of improvement already." "for which i am very little to be thanked," said mr. carleton. "but i am not a bringer of bad news, that she should look pale at the sight of me." "are you a bringer of any news?" said constance, "oh, do let us have them, mr. carleton! � i am dying for news � i haven't heard a bit to-day." "what is the news, mr. carleton?" said her mother's voice, from the more distant region of the fire. "i believe there are no general news, mrs. evelyn." "are there any particular news?" said constance. "i like particular news infinitely the best." "i am sorry, miss constance, i have none for you. but, will this headache yield to nothing?" "fleda prophesied that it would to time," said florence; "she would not let us try much beside." "and i must confess there has been no volatile agency employed at all," said constance; "i never knew time have less of it, and fleda seemed to prefer him for her physician." "he hasn't been a good one to-day," said edith, nestling affectionately to her side. "isn't it better, fleda?" for she had covered her eyes with her hand. "not just now," said fleda, softly. "it is fair to change physicians if the first fails," said mr. carleton. "i have had a slight experience in headache-curing; if you will permit me, miss constance, i will supersede time and try a different prescription." he went out to seek it, and fleda leaned her head in her hand, and tried to quiet the throbbing heart, every pulsation of which was felt so keenly at the seat of pain. she knew, from mr. carleton's voice and manner � she _thought_ she knew � that he had exceeding good tidings for her; once assured of that, she would soon be better; but she was worse now. "where is mr. carleton gone?" said mrs. evelyn. "i haven't the least idea, mamma � he has ventured upon an extraordinary undertaking, and has gone off to qualify himself, i suppose. i can't conceive why he didn't ask miss ringgan's permission to change her physician instead of mine." "i suppose he knew there was no doubt about that," said edith, hitting the precise answer of fleda's thoughts. "and what should make him think there was any doubt about mine?" said constance, tartly. "oh, you know," said her sister, "you are so odd, nobody can tell what you will take a fancy to." "you are extremely liberal in your expressions, at least, miss evelyn, i must say," said constance, with a glance of no doubtful meaning. "joe � did you let mr. carleton in?" "no, ma'am." "well, let him in next time, and don't let in anybody else." whereafter the party relapsed into silent expectation. it was not many minutes before mr. carleton returned. "tell your friend, miss constance," he said, putting an exquisite little vinaigrette into her hand, "that i have nothing worse for her than that." "worse than this!" said constance, examining it. "mr. carleton, i doubt exceedingly whether smelling this will afford miss ringgan any benefit." "why, miss constance?" "because it has made me sick only to look at it!" "there will be no danger for her," he said, smiling. "wont there? well, fleda, my dear, here, take it," said the young lady; "i hope you are differently constituted from me, for i feel a sudden pain since i saw it; but as you keep your eyes shut, and so escape the sight of this lovely gold chasing, perhaps it will do you no mischief." "it will do her all the more good for that," said mrs. evelyn. the only ears that took the benefit of this speech were edith's and mr. carleton's; fleda's were deafened by the rush of feeling. she very little knew what she was holding. mr. carleton stood with rather significant gravity, watching the effect of his prescription, while edith beset her mother to know why the outside of the vinaigrette, being of gold, should make it do fleda any more good; the disposing of which question effectually occupied mrs. evelyn's attention for some time. "and, pray, how long is it since you took up the trade of a physician, mr. carleton?" said constance. "it is just about nine years, miss constance," he answered, gravely. but that little reminder, slight as it was, overcame the small remnant of fleda's self-command � the vinaigrette fell from her hands, and her face was hid in them; whatever became of pain, tears must flow. "forgive me," said mr. carleton, gently, bending down towards her, "for speaking when i should have been silent � miss evelyn, and miss constance, will you permit me to order that my patient be left in quiet." and he took them away to mrs. evelyn's quarter, and kept them all three engaged in conversation, too busily to trouble fleda with any attention, till she had had ample time to try the effect of the quiet and of the vinegar both. then he went himself to look after her. "are you better?" said he, bending down, and speaking low. fleda opened her eyes and gave him, what a look! � of grateful feeling. she did not know the half that was in it; but he did. that she was better, was a very small item. "ready for the coffee?" said he, smiling. "oh, no," whispered fleda � "it don't matter about that � never mind the coffee!" but he went back with his usual calmness to mrs. evelyn, and begged that she would have the goodness to order a cup of rather strong coffee to be made. "but, mr. carleton, sir," said that lady, "i am not at all sure that it would be the best thing for miss ringgan � if she is better � i think it would do her far more good to go to rest, and let sleep finish her cure, before taking something that will make sleep impossible." "did you ever hear of a physician, mrs. evelyn," he said, smiling, "'that allowed his prescriptions to be interfered with? i must beg you will do me this favour." "i doubt very much whether it will be a favour to miss ringgan," said mrs. evelyn � "however �" and she rang the bell, and gave the desired order, with a somewhat disconcerted face. but mr. carleton again left fleda to herself, and devoted his attention to the other ladies, with so much success, though with his usual absence of effort that good humour was served long before the coffee. then, indeed, he played the physician's part again � made the coffee himself, and saw it taken, according to his own pleasure � skilfully, however, seeming all the while, except to fleda, to be occupied with everything else. the group gathered round her anew; she was well enough to bear their talk by this time � by the time the coffee was drunk, quite well. "is it quite gone?" asked edith. "the headache? � yes." "you will owe your physician a great many thanks, my dear fleda," said mrs. evelyn. fleda's only answer to this, however, was by a very slight smile; and she presently left the room, to go up stairs and arrange her yet disarranged hair. "that is a very fine girl," remarked mrs. evelyn, preparing half a cup of coffee for herself in a kind of amused abstraction. "my friend mr. thorn will have an excellent wife of her." "provided she marries him," said constance, somewhat shortly. "i am sure i hope she wont," said edith; "and i don't believe she will." "what do you think of his chances of success, mr. carleton?" "your manner of speech would seem to imply that they are very good, mrs. evelyn," he answered, coolly. "well, don't you think so?" said mrs. evelyn, coming back to her seat with her coffee-cup, and apparently dividing her attention between it and her subject. "it's a great chance for her � most girls in her circumstances would not refuse it � _i_ think he's pretty sure of his ground." "so i think," said florence. "it don't prove anything, if he is," said constance, drily. "i hate people who are always sure of their ground." "what do you think, mr. carleton?" said mrs. evelyn, taking little satisfied sips of her coffee. "may i ask, first, what is meant by the 'chance,' and what by the 'circumstances.' " "why, mr. thorn has a fine fortune, you know, and he is of an excellent family � there is not a better family in the city � and very few young men of such pretensions would think of a girl that has no name nor standing." "unless she had qualities that would command them," said mr. carleton. "but, mr. carleton, sir," said the lady, "do you think that can be? do you think a woman can fill, gracefully, a high place in society, if she has had disadvantages in early life to contend with, that were calculated to unfit her for it?" "but, mamma," said constance, "fleda don't show any such thing." "no, she don't show it," said mrs. evelyn, "but i am not talking of fleda � i am talking of the effect of early disadvantages. what do you think, mr. carleton?" "disadvantages of what kind, mrs. evelyn?" "why, for instance � the strange habits of intercourse, on familiar terms, with rough and uncultivated people � such intercourse, for years � in all sorts of ways � in the field and in the house � mingling with them as one of them � it seems to me, it must leave its traces on the mind, and on the habits of acting and thinking." "there is no doubt it does," he answered, with an extremely unconcerned face. "and then, there's the actual want of cultivation," said mrs. evelyn, warming � "time taken up with other things, you know � usefully and properly, but still taken up � so as to make much intellectual acquirement and accomplishments impossible; it can't be otherwise, you know � neither opportunity nor instructors; and i don't think anything can supply the want in after life. it isn't the mere things themselves which may be acquired � the mind should grow up in the atmosphere of them � don't you think so, mr. carleton?" he bowed. "music, for instance, and languages, and converse with society, and a great many things, are put completely beyond reach � edith, my dear, you are not to touch the coffee � nor constance either � no, i will not let you � and there could not be even much reading, for want of books, if for nothing else. perhaps i am wrong, but i confess i don't see how it is possible in such a case" � she checked herself suddenly, for fleda, with the slow, noiseless step that weakness imposed, had come in again, and stood by the centre-table. "we are discussing a knotty question, miss ringgan," said mr. carleton, with a smile, as he brought a _bergère_ for her; "i should like to have your voice on it." there was no seconding of his motion. he waited till she had seated herself, and then went on. "what, in your opinion, is the best preparation for wearing prosperity well?" a glance at mrs. evelyn's face, which was opposite her, and at one or two others, which had, undeniably, the air of being _arrested_, was enough for fleda's quick apprehension. she knew they had been talking of her. her eye stopped short of mr. carleton's, and she coloured, and hesitated. no one spoke. "by prosperity, you mean �" "rank and fortune," said florence, without looking up. "marrying a rich man, for instance," said edith, "and having one's hands full." this peculiar statement of the case occasioned a laugh all round, but the silence which followed seemed still to wait upon fleda's reply. "am i expected to give a serious answer to that question?" she said, a little doubtfully. "expectations are not stringent things," said her first questioner, smiling. "that waits upon your choice." "they are horridly stringent, _i_ think," said constance. "we shall all be disappointed, if you don't, fleda, my dear." "by wearing it 'well,' you mean making a good use of it?" "and gracefully," said mrs. evelyn. "i think i should say, then," said fleda, after some little. hesitation, and speaking with evident difficulty � "such an a experience as might teach one both the worth and the worthlessness of money." mr. carleton's smile was a sufficiently satisfied one; but mrs. evelyn retorted � "the _worth_ and the _worthlessness!_ � fleda, my dear, i don't understand �" "and what experience teaches one the worth, and what the worthlessness of money?" said constance; "mamma is morbidly persuaded that i do not understand the first � of the second i have an indefinite idea, from never being able to do more than half that i want with it." fleda smiled and hesitated again, in a way that showed she would willingly be excused, but the silence left her no choice but to speak. "i think,'' she said, modestly, "that a person can hardly understand the true worth of money � the ends it can best subserve � that has not been taught it by his own experience of the want; and" � "what follows?" said mr. carleton. "i was going to say, sir, that there is danger, especially when people have not been accustomed to it, that they will greatly overvalue and misplace the real worth of prosperity; unless the mind has been steadied by another kind of experience, and has learnt to measure things by a higher scale." "and how when they _have_ been accustomed to it?" said florence. "the same danger, without the 'especially,' " said fleda, with a look that disclaimed any assuming. "one thing is certain," said constance, "you hardly ever see _les nouveaux riches_ make a graceful use of anything. fleda, my dear, i am seconding all of your last speech that i understand. mamma, i perceive, is at work upon the rest." "i think we ought all to be at work upon it," said mrs. evelyn, "for miss ringgan has made it out that there is hardly anybody here that is qualified to wear prosperity well." "i was just thinking so," said florence. fleda said nothing, and perhaps her colour rose a little. "i will take lessons of her," said constance, with eyebrows just raised enough to neutralize the composed gravity of the other features, "as soon as i have an amount of prosperity that will make it worth while." "but i don't think," said florence, "that a graceful use of things is consistent with such a careful valuation and considering of the exact worth of everything � it's not my idea of grace." "yet _propriety_ is an essential element of gracefulness, miss evelyn." "well," said florence, "certainly; but what then?" "is it attainable, in the use of means, without a nice knowledge of their true value?" "but, mr. carleton, i am sure i have seen improper things � things improper in a way � gracefully done?" "no doubt; but, miss evelyn," said he, smiling, "the impropriety did not in those cases, i presume, attach itself to the other quality. the graceful _manner_ was strictly proper to its ends, was it not, however the ends might be false?" "i don't know," said florence, "you have gone too deep for me. but do you think that close calculation, and all that sort of thing, is likely to make people use money, or anything else, gracefully? i never thought it did." "not close calculation alone," said mr. carleton. "but do you think it is _consistent_ with gracefulness?" "the largest and grandest views of material things that man has ever taken, miss evelyn, stand upon a basis of the closest calculation." florence worked at her worsted, and looked very dissatisfied. "oh, mr. carleton," said constance, as he was going, "don't leave your vinaigrette � there it is � on the table." he made no motion to take it up. "don't you know, miss constance, that physicians seldom like to have anything to do with their own prescriptions." "it's very suspicious of them," said constance; "but you must take it mr. carleton, if you please, for i shouldn't like the responsibility of its being left here; and i am afraid it would be dangerous to our peace of mind, besides." "i shall risk that," he said, laughing. "its work is not done." "and then, mr. carleton," said mrs. evelyn, and fleda knew with what a look, "you know physicians are accustomed to be paid when their prescriptions are taken." but the answer to this was only a bow, so expressive in its air of haughty coldness, that any further efforts of mrs. evelyn's wit were chilled for some minutes after he had gone. fleda had not seen this. she had taken up the vinaigrette, and was thinking with acute pleasure that mr. carleton's manner last night and to-night had returned to all the familiar kindness of old times. not as it had been during the rest of her stay in the city. she could be quite contented now to have him go back to england, with this pleasant remembrance left her. she sat turning over the vinaigrette, which to her fancy was covered with hieroglyphics that no one else could read; of her uncle's affair, of charlton's danger, of her own distress, and the kindness which had wrought its relief, more penetrating and pleasant than even the fine aromatic scent which fairly typified it. constance's voice broke in upon her musings. "isn't it awkward?" she said, as she saw fleda handling and looking at the pretty toy � "isn't it awkward? i sha'n't have a bit of rest now for fear something will happen to that. i hate to have people do such things." "fleda, my dear," said mrs. evelyn, "i wouldn't handle it, my love; you may depend there is some charm in it � some mischievous, hidden influence � and if you have much to do with it, i am afraid you will find a gradual coldness stealing over you, and a strange forgetfulness of queechy, and you will perhaps lose your desire ever to go back there any more." the vinaigrette dropped from fleda's fingers, but beyond a heightened colour and a little tremulous gravity about the lip, she gave no other sign of emotion. "mamma," said florence, laughing, "you are too bad !" "mamma," said constance, "i wonder how any tender sentiment for you can continue to exist in fleda's breast! by the way, fleda, my dear, do you know that we have heard of two escorts for you? but i only tell you because i know you'll not be fit to travel this age." "i should not be able to travel to-morrow," said fleda. "they are not going to-morrow," said mrs. evelyn, quietly. "who are they ?" "excellent ones," said mrs. evelyn. "one of them is your old friend, mr. olmney." "mr. olmney!" said fleda. "what has brought him to new york?" "really," said mrs. evelyn, laughing, "i do not know. what should keep him away? i was very glad to see him, for my part. maybe he has come to take you home." "who is the other?" said fleda. "that's another old friend of yours � mrs. renney." "mrs. renney? who is she?" said fleda. "why, don't you know? mrs. renney � she used to live with your aunt lucy, in some capacity � years ago, when she was in new york � housekeeper, i think; don't you remember her?" "perfectly now," said fleda. "mrs. renney!" � "she has been housekeeper for mrs. schenck these several years, and she is going somewhere out west to some relation, her brother, i believe, to take care of his family; and her road leads her your way." "when do they go, mrs. evelyn?" "both the same day, and both the day after to-morrow. mr. olmney takes the morning train, he says, unless you would prefer some other. i told him you were very anxious to go; and mrs. renney goes in the afternoon. so there's a choice for you." "mamma," said constance, "fleda is not fit to go at all, either time." "i don't think she is," said mrs. evelyn. "but she knows best what she likes to do." thoughts and resolutions come swiftly one after another into fleda's mind, and were decided upon in as quick succession. first, that she must go the day after to-morrow at all events; second, that it should not be with mr. olmney; third, that to prevent that, she must not see him in the meantime � and, therefore � yes, no help for it � must refuse to see any one that called the next day; there was to be a party in the evening, so then she would be safe. no doubt mr. carleton would come, to give her a more particular account of what he had done, and she wished unspeakably to hear it; but it was not possible that she should make an exception in his favour and admit him alone. that could not be. if friends would only be simple, and straightforward, and kind, one could afford to be straightforward too; but as it was, she must not do what she longed to do, and they would be sure to misunderstand. there was, indeed, the morning of the day following left her, if mr. olmney did not take it into his head to stay. and it might issue in her not seeing mr. carleton at all, to bid good-bye and thank him? he would not think her ungrateful, he knew better than that, but still � well! so much for kindness! � "what _are_ you looking so grave about? said constance. "considering ways and means," fleda said, with a slight smile. "ways and means of what?" "going." "you don't mean to go the day after to-morrow?" "yes." "it's too absurd for anything! you sha'n't do it." "i must, indeed." "mamma," said constance, "if you permit such a thing, i shall hope that memory will be a fingerboard of remorse to you," pointing to miss ringgan's pale cheeks. "i shall charge it entirely upon miss ringgan's own fingerboard," said mrs. evelyn, with her complacently amused face. "fleda, my dear, shall i request mr. olmney to delay his journey for a day or two, my love, till you are stronger?" "not at all, mrs. evelyn! i shall go then; � if i am not ready in the morning, i will take mrs. renney in the afternoon � i would quite as lief go with her." "then i will make mr. olmney keep to his first purpose," said mrs. evelyn. poor fleda, though with a very sorrowful heart, kept her resolutions, and for very forlornness and weariness, slept away a great part of the next day. neither would she appear in the evening, for fear of more people than one. it was impossible to tell whether mrs. evelyn's love of mischief would not bring mr. olmney there, and the thorns, she knew, were invited. mr. lewis would probably absent himself, but fleda could not endure even the chance of seeing his mother. she wanted to know, but dared not ask, whether mr. carleton had been to see her. what if to-morrow morning should pass without her seeing him? fleda pondered this uncertainty a little, and then jumped out of bed, and wrote him the heartiest little note of thanks and remembrance that tears would let her write; sealed it, and carried it herself to the nearest branch of the despatch post the first thing next morning. she took a long look that same morning at the little vinaigrette, which still lay on the centre-table, wishing very much to take it up stairs and pack it away among her things. it was meant for her, she knew, and she wanted it as a very pleasant relic from the kind hands that had given it; and besides, he might think it odd, if she should slight his intention. but how odd it would seem to him if he knew that the evelyns had half appropriated it. and appropriate it anew, in another direction, she could not. she could not, without their knowledge, and they would put their own absurd construction on what was a simple matter of kindness; she could not brave it. the morning � a long one it was � had passed away; fleda had just finished packing her trunk, and was sitting with a faint- hearted feeling of body and mind, trying to rest before being called to her early dinner, when florence came to tell her it was ready. "mr. carleton was here a while ago," she said, "and he asked for you; but mamma said you were busy; she knew you had enough to tire you without coming down stairs to see him. he asked when you thought of going." "what did you tell him?" "i told him, 'oh, you were not gone yet!' � it's such a plague to be bidding people good-bye � _i_ always want to get rid of it. was i right?" fleda said nothing, but in her heart she wondered what possible concern it could be of her friends if mr. carleton wanted to see her before she went away. she felt it was unkind � they did not know how unkind, for they did not understand that he was a very particular friend, and an old friend � they could not tell what reason there was for her wishing to bid him good-bye. she thought she should have liked to do it, very much. chapter xx. "methought i was � there is no man can tell what. methought i was, and methought i had � but man is but a patched fool, if he will offer to say what methought i had." midsummer night's dream. mrs. evelyn drove down to the boat with fleda, and did not leave her till she was safely put in charge of mrs. renney. fleda immediately retreated to the. innermost depths of the ladies' cabin, hoping to find some rest for the body at least, if not forgetfulness for the mind. the latter was not to be. mrs. renney was exceeding glad to see her, and bent upon knowing what had become of her since those days when they used to know each other. "you're just the same, miss fleda, that you used to be � you're very little altered � i can see that � though you're looking a good-deal more thin and pale; you had very pretty roses in your cheeks in those times. yes, i know, i understood mrs. evelyn to say you had not been well; but, allowing for that, i can see you are just yourself still � i'm glad of it. do you recollect, miss fleda, what a little thing you was then?" "i recollect, very well," said fleda. "i'm sure of another thing � you're just as good as you used to be," said the housekeeper, looking at her complacently. "do you remember how you used to come into my room to see me make jelly? i see it as well as if it was yesterday; and you used to beg me to let you squeeze the lemons; and i never could refuse you, because you never did anything i didn't want you to. and do you mind how i used to tie you up in a big towel, for fear you would stain your dress with the acid, and i'd stand and watch to see you putting all your strength to squeeze 'em clean, and be afraid that mrs. rossitur would be angry with me for letting you spoil your hands; but you used to look up and smile at me so, i couldn't help myself, but let you do just whatever you had a mind? you don't look quite so light and bright as you did in those times; � but, to be sure, you aint feeling well! see here � just let me pull some of these things onto this settee, and you put yourself down there and rest � pillows � let's have another pillow � there, how's that?" oh, if fleda might have silenced her! she thought it was rather hard that she should have two talkative companions on this journey of all others. the housekeeper paused no longer than to arrange her couch and see her comfortably laid down. "and then mr. hugh would come in to find you and carry you away � he never could bear to be long from you. how is mr. hugh, miss fleda? he used to be always a very delicate-looking child. i remember you and him used to be always together � he was a very sweet boy! i have often said i never saw such another pair of children. how does mr. hugh have his health, miss fleda?" "not very well, just now," said fleda, gently, and shutting her eyes that they might reveal less. there was need; for the housekeeper went on to ask particularly after every member of the family, and where they had been living, and as much as she conveniently could about how they had been living. she was very kind through it all, or she tried to be; but fleda felt there was a difference since the time when her aunt kept house in state street, and mrs. renney made jellies for her. when her neighbours' affairs were exhausted, mrs. renney fell back upon her own, and gave fleda a very circumstantial account of the occurrences that were drawing her westward; how so many years ago her brother had married and removed thither; how lately his wife had died; what, in general, was the character of his wife, and what, in particular, the story of her decease; how many children were left without care, and the state of her brother's business, which demanded a great deal; and how, finally, she, mrs. renney, had received and accepted an invitation to go on to belle rivière, and be housekeeper de son chef. and as fleda's pale worn face had for some time given her no sign of attention, the housekeeper then hoped she was asleep, an placed herself so as to screen her, and have herself a good view of everything that was going on in the cabin. but poor fleda was not asleep, much as she rejoiced in being thought so. mind and body could get no repose, sadly as the condition of both called for it. too worn to sleep, perhaps; � too down-hearted to rest. she blamed herself for it, and told over to herself the causes, the recent causes, she had of joy and gratitude; but it would not do. grateful she could be and was; but tears that were not the distillation of joy came with her gratitude; came from under the closed eyelid in spite of her; the pillow was wet with them. she excused herself, or tried to, with thinking that she was weak and not very well, and that her nerves had gone through so much for a few days past, it was no wonder if a reaction left her without her usual strength of mind. and she could not help thinking, there had been a want of kindness in the evelyns to let her come away to-day to make such a journey, at such a season, under such guardianship. but it was not all that; she knew it was not. the journey was a small matter; only a little piece of disagreeableness that was well in keeping with her other meditations. she was going home, and home had lost all its fair-seeming; its honours were withered. it would be pleasant indeed to be there again to nurse hugh; but nurse him for what? � life or death? � she did not like to think; and beyond that she could fix upon nothing at all that looked bright in the prospect; she almost thought herself wicked, but she could not. if she might hope that her uncle would take hold of his farm like a man, and redeem his character and his family's happiness on the old place � that would have been something; but he had declared a different purpose, and fleda knew him too well to hope that he would be better than his word. then they must leave the old homestead, where at least the associations of happiness clung, and go to a strange land. it looked desolate to fleda, wherever it might be. leave queechy! � that she loved unspeakably beyond any other place in the world; where the very hills had been the friends of her childhood, and where she had seen the maples grow green and grow red, through as many coloured changes of her own fortunes; the woods where the shade of her grandfather walked with her, and where the presence even of her father could be brought back by memory; where the air was sweeter and the sunlight brighter; by far, than in any other place � for both had some strange kindred with the sunny days of long ago. poor fleda turned her face from mrs. renney, and leaving doubtful prospects and withering comforts for a while, as it were, out of sight, she wept the fair outlines and the red maples of queechy, as if they had been all she had to regret. they had never disappointed her. their countenance had comforted her many a time, under many a sorrow. after all, it was only fancy choosing at which shrine the whole offering of sorrow should be made. she knew that many of the tears that fell were due to some other. it was in vain to tell herself they were selfish; mind and body were in no condition to struggle with anything. it had fallen dark some time, and she had wept and sorrowed herself into a half-dozing state, when a few words spoken near aroused her. "it is snowing," was said by several voices. "going very slow, aint we?" said fleda's friend, in a suppressed voice. "yes, 'cause it's so dark, you see; the captain durstn't let her run." some poor witticism followed from a third party about the "butterfly's" having run herself off her legs the first time she ever ran at all; and then mrs. renney went on. "is the storm so bad, hannah?" "pretty thick � can't see far ahead � i hope we'll make out to find our way in � that's all i care for." "how far are we?" "not half way yet � i don't know � depends on what headway we make, you know; � there aint much wind yet, that's a good thing." "there aint any danger, is there?" this, of course, the chambermaid denied, and a whispered colloquy followed, which fleda did not try to catch. a new feeling came upon her weary heart � a feeling of fear. there was a sad twinge of a wish that she were out of the boat, and safe back again with the evelyns; and a fresh sense of the unkindness of letting her come away that afternoon so attended. and then, with that sickness of heart, the forlorn feeling of being alone, of wanting some one at hand to depend upon, to look to. it is true, that, in case of real danger, none such could be a real protection; and yet lot so neither, for strength and decision can live and make live, where a moment's faltering will kill; and weakness must often falter of necessity. "all the ways of the lord are mercy and truth" to his people; she thought of that, and yet she feared � for his ways are often what we do not like. a few moments of sick- heartedness and trembling � and then fleda mentally folded her arms about a few other words of the bible, and laid her head down in quiet again. � "_the lord is my refuge and my fortress: my god: in him will i trust_." and then what comes after � "_he shall cover thee with his feathers; and under his wings shalt thou trust; his truth shall be thy shield and buckler_." fleda lay quiet till she was called to tea. "bless me, how pale you are?" said the housekeeper, as fleda raised herself up at this summons; "do you feel very bad, miss fleda?" fleda said "no." "are you frighted?" said the housekeeper � "there's no need of that � hannah says there's no need � we'll be in by and by." "no, mrs. renney," said fleda, smiling. "i believe i am not very strong yet." the housekeeper and hannah both looked at her with strangely touched faces, and again begged her to try the refreshment of tea. but fleda would not go down, so they served her up there, with great zeal and tenderness. and then she waited patiently and watched the people in the cabin, as they sat gossiping in groups, or stupefying in solitude; and thought how miserable a thing is existence where religion and refinement have not taught the mind to live in somewhat beyond and above its every-day concerns. late at night the boat arrived safe at bridgeport. mrs. renney and fleda had resolved to stay on board till morning, when the former promised to take her to the house of a sister she had living in the town; as the cars would not leave the place till near eleven o'clock. rest was not to be hoped for meantime in the boat, on the miserable couch which was the best the cabin could furnish; but fleda was so thankful to have finished the voyage in safety, that she took thankfully everything else, even lying awake. it was a wild night. the wind rose soon after they reached bridgeport, and swept furiously over the boat, rattling the tiller chains, and making fleda so nervously alive to possibilities that she got up two or three times to see if the boat were fast to her moorings. it was very dark, and only by a fortunately-placed lantern, she could see a bit of the dark wharf and one of the posts belonging to it, from which the lantern never budged; so, at last quieted, or tired-out, nature had her rights, and she slept. it was not refreshing rest after all, and fleda was very glad that mrs. renney's impatience for something comfortable made her willing to be astir as early as there was any chance of finding people up in the town. few were abroad when they left the boat, they two. not a foot had printed the deep layer of snow that covered the wharf. it had fallen thick during the night. just then it was not snowing; the clouds seemed to have taken a recess, for they hung threatening yet; one uniform leaden canopy was over the whole horizon. "the snow aint done yet," said mrs. renney. "no, but the worst of our journey is over," said fleda. "i am glad to be on the land." "i hope we'll get something to eat here," said mrs. renney, as they stepped along over the wharf. "they ought to be ashamed to give people such a mess, when it's just as easy to have things decent. my! how it has snowed! i declare, if i'd ha' known, i'd ha' waited till somebody had tracked a path for us. but i guess it's just as well we didn't; you look as like a ghost as you can, miss fleda. you'll be better when you get some breakfast. you'd better catch on to my arm � i'll waken up the seven sleepers but what i'll have something to put life into you directly." fleda thanked her, but declined the proffered accommodation, and followed her companion in the narrow beaten path a few travellers had made in the street, feeling enough like a ghost, if want of flesh and blood reality were enough. it seemed a dream that she was walking through the grey light, and the empty streets of the little town; everything looked and felt so wild and strange. if it was a dream, she was soon waked out of it. in the house, where they were presently received and established in sufficient comfort, there was such a little specimen of masculine humanity as never showed his face in dream-land yet � a little bit of reality, enough to bring any dreamer to his senses. he seemed to have been brought up on stove heat, for he was all glowing yet from a very warm bed he had just tumbled out of somewhere, and he looked at the pale thin stranger by his mother's fire-place, as if she were an anomaly in the comfortable world. if he could have contented himself with looking! � but he planted himself firmly on the rug, just two feet from fleda, and, with a laudable and most persistent desire to examine into the causes of what he could not understand, he commenced inquiring � "are you cold? � say! are you cold? � say!" in a tone most provokingly made up of wonder and dulness. in vain fleda answered him, that she was not very cold, and would soon not be cold at all by that good fire � the question came again, apparently in all its freshness, from the interrogator's mind � "are you cold? � say !" � and silence and words, looking grave and laughing, were alike thrown away. fleda shut her eyes at length, and used the small remnant of her patience to keep herself quiet till she was called to breakfast. after breakfast she accepted the offer of her hostess to go up stairs and lie down till the cars were ready; and there got some real and much needed refreshment of sleep and rest. it lasted longer than she had counted upon. for the cars were not ready at eleven o'clock � the snow last night had occasioned some perplexing delays. it was not till near three o'clock, that the often-despatched messenger to the depôt brought back word that they might go as soon as they pleased. it pleased mrs. renney to be in a great hurry, for her baggage was in the cars, she said, and it would be dreadful if she and it went different ways; so fleda and her companion hastened down to the station-house and chose their places some time before anybody else thought of coming. they had a long, very tiresome waiting to go through, and room for some uneasy speculations about being belated and a night-journey. but fleda was stronger now, and bore it all with her usual patient submission at length, by degrees, the people dropped in and filled the cars, and they set off. "how early do you suppose we shall reach greenfield?" said fleda. "why, we ought to get there between nine and ten o'clock, i should think," said her companion. "i hope the snow will hold up till we get there." fleda thought it a hope very unlikely to be fulfilled. there were as yet no snow-flakes to be seen near by, but, at a little distance, the low clouds seemed already to enshroud every clump of trees, and put a mist about every hill. they surely would descend more palpably soon. it was pleasant to be moving swiftly on again towards the end of their journey, if fleda could have rid herself of some qualms about the possible storm and the certain darkness; they might not reach greenfield by ten o'clock; and she disliked travelling in the night at any time. but she could do nothing, and she resigned herself anew to the comfort and trust she had built upon last night. she had the seat next the window, and with a very sober kind of pleasure watched the pretty landscape they were flitting by � misty as her own prospects � darkening as they? � no, she would not allow that thought. " 'surely i know that it shall be well with them that fear god;' and i can trust him." and she found a strange sweetness in that naked trust and clinging of faith, that faith never tried never knows. but the breath of daylight was already gone, though the universal spread of snow gave the eye a fair range yet, white, white, as far as the view could reach, with that light misty drapery round everything in the distance, and merging into the soft grey sky; and every now and then, as the wind served, a thick wreath of white vapour came by from the engine and hid all, eddying past the windows, and then skimming off away over the snowy ground from which it would not lift; a more palpable veil for a moment of the distant things � and then broken, scattered, fragmentary, lovely in its frailty, and evanishing. it was a pretty afternoon, but a sober; and the bare, black, solitary trees near hand which the cars flew by, looked to fleda constantly like finger-posts of the past; and back, at their bidding, her thoughts and her spirits went, back and forward, comparing, in her own mental view what had once been so gay and genial with its present bleak and chill condition. and from this, in sudden contrast, came a strangely fair and bright image of heaven � its exchange of peace for all this turmoil � of rest for all this weary bearing up of mind and body against the ills that beset both � of its quiet home for this unstable strange world, where nothing is at a standstill � of perfect and pure society for the unsatisfactory and wearying friendships that the most are here. the thought came to fleda like one of those unearthly clear north-western skies from which a storm-cloud has rolled away, that seem almost to mock earth with their distance from its defilement and agitations. "truly i know that it shall be well with them that fear god!" she could remember hugh � she could not think of the words without him � and yet say them with the full bounding assurance. and in that weary and uneasy afternoon, her mind rested and delighted itself with two lines of george herbert, that only a christian can well understand � "thy power and love, my love and trust, make one place everywhere." but the night fell, and fleda at last could see nothing but the dim rail-fences they were flying by, and the reflection from some stationary lantern on the engine, or one of the forward cars, that always threw a bright spot of light on the snow. still she kept her eyes fastened out of the window; anything but the view _inboard_. they were going slowly now, and frequently stopping; for they were out of time, and some other trains were to be looked-out for. nervous work; and whenever they stopped, the voices which at other times were happily drowned in the rolling of the car-wheels, rose and jarred in discords far less endurable. fleda shut her ears to the words, but it was easy enough without words to understand the indications of coarse and disagreeable natures in whose neighbourhood she disliked to find herself � of whose neighbourhood she exceedingly disliked to be reminded. the muttered oath, the more than muttered jest, the various laughs that tell so much of head or heart emptiness � the shadowy but sure tokens of that in human nature which one would not realize, and which one strives to forget; fleda shrank within herself, and would gladly have stopped her ears; did sometimes covertly. oh, if home could be but reached, and she out of this atmosphere! how well she resolved that never another time, by any motive of delicacy, or otherwise, she would be tempted to trust herself in the like again without more than womanly protection. the hours rolled wearily on; they heard nothing of greenfield yet. they came at length to a more obstinate stop than usual. fleda took her hands from her ears to ask what was the matter. "i don't know," said mrs. renney. "i hope they won't keep us a great while waiting here." the door swung open, and the red comforter and tarpaulin hat of one of the breakmen showed itself a moment. presently after, "can't get on," was repeated by several voices in the various tones of assertion, interrogation, and impatience. the women folks, having nobody to ask questions of, had nothing for it but to be quiet and use their ears. "can't get on!" said another man, coming in � "there's nothing but snow out o' doors � track's all foul." a number of people instantly rushed out to see. "can't get on any further to-night?" asked a quiet old gentleman of the news-bringer. "not another inch, sir; worse off than old dobbs was in the mill-pond � we've got half way, but we can't turn and go back." "and what are we going to do?" said an unhappy wight, not quick in drawing conclusions. "i s'pose we'll all be stiff by the morning," answered the other, gravely � "unless the wood holds out, which aint likely." how much there is in even a cheery tone of voice. fleda was sorry when this man took his away with him. there was a most uncheering confusion of tongues for a few minutes among the people he had left, and then the car was near deserted; everybody went out to bring his own wits to bear upon the obstacles in the way of their progress. mrs. renney observed that she might as well warm her feet while she could, and went to the stove for the purpose. poor fleda felt as if she had no heart left. she sat still in her place, and leaned her head upon the back of the deserted chair before her, in utter inability to keep it up. the night journey was bad enough, but _this_ was more than she had counted upon. danger, to be sure, there might be none in standing still there all night, unless, perhaps, the danger of death from the cold. she had heard of such things; but to sit there till morning among all those people, and obliged to hear their unloosed tongues, fleda felt almost that she could not bear it � a most forlorn feeling, with which came anew a keen reflection upon the evelyns, for having permitted her to run even the hazard of such trouble. and in the morning, if well it came, who would take care of them in all the subsequent annoyance and difficulty of getting out of the snow? it must have taken very little time for these thoughts to run through her head, for half a minute had not flown, when the vacant seat beside her was occupied, and a band softly touched one of hers which lay in her lap. fleda started up in terror, to have the hand taken and her eye met by mr. carleton. "mr. carleton! � o sir, how glad i am to see you!" was said by eye and cheek, as unmistakably as by word. "have you come from the clouds?" "i might rather ask that question of you," said he, smiling. "you have been invisible ever since the night when i had the honour of playing the part of your physician." "i could not help it, sir � i was sure you would believe it. i wanted exceedingly to see you, and to thank you as well as i could, but i was obliged to leave it." she could hardly say so much. her swimming eye gave him more thanks than he wanted. but she scolded herself vigorously, and after a few minutes, was able to look and speak again. "i hoped you would not think me ungrateful, sir, but in case you might, i wrote to let you know that you were mistaken." "you wrote to me?" said he. "yes, sir, yesterday morning � at least it put in the post yesterday morning." "it was more unnecessary than you are aware of," he said, with a smile, and turning one of his deep looks away from her. "are we fast here for all night, mr. carleton!" she said, presently. "i am afraid so � i believe so � i have been out to examine, and the storm is very thick." "you need not look so about it for me," said fleda � "i don't care for it all now." and a long-drawn breath half told how much she had cared for it, and what a burden was gone. "you look very little like breasting hardships," said mr. carleton, bending on her so exactly the look of affectionate care that she had often had from him when she was a child, that fleda was very near overcome again. "oh, you know," she said, speaking by dint of great force upon herself � "you know the will is everything, and mine is very good." but he looked extremely unconvinced and unsatisfied. "i am so comforted to see you sitting there, sir," fleda went on gratefully, "that i am sure i can bear patiently all the rest." his eye turned away, and she did not know what to make of his gravity. but a moment after, he looked again, and spoke with his usual manner. "that business you entrusted to me," he said, in a lower tone, � "i believe you will have no more trouble with it." "so i thought! � so i gathered, the other night," said fleda, her heart and her face suddenly full of many things. "the note was given up � i saw it burned." fleda's two hands clasped each other mutely. "and will he be silent?" "i think he will choose to be so, for his own sake." the only sake that would avail in that quarter, fleda knew. how had mr. carleton ever managed it? "and charlton?" she said, after a few minutes' cheerful musing. "i had the pleasure of captain rossitur's company to breakfast the next morning, and i am happy to report that there is no danger of any trouble arising there." "how shall i ever thank you, sir!" said fleda, with trembling lips. his smile was so peculiar, she almost thought he was going to tell her. but just then, mrs. renney having accomplished the desirable temperature of her feet, came back to warm her ears, and placed herself on the next seat � happily not the one behind, but the one before them, where her eyes were thrown away; and the lines of mr. carleton's mouth came back to their usual quiet expression. "you were in particular haste to reach home?" he asked. fleda said no, not in the abstract; it made no difference whether to-day or to-morrow. "you had heard no ill news of your cousin?" "not at all, but it is difficult to find an opportunity of making the journey, and i thought i ought to come yesterday." he was silent again; and the baffled seekers after ways and means, who had gone out to try arguments upon the storm, began to come pouring back into the car. and bringing with them not only their loud and coarse voices, with every shade of disagreeableness, aggravated by ill-humour, but also an average amount of snow upon their hats and shoulders, the place was soon full of a reeking atmosphere of great-coats. fleda was trying to put up her window, but mr. carleton gently stopped her, and began bargaining with a neighbouring fellow- traveller for the opening of his. "well, sir, i'll open it if you wish it," said the man, civilly, "but they say we sha'n't have nothing to make fires with more than an hour or two longer; so maybe you'll think we can't afford to let any too much cold in." the gentleman however, persisting in his wish, and the wish being moreover backed with those arguments to which every grade of human reason is accessible, the window was opened. at first the rush of fresh air was a great relief; but it was not very long before the raw snowy atmosphere, which made its way in, was felt to be more dangerous, if it was more endurable, than the close pent-up one it displaced. mr. carleton ordered the window closed again; and fleda's glance of meek grateful patience was enough to pay any reasonable man for his share of the suffering. _her_ share of it was another matter. perhaps mr. carleton thought so, for he immediately bent himself to reward her and to avert the evil, and for that purpose brought into play every talent of manner and conversation that could beguile the time, and make her forget what she was among. if success were his reward he had it. he withdrew her attention completely from all that was around her, and without tasking it; she could not have borne that. he did not seem to task himself; but without making any exertion, he held her eye and ear, and guarded both from communication with things disagreeable. he knew it. there was not a change in her eye's happy interest, till, in the course of the conversation, fleda happened to mention hugh, and he noticed the saddening of the eye immediately afterwards. "is he ill?" said mr. carleton. "i don't know," said fleda, faltering a little � "he was not � very � but a few weeks ago." her eye explained the broken sentences which there, in the neighbourhood of other ears, she dared not finish. "he will be better after he has seen you," said mr. carleton, gently. "yes." a very sorrowful and uncertain "yes," with an "if" in the speaker's mind, which she did not bring out. "can you sing your old song yet?" said mr. carleton, softly � "yet one thing secures us, whatever betide?" but fleda burst into tears. "forgive me," he whispered, earnestly, "for reminding you of that � you did not need it, and i have only troubled you." "no, sir, you have not," said fleda � "it did not trouble me, and hugh knows it better than i do. i cannot bear anything to- night i believe" � "so you have remembered that, mr. carleton?" she said, a minute after. "do you remember that?" said he, putting her old little bible into her hand. fleda seized it, but she could hardly bear the throng of images that started up around it. the smooth worn cover brought so back the childish happy days when it had been her constant companion � the shadows of the queechy of old, and cynthia and her grandfather, and the very atmosphere of those times when she had led a light-hearted strange wild life all alone with them, reading the encyclopaedia, and hunting out the wood-springs. she opened the book and slowly turned over the leaves where her father's hand had drawn those lines of remark and affection round many a passage � the very look of them she knew; but she could not see it now, for her eyes were dim, and tears were dropping fast into her lap � she hoped mr. carleton did not see them, but she could not help it; she could only keep the book out of the way of being blotted. and there were other and later associations she had with it too � how dear! � how tender! � how grateful! mr. carleton was quite silent for a good while � till the tears had ceased; then he bent towards her so as to be heard no further off. "it has been for many years my best friend and companion," he said, in a low tone. fleda could make no answer, even by look. "at first," he went on, softly, "i had a strong association of you with it; but the time came when i lost that entirely, and itself quite swallowed up the thought of the giver." a quick glance and smile told how well fleda understood, how heartily she was pleased with that. but she instantly looked away again. "and now," said mr. carleton, after a pause � "for some time past, i have got the association again; and i do not choose to have it so. i have come to the resolution to put the book back into your hands, and not receive it again, unless the giver go with the gift." fleda looked up, a startled look of wonder, into his face, but the dark eye left no doubt of the meaning of his words; and in unbounded confusion she turned her own and her attention, ostensibly, to the book in her hand, though sight and sense were almost equally out of her power. for a few minutes poor fleda felt as if all sensation had retreated to her finger- ends. she turned the leaves over and over, as if willing to cheat herself or her companion into the belief that she had something to think of there, while associations and images of the past were gone with a vengeance, swallowed up in a tremendous reality of the present; and the book, which a minute ago was her father's bible, was now, � what was it? � something of mr. carleton's, which she must give back to him. but still she held it and looked at it � conscious of no one distinct idea but that, and a faint one besides, that he might like to be repossessed of his property in some reasonable time � time like everything else was in a whirl? the only steady thing in creation seemed to be that perfectly still and moveless figure by her side � till her trembling fingers admonished her they would not be able to hold anything much longer; and gently and slowly, without looking, her hand put the book back towards mr. carleton. that both were detained together she knew, but hardly felt; � the thing was that she had given it! � there was no other answer; and there was no further need that mr. carleton should make any efforts for diverting her from the scene and the circumstances where they were. probably he knew that, for he made none. he was perfectly silent for a long time, and fleda was deaf to any other voice that could be raised, near or far. she could not even think. mrs. renney was happily snoring, and most of the other people had descended into their coat collars, or, figuratively speaking, had lowered their blinds by tilting over their hats in some uncomfortable position that signified sleep; and comparative quiet had blessed the place for some time; as little noticed, indeed, by fleda, as noise would have been. the sole thing that she clearly recognized in connexion with the exterior world, was that clasp in which one of her hands lay. she did not know that the car had grown quiet, and that only an occasional grunt of ill-humour or waking-up colloquy testified that it was the unwonted domicile of a number of human beings, who were harbouring there in a disturbed state of mind. but this state of things could not last. the time came that had been threatened, when their last supply of extrinsic warmth was at an end. despite shut windows, the darkening of the stove was presently followed by a very sensible and fast-increasing change of temperature; and this addition to their causes of discomfort roused every one of the company from his temporary lethargy. the growl of dissatisfied voices awoke again, more gruff than before; the spirit of jesting had long languished, and now died outright, and in its stead came some low, and deep, and bitter-spoken curses. poor mrs. renney shook off her somnolency and shook her shoulders, a little business shake, admonitory to herself to keep cool; and fleda came to the consciousness that some very disagreeable chills were making their way over her. "are you warm enough?" said mr. carleton, suddenly, turning to her. "not quite," said fleda, hesitating; "i feel the cold a little. please don't, mr. carleton!" she added, earnestly, as she saw him preparing to throw off his cloak, the identical black fox which constance had described, with so much vivacity; "pray do not. i am not very cold � i can bear a little � i am not so tender as you think me; i do not need it, and you would feel the want very much after wearing it. i won't put it on." but he smilingly bade her "stand up," stooping down and taking one of her hands to enforce his words, and giving her, at the same time, the benefit of one of those looks of good-humoured wilfulness to which his mother always yielded, and to which fleda yielded instantly, though with a colour considerably heightened at the slight touch of peremptoriness in his tone. "you are not offended with me, elfie?" he said, in another manner, when she had sat down again, and he was arranging the heavy folds of the cloak. offended! � a glance answered. "you shall have everything your own way," he whispered, gently, as he stooped down to bring the cloak under her feet, "_except yourself_." what good care should be taken of that exception was said in the dark eye at which fleda hardly ventured half a glance. she had much ado to command herself. she was shielded again from all the sights and sounds within reach. she was in a maze. the comfort of the fur-cloak was curiously mixed with the feeling of something else, of which that was an emblem � a surrounding of care and strength which would effectually be exerted for her protection � somewhat that fleda had not known for many a long day � the making up of the old want. fleda had it in her heart to cry like a baby. such a dash of sunlight had fallen at her feet that she hardly dared look at it for fear of being dazzled; but she could not look anywhere that she did not see the reflection. in the mean time the carful of people settled again into sullen quietude. the cold was not found propitious to quarrelling. those who could subsided again into lethargy; those who could not, gathered in their outposts to make the best defence they might of the citadel. most happily it was not an extreme night; cold enough to be very disagreeable, and even (without a fur-cloak) dangerous; but not enough to put even noses and ears in immediate jeopardy. mr. carleton had contrived to procure a comfortable wrapper for mrs. renney, from a yankee, who, for the sake of being a "warm man" as to his pockets, was willing to be cold otherwise for a time. the rest of the great-coats and cloaks, which were so alert and erect a little while ago, were doubled up on every side in all sorts of despondent attitudes. a dull quiet brooded over the assembly, and mr. carleton walked up and down the vacant space. once he caught an anxious glance from fleda, and came immediately to her side. "you need not be troubled about me," he said, with a most genial smile; "i am not suffering � never was farther from it in my life." fleda could neither answer nor look. "there are not many hours of the night to wear out," he said. "can't you follow your neighbour's example?" she shook her head. "this watching is too hard for you. you will have another headache to-morrow." "no, perhaps not," she said, with a grateful look up. "you do not feel the cold now, elfie?" "not at all � not in the least � i am perfectly comfortable � i am doing very well." he stood still, and the changing lights and shades on fleda's cheek grew deeper. "do you know where we are, mr. carleton?" "somewhere between a town the name of which i have forgotten, and a place called quarrenton, i think; and quarrenton, they tell me, is but a few miles from greenfield. our difficulties will vanish, i hope, with the darkness." he walked again, and fleda mused, and wondered at herself in the black fox. she did not venture another look, though her eye took in nothing very distinctly but the outlines of that figure passing up and down through the car. he walked perseveringly; and weariness at last prevailed over everything else with fleda; she lost herself, with her head leaning against the bit of wood between the windows. the rousing of the great-coats, and the growing gray light, roused her before her uneasy sleep had lasted an hour. the lamps were out, the car was again spotted with two long rows of window-panes, through which the light as yet came but dimly. the morning had dawned at last, and seemed to have brought with it a fresh accession of cold, for everybody was on the stir. fleda put up her window to get a breath of fresh air, and see how the day looked. a change of weather had come with the dawn. it was not fine yet. the snowing had ceased, but the clouds hung overhead still, though not with the leaden uniformity of yesterday; they were higher, and broken into many a soft, gray fold, that promised to roll away from the sky by and by. the snow was deep on the ground; every visible thing lapped in a thick white covering; a still, very grave, very pretty winter landscape, but somewhat dreary in its aspect, to a trainful of people fixed in the midst of it, out of sight of human habitation. fleda felt that; but only in the abstract � to her it did not seem dreary; she enjoyed the wild, solitary beauty of the scene very much, with many a grateful thought of what might have been. as it was, she left difficulties entirely to others. as soon as it was light, the various inmates of the strange dormitory gathered themselves up, and set out on foot for quarrenton. by one of them mr. carleton sent an order for a sleigh, which in as short a time as possible arrived, and transported him and fleda, and mrs. renney, and one other ill- bestead woman, safely to the little town of quarrenton. chapter xxi. "welcome the sour cup of prosperity! affliction may one day smile again, and till then, sit thee down, sorrow!" love's labour lost. it had been a wild night, and the morning looked scared. perhaps it was only the particular locality, for if ever a place showed bleak and winter-stricken, the little town of quarrenton was in that condition that morning. the snow overlaid and enveloped everything, except where the wind had been at work; and the wind and the gray clouds seemed the only agencies abroad. not a ray of sunlight to relieve the uniform sober tints, the universal gray and white, only varied where a black house-roof, partially cleared, or a blacker bare- branched tree, gave it a sharp interruption. there was not a solitary thing that bore an indication of comfortable life, unless the curls of smoke that went up from the chimneys; and fleda was in no condition to study their physiognomy. a little square hotel, perched alone on a rising ground, looked the especial bleak and unpromising spot of the place. it bore, however, the imposing title of the pocahontas; and there the sleigh set them down. they were ushered upstairs into a little parlour, furnished in the usual style, with one or two articles a great deal too showy for the place, and a general dearth as to the rest. a lumbering mahogany sofa, that showed as much wood and as little promise as possible, a marble-topped centre-table, chairs in the minority, and curtains minus, and the hearth-rug providently turned bottom upwards. on the centre-table lay a pile of penny magazines, a volume of' selections of poetry from various good authors, and a sufficient complement of newspapers. the room was rather cold, but of that the waiter gave a reasonable explanation in the fact that the fire had not been burning long. furs, however, might be dispensed with, or fleda thought so; and taking off her bonnet, she endeavoured to rest her weary head against the sharp-cut top of the sofa-back, which seemed contrived expressly to punish and forbid all attempts at ease- seeking. the mere change of position was still comparative ease. but the black fox had not done duty yet. its ample folds were laid over the sofa, cushion, back, and all, so as at once to serve for pillow and mattress; and fleda being gently placed upon it, laid her face down again upon the soft fur, which gave a very kindly welcome not more to the body than to the mind. fleda almost smiled as she felt that. the furs were something more than a pillow for her cheek � they were the soft image of somewhat for her mind to rest on. but entirely exhausted, too much for smiles or tears, though both were near, she resigned herself as helplessly as an infant to the feeling of rest; and, in five minutes, was in a state of dreamy unconsciousness. mrs. renney, who had slept a great part of the night, courted sleep anew in the rocking-chair, till breakfast should be ready; the other woman had found quarters in the lower part of the house; and mr. carleton stood still, with folded arms, to read at his leisure the fair face that rested so confidingly upon the black fur of his cloak, looking so very fair in the contrast. it was the same face he had known in time past � the same, with only an alteration that had added new graces, but had taken away none of the old. not one of the soft outlines had grown hard under time's discipline: not a curve had lost its grace, or its sweet mobility; and yet the hand of time had been there; for on brow and lip, and cheek and eyelid, there was that nameless, grave composure, which said touchingly, that hope had long ago clasped hands with submission. and, perhaps, that if hope's anchor had not been well placed, ay, even where it could not be moved, the storms of life might have beaten even hope from her ground, and made a clean sweep of desolation over all she had left. not the storms of the last few weeks. mr. carleton saw and understood their work in the perfectly colourless and thin cheek. but these other finer drawn characters had taken longer to write. he did not know the instrument, but he read the handwriting, and came to his own resolutions therefrom. yet if not untroubled, she had remained unspotted by the world; that was as clear as the other. the slight eyebrow sat with its wonted calm purity of outline just where it used; the eyelid fell as quietly; the forehead above it was as unruffled; and if the mouth had a subdued gravity that it had taken years to teach, it had neither lost any of the sweetness, nor any of the simplicity of childhood. it was a strange picture that mr. carleton was looking at � strange for its rareness. in this very matter of simplicity, that the world will never leave those who belong to it. half sitting and half reclining, she had given herself to rest with the abandonment and self-forgetfulness of a child; her attitude had the very grace of a child's unconsciousness; and her face showed that, even in placing herself there, she had lost all thought of any other presence or any other eyes than her own; even of what her hand and cheek lay upon, and what it betokened. it meant something to mr. carleton, too; and if fleda could have opened her eyes, she would have seen in those that were fixed upon her a happy promise for her future life. she was beyond making any such observations; and mrs. renney gave no interruption to his till the breakfast bell rang. mr. carleton had desired the meal to be served in a private room. but he was met with a speech in which such a confusion of arguments endeavoured to persuade him to be of another mind, that he had at last given way. it was asserted that the ladies would have their breakfast a great deal quicker, and a great deal hotter, with the rest of the company; and in the same breath that it would be a very great favour to the house if the gentleman would not put them to the inconvenience of setting a separate table; the reasons of which inconvenience were set forth in detail, or would have been if the gentleman would have heard them; and desirous especially of haste, on fleda's account, mr. carleton signified his willingness to let the house accommodate itself. following the bell, a waiter now came to announce and conduct them to their breakfast. down the stairs, through sundry narrow turning passages, they went to a long low room at one corner of the house; where a table was spread for a very nondescript company, as it soon proved, many of their last night's companions having found their way thither. the two ladies, however, were given the chief posts at the head, as near as possible to a fiery hot stove, and served with tea and coffee from a neighbouring table, by a young lady in long ringlets, who was there probably for their express honour. but, alas for the breakfast! they might as good have had the comfort of a private room, for there was none other to be had. of the tea and coffee it might be said, as once it was said of two bad roads � "whichever one you take, you will wish you had taken the other;" the beefsteak was a problem of impracticability; and the chickens � fleda could not help thinking, that a well- to-do rooster which she saw flapping his wings in the yard, must, in all probability, be at that very moment endeavouring to account for a sudden breach in his social circle; and if the oysters had been some very fine ladies, they could hardly have retained less recollection of their original circumstances. it was in vain to try to eat or to drink; and fleda returned to her sofa with even an increased appetite for rest, the more that her head began to take its revenge for the trials to which it had been put the past day and night. she had closed her eyes again in her old position. mrs. renney was tying her bonnet-strings. mr. carleton was pacing up and down. "aren't you going to get ready, miss ringgan?" said the former. "how soon will the cars be here?" exclaimed fleda, starting up. "presently," said mr. carleton; "but," said he, coming up to her and taking her hands � "i am going to prescribe for you again � will you let me?" fleda's face gave small promise of opposition. "you are not fit to travel now. you need some hours of quiet rest before we go any further." "but when shall we get home?" said fleda. "in good time � not by the railroad � there is a nearer way that will take us to queechy without going through greenfield. i have ordered a room to be made ready for you � will you try if it be habitable?" fleda submitted; and, indeed, there was in his manner a sort of gentle determination to which few women would have opposed themselves; besides that, her head threatened to make a journey a miserable business. "you are ill now," said mr. carleton. "cannot you induce your companion to stay and attend you?" "i don't want her," said fleda. mr. carleton, however, mooted the question himself with mrs. renney, but she represented to him, though with much deference, that the care of her property must oblige her to go where and when it went. he rang, and ordered the housekeeper to be sent. presently after, a young lady in ringlets entered the room, and first taking a somewhat leisurely survey of the company, walked to the window, and stood there looking out. a dim recollection of her figure and air made fleda query whether she were not the person sent for; but it was several minutes before it came into mr. carleton's head to ask if she belonged to the house. "i do, sir," was the dignified answer. "will you show this lady the room prepared for her. and take care that she wants nothing." the owner of the ringlets answered not, but turning the front view of them full upon fleda, seemed to intimate that she was ready to act as her guide. she hinted, however, that the rooms were very _airy_ in winter, and that fleda would stand a better chance of comfort where she was. but this fleda would not listen to, and followed her adviser to the half-warmed, and certainly very airy apartment which had been got ready for her. it was probably more owing to something in her own appearance, than to mr. carleton's word of admonition on the subject, that her attendant was really assiduous and kind. "be you of this country?" she said, abruptly, after her good offices, as fleda thought, were ended, and she had just closed her eyes. she opened them again, and said "yes." "well, that aint in the parlour, is he?" "what?" said fleda. "one of our folks?" "an american, you mean? � no." "i thought he wa'n't � what is he?" "he is english." "is he your brother?" "no." the young lady gave her a good look out of her large dark eyes, and remarking that "she thought they didn't look much like," left the room. the day was spent by poor fleda between pain and stupor, each of which acted in some measure to check the other � too much exhausted for nervous pain, to reach the height it sometimes did, while yet that was sufficient to prevent stupor from sinking into sleep. beyond any power of thought, or even fancy, with only a dreamy succession of images flitting across her mind, the hours passed, she knew not how; that they did pass, she knew from her handmaid in the long curls, who was every now and then coming in to look at her, and give her fresh water; it needed no ice. her handmaid told her that the cars were gone by � that it was near noon � then, that it was past noon. there was no help for it; she could only lie still and wait; it was long past noon before she was able to move; and she was looking ill enough yet, when she at last opened the door of the parlour and slowly presented herself. mr. carleton was there alone, mrs. renney having long since accompanied her baggage. he came forward instantly, and led fleda to the sofa, with such gentle, grave kindness, that she could hardly bear it; her nerves had been in an unsteady state all day. a table was set, and partially spread with evidently much more care than the one of the morning, and fleda sat looking at it, afraid to trust herself to look anywhere else. for years she had been taking care of others, and now there was something so strange in this feeling of being cared for, that her heart was full. whatever mr. carleton saw or suspected of this, it did not appear. on the contrary, his manner and his talk on different matters was as cool, as quiet, as graceful, as if neither he nor fleda had anything particular to think of; avoiding even an allusion to whatever might in the least distress her. fleda thought she had a great many reasons to be grateful to him, but she never thanked him for anything more than at that moment she thanked him for the delicacy which so regarded her delicacy, and put her in a few minutes completely at her ease as she could be. the refreshments were presently brought, and fleda was served with them in a way that went, as far as possible, towards making them satisfactory; but, though a great improvement upon the morning, they furnished still but the substitute for a meal. there was a little pause then, after the horses were ordered. "i am afraid you have wanted my former prescription to-day," said mr. carleton, after considering the little-improved colour of fleda's face. "i have, indeed." "where is it?" fleda hesitated, and then, in a little confusion, said, she supposed it was lying on mrs. evelyn's centre-table. "how happens that?" said he, smiling. "because i could not help it, mr. carleton," said fleda, with no little difficulty; "i was foolish, i could not bring it away." he understood and was silent. "are you fit to bear a long ride in the cold?" he said, compassionately, a few minutes after. "oh, yes; it will do me good." "you have had a miserable day, have you not?" "my head has been pretty bad," said fleda, a little evasively. "well, what would you have?" said he, lightly; "doesn't that make a miserable day of it?" fleda hesitated and coloured, and then, conscious that her cheeks were answering for her, coloured so exceedingly, that she was fain to put both her hands up to hide what they only served the more plainly to show. no advantage was taken. mr. carleton said nothing; she could not see what answer might be in his face. it was only by a peculiar quietness in his tone whenever he spoke to her afterwards that fleda knew she had been thoroughly understood. she dared not lift her eyes. they had soon employment enough around her. a sleigh and horses, better than anything else quarrenton had been known to furnish, were carrying her rapidly towards home, the weather had perfectly cleared off, and in full brightness and fairness the sun was shining upon a brilliant world. it was cold indeed, though the only wind was that made by their progress; but fleda had been again unresistingly wrapped in the furs, and was, for the time, beyond the reach of that or any other annoyance. she sat silently and quietly enjoying; so quietly that a stranger might have questioned there being any enjoyment in the case. it was a very picturesque, broken country, fresh covered with snow; and at that hour, late in the day, the lights and shadows were a constantly varying charm to the eye. clumps of evergreens stood out in full disclosure against the white ground; the bare branches of neighbouring trees in all their barrenness, had a wild prospective or retrospective beauty peculiar to themselves. on the wavy white surface of the meadow land, or the steep hill- sides, lay every variety of shadow in blue and neutral tint; where they lay not, the snow was too brilliant to be borne. and afar off, through a heaven, bright and cold enough to hold the canopy over winter's head, the ruler of the day was gently preparing to say good-bye to the world. fleda's eye seemed to be new set for all forms of beauty, and roved from one to the other as grave and bright as nature itself. for a little way, mr. carleton left her to her musings, and was as silent as she. but then he gently drew her into a conversation that broke up the settled gravity of her face, and obliged her to divide her attention between nature and him, and his part of it he knew how to manage. but though eye and smile constantly answered him, he could win neither to a straightforward bearing. they were about a mile from queechy, when fleda suddenly exclaimed � "oh, mr. carleton, please stop the sleigh!" the horses were stopped. "it is only earl douglass, our farmer," fleda said, in explanation: "i want to ask how they are at home?" in answer to her nod of recognition, mr. douglass came to the side of the vehicle; but till he was there, close, gave her no other answer by word or sign; when there, broke forth his accustomed guttural � "how d'ye do?" "how d'ye do, mr. douglass," said fleda. "how are they all at home?" "well, there aint nothin' new among 'em, as i've heerd on," said earl, diligently though stealthily, at the same time qualifying himself to make a report of mr. carleton. "i guess they'll be glad to see you. _i_ be." "thank you, mr. douglass. how is hugh?" "he aint nothin' different from what he's been for a spell back � at least i ain't heerd that he was. maybe he is, but if he is, i ha'n't heerd speak of it, and if he was, i think i should ha' heerd speak of it. he was pretty bad a spell ago � about when you went away � but he's been better sen. so they say. i ha'n't seen him. well flidda," he added, with somewhat of a sly gleam in his eye, "do you think you're going to make up your mind to stay to hum this time?" "i have no immediate intention of running away, mr. douglass," said fleda, her pale cheeks turning rose as she saw him looking curiously up and down the edges of the black fox. his eye came back to hers with a good- humoured intelligence that she could hardly stand. "it's time you was back," said he. "your uncle's to hum, but he don't do me much good, whatever he does to other folks, or himself nother, as far as the farm goes; there's that corn �" "very well, mr. douglass," said fleda, "i shall be at home now, and i'll see about it." "_very_ good!" said earl, as he stepped back, "queechy can't get along without you, that's no mistake." they drove on a few minutes in silence. "aren't you thinking, mr. carleton," said fleda, "that my countrymen are a strange mixture?" "i was not thinking of them at all at this moment. i believe such a notion has crossed my mind." "it has crossed mine very often," said fleda. "how do you read them? what is the basis of it?" "i think, the strong self-respect which springs from the security and importance that republican institutions give every man. but," she added, colouring, "i have seen very little of the world, and ought not to judge." "i have no doubt you are quite right," said mr. carleton, smiling. "but don't you think an equal degree of self-respect may consist with giving honour where honour is due?" "yes," said fleda, a little doubtfully, "where religion and not republicanism is the spring of it." "humility and not pride," said he. "yes, you are right." "my countrymen do yield honour where they think it is due," said fleda, "especially where it is not claimed. they must give it to reality, not to pretension. and, i confess, i would rather see them a little rude in their independence, than cringing before mere advantages of external position � even for my own personal pleasure." "i agree with you, elfie, putting, perhaps, the last clause out of the question." "now, that man," said fleda, smiling at his look � "i suppose his address must have struck you as very strange; and yet there was no want of respect under it. i am sure he has a true thorough respect, and even regard for me, and would prove it on any occasion." "i have no doubt of that." "but it does not satisfy you?" "not quite. i confess i should require more from any one under my control." "oh, nobody is under control here," said fleda. "that is, i mean, individual control, unless so far as self-interest comes in. i suppose that is all-powerful here as elsewhere." "and the reason it gives less power to individuals is, that the greater freedom of resources makes no man's interest depend so absolutely on one other man. that is a reason you cannot regret. no, your countrymen have the best of it, elfie. but, do you suppose that this is a fair sample of the whole country?" "i dare not say that," said fleda. "i am afraid there is not so much intelligence and cultivation everywhere. but i am sure there are many parts of the land that will bear a fair comparison with it." "it is more than i would dare say for my own land." "i should think" � fleda suddenly stopped. "what?" � said mr. carleton, gently. "i beg your pardon, sir � i was going to say something very presumptuous." "you cannot," he said in the same tone. "i was going to say," said fleda, blushing, "that i should think there might be a great deal of pleasure in raising the tone of mind and character among the people, as one could who had influence over a large neighbourhood." his smile was very bright in answer. "i have been trying that, elfie, for the last eight years." fleda's eye looked now eagerly in pleasure and in curiosity for more. but he was silent. "i was thinking a little while ago," he said, "of the time, once before, when i rode here with you � when you were beginning to lead me to the problem i have been trying to work out ever since. when i left you in paris, i went to resolve with myself the question, what i had to do in the world? your little bible was my invaluable help. i had read very little of it when i threw aside all other books; and my problem was soon solved. i saw that the life has no honour nor value which is not spent to the glory of god. i saw the end i was made for � the happiness i was fitted for � the dignity to which even a fallen creature may rise, through his dear redeemer and surety." fleda's eyes were down now. mr. carleton was silent a moment, watching one or two bright witnesses that fell from them. "the next conclusion was easy � that my work was at home � i have wanted my good fairy," mr. carleton went on, smiling. "but i hope she will be contented to carry the standard of christianity, without that of republicanism." "but christianity tends directly to republicanism, mr. carleton," said fleda, trying to laugh. "i know that," said he, smiling � "and i am willing to know it. but the leaven of truth is one thing, and the powder train of the innovator is another." fleda sat thinking that she had very little in common with the layers of powder trains. she did not know the sleigh was passing deepwater lake, till mr. carleton said � "i am glad, my dear elfie, for your sake, that we are almost at the end of your journey." "i should think you might be glad for your own sake, mr. carleton." "no � my journey is not ended �" "not?" "no � it will not be ended till i get back to new york, or rather till i find myself here again � i shall make very little delay there �" "but you will not go any further to-night?" said fleda, her eye this time meeting his fully. "yes � i must take the first train to new york. i have some reason to expect my mother by this steamer." "back to new york!" said fleda. "then taking care of me has just hindered you in your business." but even as she spoke, she read the truth in his eye, and her own fell in confusion. "my business?" said he, smiling; � "you know it now, elfie. i arrived at mrs. evelyn's just after you had quitted it, intending to ask you to take the long-talked-of drive; and learned, to my astonishment, that you had left the city, and, as edith kindly informed me, under no better guardianship than that in which i found you. i was just in time to reach the boat." "and you ere in the boat night before last?" "certainly." "i should have felt a great deal easier if i had known that," said fleda. "so should i," said he; "but you were invisible, till i discerned you in the midst of a crowd of people before me in the car." fleda was silent, till the sleigh stopped, and mr. carleton had handed her out. "what's going to be done with this here trunk?" said heir driver, trying a tug at one handle. "i will send somebody down to help you with it," said fleda. "it is too heavy for one alone." "well, i reckon it is," said he. "i guess you didn't know i was a cousin, did you?" "no," said fleda. "i believe i be." "who are you?" "i am pierson barnes. i live to quarrenton for a year back. squire joshua springer's your uncle, aint he?" "yes, my father's uncle." "well, he's mine too. his sister's my mother." "i'll send somebody to help you, mr. barnes." she took mr. carleton's arm, and walked half the way up to the house without daring to look at him. "another specimen of your countrymen," he said, smiling. there was nothing but quiet amusement in the tone, and there was not the shadow of anything else in his face. fleda looked, and thanked him mentally, and drew breath easier. at the house-door he made a pause. "you are coming in, mr. carleton?" "not now." "it is a long drive to greenfield, mr. carleton; � you must not turn away from a country-house till we have shown ourselves unworthy to live in it. you will come in and let us give you something more substantial than those quarrenton oysters. do not say no," she said, earnestly, as she saw a refusal in his eye � "i know what you are thinking of, but they do not know that you have been told anything � it makes no difference." she laid her gentle detaining hand, as irresistible in its way as most things, upon his arm, and he followed her in. only hugh was in the sitting-room, and n a great easy-chair by the fire. it struck to fleda's heart; but there was no time but for a flash of thought. he had turned his face and saw her. fleda meant to have controlled herself and presented mr. carleton properly, but hugh started up; he saw nothing but herself, and one view of the ethereal delicacy of his face made fleda for a moment forget everything but him. they were in each other's arms, and then still as death. hugh was unconscious that a stranger was there, and though fleda was very conscious that one was there who was no stranger � there was so much in both hearts, so much of sorrow and joy, and gratitude and tenderness, on the one part and on the other, so much that even if they had been alone lips could only have said silently � that for a little while they kissed each other and wept in a passionate attempt to speak what their hearts were too full of. fleda at last whispered to hugh that somebody else was there, and turned to make, as well as she might, the introduction. but mr. carleton did not need it, and made his own with that singular talent which in all circumstances, wherever he chose to exert it, had absolute power. fleda saw hugh's countenance change, with a kind of pleased surprise, and herself stood still under the charm for a minute; then she recollected she might be dispensed with. she took up her little spaniel, who was in an agony of gratulation at her feet, and went out into the kitchen. "well, do you mean to say you are here at last?" said barby, her gray eyes flashing pleasure as she came forward to take the half hand which, owing to king's monopoly, was all fleda had to give her. "have you come home to stay, fleda?" "i am tired enough to be quiet," said fleda. "but, dear barby, what have you got in the house? � i want supper as quickly as it can be had." "well, you do look dreadful bad," said barby eyeing her. "why, there aint much particular, fleda; nobody's had any heart to eat lately; i thought i might a'most as well save myself the fuss of getting victuals. hugh lives like a bird, and mis' rossitur aint much better, and i think all of 'em have been keeping their appetites till you came back; 'cept philetus and me; we keep it up pretty well. why, you're come home hungry, aint you?" "no, not i," said fleda; "but there's a gentleman here that came with me that must have something before he goes away again. what have you, barby?" "who is he?" said barby. "a friend that took care of me on the way � i'll tell you about it; but, in the meantime, supper, barby." "is he a new yorker, that one must be curious for?" "as curious as you like," said fleda, "but he is not a new yorker." "where _is_ he from, then?" said barby, who was busily putting on the tea-kettle. "england." "england!" said barby, facing about. "oh, if he's an englishman, i don't care for him, fleda." "but you care for me," said fleda, laughing; "and for my sake don't let our hospitality fail to somebody who has been very kind to me, if he is an englishman; and he is in haste to be off." "well, i don't know what we're a-going to give him," said barby, looking at her. "there aint much in the pantry besides cold pork and beans, that philetus and me made our dinner on � they wouldn't have it in there, and eat nothing but some pickerel the doctor sent down � and cold fish aint good for much." "none of them left uncooked?" "yes, there's a couple � he sent a great lot � i guess he thought there was more in the family � but two aint enough to go round; they're little ones." "no, but put them down, and i'll make an omelette. just get the things ready for me, barby, will you, while i run up to see aunt lucy. the hens have begun to lay?" "la, yes � philetus fetches in lots of eggs � he loves 'em, i reckon � but you aint fit this minute to do a thing but rest, fleda." "i'll rest afterwards. just get the things ready for me, barby, and an apron; and the table � i'll be down in a minute. and, barby, grind some coffee, will you?" but, as she turned to run upstairs, her uncle stood in her way, and the supper vanished from fleda's head. his arms were open, and she was silently clasped in them, with so much feeling on both sides, that thought, and well nigh strength, for anything else on her part was gone. his smothered words of deep blessing overcame her. fleda could do nothing but sob, in distress, till she recollected barby. putting her arms round his neck, then she whispered to him that mr. carleton was in the other room, and shortly explained how he came to be there, and begged her uncle would go in and see him till supper should be ready. enforcing this request with a parting kiss on his cheek, she ran off up stairs. mr. rossitur looked extremely moody and cloudy for a few minutes, and then went in and joined his guest. mrs. rossitur and her daughter could not be induced to show themselves. little rolf, however, had no scruples of any kind. he presently edged himself into the room to see the stranger, whom he no sooner saw than, with a joyous exclamation, he bounded forward to claim an old friend. "why, mr. carleton," exclaimed mr. rossitur, in surprise, "i was not aware that this young gentleman had the honour of your acquaintance." "but i have," said rolf. "in london, sir, i had that pleasure," said mr. carleton. "i think it was _i_ had the pleasure," said rolf, pounding one hand upon mr. carleton's knee. "where is your mother?" "she wouldn't come down," said rolf; "but i guess she will when she knows who is here" � and he was darting away to tell her, when mr. carleton, within whose arms he stood, quietly restrained him, and told him he was going away presently, but would come again and see his mother another time. "are you going back to england, sir?" "by and by." "but you will come here again first?" "yes, if mr. rossitur will let me." "mr. carleton knows he commands his own welcome," said that gentleman, somewhat stately. "go and tell your aunt fleda that tea is ready, rolf." "she knows," said rolf. "she was making an omelette � i guess it was for this gentleman." whose name he was not clear of yet. mr. rossitur looked vexed, but hugh laughed, and asked if his aunt gave him leave to tell that. rolf entered forthwith into discussion on this subject, while mr. carleton, who had not seemed to hear it, engaged mr. rossitur busily in another, till the omelette and fleda came in. rolf's mind, however, was ill at ease. "aunt fleda," said he, as soon as she had fairly taken her place at the head of the table, "would you mind my telling that you made the omelette for this gentleman?" fleda cast a confused glance, first at the person in question and then round the table; but mr. carleton, without looking at her, answered instantly � "don't you understand, rolf, that the same kindness which will do a favour for a friend, will keep him in ignorance of it?" rolf pondered a moment, and then burst forth � "why, sir, wouldn't you like it as well for knowing she made it?" it was hardly in human gravity to stand this. fleda herself laughed, but mr. carleton, as unmoved as possible, answered him, "certainly not," and rolf was nonplussed. the supper was over. hugh had left the room, and mr. rossitur had before that gone out to give directions about mr. carleton's horses. he and fleda were left alone. "i have something against you, fairy," said he, lightly, taking her hand, and putting it to his lips. "you shall not again do me such honour as you have done me to-day � i did not deserve it, elfie." the last words were spoken half reproachfully. fleda stood a moment motionless, and then by some curious revulsion of feeling, put both her hands to her face and burst into tears. she struggled against them, and spoke almost immediately � "you will think me very foolish, mr. carleton � i am ashamed of myself � but i have lived here so long in this way � my spirits have grown so quieted by different things, that it seems, sometimes, as if i could not bear anything � i am afraid" � "of what, my dear elfie?" but she did not answer, and her tears came again. "you are weary and spent," he said, gently, repossessing himself of one of her hands. "i will ask you another time what you are afraid of, and rebuke all your fears." "i deserve nothing but rebuke now," said fleda. but her hand knew, by the gentle and quiet clasp in which it lay, that there was no disposition to give it. "do not speak to me for a minute," she said, hastily, as she heard some one coming. she went to the window, and stood there looking out, till mr. carleton came to bid her good-bye. "will you permit me to say to mrs. evelyn," he said, in a low tone, "that you left a piece of your property in her house, and have commissioned me to bring it you?" "yes," said fleda, hesitating, and looking a little confused; "but � will you let me write a note instead, mr. carleton?" "certainly! � but what are you thinking of, elfie? what grave doubt is lying under your brow?" all fleda's shadows rolled away before that clear, bright eye. "i have found by experience," she said, smiling a little, but looking down, "that whenever i tell my secret thoughts to anybody, i have some reason afterwards to be sorry for it." "you shall make me an exception to your rule, however, elfie." fleda looked up, one of her looks, half questioning, half fearing, and then answered, a little hesitating � "i was afraid, sir, that if you went to mrs. evelyn's on that errand � i was afraid you would show them you were displeased." "and what then?" said he, quietly. "only � that i wanted to spare them what always gives me a cold chill." "gives you!" said mr. carleton. "no, sir � only by sympathy � i thought my agency would be the gentlest." "i see i was right," she said, looking up, as he did not answer; "but they don't deserve it � not half so much as you think. they talk � they don't know what. i am sure they never meant half they said � never meant to annoy me with it, i mean � and i am sure they have a true love for me � they have shown it in a great many ways. constance, especially, never showed me anything else. they have been very kind to me; and as to letting me come away as they did, i suppose they thought i was in a greater hurry to get home than i really was; and they would very likely not have minded travelling so themselves; i am so different from them, that they might in many things judge me by themselves, and yet judge far wrong." fleda was going on, but she suddenly became aware that the eye to which she was speaking had ceased to look at the evelyns, even in imagination, and she stopped short. "will you trust me, after this, to see mrs. evelyn without the note?" said he, smiling. but fleda gave him her hand, very demurely, without raising her eyes again, and he went. barby, who had come in to clear away the table, took her stand at the window to watch mr. carleton drive off. fleda had retreated to the fire. barby looked in silence till the sleigh was out of sight. "is he going back to england now?" she said, coming back to the table. "no." barby gathered a pile of plates together, and then inquired � "is he going to settle in america?" "why, no, barby! what makes you ask such a thing?" "i thought he looked as if he had dressed himself for a cold climate," said barby, drily. fleda sat down by hugh's easy-chair, and laid her head on his breast. "i like your mr. carleton very much," hugh whispered, after a while. "do you?" said fleda, a little wondering at hugh's choice of that particular pronominal adjective. "very much indeed. but he has changed, fleda." "yes �in some things � some great things." "he says he is coming again," said hugh. fleda's heart beat. she was silent. "i am very glad," repeated hugh, "i like him very much. but you won't leave me, fleda, will you?" "leave you?" said fleda, looking at him. "yes," said hugh, smiling, and drawing her head down again: "i always thought what he came over here for. but you will stay with me while i want you, fleda?" "while you want me!" said fleda, again. "yes � it won't be long." "what won't be long?" "i," said hugh, quietly. "not long. i am very glad i shall not leave you alone, dear fleda � very glad! � promise me you will not leave me any more." "don't talk so, dear hugh!" "but it is true, fleda," said hugh, gently. "i know it. i sha'n't be here, but a little while. i am so glad you are come home, dear fleda! you will not let anybody take you away till i am gone first?" fleda drew her arm close around hugh's neck, and was still � still even to his ear � for a good while. a hard battle must be fought, and she must not be weak, for his sake, and for everybody's sake. others of the family had come, or were coming into the room. hugh waited till a short breath, but freer drawn, told him he might speak. "fleda," he whispered. "what?" "i am very happy. i only want your promise about that." "i can't talk to you, hugh." "no; but promise me." "what?" "that you will not let anybody take you away while i want you." "i am sure he would not ask it," said fleda, hiding her cheeks and eyes at once in his breast. chapter xxii. "do you think i shall not love a sad pamela as well as a joyful!" sidney. mr. carleton came back without his mother; she had chosen to put off her voyage till spring. he took up his quarters at montepoole, which, far though it was, was yet the nearest point where his notions of ease could have freedom enough. one would have thought that saw him � those most nearly concerned almost did think � that in his daily coming to queechy, mr. carleton sought everybody's pleasure rather than his own. he was fleda's most gentle and kind assistant in taking care of hugh, soon dearly valued by the sick one, who watched for and welcomed his coming as a bright spot in the day; and loved particularly to have mr. carleton's hand do anything for him, rather than almost any other. his mother's was too feeling; fleda's, hugh often feared, was weary; and his father's, though gentle to him as to an infant, yet lacked the mind's training. and though marion was his sister in blood, guy was his brother in better bonds. the deep blue eye that little fleda had admired, hugh learned to love and rest on singularly. to the rest of the family, mr. carleton's influence was more soothing and cheering than any cause beside. to all but the head of it. even mrs. rossitur, after she had once made up her mind to see him, could not bear to be absent when he was in the house. the dreaded contrast with old times gave no pain, either to her or marion. mr. carleton forgot so completely that there was any difference, that they were charmed into forgetting it too. but mr. rossitur's pride lay deeper, or had been less humbled by sorrow; the recollections that his family let slip never failed to gall him, when mr. carleton was present; and if now and then, for a moment, these were banished by his guest's graces of mind and manner, the next breath was a sigh for the circles and the pleasures they served to recall, now seeming for ever lost to him. mr. carleton perceived that his company gave pain and not pleasure to his host, and for that reason was the less in the house, and made his visits to hugh at times when mr. rossitur was not in the way. fleda he took out of the house and away with him, for her good and his own. to fleda, the old childish feeling came back, that she was in somebody's hands who had a marvellous happy way of managing things about her, and even of managing herself. a kind of genial atmosphere, that was always doing her good, yet so quietly and so skilfully, that she could only now and then get a chance even to look her thanks. quietly and efficiently he was exerting himself to raise the tone of her mind, to brighten her spirits, to reach those sober lines that years of patience had drawn round her eye, and mouth, and charm them away. so gently, so indirectly, by efforts so wisely and gracefully aimed, he set about it, that fleda did not know what he was doing; but _he_ knew. he knew when he saw her brow unbend, and her eye catch its old light sparkle, that his conversation and the thoughts and interests with which he was rousing her mind or fancy, were working and would work all he pleased. and though the next day he might find the old look of patient gravity again, he hardly wished it not there, for the pleasure of doing it away. hugh's anxious question to fleda had been very uncalled for, and fleda's assurance was well grounded; that subject was never touched upon. fleda's manner with mr. carleton was peculiar and characteristic. in the house, before others, she was as demure and reserved as though he had been a stranger; she never placed herself near him, nor entered into conversation with him, unless when he obliged her; but when they were alone there was a frank confidence and simplicity in her manner that most happily answered the high-bred delicacy that had called it out. one afternoon of a pleasant day in march, fleda and hugh were sitting alone together in the sick-room. hugh was weaker than usual but not confined to his bed; he was in his great easy- chair, which had been moved up stairs for him again. fleda had been repeating hymns. "you are tired," hugh said. "no." "there's something about you that isn't strong," said hugh, fondly. "i wonder where is mr. carleton to-day. it is very pleasant, isn't it?" "very pleasant and warm; it is like april; the snow all went off yesterday, and the ground is dry except in spots." "i wish he would come and give you a good walk. i have noticed how you always come back looking so much brighter after one of your walks or rides with him." "what makes you think so, dear hugh?" said fleda, a little troubled. "only my eyes," said hugh, smiling. "it does me as much good as you, fleda." "i _never_ want to go and leave you, hugh." "i am very glad there is somebody to take you. i wish he would come. you want it this minute." "i don't think i shall let him take me if he comes." "whither? and whom?" said another voice. "i didn't know you were there, sir," said fleda, suddenly rising. "i am but just here � rolf admitted me as he passed out." coming in between them, and still holding the hand of one, mr. carleton bent down towards the other. "how is hugh to-day?" it was pleasant to see that meeting of eyes � the grave kindliness on the one side, the confident affection on the other. but the wasted features said as plainly as the tone of hugh's gentle reply, that he was passing away � fast. "what shall i do for you?" "take fleda out and give her a good walk. she wants it." "i will, presently. you are weary � what shall i do to rest you?" "nothing," said hugh, closing his eyes with a very placid look; "unless you will put me in mind of something about heaven, mr. carleton." "shall i read to you? � baxter � or something else?" "no � just give me something to think of while you're gone � as you have done before, mr. carleton." "i will give you two or three of the bible bits on that subject; they are but hints and indications, you know � rather rays of light that stream out from the place than any description of it; but you have only to follow one of these indications and see whither it will lead you. the first i recollect is that one spoken to abraham, 'fear not � i am thy shield, and thy exceeding great reward.' " "don't go any further, mr. carleton," said hugh, with a smile. "fleda � do you remember?" they sat all silent, quite silent, all three, for nobody knew how long. "you were going to walk," said hugh, without looking at them. fleda, however, did not move till a word or two from mr. carleton had backed hugh's request; then she went. "is she gone?" said hugh. "mr. carleton, will you hand me that little desk?" it was his own. mr. carleton brought it. hugh opened it, and took out a folded paper, which he gave to mr. carleton, saying that he thought he ought to have it. "do you know the handwriting, sir?" "no." "ah! she has scratched it so. it is fleda's." hugh shut his eyes again, and mr. carleton seeing that he had settled himself to sleep, went to the window with the paper. it hardly told him anything he did not know before, though set in a fresh light. "cold blew the east wind, and thick fell the rain � i look'd for the tops of the mountains in vain; twilight was gathering, and dark grew the west, and the wood-fire's crackling toned well with the rest. "speak fire, and tell me � thy flickering flame fell on me in years past � say, am i the same? has my face the same brightness in those days it wore ? my foot the same lightness, as it crosses the floor? "methinks there are changes � i am weary to-night � i once was as tireless as the bird on her flight: my bark, in full measure, threw foam from the prow � not even for pleasure would i care to move now. " 'tis not the foot only that lieth thus still � i am weary in spirit � i am listless in will. my eye vainly peereth through the darkness, to find some object that cheereth � some light for the mind. "what shadows come o'er me � what things of the past � bright things of my childhood that fled all too fast; the scenes where light roaming, my foot wandered free, come back through the gloamin' � come all back to me. "the cool autumn evening, the fair summer morn � the dress and the aspect some dear ones have worn � the sunshiny places � the shady hill side � the words and the faces that might not abide. "die out, little fire � ay, blacken and pine! � so have paled many lights that were brighter than thine. i can quicker thy embers again with a breath, but the others lie cold in the ashes of death." mr. carleton had read near through the paper before fleda came in. "i have kept you a long time, mr. carleton," she said, coming up to the window; "i found aunt lucy wanted me." but she saw with a little surprise the deepening eye which met her, and which showed, she knew, the working of strong feeling. her own eye went to the paper in search of explanation. "what have you there? � oh, mr. carleton," she said, putting her hand over it � "please to give it to me!" fleda's face was very much in earnest. he took the hand, but did not give her the paper, and looked his refusal. "i am ashamed you should see that! who gave it to you?" "you shall wreak your displeasure on no one but me," he said, smiling. "but have you read it?" "yes." "i am very sorry!" "i am very glad, my dear elfie." "you will think � you will think what wasn't true � it was just a mood i used to get into once in a while � i used to be angry with myself for it, but i could not help it � one of those listless fits would take me now and then �" "i understand it, elfie." "i am very sorry you should know i ever felt or wrote so." "why?" "it is very foolish and wrong �" "is that a reason for my not knowing it?" "no � not a good one. � but you have read it now � wont you let me have it?" "no � i shall ask for all the rest of the portfolio, elfie," he said, as he put it in a place of security. "pray, do not!" said fleda, most unaffectedly. "why?" "because i remember mrs. carleton says you always have what you ask for." "give me permission to put on your bonnet, then?" said he, laughingly, taking it from her hand. the air was very sweet, he footing pleasant. the first few steps of the walk were made by fleda in silence, with eager breath, and a foot that grew lighter as it trod. "i don't think it was a right mood of mind i had when i wrote that," she said. "it was morbid. but i couldn't help it. yet if one could keep possession of those words you quoted just now, i suppose one never would have morbid feelings, mr. carleton?" "perhaps not; but human nature has a weak hold of anything, and many things may make it weaker." "mine is weak," said fleda. "but it is possible to keep firm hold of those words, mr. carleton?" "yes � by strength that is not human nature's � and, after all, the firm hold is rather that in which we are held, or ours would soon fail. the very hand that makes the promise its own must be nerved to grasp it. and so it is best, for it keeps us looking off always to the author and finisher of our faith." "i love those words," said fleda. "but, mr. carleton, how shall one be sure that one has a right to those other words � those, i mean, that you told to hugh? one cannot take the comfort of them unless one is _sure_." her voice trembled. "my dear elfie, the promises have many of them their double � stamped with the very same signet � and if that sealed counterpart is your own, it is the sure earnest and title to the whole value of the promise." "well � in this case?" said fleda, eagerly. "in this case, god says, 'i am thy shield, and thy exceeding great reward.' now, see if your own heart can give the countersign � '_thou art my portion, o lord!_' " fleda's head sank instantly, and almost lay upon his arm. "if you have the one, my dear elfie, the other is yours � it is the note of hand of the maker of the promise � sure to be honoured. and if you want proof, here it is � and a threefold cord is not soon broken � 'because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will i deliver him: i will set him on high, because he hath known my name. he shall call upon me, and i will answer him; i will be with him in trouble; i will deliver him, and honour him. with long life will i satisfy him, and show him my salvation.' " there was a pause of some length. fleda had lifted up her head, but walked along very quietly, not seeming to care to speak. "have you the countersign, elfie?" fleda flashed a look at him, and only restrained herself from weeping again. "yes. but so i had then, mr. carleton � only sometimes i got those fits of feeling � i forgot it, i suppose." "when were these verses written?" "last fall � uncle rolf was away, and aunt lucy unhappy � and, i believe, i was tired. i suppose it was that." for a matter of several rods, each was busy with his own musings. but mr. carleton bethought himself. "where are you, elfie?" "where am i?" "yes � not at queechy?" "no, indeed" said fleda, laughing. "far enough away." "where?" "at paris � at the marché des innocens." "how did you get to paris?" "i don't know � by a bridge of associations, i suppose, resting one end on last year, and the other on the time when i was eleven years old." "very intelligible," said mr. carleton, smiling. "do you remember that morning, mr. carleton, when you took hugh and me to the marché des innocens?" "perfectly." "i have thanked you a great many times since for getting up so early that morning." "i think i was well paid at the time. i remember i thought i had seen one of the prettiest sights i had ever seen in paris." "so i thought!" said fleda. "it has been a pleasant picture in my imagination ever since." there was a curious curl in the corners of mr. carleton's mouth, which made fleda look an inquiry � a look so innocently wistful, that his gravity gave way. "my dear elfie!" said he, "you are the very child you were then." "am i?" said fleda. "i dare say i am, for i feel so. i have the very same feeling i used to have then, that i am a child, and you taking the care of me into your own hands." "one half of that is true, and the other half nearly so." "how good you always were to me!" fleda said, with a sigh. "not necessary to balance the debtor and creditor items on both sides," he said, with a smile, "as the account bids fair to run a good while." a silence again, during which fleda is clearly not enjoying the landscape nor the fine weather. "elfie � what are you meditating?" she came back from her meditations with a very frank look. "i was thinking � mr. carleton � of your notions about female education." "well?" they had paused upon a rising ground. fleda hesitated, and then looked up in his face. "i am afraid you will find me wanting, and when you do, will you put me in the way of being all you wish me to be?" her look was ingenuous and tender, equally. he gave her no answer, except by the eye of grave intentness that fixed hers till she could meet it no longer, and her own fell. mr. carleton recollected himself. "my dear elfie," said he, and whatever the look had meant, elfie was at no loss for the tone now � "what do you consider yourself deficient in?" fleda spoke with a little difficulty. "i am afraid, in a good many things � in general reading � and in what are called accomplishments �" "you shall read as much as you please, by and by," said he, "provided you will let me read with you; and, as for the other want, elfie, it is rather a source of gratification to me." elfie very naturally asked "why?" "because, as soon as i have the power, i shall immediately constitute myself your master in the arts of riding and drawing, and in any other art or acquisition you may take a fancy to, and give you lessons diligently." "and will there be gratification in that?" said fleda. his answer was by a smile. but he somewhat mischievously asked her, "will there not?" � and fleda was quiet. chapter xxiii. "friends, i sorrow not to leave ye; if this life an exile be, we who leave it do but journey homeward to our family." spanish ballad. the first of april came. mr. rossitur had made up his mind not to abide at queechy, which only held him now by the frail thread of hugh's life. mr. carleton knew this, and had even taken some steps towards securing for him a situation in the west indies. but it was unknown to fleda; she had not heard her uncle say anything on the subject since she came home; and though aware that their stay was a doubtful matter, she still thought it might be as well to have the garden in order. philetus could not be trusted to do everything wisely of his own head, and even some delicate jobs of hand could not be safely left to his skill; if the garden was to make any head-way, fleda's head and hand must both be there, she knew. so, as the spring opened, she used to steal away from the house every morning for an hour or two, hardly letting her friends know what she was about, to make sure that peas, and potatoes, and radishes, and lettuce, were in the right places at the right times, and to see that the later and more delicate vegetables were preparing for. she took care to have this business well over before the time that mr. carleton ever arrived from the pool. one morning she was busy in dressing the strawberry beds, forking up the ground between the plants, and filling the vacancies that the severe winter or some irregularities of fall dressing had made. mr. skillcorn was rendering a somewhat inefficient help, or, perhaps, amusing himself with seeing how she worked. the little old silver-grey hood was bending down over the strawberries, and the fork was going at a very energetic rate. "philetus �" "marm!" "will you bring me that bunch of strawberry plants that lies at the corner of the beds, in the walk? � and my trowel?" "i will!" said mr. skillcorn. it was, another hand, however, that brought them and laid them beside her; but fleda, very intent upon her work, and hidden under her close hood, did not find it out. she went on busily putting in the plants as she found room for them, and just conscious, as she thought, that philetus was still standing at her side, she called upon him from time to time, or merely stretched out her hand, for a fresh plant as she had occasion for it. "philetus," she said at length, raising her voice a little that it might win to him round the edge of her hood, without turning her face � "i wish you would get the ground ready for that other planting of potatoes � you needn't stay to help me any longer." " 'tain't me, i guess," said the voice of philetus, on the other side of her. fleda looked in astonishment to make sure that it really was mr. skillcorn proceeding along the garden path in that quarter, and turning, jumped up and dropped her trowel and fork, to have her hands otherwise occupied. mr. skillcorn walked off leisurely towards the potato ground, singing to himself in a kind of consolatory aside � "i cock'd up my beaver, and who but i! the lace in my hat was so gallant and so gay, that i flourished like a king in his own countray." "there is one of your countrymen that is an odd variety, certainly," said mr. carleton, looking after him with a very comic expression of eye. "is he not?" said fleda. "and hardly a common one. there never was a line more mathematically straight than the course of philetus's ideas; they never diverge, i think, to the right hand or the left, a jot from his own self-interest." "you will be an invaluable help to me, elfie, if you can read my english friends as closely." "i am afraid you will not let me come as close to them," said fleda, laughing. "perhaps not. i shouldn't like to pay too high a premium for the knowledge. how is hugh, to-day?" fleda answered, with a quick change of look and voice, that he was much as usual. "my mother has written me that she will be here by the 'europa,' which is due to-morrow. i must set off for new york this afternoon; therefore i came so early to queechy." fleda was instinctively pulling off her gardening gloves, as they walked towards the house. "aunt miriam wants to see you, mr. carleton � she begged i would ask you to come there some time �" "with great pleasure. shall we go there now, elfie?" "i will be ready in five minutes." mrs. rossitur was alone in the breakfast-room when they went in. hugh, she reported, was asleep, and would be just ready to see mr. carleton by the time they got back. they stood a few minutes talking, and then fleda went to get ready. both pair of eyes followed her as she left the room, and then met with perfect understanding. "will you give your child to me, mrs. rossitur?" said the gentleman. "with all my heart!" exclaimed mrs. rossitur, bursting into tears � "even if i were left alone entirely �" her agitation was uncontrolled for a minute; and then she said, with feeling seemingly too strong to be kept in � "if i were only sure of meeting her in heaven, i could be content to be without her till then!" "what is in the way, my dear madam?" said mr. carleton, with a gentle sympathy that touched the very spring he meant it should. mrs. rossitur waited a minute, but it was only till tears would let her speak, and then said like a child � "oh, it is all darkness!" "except this," said he, gently and clearly, "that jesus christ is a sun and a shield; and those that put themselves at his feet are safe from all fear, and they who go to him for light shall complain of darkness no more." "but i do not know how �" "ask him, and he will tell you." "but i am unworthy even to look up towards him," said mrs. rossitur, struggling, it seemed, between doubts and wishes. "he knows that, and yet he has bid you come to him. he knows that; and, knowing it, he has taken your responsibility, and paid your debt, and offers you now a clean discharge, if you will take it at his hand; and for the other part of this unworthiness, that blood cannot do away, blood has brought the remedy � shall we, who are evil, give good things to our children; and shall not our father, which is in heaven, give his holy spirit to them that ask him?" "but must i do nothing?" said mrs. rossitur, when she had remained quiet, with her face in her hands, for a minute or two after he had done speaking. "nothing but be willing � be willing to have christ in all his offices, as your teacher, your king, and your redeemer; give yourself to him, dear mrs. rossitur, and he will take care of the rest." "i am willing!" she exclaimed. fresh tears came, and came freely. mr. carleton said no more, till; hearing some noise of opening and shutting doors above stairs, mrs. rossitur hurriedly left the room, and fleda came in by the other entrance. "may i take you a little out of the way, mr. carleton?" she said, when they had passed through the deepwater settlement. "i have a message to carry to mrs. elster � a poor woman out here beyond the lake. it is not a disagreeable place." "and what if it were?" "i should not, perhaps, have asked you to go with me," said fleda, a little doubtfully. "you may take me where you will, elfie," he said, gently. "i hope to do as much by you some day." fleda looked up at the piece of elegance beside her, and thought what a change must have come over him if _he_ would visit poor places. he was silent and grave, however, and so was she, till they arrived at the house they were going to. certainly it was not a disagreeable place. barb's much less strong-minded sister had at least a good share of her practical nicety. the little board path to the door was clean and white still, with possibly a trifle less brilliant effect. the room and its old inhabitants were very comfortable and tidy � the patchwork counterpane as gay as ever. mrs. elster was alone, keeping company with a snug little wood fire, which was near as much needed in that early spring weather as it had been during the winter. mr. carleton had come back from his abstraction, and stood, taking half unconscious note of these things, while fleda was delivering her message to the old woman. mrs. elster listened to her implicitly, with, every now and then, an acquiescing nod or ejaculation; but so soon as fleda had said her say, she burst out, with a voice that had never known the mufflings of delicacy, and was now pitched entirely beyond its owner's ken. looking hard at mr. carleton � "fleda! is _this_ the gentleman that's to be your � _husband?_" the last word elevated and brought out with emphatic distinctness of utterance. if the demand had been, whether the gentleman in question was a follower of mohammed, it would hardly have been more impossible for fleda to give an affirmative answer; but mr. carleton laughed, and, bringing his face a little nearer the old crone, answered � "so she has promised, ma'am ." it was curious to see the lines of the old woman's face relax as she looked at him. "he's worthy of you, as far as looks goes," she said, in the same key as before, apostrophising fleda, who had drawn back, but not stirring her eyes from mr. carleton all the time. and then she added to him, with a little, satisfied nod, and in a very decided tone of information � "she will make you a good wife." "because she has made a good friend?" said mr. carleton, quietly. "will you let me be a friend, too?" he had turned the old lady's thoughts into a golden channel, whence, as she was an american, they had no immediate issue in words; and fleda and mr. carleton left the house without anything more. fleda felt nervous. but mr. carleton's first words were as coolly and as gravely spoken as if they had just come out from a philosophical lecture; and with an immediate spring of relief, she enjoyed every step of the way, and every word of the conversation, which was kept up with great life till they reached mrs. plumfield's door. no one was in the sitting-room. fleda left mr. carleton there, and passed gently into the inner apartment, the door of which was standing ajar. but her heart absolutely leaped into her mouth, for dr. quackenboss and mr. olmney were there on either side of her aunt's bed. fleda came forward and shook hands. "this is quite a meeting of friends," said the doctor, blandly, yet with a perceptible shading of the whilome broad sunshine of his face. "your � a � aunt, my dear miss ringgan, is in a most extraordinary state of mind!" fleda was glad to hide her face against her aunt's, and asked her how she did. "dr. quackenboss thinks it extraordinary, fleda," said the old lady, with her usual cheerful sedateness, "that one who has trusted god, and had constant experience of his goodness and faithfulness for forty years, should not doubt him at the end of it." "you have no doubt � of any kind, mrs. plumfield?" said the clergyman. "not the shadow of a doubt!" was the hearty, steady reply. "you mistake, my dear madam," said dr. quackenboss, "pardon me � it is not that: i would be understood to say, merely, that i do not comprehend how such � a � such security � can be attained respecting what seems so � a � elevated � and difficult to know." "only by believing," said mrs. plumfield, with a very calm smile. " 'he that believeth on him shall not be ashamed;' � 'shall _not _ be ashamed!' " she repeated, slowly. dr. quackenboss looked at fleda, who kept her eyes fixed upon her aunt. "but it seems to me � i beg pardon; perhaps i am arrogant" � he said, with a little bow; "but it appears to me almost � in a manner � almost presumptuous, not to be a little doubtful in such a matter until the time comes. am i � do you disapprove of me, mr. olmney?" mr. olmney silently referred him for his answer to the person he had first addressed, who had closed her eyes while he was speaking. "sir," she said, opening them, "it can't be presumption to obey god, and he tells me to rejoice. and i do � i do! � 'let all those that love thee rejoice in thee, and be glad in thee!' but mind!" she added, energetically, fixing her strong grey eve upon him, "he does not tell you to rejoice � do not think it � not while you stand aloof from his terms of peace. take god at his word, and be happy; but if not, you have nothing to do with the song that i sing!" the doctor stared at her till she had done speaking, and then slunk out of her range of vision behind the curtains of the bed-post. not silenced, however. "but � a � mr. olmney," said he, hesitating, "don't you think that there is in general � a � a becoming modesty, in � a � in people that have done wrong, as we all have � putting off being sure until they are so? it seems so to me!" "come here, dr. quackenboss," said aunt miriam. she waited till he came to her side, and then taking his hand, and looking at him very kindly, she said � "sir, forty years ago i found in the bible, as you say, that i was a sinner, and that drove me to look for something else. i found then god's promise, that if i would give my dependence entirely to the substitute he had provided for me, and yield my heart to his service, he would, for christ's sake, hold me quit of all my debts, and be my father, and make me his child. and, sir, i did it. i abhor every other dependence � the things you count good in me i reckon but filthy rags. at the same time, i know that ever since that day, forty years ago, i have lived in his service, and tried to live to his glory. and now, sir, shall i disbelieve his promise? do you think he would be pleased if i did?" the doctor's mouth was stopped, for once, he drew back as soon as he could, and said not another word. before anybody had broken the silence, seth came in; and after shaking hands with fleda, startled her by asking, whether that was not mr. carleton in the other room. "yes," fleda said � "he came to see aunt miriam." "aint you well enough to see him, mother?" "quite � and very happy," she said. seth immediately went back and invited him in. fleda dared not look up while the introductions were passing � of "the rev. mr. olmney," and of "dr. quackenboss," the former of whom mr. carleton took cordially by the hand, while dr. quackenboss, conceiving that his hand must be as acceptable, made his salutations with an indescribable air, at once of attempted gracefulness and ingratiation. fleda saw the whole in the advancing line of the doctor's person, a vision of which crossed her downcast eye. she drew back then, for mr. carleton came where she was standing, to take her aunt's hand; seth had absolutely stayed his way before to make the said introductions. mrs. plumfield was little changed by years or disease since he had seen her. there was somewhat more of a look of bodily weakness than there used to be; but the dignified, strong- minded expression of the face was even heightened; eye and brow were more pure and unclouded in their steadfastness. she looked very earnestly at her visitor, and then with evident pleasure from the manner of his look and greeting. fleda watched her eye softening with a gratified expression, and fixed upon him, as he was gently talking to her. mr. olmney presently came round to take leave, promising to see her another time; and passing fleda, with a frank grave pressure of the hand, which gave her some pain. he and seth left the room. fleda was hardly conscious that dr. quackenboss was still standing at the foot of the bed, making the utmost use of his powers of observation. he could use little else, for mr. carleton and mrs. plumfield, after a few words on each side, had, as it were, by common consent, come to a pause. the doctor, when a sufficient time had made him fully sensible of this, walked up to fleda, who wished heartily at the moment that she could have presented the reverse end of the magnet to him. perhaps, however, it was that very thing which, by a perverse sort of attraction, drew him towards her. "i suppose � a � we may conclude," said he, with a some. what saturnine expression of mischief � "that miss ringgan contemplates forsaking the agricultural line before a great while?" "i have not given up my old habits, sir," said fleda, a good deal vexed. "no � i suppose not � but queechy air is not so well suited for them � other skies will prove more genial," he said, she could not help thinking, pleased at her displeasure. "what is the fault of queechy air, sir?" said mr. carleton, approaching them. "sir!" said the doctor, exceedingly taken aback, though the words had been spoken in the quietest manner possible � "it � a � it has no fault, sir � that i am particularly aware of � it is perfectly salubrious. mrs. plumfield, i will bid you good-day; � i � a � i hope you will get well again." "i hope not, sir!" said aunt miriam, in the same clear hearty tones which had answered him before. the doctor took his departure, and made capital of his interview with mr. carleton; who, he affirmed, he could tell by what he had seen of him, was a very deciduous character, and not always conciliating in his manners. fleda waited with a little anxiety for what was to follow the doctor's leave-taking. it was with a very softened eye that aunt miriam looked at the two who were left, clasping fleda's hand again; and it was with a very softened voice that she next spoke. "do you remember our last meeting, sir?" "i remember it well," he said. "fleda tells me you are a changed man since that time?" he answered only by a slight and grave bow. "mr. carleton," said the old lady � "i am a dying woman � and this child is the dearest thing in the world to me after my own � and hardly after him. will you pardon me � will you bear with me, if, that i may die in peace, i say, sir, what else it would not become me to say? � and it is for her sake." "speak to me freely as you would to her," he said, with a look that gave her full permission. fleda had drawn close and hid her face in her aunt's neck. aunt miriam's hand moved fondly over her cheek and brow for a minute or two in silence; her eye resting there too. "mr. carleton, this child is to belong to you � how will you guide her?" "by the gentlest paths," he said, with a smile. a whispered remonstrance from fleda to her aunt had no effect. "will her best interests be safe in your hands?" "how shall i resolve you of that, mrs. plumfield?" he said, gravely. "will you help her to mind her mother's prayer, and keep herself unspotted from the world?" "as i trust she will help me." a rogue may answer questions, but an eye that has never known the shadow of double-dealing makes no doubtful discoveries of itself. mrs. plumfield read it, and gave it her very thorough respect. "mr. carleton � pardon me, sir � i do not doubt you � but i remember hearing long ago that you were rich and great in the world � it is dangerous for a christian to be so � can she keep in your grandeur the simplicity of heart and life she has had at queechy?" "may i remind you of your own words, my dear madam? by the blessing of god all things are possible. these things you speak of are not in themselves evil; if the mind be set on somewhat else, they are little beside a larger storehouse of material to work with � an increased stewardship to account for." "she has been taking care of others all her life," said aunt miriam, tenderly; "it is time she was taken care of: and these feet are very unfit for rough paths; but i would rather she should go on struggling, as she has done, with difficulties, and live and die in poverty, than that the lustre of her heavenly inheritance should be tarnished even a little. i would, my darling." "but the alternative is not so," said mr. carleton, with gentle grace, touching fleda's hand, who he saw was a good deal disturbed. "do not make her afraid of me, mrs. plumfield." "i do not believe i need," said aunt miriam, "and i am sure i could not � but, sir, you will forgive me?" "no, madam � that is not possible." "one cannot stand where i do," said the old lady, "without learning a little the comparative value of things; and i seek my child's good � that is my excuse. i could not be satisfied to take her testimony." "take mine, madam," said mr. carleton. "i have learned the comparative value of things too; and i will guard her highest interests as carefully as i will every other � as earnestly as you can desire." "i thank you, sir," said the old lady, gratefully. "i am sure of it. i shall leave her in good hands. i wanted this assurance. and if ever there was a tender plant that was not fitted to grow on the rough side of the world � i think this is one," said she, kissing earnestly the face that yet fleda did not dare to lift up. mr. carleton did not say what he thought. he presently took kind leave of the old lady, and went into the next room, where fleda soon rejoined him, and they set off homewards. fleda was quietly crying all the way down the hill. at the foot of the hill, mr. carleton resolutely slackened his pace. "i have one consolation," he said, "my dear elfie � you will have the less to leave for me." she put her hand with a quick motion upon his, and roused herself. "she is a beautiful rebuke to unbelief. but she is hardly to be mourned for, elfie." "oh, i was not crying for aunt miriam," said fleda. "for what then?" he said, gently. "myself." "that needs explanation," he said, in the same tone. "let me have it, elfie." "oh � i was thinking of several things," said fleda, not exactly wishing to give the explanation. "too vague," said mr. carleton, smiling. "trust me with a little more of your mind, elfie." fleda glanced up at him, half smiling, and yet with filling eyes, and then, as usual, yielded to the winning power of the look that met her. "i was thinking," she said, keeping her head carefully down, "of some of the things you and aunt miriam were saying just now � and � how good for nothing i am." "in what respect?" said mr. carleton, with praiseworthy gravity. fleda hesitated, and he pressed the matter no further; but, more unwilling to displease him than herself, she presently went on, with some difficulty; wording what she had to say with as much care as she could. "i was thinking, how gratitude � or not gratitude alone � but how one can be full of the desire to please another � a fellow-creature � and find it constantly easy to do or bear anything for that purpose; and how slowly and coldly duty has to move alone in the direction where it should be the swiftest and warmest." she knew he would take her words as simply as she said them; she was not disappointed. he was silent a minute, and then said gravely, � "is this a late discovery, elfie?" "no � only i was realizing it strongly just now." "it is a complaint we may all make. the remedy is, not to love less what we know, but to know better that of which we are in ignorance. we will be helps, and not hindrances to each other, elfie." "you have said that before," said fleda, still keeping her head down. "what?" "about my being a help to you!" "it will not be the first time," said he, smiling; "nor the second. your little hand first held up a glass to gather the scattered rays of truth that could not warm me, into a centre where they must burn." "very innocently," said fleda, with a little unsteady feeling of voice. "very innocently!" said mr. carleton, smiling. "a veritable lens could hardly have been more unconscious of its work, or more pure of design." "i do not think that was quite so, either, mr. carleton," said fleda. "it was so, my dear elfie, and your present speech is nothing against it. this power of example is always unconsciously wielded; the medium ceases to be clear so soon as it is made anything but as medium. the bits of truth you aimed at me wittingly would have been nothing, if they had not come through that medium." "then apparently one's prime efforts ought to be directed to one's self." "one's first efforts, certainly your silent example was the first thing that moved me." "silent example!" said fleda, catching her breath a little. "mine ought to be very good, for i can never do good in any other way." "you used to talk pretty freely to me." "it wasn't my fault, i am certain," said fleda, half laughing. "besides, i was sure of my ground. but, in general, i never can speak to people about what will do them any good." "yet, whatever be the power of silent example, there are often times when a word is of incalculable importance." "i know it," said fleda, earnestly; "i have felt it very often, and grieved that i could not say it, even at the very moment when i knew it was wanting." "is that right, elfie?" "no," said fleda, with quick watering eyes; "it is not right at all; but it is constitutional with me. i never can talk to other people of what concerns my own thoughts and feelings." "but this concerns other people's thoughts and feelings." "yes; but there is an implied revelation of my own." "do you expect to include me in the denomination of 'other people?' " "i don't know," said fleda, laughing. "do you wish it?" fleda looked down and up, and coloured, and said she didn't know. "i will teach you," said he, smiling. the rest of the day, by both, was given to hugh. chapter xxiv. "o what is life but a sum of love, and death but to lose it all? weeds be for those that are left behind, and not for those that fall!" milnes. "here's something come, fleda," said barby, walking into the sick-room one morning, a few days afterwards; "a great bag of something � more than you can eat up in a fortnight; it's for hugh." "it's extraordinary that anybody should send me a great bag of anything eatable," said hugh. "where did it come from?" said fleda. "philetus fetched it � he found it down to mr. sampion's, when he went with the sheep-skins." "how do you know it's for me?" said hugh. " 'cause it's written on, as plain as a pikestaff. i guess it's a mistake, though." "why?" said fleda; "and what is it?" "oh, i don't much think 'twas meant for him," said barby. "it's oysters." "oysters!" "yes � come out and look at 'em � you never see such fine fellows. i've heerd say," said barby, abstractedly, as fleda followed her out, and she displayed to view some magnificent ostraceans � "i've heerd say that an english shilling was worth two american ones; but i never understood it rightly, till now." to all intents and purposes those were english oysters, and worth twice as much as any others, fleda secretly confessed. that evening, up in the sick room � it was quite evening, and all the others of the family were taking rest, or keeping mr. rossitur company down stairs � fleda was carefully roasting some of the same oysters for hugh's supper. she had spread out a glowing bed of coals on the hearth, and there lay four or five of the big bivalves, snapping and sputtering in approbation of their quarters, in a most comfortable manner; and fleda, standing before the fire, tended them with a double kind of pleasure. from one friend, and for another, those were most odorous oysters. hugh sat watching them and her, the same in happy simplicity that he had been at eleven years old. "how pleasant those oysters smell!" said he. "fleda, they remind me so of the time when you and i used to roast oysters in mrs. renney's room for lunch � do you recollect? � and sometimes in the evening, when everybody was gone out, you know; and what an airing we used to have to give the dining- room afterwards. how we used to enjoy them, fleda �you and i, all alone." "yes," said fleda, in a tone of doubtful enjoyment. she was shielding her face with a paper, and making self-sacrificing efforts to persuade a large oyster-shell to stand so on the coals as to keep the juice. "don't," said hugh; "i would rather the oysters should burn than you. mr. carleton wouldn't thank me for letting you do so." "never mind," said fleda, arranging the oysters to her satisfaction; "he isn't here to see. now, hugh, my dear, these are ready as soon as i am." "i am ready," said hugh. "how long it is since we had a roast oyster, fleda!" "they look good, don't they?" a little stand was brought up between them, with the bread- and-butter and the cups; and fleda opened oysters and prepared tea for hugh, with her nicest, gentlest, busiest of hands making every bit to be twice as sweet, for her sympathizing eyes and loving smile and pleasant word commenting. she shared the meal with him, but her own part was as slender as his, and much less thought of. his enjoyment was what she enjoyed, though it was with a sad twinge of alloy, which changed her face whenever it was where he could not see it: when turned upon him, it was only bright and affectionate, and sometimes a little too tender; but fleda was too good a nurse to let that often appear. "mr. carleton did not bargain for your opening his oysters, fleda. how kind it was of him to send them!" "yes." "how long will he be gone, fleda?" "i don't know � he didn't say. i don't believe many days." hugh was silent a little, while she was putting away the stand and the oyster-shells. then she came and sat down by him. "you have burnt yourself over those things," said he, sorrowfully; "you shouldn't have done it. it is not right." "dear hugh," said fleda, lightly laying her head on his shoulder. "i like to burn myself for you." "that's just the way you have been doing all your life." "hush!" she said, softly. "it is true � for me and for everybody else. it is time you were taken better care of, dear fleda." "don't, dear hugh!" "i am right, though," said he. "you are pale and worn now with waiting upon me, and thinking of me. it is time you were gone. but i think it is well i am going too, for what should i do in the world without you, fleda?" fleda was crying now, intensely, though quietly; but hugh went on with feeling, as calm as it was deep. "what should i have done all these years � or any of us? how you have tired yourself for everybody � in the garden and in the kitchen, and with earl douglass � how we could let you, i don't know, but i believe we could not help it." fleda put her hand upon his mouth. but he took it away and went on � "how often i have seen you sleeping all the evening on the sofa with a pale face, tired out, dear fleda," said he, kissing her cheek; "i am glad there's to be an end put to it. and all the day you went about with such a bright face, that it made mother and me happy to look at you; and i knew then, many a time, it was for our sakes �" "why do you cry so, fleda? i like to think of it, and to talk of it, now that i know you won't do so any more. i know the whole truth, and it went to the bottom of my heart; but i could do nothing but love you � i did that! � don't cry so, fleda! � you ought not. you have been the sunshine of the house. my spirit never was so strong as yours; i should have been borne to the ground, i know, in all these years, if it had not been for you; and mother � you have been her life." "you have been tired too," fleda whispered. "yes, at the saw-mill. and then you would come up there through the sun to look at me, and your smile would make me forget everything sorrowful for the rest of the day � except that i couldn't help you." "oh, you did � you did � you helped me always, hugh!" "not much. i couldn't help you when you were sewing for me and father till your fingers and eyes were aching, and you never would own that you were anything but 'a little' tired � it made my heart ache. oh, i knew it all, dear fleda. i am very, very glad that you will have somebody to take care of you now, that will not let you burn four fingers for him or anybody else. it makes me happy!" "you make me very unhappy, dear hugh." "i don't mean it," said hugh, tenderly. "but i don't believe there is anybody else in the world that i could be so satisfied to leave you with." fleda made no answer to that. she sat up and tried to recover herself. "i hope he will come back in time," said hugh, settling himself back in the easy-chair with a weary look, and closing his eyes. "in time for what!" "to see me again." "my dear hugh! � he will, to be sure, i hope." "he must make haste," said hugh. "but i want to see him again very much, fleda." "for anything in particular?" "no � only because i love him. i want to see him once more." hugh slumbered; and fleda, by his side, wept tears of mixed feeling till she was tired. hugh was right. but nobody else knew it, and his brother was not sent for. it was about a week after this, when one night a horse and waggon came up to the back of the house from the road, the gentleman who had been driving leading the horse. it was late, long past mr. skillcorn's usual hour of retiring, but some errand of business had kept him abroad, and he stood there looking on. the stars gave light enough. "can you fasten my horse where he may stand a little while, sir, without taking him out?" "i guess i can," replied philetus, with reasonable confidence, "if there's a rope's end some place." and forthwith he went back into the house to seek it; the gentleman patiently holding his horse meanwhile till he came out. "how is mr. hugh to-night?" "well � he aint just so smart, they say," responded philetus, insinuating the rope's end as awkwardly as possible among the horse's head-gear. "i believe he's dying." instead of going round now to the front of the house, mr. carleton knocked gently at the kitchen door, and asked the question anew of barby. "he's � come in, sir, if you please," she said, opening wide the door for him to enter. "i'll tell 'em you're here." "do not disturb any one for me," said he. "i won't disturb 'em!" said barby, in a tone a little, though unconsciously, significant. mr. carleton neglected the chair she had placed for him, and remained standing by the mantel-piece, thinking of the scenes of his early introduction to that kitchen. it wore the same look it had done then; under barby's rule it was precisely the same thing it had been under cynthia's. the passing years seemed a dream, and the passing generations of men a vanity, before the old house, more abiding than they. he stood thinking of the people he had seen gathered by that fire- place, and the little household fairy whose childish ministrations had give such a beauty to the scene � when a very light step crossed the painted floor, and she was there again before him. she did not speak a word; she stood still a moment trying for words, and then put her hand upon mr. carleton's arm, and gently drew him out of the room with her. the family were all gathered in the room to which she brought him. mr. rossitur, as soon as he saw mr. carleton come in, shrunk back where he could be a little shielded by the bed- post. marion's face was hid on the foot of the bed. mrs. rossitur did not move. leaving mr. carleton on the near side of the bed, fleda went round to the place she seemed to have occupied before at hugh's right hand; and they were all still, for he was in a little doze, lying with his eyes closed, and the face as gently and placidly sweet as it had been in his boyhood. perhaps mr. rossitur looked at it: but no other did just then, except mr. carleton. his eye rested nowhere else. the breathing of an infant could not be more gentle; the face of an angel not more peacefully at rest. "so he giveth his beloved sleep," thought he gentleman, as he gazed on the brow from which all care, if care there had ever been, seemed to have taken flight. not yet � not quite yet; for hugh suddenly opened his eyes, and without seeing anybody else, said � "father." mr. rossitur left the bed-post, and came close to where fleda was standing, and leaning forward, touched his son's head, but did not speak. "father," said hugh, in a voice so gentle that it seemed as if strength must be failing, "what will you do when you come to lie here?" mr. rossitur put his hands to his face. "father � i must speak now if i never did before � once i must speak to you � what will you do when you come to lie where i do? � what will you trust to?" the person addressed was as motionless as a statue. hugh did not move his eyes from him. "father, i will be a living warning and example to you, for know that i shall live in your memory � you shall remember what i say to you � that jesus christ is a dear friend to those that trust in him, and if he is not yours it will be because you will not let him. you shall remember my testimony, that he can make death sweeter than life � in his presence is fulness of joy � at his right hand there are pleasures for evermore. he is better, he is more to me, even than you all, and he will be to you a better friend than the poor child you are losing, though you do not know it now. it is he that has made my life in this world happy � only he � and i have nothing to look to but him in the world i am going to. but what will you do in the hour of death, as i am, if he isn't your friend, father?" mr. rossitur's frame swayed like a tree that one sees shaken by a distant wind, but he said nothing. "will you remember me happily, father, if you come to die without having done as i begged you? will you think of me in heaven, and not try to come there too? father, will you be a christian? � will you not? � for my sake � for _little hugh's_ sake, as you used to call him? � father." mr. rossitur knelt down and hid his face in the coverings, but he did not utter a word. hugh's eye dwelt on him for a moment with unspeakable expression, and his lip trembled. he said no more � he closed his eyes, and, for a little time, there was nothing to be heard but the sobs, which could not be restrained, from all but the two gentlemen. it probably oppressed hugh, for, after a while, he said, with a weary sigh, and without opening his eyes � "i wish somebody would sing." nobody answered at first. "sing what, dear hugh?" said fleda, putting aside her tears, and leaning her face towards him. "something that speaks of my want," said hugh. "what do you want, dear hugh?" "only jesus christ," he said, with a half smile. but they were silent as death. fleda's face was in her hands, and her utmost efforts after self-control wrought nothing but tears. the stillness had lasted a little while, when, very softly and sweetly, the notes of a hymn floated to their ears, and though they floated on and filled the room, the voice was so nicely modulated, that its waves of sweetness broke gently upon the nearest ear. "jesus, the sinner's friend, to thee, lost and undone, for aid i flee; weary of earth, myself, and sin, open thine arms and take me in. "pity and save my sin-sick soul � 'tis thou alone canst make me whole; dark, till in me thine image shine, and lost i am, till thou art mine. "at length i own it cannot be, that i should fit myself for thee, here now to thee i all resign � thine is the work, and only thine. "what shall i say thy grace to move? lord, i am sin, but thou art love! i give up every plea beside � lord, i am lost � but thou hast died!" they were still again after the voice had ceased � almost perfectly still � though tears might be pouring, as indeed they were, from every eye, there was no break to the silence, other than a half-caught sob, now and then, from a kneeling figure, whose head was in marion's lap. "who was that?" said hugh, when the singer had been silent a minute. nobody answered immediately, and then mr. carleton, bending over him, said � "don't you know me, dear hugh?" "is it mr. carleton?" hugh looked pleased, and clasped both of his hands upon guy's, which he laid upon his breast. for a second he closed his eyes and was silent. "was it you sang?" "yes." "you never sang for me before," he remarked. he was silent again. "are you going to take fleda away?" "by and by," said mr. carleton, gently. "will you take good care of her?" mr. carleton hesitated, and then said, so low that it could reach but one other person's ear � "what hand and life can." "i know it," said hugh. "i am very glad you will have her. you will not let her tire herself any more." whatever became of fleda's tears, she had driven them away, and leaning forward, she touched her cheek to his, saying, with a clearness and sweetness of voice that only intensity of feeling could have given her at the moment � "i am not tired, dear hugh." hugh clasped one arm round her neck and kissed her � again and again, seeming unable to say anything to her in any other way; still keeping his hold of mr. carleton's hand. "i give all my part of her to you," he said, at length. "mr. carleton, i shall see both of you in heaven?" "i hope so," was the answer, in those very calm and clear tones that have a singular effect in quieting emotion, while they indicate anything but the want of it. "i am the best off of you all," hugh said. he lay still for awhile with shut eyes. fleda had withdrawn herself from his arms and stood at his side, with a bowed head, but perfectly quiet. he still held mr. carleton's hand, as something he did not want to part with. "fleda," said he, "who is that crying? � mother � come here." mr. carleton gave place to her. hugh pulled her down to him till her face lay upon his, and folded both his arms around her. "mother," he said, softly, "will you meet me in heaven? � say yes." "how can i, dear hugh?" "you can, dear mother," said he, kissing her with exceeding tenderness of expression � "my saviour will be yours and take you there. say you will give yourself to christ � dear mother! � sweet mother! � promise me i shall see you again!" mrs. rossitur's weeping it was difficult to hear. but hugh, hardly shedding a tear, still kissed her, repeating, "promise me, dear mother � promise me that you will;" � till mrs. rossitur, in an agony, sobbed out the word he wanted, and hugh hid his face then in her neck. mr. carleton left the room and went down stairs. he found the sitting-room desolate, untenanted and cold for hours; and he went again into the kitchen. barby was there for some time, and then she left him alone. he had passed a long while in thinking, and walking up and down, and he was standing musing by the fire, when fleda again came in. she came in silently to his side, and putting her arm within his, laid her face upon it with a simplicity of trust and reliance that went to his heart; and she wept there for a long hour they hardly changed their position in all that time; and her tears flowed silently, though incessantly, the only tokens of his part being such a gentle caressing, smoothing of her hair, or putting it from her brow as he had used when she was a child. the bearing of her hand and head upon his arm, in time showed her increasingly weary. nothing showed him so. "elfie � my dear elfie," he said at last, very tenderly, in the same way that he would have spoken nine years before � "hugh gave his part of you to me � i must take care of it." fleda tried to rouse herself immediately. "this is poor entertainment for you, mr. carleton," she said, raising her head, and wiping away the tears from her face. "you are mistaken," he said, gently. "you never gave me such pleasure but twice before, elfie?" fleda's head went down again instantly, and this time there was something almost caressing in the motion. "next to the happiness of having friends on earth," he said soothingly, "is the happiness of having friends in heaven. don't weep any more to-night, my dear elfie." "he told me to thank you," said fleda. but stopping short and clasping with convulsive energy the arm she held, she shed more violent tears than she had done that night before. the most gentle soothing, the most tender reproof, availed at last to quiet her; and she stood clinging to his arm still, and looking down into the fire. "i did not think it would be so soon," she said. "it was not soon to him, elfie." "he told me to thank you for singing. how little while it seems since we were children together � how little while since before that � when i was a little child here � how different!" "no, the very same," said he, touching his lips to her forehead � "you are the very same child you were then; but it is time you were my child, for i see you would make yourself ill. no," said he, softly, taking the hand fleda raised to her face � "no more to-night � tell me how early i may see you in the morning � for, elfie, i must leave you after breakfast." fleda looked up inquiringly. "my mother has brought news that determines me to return to england immediately." "to england!" "i have been too long from home � i am wanted there." fleda looked down again, and did her best not to show what she felt. "i do not know how to leave you � and now � but i must. there are disturbances among the people, and my own are infected. i _must_ be there without delay." "political disturbances?" said fleda. "somewhat of that nature � but partly local. how early may i come to you?" "but you are not going away to-night? it is very late." "that is nothing � my horse is here." fleda would have begged in vain, if barby had not come in and added her word, to the effect that it would be a mess of work to look for lodgings at that time of night, and that she had made the west room ready for mr. carleton. she rejected with great sincerity any claim to the thanks with which fleda as well as mr. carleton repaid her; "there wa'n't no trouble about it," she said. mr. carleton, however, found his room prepared for him with all the care that barby's utmost ideas of refinement and exactness could suggest. it was still very early the next morning when he left it and came into the sitting-room, but he was not the first there. the firelight glimmered on the silver and china of the breakfast table, all set; everything was in absolute order, from the fire to the two cups and saucers which were alone on the board. a still silent figure was standing by one of the windows looking out. not crying; but that mr. carleton knew from the unmistakeable lines of the face was only because tears were waiting another time; quiet now, it would not be by and by. he came and stood at the window with her. "do you know," he said, after a little, "that mr. rossitur purposes to leave queechy?" "does he?" said fleda, rather starting, but she added not another word, simply because she felt she could not safely. "he has accepted, i believe, a consulship at jamaica." "jamaica!" said fleda. "i have heard him speak of the west indies � i am not surprised � i knew it was likely he would not stay here." how tightly her fingers that were free grasped the edge of the window-frame. mr. carleton saw it and softly removed them into his own keeping. "he may go before i can be here again. but i shall leave my mother to take care of you, elfie." "thank you," said fleda, faintly. "you are very kind �" "kind to myself," he said, smiling. "i am only taking care of my own. i need not say that you will see me again as early as my duty can make it possible; � but i may be detained, and your friends may be gone � elfie � give me the right to send if i cannot come for you. let me leave my wife in my mother's care." fleda looked down, and coloured, and hesitated; but the expression in her face was not that of doubt. "am i asking too much?" he said, gently. "no, sir," said fleda � "and � but �" "what is in the way?" but it seemed impossible for fleda to tell him. "may i not know?" he said, gently putting away the hair from fleda's face, which looked distressed. "is it only your feeling?" "no, sir," said fleda � "at least � not the feeling you think it is � but � i could not do it without giving great pain." mr. carleton was silent. "not to anybody you know, mr. carleton," said fleda, suddenly fearing a wrong interpretation to her words � "i don't mean that � i mean somebody else � the person � the only person you could apply to" � she said, covering her face in utter confusion. "do i understand you?" said he, smiling. "has this gentleman any reason to dislike the sight of me?" "no, sir," said fleda � "but he thinks he has." "that only i meant," said he. "you are quite right, my dear elfie � i, of all men, ought to understand that." the subject was dropped; and in a few minutes his gentle skill had wellnigh made fleda forget what they had been talking about. himself and his wishes seemed to be put quite out of his own view, and out of hers as far as possible, except that the very fact made fleda recognise, with unspeakable gratitude and admiration, the kindness and grace that were always exerted for her pleasure. if her goodwill could have been put into the cups of coffee she poured out for him, he might have gone, in the strength of them, all the way to england. there was strength of another kind to be gained from her face of quiet sorrow and quiet self-command, which were her very childhood's own. "you will see me at the earliest possible moment," he said, when at last taking leave. "i hope to be free in a short time: but it may not be. elfie, if i should be detained longer than i hope � if i should not be able to return in a reasonable time � will you let my mother bring you out? � if i cannot come to you, will you come to me?" fleda coloured a good deal, and said, scarce intelligibly, that she hoped he would be able to come. he did not press the matter. he parted from her, and was leaving the room. fleda suddenly sprang after him, before he had reached the door, and laid her hand on his arm. "i did not answer your question, mr. carleton," she said, with cheeks that were dyed now � "i will do whatever you please � whatever you think best." his thanks were most gratefully, though silently, spoken, and he went away. chapter xxv. "daughter, they seem to say, peace to thy heart! we too, yes, daughter, have been as thou art. hope-lifted, doubt-depress'd, seeing in part � tried, troubled, tempted � sustain'd � as thou art." unknown. mr. rossitur was disposed for no further delay now in leaving queechy. the office at jamaica, which mr. carleton and dr. gregory had secured for him, was immediately accepted, and every arrangement pressed to hasten his going. on every account, he was impatient to be out of america, and especially since his son's death. marion was of his mind. mrs. rossitur had more of a home feeling, even for the place where home had not been to her as happy as it might. they were sad weeks of bustle and weariness that followed hugh's death � less sad, perhaps, for the weariness and the bustle. there was little time for musing � no time for lingering regrets. if thought and feeling played their aeolian measures on fleda's harpstrings, they were listened to only by snatches, and she rarely sat down and cried to them. a very kind note had been received from mrs. carleton. april gave place to may. one afternoon, fleda had taken an hour or two to go and look at some of the old places on the farm that she loved, and that were not too far to reach. a last look she guessed it might be, for it was weeks since she had had a spare afternoon, and another she might not be able to find. it was a doubtful pleasure she sought too, but she must have it. she visited the long meadow and the height that stretched along it, and even went so far as the extremity of the valley, at the foot of the twenty-acre lot, and then stood still to gather up the ends of memory. there she had gone chestnutting with mr. ringgan � thither she had guided mr. carleton and her cousin rossitur that day when they were going after woodcock � there she had directed and overseen earl douglass's huge crop of corn. how many pieces of her life were connected with it! she stood for a little while looking at the old chestnut trees, looking and thinking, and turned away soberly with the recollection, "the world passeth away, but the word of our god shall stand for ever." and though there was one thought that was a continual well of happiness in the depth of fleda's heart, her mind passed it now, and echoed with great joy the countersign of abraham's privilege, � "thou art my portion, o lord!" � and in that assurance every past and every hoped-for good was sweet with added sweetness. she walked home without thinking much of the long meadow. it was a chill spring afternoon, and fleda was in her old trim � the black cloak, the white shawl over it, and the hood of grey silk. and in that trim she walked into the sitting-room. a lady was there, in a travelling dress, a stranger. fleda's eye took in her outline and feature one moment with a kind of bewilderment, the next with perfect intelligence. if the lady had been in any doubt, fleda's cheeks alone would have announced her identity. but she came forward without hesitation after the first moment, pulling off her hood, and stood before her visitor, blushing, in a way that perhaps mrs. carleton looked at as a novelty in her world. fleda did not know how she looked at it, but she had, nevertheless, an instinctive feeling, even at the moment, that the lady wondered how her son should have fancied particularly anything that went about under such a hood. whatever mrs. carleton thought, her son's fancies, she knew, were unmanageable; and she had far too much good breeding to let her thoughts be known � unless to one of those curious spirit thermometers that can tell a variation of temperature through every sort of medium. there might have been the slightest want of forwardness to do it, but she embraced fleda with great cordiality. "this is for the old time � not for the new, dear fleda," she said. "do you remember me?" "perfectly! � very well," said fleda, giving mrs. carleton for a moment a glimpse of her eyes. � "i do not easily forget." "your look promises me an advantage from that, which i do not deserve, but which i may as well use as another. i want all i can have, fleda." there was a half look at the speaker that seemed to deny the truth of that, but fleda did not otherwise answer. she begged her visitor to sit down, and throwing off the white shawl and black cloak, took tongs in hand, and began to mend the fire. mrs. carleton sat considering a moment the figure of the fire- maker, not much regardful of the skill she was bringing to bear upon the sticks of wood. fleda turned from the fire to remove her visitor's bonnet and wrappings, but the former was all mrs. carleton would give her. she threw off shawl and tippet on the nearest chair. it was the same mrs. carleton of old � fleda saw while this was doing � unaltered almost entirely. the fine figure and bearing were the same; time had made no difference; even the face had paid little tribute to the years that had passed by it; and the hair held its own without a change. bodily and mentally she was the same. apparently she was thinking the like of fleda. "i remember you very well," she said, with kindly accent, when fleda sat down by her. "i have never forgotten you. a dear little creature you were. i always knew that." fleda hoped privately the lady would see no occasion to change her mind; but for the present she was bankrupt in words. "i was in the same room this morning at montepoole where we used to dine, and it brought back the whole thing to me � the time when you were sick there with us. i could think of nothing else. but i don't think i was your favourite, fleda." such a rush of blood again answered her as moved mrs. carleton, in common kindness, to speak of common things. she entered into a long story of her journey � of her passage from england � of the steamer that brought her � of her stay in new york � all which fleda heard very indifferently well. she was more distinctly conscious of the handsome travelling dress, which seemed all the while to look as its wearer had done, with some want of affinity upon the little grey hood which lay on the chair in the corner. still she listened and responded as became her, though, for the most part, with eyes that did not venture from home. the little hood itself could never have kept its place with less presumption, nor with less flutter of self-distrust. mrs. carleton came at last to a general account of the circumstances that had determined guy to return home so suddenly, where she was more interesting. she hoped he would not be detained, but it was impossible to tell. it was just as it might happen. "are you acquainted with the commission i have been charged with?" she said, when her narrations had at last lapsed into silence, and fleda's eyes had returned to the ground. "i suppose so, ma'am, " said fleda, with a little smile. "it is a very pleasant charge" said mrs. carleton, softly kissing her cheek. something in the face itself must have called forth that kiss, for this time there were no requisitions of politeness. "do you recognise my commission, fleda?" fleda did not answer. mrs. carleton sat a few minutes thoughtfully drawing back the curls from her forehead, mr. carleton's very gesture, but not by any means with his fingers; and musing, perhaps, on the possibility of a hood's having very little to do with what it covered. "do you know," she said, "i have felt as if i were nearer to guy since i have seen you." the quick smile and colour that answered this, both very bright, wrought in mrs. carleton an instant recollection that her son was very apt to be right in his judgments, and that probably the present case might prove him so. the hand which had played with fleda's hair was put round her waist, very affectionately, and mrs. carleton drew near her. "i am sure we shall love each other, fleda," she said. it was said like fleda, not like mrs. carleton, and answered as simply. fleda had gained her place. her head was in mrs. carleton's neck, and welcomed there. "at least i am sure i shall love you," said the lady, kissing her; "and i don't despair on my own account for somebody else's sake." "no," said fleda, but she was not fluent to-day. she sat up and repeated, "i have not forgotten old times either, mrs. carleton." "i don't want to think of the old time � i want to think of the new," � she seemed to have a great fancy for stroking back those curls of hair; "i want to tell you how happy i am, dear fleda." fleda did not say whether she was happy or unhappy, and her look might have been taken for dubious. she kept her eyes on the ground, while mrs. carleton drew the hair off from her flushing cheeks, and considered the face laid bare to her view; and thought it was a fair face � a very presentable face � delicate and lovely � a face that she would have no reason to be ashamed of, even by her son's side. her speech was not precisely to that effect. "you know now why i have come upon you at such a time. i need not ask pardon. i felt that i should be hardly discharging my commission if i did not see you till you arrived in new york. my wishes i could have made to wait, but not my trust. so i came." "i am very glad you did." she could fain have persuaded the lady to disregard circumstances, and stay with her, at least till the next day, but mrs. carleton was unpersuadable. she would return immediately to montepoole. "and how long shall you be here now?" she said. "a few days � it will not be more than a week." "do you know how soon mr. rossitur intends to sail for jamaica?" "as soon as possible � he will make his stay in new york very short � not more than a fortnight, perhaps; � as short as he can." "and then, my dear fleda, i am to have the charge of you � for a little while � am i not?" fleda hesitated, and began to say, "thank you," but it was finished with a burst of very hearty tears. mrs. carleton knew immediately the tender spot she had touched. she put her arms about fleda, and caressed her as gently as her own mother might have done. "forgive me, dear fleda! � i forgot that so much that is sad to you must come before what is so much pleasure to me. look up and tell me that you forgive me." fleda soon looked up, but she looked very sorrowful, and said nothing. mrs. carleton watched her face for a little while, really pained. "have you heard from guy since he went away?" she whispered. "no, ma'am." "i have." and therewith she put into fleda's hand a letter � not mrs. carleton's letter, as fleda's first thought was. it had her own name and the seal was unbroken. but it moved mrs. carleton's wonder to see fleda cry again, and longer than before. she did not understand it. she tried soothing, but she ventured no attempt at consoling, for she did not know what was the matter. "you will let me go now, i know," she said, smilingly, when fleda was again recovered, and standing before the fire with a face not so sorrowful, mrs. carleton saw. "but i must say something � i shall not hurt you again." "o no, you did not hurt me at all � it was not what you said." "you will come to me, dear fleda? i feel that i want you very much." "thank you � but there is my uncle orrin, mrs. carleton � dr. gregory." "dr. gregory? he is just on the eve of sailing for europe; i thought you knew it." "on the eve? so soon?" "very soon, he told me. dear fleda, shall i remind you of my commission, and who gave it to me?" fleda hesitated still; at least, she stood looking into the fire, and did not answer. "you do not own his authority yet," mrs. carleton went on; "but i am sure his wishes do not weigh for nothing with you, and i can plead them." probably it was a source of some gratification to mrs. carleton to see those deep spots on fleda's cheeks. they were a silent tribute to an invisible presence that flattered the lady's affection � or her pride. "what do you say, dear fleda � to him and to me?" she said, smiling and kissing her. "i will come, mrs. carleton." the lady was quite satisfied, and departed on the instant, having got, she said, all she wanted; and fleda � cried till her eyes were sore. the days were few that remained to them in their old home; not more than a week, as fleda had said. it was the first week in may. the evening before they were to leave queechy, fleda and mrs. rossitur went together to pay their farewell visit to hugh's grave. it was some distance off. they walked there arm in arm without a word by the way. the little country grave-yard lay alone on a hill-side, a good way from any house, and out of sight even of any but a very distant one. a sober and quiet place, no tokens of busy life immediately near, the fields around it being used for pasturing sheep, except an instance or two of winter grain now nearing its maturity. a by-road not much travelled led to the grave-yard, and led off from it over the broken country, following the ups and down of the ground to a long distance away, without a moving thing upon it in sight near or far. no sound of stirring and active humanity. nothing to touch the perfect repose. but every lesson of the place could be heard more distinctly amid that silence of all other voices. except, indeed, nature's voice; that was not silent: and neither did it jar with the other. the very light of the evening fell more tenderly upon the old grey stones and the thick grass in that place. fleda and mrs. rossitur went softly to one spot where the grass was not grown, and where the bright white marble caught the eye and spoke of grief, fresh too. o that that were grey and moss-grown like the others! the mother placed herself where the staring black letters of hugh's name could not remind her so harshly that it no more belonged to the living; and, sitting down on the ground, hid her face, to struggle through the parting agony once more, with added bitterness. fleda stood a while sharing it, for with her too it was the last time in all likelihood. if she had been alone, her grief might have witnessed itself bitterly and uncontrolled: but the selfish relief was foregone, for the sake of another, that it might be in her power by and by to minister to a heart yet sorer and weaker than hers. the tears that fell so quietly and so fast upon the foot of hugh's grave were all the deeper drawn and richer fraught. a while she stood there; and then passed round to a group a little way off, that had as dear and strong claims upon her love and memory. these were not fresh, not very; oblivion had not come there yet � only time's softening hand. was it softening? � for fleda's head was bent down further here, and tears rained faster. it was hard to leave these! the cherished names that from early years had lived in her child's heart � from this their last earthly abiding-place she was to part company. her mother's and her father's graves were there, side by side; and never had fleda's heart so clung to the old grey stones, never had the faded lettering seemed so dear � of the dear names and of the words of faith and hope that were their dying or living testimony. and next to them was her grandfather's resting-place; and with that sunshiny green mound came a throng of strangely tender and sweet associations, more even than with the other two. his gentle, venerable, dignified figure rose before her, and her heart yearned towards it. in imagination fleda pressed again to her breast the withered hand that had led her childhood so kindly; and overcome here for a little, she kneeled down upon the sod, and bent her head till the long grass almost touched it, in an agony of human sorrow. could she leave them? � and for ever in this world? and be content to see on more these dear memorials till others like them should be raised for herself, far away? but then stole in consolations not human, nor of man's devising � the words that were written upon her mother's tombstone � "_them that sleep in jesus will god bring with him_." � it was like the march of angels' feet over the turf. and her mother had been a meek child of faith, and her father and grandfather, though strong men, had bowed like little children to the same rule. fleda's head bent lower yet, and she wept, even aloud, but it was one-half in pure thankfulness and a joy that the world knows nothing of. doubtless they and she were one; doubtless, though the grass now covered their graves, the heavenly bond in which they were held would bring them together again in light, to a new and more beautiful life that should know no severing. asleep in jesus; and even as he had risen so should they � they and others that she loved � all whom she loved best. she could leave their graves; and with an unspeakable look of thanks to him who had brought life and immortality to light, she did; but not till she had there once again remembered her mother's prayer, and her aunt miriam's words, and prayed that rather anything might happen to her than that prosperity and the world's favour should draw her from the simplicity and humility of a life above the world. rather than not meet them in joy at the last, oh, let her want what she most wished for in this world! if riches have their poisonous snares, fleda carried away from this place a strong antidote. with a spirit strangely simple, pure, and calm, she went back to her aunt. poor mrs. rossitur was not quieted, but at fleda's touch and voice, gentle and loving as the spirit of love and gentleness could make them, she tried to rouse herself; lifted up her weary head, and clasped her arms about her niece. the manner of it went to fleda's heart, for there was in it both a looking to her for support and a clinging to her as another dear thing she was about to lose. fleda could not speak for the heart-ache. "it is harder to leave this place than all the rest," mrs. rossitur murmured, after some little time had passed on. "he is not here," said fleda's soothing voice. it set her aunt to crying again. "no � i know it," she said. "we shall see him again. think of that." "_you_ will," said mrs. rossitur, very sadly. "and so will you, dear aunt lucy � _dear_ aunt lucy � you promised him?" "yes" � sobbed mrs. rossitur � "i promised him � but i am such a poor creature." "so poor that jesus cannot save you? � or will not? no, dear aunt lucy � you do not think that; � only trust him � you do trust him now, do you not?" a fresh gush of tears came with the answer, but it was in the affirmative; and, after a few minutes, mrs. rossitur grew more quiet. "i wish something were done to this," she said, looking at the fresh earth beside her; "if we could have planted something �" "i have thought of it a thousand times," said fleda, sighing; � "i would have done it long ago if i could have got here; � but it doesn't matter, aunt lucy. � i wish i could have done it." "you?" said mrs. rossitur; � "my poor child! you have been wearing yourself out working for me. i never was worth anything!" she said, hiding her face again. "when you have been the dearest and best mother to me? now that is not right, aunt lucy � look up and kiss me." the pleading sweet tone of voice was not to be resisted. mrs. rossitur looked up and kissed her earnestly enough, but with unabated self-reproach. "i don't deserve to kiss you, for i have let you try yourself beyond your strength. how you look! oh, how you look!" "never mind how i look," said fleda, bringing her face so close that her aunt could not see it. "you helped me all you could, aunt lucy � don't talk so � and i shall look well enough by and by, i am not so very tired." "you always were so!" exclaimed mrs. rossitur, clasping her in her arms again: "and now i am going to lose you, too. my dear fleda! that gives me more pleasure than anything else in the world!" but it was a pleasure well cried over. "we shall all meet again, i hope � i will hope," said mrs. rossitur, meekly, when fleda had risen from her arms. "dear aunty! but before that � in england � you will come to see me. uncle rolf will bring you." even then, fleda could not say even that without the blood mounting to her face. mrs. rossitur shook her head, and sighed; but smiled a little, too, as if that delightful chink of possibility let some light in. "i shouldn't like to see mr. carleton now," she said, "for i could not look him in the face; and i am afraid he wouldn't want to look in mine, he would be so angry with me." the sun was sinking low on that fair may afternoon, and they had two miles to walk to get home. slowly and lingeringly they moved away. the talk with her aunt had shaken fleda's calmness, and she could have cried now with all her heart; but she constrained herself. they stopped a moment at the fence, to look the last before turning their backs upon the place. they lingered, and still mrs. rossitur did not move, and fleda could not take away her eyes. it was that prettiest time of nature, which, while it shows indeed the shade side of everything, makes it the occasion of a fair contrast. the grave-stones cast long shadows over the ground, foretokens of night where another night was resting already; the longest stretched away from the head of hugh's grave. but the rays of the setting sun, softly touching the grass and the face of the white tombstone, seemed to say � "thy brother shall rise again!" light upon the grave! the promise kissing the record of death! � it was impossible to look in calmness. fleda bowed her head upon the paling, and cried with a straitened heart, for grief and gratitude together. mrs. rossitur had not moved when fleda looked up again. the sun was yet lower � the sunbeams, more slant, touched not only that bright white stone � they passed on beyond, and carried the promise to those other grey ones, a little further off; that she had left � yes, for the last time; and fleda's thoughts went forward swiftly to the time of the promise � "_then_ shall be brought to pass the saying which is written, death is swallowed up in victory. o death, where is thy sting? o grave, where is thy victory? the sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin is the law. but thanks be to god, which giveth us the victory, through our lord jesus christ." and then, as she looked, the sunbeams might have been a choir of angels in light, singing, ever so softly, "glory to god in the highest, and on earth peace, good will towards men." with a full heart fleda clasped her aunt's arm, and they went gently down the lane without saying one word to each other, till they had left the grave-yard far behind them and were in the high road again. fleda internally thanked mr. carleton for what he had said to her on a former occasion, for the thought of his words had given her courage, or strength, to go beyond her usual reserve in speaking to her aunt; and she thought her words had done good. chapter xxvi. "use your pleasure: if your love do not persuade you to come, let not my letter." merchant of venice. on the way home, mrs. rossitur and fleda went a trifle out of their road to say good-bye to mrs. douglass's family. fleda had seen her aunt miriam in the morning, and bid her a conditional farewell; for, as after mrs. rossitur's sailing she would be with mrs. carleton, she judged it little likely that she should see queechy again. they had time for but a minute at mrs. douglass's. mrs. rossitur had shaken hands, and was leaving the house when mrs. douglass pulled fleda back. "be you going to the west indies, too, fleda?" "no, mrs. douglass." "then why don't you stay here?" "i want to be with my aunt while i can," said fleda. "and then do you calculate to stop in new york?" "for a while," said fleda, colouring. "oh, go 'long!" said mrs. douglass; "i know all about it. now, do you s'pose you're agoing to be any happier among all those great folks than you would be if you staid among little folks?" she added, tartly; while catherine looked with a kind of incredulous admiration at the future lady of carleton. "i don't suppose that greatness has anything to do with happiness, mrs. douglass," said fleda, gently. so gently, and so calmly sweet the face was that said it, that mrs. douglass's mood was overcome. "well, you aint agoing to forget queechy?" she said, shaking fleda's hand with a hearty grasp. "never � never!" "i'll tell you what i think," said mrs. douglass, the tears in her eyes answering those in fleda's; "it 'll be a happy house that gets you into it, wherever 't is! i only wish it wa'n't out o' queechy." fleda thought on the whole, as she walked home, that she did not wish any such thing. queechy seemed dismantled, and she thought she would rather go to a new place now that she had taken such a leave of everything here. two things remained, however, to be taken leave of � the house and barby. happily fleda had little time for the former. it was a busy evening, and the morning would be more busy; she contrived that all the family should go to rest before her, meaning then to have one quiet look at the old rooms by herself � a leave-taking that no other eyes should interfere with. she sat down before the kitchen fire-place, but she had hardly realized that she was alone when one of the many doors opened, and barby's tall figure walked in. "here you be," she half whispered. "i knowed there wouldn't be a minute's peace to-morrow; so i thought i'd bid you good-bye to-night." fleda gave her a smile and a hand, but did not speak. barby drew up a chair beside her, and they sat silent for some time, while quiet tears from the eyes of each said a great many things. "well, i hope you'll be as happy as you deserve to be," � were barby's first words, in a voice very altered from its accustomed firm and spirited accent. "make some better wish for me than that, dear barby." "i wouldn't want any better for myself," said barby, determinately. "i would for you," said fleda. she thought of mr. carleton's words again, and went on in spite of herself. "it is a mistake, barby. the best of us do not deserve anything good; and if we have the sight of a friend's face, or the very sweet air we breathe, it is because christ has bought it for us. don't let us forget that, and forget him." "i do, always," said barby, crying, "forget everything. fleda, i wish you'd pray for me when you are far away, for i aint as good as you be." "dear barby," said fleda, touching her shoulder affectionately, "i haven't waited to be far away to do that." barby sobbed for a few minutes, with the strength of a strong nature that rarely gave way in that manner; and then dashed her tears right and left, not at all as if she were ashamed of them, but with a resolution not to be overcome. "there won't be nothing good left in queechy, when you're gone, you and mis' plumfield � without i go and look at the place where hugh lies �" "dear barby," said fleda, with softening eyes, "won't you be something good yourself?" barby put up her hand to shield her face. fleda was silent, for she saw that strong feeling was at work. "i wish't i could," barby broke forth at last, "if it was only for your sake." "dear barby," said fleda, "you can do this for me � you can go to church, and hear what mr. olmney says. i should go away happier if i thought you would, and if i thought you would follow what he says; for, dear barby, there is a time coming when you will wish you were a christian more then you do now, and not for my sake." "i believe there is, fleda." "then, will you? won't you give me so much pleasure?" "i'd do a'most anything to do you a pleasure." "then do it, barby." "well, i'll go," said barby. "but now just think of that, fleda � how you might have stayed in queechy all your days, and done what you liked with everybody. i'm glad you aint, though; i guess you'll be better off." fleda was silent upon that. "i'd like amazingly to see how you'll be fixed," said barby, after a trifle of ruminating. "if 't wa'n't for my old mother, i'd be 'most a mind to pull up sticks, and go after you." "i wish you could, barby; only i am afraid you would not like it so well there as here." "maybe i wouldn't. i s'pect them english folks has ways of their own, from what i've heerd tell; they set up dreadful, don't they?" "not all of them," said fleda. "no, i don't believe but what i could get along with mr. carleton well enough; i never see any one that knowed how to behave himself better." fleda gave her a smiling acknowledgment of this compliment. "he's plenty of money, ha'n't he?" "i believe so." "you'll be sot up like a princess, and never have nothing to do no more." "oh, no!" said fleda, laughing; "i expect to have a great deal to do; if i don't find it, i shall make it." "i guess it 'll be pleasant work," said barby. "well, i don't care; you've done work enough since you've lived here that wa'n't pleasant, to play for the rest of your days; and i'm glad on't. i guess he don't hurt himself. you wouldn't stand it much longer to do as you have been doing lately." "that couldn't be helped," said fleda; "but that i may stand it to-morrow, i am afraid we must go to bed, barby." barby bade her good-night, and left her; but fleda's musing mood was gone. she had no longer the desire to call back the reminiscences of the old walls. all that page of her life, she felt, was turned over; and, after a few minutes' quiet survey of the familiar things, without the power of moralizing over them as she could have done half an hour before, she left them, for the next day had no eyes but for business. it was a trying week or two before mr. rossitur and his family were fairly on shipboard. fleda, as usual, and more than usual � with the eagerness of affection that felt its opportunities numbered, and would gladly have concentrated the services of years into days � wrought, watched, and toiled, at what expense to her own flesh and blood mrs. rossitur never knew, and the others were too busy to guess; but mrs. carleton saw the signs of it, and was heartily rejoiced when they were fairly gone and fleda was committed to her hands. for days, almost for weeks, after her aunt was gone, fleda could do little but rest and sleep � so great was the weariness of mind and body, and the exhaustion of the animal spirits, which had been kept upon a strain to hide her feelings and support those of others. to the very last moment affection's sweet work had been done; the eye, the voice, the smile, to say nothing of the hands, had been tasked and kept in play to put away recollections, to cheer hopes, to soften the present, to lighten the future; and, hardest of all, to do the whole by her own living example. as soon as the last look and wave of the hand were exchanged, and there was no longer anybody to lean upon her for strength and support, fleda showed how weak she was, and sank into a state of prostration as gentle and deep almost as an infant's. as sweet and lovely as a child, too, mrs. carleton declared her to be � sweet and lovely as she was when a child; and there was no going beyond that. as neither this lady nor fleda had changed essentially since the days of their former acquaintanceship, it followed that there was still as little in common between them, except, indeed, now the strong ground of affection. whatever concerned her son concerned mrs. carleton in almost equal degree; anything that he valued she valued; and to have a thorough appreciation of him was a sure title to her esteem. the consequence of all this was, that fleda was now the most precious thing in the world to her after himself; especially since her eyes, sharpened as well as opened by affection, could find in her nothing that she thought unworthy of him. in her, personally; country and blood, mrs. carleton might have wished changed; but her desire that her son should marry � the strongest wish she had known for years � had grown so despairing, that her only feeling now on the subject was joy; she was not in the least inclined to quarrel with his choice. fleda had from her the tenderest care as well as the utmost delicacy that affection and good- breeding could teach. and fleda needed both, for she was slow in going back to her old health and strength; and, stripped on a sudden of all her old friends, on this turning-point of her life, her spirits were in that quiet mood that would have felt any jarring most keenly. the weeks of her first languor and weariness were over, and she was beginning again to feel and look like herself. the weather was hot and the city disagreeable now, for it was the end of june; but they had pleasant rooms upon the battery, and fleda's windows looked out upon the waving tops of green trees and the bright waters of the bay. she used to lie gazing out at the coming and going vessels with a curious fantastic interest in them; they seemed oddly to belong to that piece of her life, and to be weaving the threads of her future fate as they flitted about in all directions before her. in a very quiet, placid mood, not as if she wished to touch one of the threads, she lay watching the bright sails that seemed to carry the shuttle of life to and fro, letting mrs. carleton arrange and dispose of everything and of her as she pleased. she was on her couch as usual, looking out one fair morning, when mrs. carleton came in to kiss her and ask how she did. fleda said, "better." "better! you always say 'better'," said mrs. carleton; "but i don't see that you get better very fast. and sober � this cheek is too sober," she added, passing her hand fondly over it; "i don't like to see it so." "that is just the way i have been feeling, ma'am � unable to rouse myself. i should be ashamed of it if i could help it." "mrs. evelyn has been here begging that we would join her in a party to the springs � saratoga. how would you like that?" "i should like anything that you would like, ma'am," said fleda, with a thought how she would like to read montepoole for saratoga. "the city is very hot and dusty just now." "very, and i am sorry to keep you in it, mrs. carleton." "keep me, love?" said mrs. carleton, bending down her face to her again; "it's a pleasure to be kept anywhere by you." fleda shut her eyes, for she could hardly bear a little word now. "i don't like to keep _you_ here; it is not myself i am thinking of. i fancy a change would do you good." "you are very kind, ma'am." "very interested kindness," said mrs. carleton. "i want to see you looking a little better before guy comes; i am afraid he will look grave at both of us." but as she paused and stroked fleda's cheek, it came into her mind to doubt the truth of the last assertion, and she ended off with, "i wish he would come!" so fleda wished truly; for now, cut off as she was from her old associations, she longed for the presence of the one friend that was to take place of them all. "i hope we shall hear soon that there is some prospect of his getting free," mrs. carleton went on. "he has been gone now � how many weeks? i am looking for a letter to-day. and there it is!" the maid at this moment entered with the steamer despatches. mrs. carleton pounced upon the one she knew, and broke it open. "here it is! and there is yours, fleda." with kind politeness, she went off to read her own, and left fleda to study hers at her leisure. an hour after she came in again. fleda's face was turned from her. "well, what does he say?" she asked in a lively tone. "i suppose, the same he has said to you, ma'am," said fleda. "i don't suppose it, indeed," said mrs. carleton, laughing. "he has given me sundry charges, which, if he has given you, it is morally certain we shall never come to an understanding." "i have received no charges," said fleda. "i am directed to be very careful to find out your exact wish in the matter, and to let you follow no other. so what is it, my sweet fleda?" "i promised," said fleda, colouring and turning her letter over. but there she stopped. "whom, and what?" said mrs. carleton, after she had waited a reasonable time. "mr. carleton." "what did you promise, my dear fleda?" "that i would do as he said." "but he wishes you to do as you please." fleda brought her eyes quick out of mrs. carleton's view, and was silent. "what do you say, dear fleda?" said the lady, taking her hand and bending over her. "i am sure we shall be expected," said fleda. "i will go." "you are a darling girl!" said mrs. carleton, kissing her again and again. "i will love you for ever for that. and i am sure it will be the best thing for you � the sea will do you good � and _ne vous en déplaise_, our own home is pleasanter just now than this dusty town. i will write by this steamer and tell guy we will be there by the next. he will have everything in readiness, i know, at all events; and in half an hour after you get there, my dear fleda, you will be established in all your rights � as well as if it had been done six months before. guy will know how to thank you. but, after all, fleda, you might do him this grace � considering how long he has been waiting upon you." something in fleda's eyes induced mrs. carleton to say, laughing � "what's the matter?" "he never waited for me," said fleda, simply. "didn't he? but, my dear fleda!" said mrs. carleton, in amused extremity � "how long is it since you knew what he came out here for?" "i don't know now, ma'am," said fleda. but she became angelically rosy the next minute. "he never told you?" "no." "and you never asked him?" "why, no, ma'am!" "he will be well suited in a wife," said mrs. carleton, laughing. "but he can have no objection to your knowing now, i suppose. he never told me but at the latest. you must know, fleda, that it has been my wish for a great many years that guy would marry � and i almost despaired, he was so difficult to please � his taste in everything is so fastidious; but i am glad of it now," she added, kissing fleda's cheek. "last spring � not this last, but a year ago � one evening at home i was talking to him on this subject; but he met everything i said lightly � you know his way � and i saw my words took no hold. i asked him at last in a kind of desperation, if he supposed there was a woman in the world that could please him; and he laughed, and said, if there was, he was afraid she was not in that hemisphere. and a day or two after he told me he was going to america." "did he say for what?" "no; but i guessed, as soon as i found he was prolonging his stay, and i was sure when he wrote me to come out to him. but i never knew till i landed, fleda, my dear, any more than that. the first question i asked him was who he was going to introduce to me." the interval was short to the next steamer, but also the preparations were few. a day or two after the foregoing conversation, constance evelyn coming into fleda's room, found her busy with some light packing. "my dear little creature!" she exclaimed ecstatically, "are you going with us?" "no," said fleda. "where are you going, then?" "to england." "england? � has � i mean, is there any addition to my list of acquaintances in the city?" "not that i know of," said fleda, going on with her work. "and you are going to england! greenhouses will be a desolation to me! �" "i hope not," said fleda, smiling; "you will recover yourself, and your sense of sweetness, in time." "it will have nothing to act upon! and you are going to england! i think it is very mean of you not to ask me to go too, and be your bridesmaid." "i don't expect to have such a thing," said fleda. "not? � horrid! i wouldn't be married so, fleda. you don't know the world, little queechy; the art _de vous faire valoir_, i am afraid, is unknown to you." "so it may remain with my good will," said fleda. "why?" said constance. "i have never felt the want of it," said fleda, simply. "when are you going?" said constance, after a minute's pause. "by the 'europa.' " "but this is a very sudden move?" "yes; very sudden." "i should think you would want a little time to make preparations." "that is all happily taken off my hands," said fleda. "mrs. carleton has written to her sister in england to take care of it for me." "i didn't know that mrs. carleton had a sister. what's her name?" "lady peterborough." constance was silent again. "what are you going to do about mourning, fleda? wear white, i suppose. as nobody there knows anything about you, you won't care." "i do not care in the least," said fleda, calmly; "my feeling would quite as soon choose white as black. mourning so often goes alone, that i should think grief might be excused for shunning its company." "and as you have not put it on yet," said constance, "you won't feel the change. and then, in reality, after all, he was only a cousin." fleda's quiet mood, sober and tender as it was, could go to a certain length of endurance, but this asked too much. dropping the things from her hands, she turned from the trunk beside which she was kneeling, and hiding her face on a chair, wept such tears as cousins never shed for each other. constance was startled and distressed; and fleda's quick sympathy knew that she must be, before she could see it. "you needn't mind it at all, dear constance," she said, as soon as she could speak � "it's no matter � i am in such a mood sometimes that i cannot bear anything. don't think of it," she said, kissing her. constance, however, could not for the remainder of her visit get back her wonted light mood, which indeed had been singularly wanting to her during the whole interview. mrs. carleton counted the days to the steamer, and her spirits rose with each one. fleda's spirits were quiet to the last degree, and passive � too passive, mrs. carleton thought. she did not know the course of the years that had gone, and could not understand how strangely fleda seemed to herself now to stand alone, broken off from her old friends and her former life, on a little piece of time that was like an isthmus joining two continents. fleda felt it all exceedingly; felt that she was changing from one sphere of life to another; never forgot the graves she had left at queechy, and as little the thoughts and prayers that had sprung up beside them. she felt, with all mrs. carleton's kindness, that she was completely alone, with no one on her side the ocean to look to; and glad to be relieved from taking active part in anything, she made her little bible her companion for the greater part of the time. "are you going to carry that sober face all the way to carleton?" said mrs. carleton one day pleasantly. "i don't know, ma'am." "what do you suppose guy will think of it?" but the thought of what he would think of it, and what he would say to it, and how fast he would brighten it, made fleda burst into tears. mrs. carleton resolved to talk to her no more, but to get her home as fast as possible. "i have one consolation," said charlton rossitur, as he shook hands with her on board the steamer; "i have received permission, from head-quarters, to come and see you in england; and to that i shall look forward constantly from this time." chapter xxvii. "the full sum of me is sum of something; which to term in gross, is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractis'd: happy in this, she is not yet so old but she may learn; and happier than this, she is not bred so dull but she can learn; happiest of all, is that her gentle spirit commits itself to yours to be directed, as from her lord, her governor, her king." merchant of venice. they had a very speedy passage to the other side, and partly in consequence of that mr. carleton was _not_ found waiting for them in liverpool. mrs. carleton would not tarry there, but hastened down at once to the country, thinking to be at home before the news of their arrival. it was early morning of one fair day in july when they were at last drawing near the end of their journey. they would have reached it the evening before but for a storm which had constrained them to stop and wait over the night at a small town about eight miles off. for fear, then, of passing guy on the road, his mother sent a servant before, and, making an extraordinary exertion, was actually herself in the carriage by seven o'clock. nothing could be fairer than that early drive, if fleda might have enjoyed it in peace. the sweet morning air was exceeding sweet, and the summer light fell upon a perfect luxuriance of green things. out of the carriage fleda's spirits were at home, but not within it; and it was sadly irksome to be obliged to hear and respond to mrs. carleton's talk, which was kept up, she knew, in the charitable intent to divert her. she was just in a state to listen to nature's talk; to the other she attended and replied with a patient longing to be left free that she might steady and quiet herself. perhaps mrs. carleton's tact discovered this in the matter-of-course and uninterested manner of her rejoinders; for, as they entered the park-gates, she became silent, and the long drive from them to the house was made without a word on either side. for a length of way the road was through a forest of trees of noble growth, which in some places closed their arms overhead, and in all sentinelled the path in stately array. the eye had no scope beyond the ranks of this magnificent body; carleton park was celebrated for its trees; but magnificent though they were, and dearly as fleda loved every form of forest beauty she felt oppressed. the eye forbidden to range, so was the mind, shut in to itself; and she only felt under the gloom and shadow of those great trees the shadow of the responsibilities and of the change that were coming upon her. but after a while the ranks began to be thinned and the ground to be broken; the little touches of beauty with which the sun had enlivened the woodland began to grow broader and cheerfuller; and then as the forest scattered away to the right and left, gay streams of light came through the glades and touched the surface of the rolling ground, where, in the hollows, on the heights, on the sloping sides of the dingles, knots of trees of yet more luxuriant and picturesque growth, planted or left by the cultivator's hand long ago, and trained by no hand but nature's, stood so as to distract a painter's eye; and just now, in the fresh gilding of the morning, and with all the witchery of the long shadows upon the uneven ground, certainly charmed fleda's eye and mind both. fancy was dancing again, albeit with one hand upon gravity's shoulder, and the dancing was a little nervous too. but she looked and caught her breath as she looked, while the road led along the very edge of a dingle, and then was lost in a kind of enchanted open woodland � it seemed so � and then passing through a thicket came out upon a broad sweep of green turf that wiled the eye by its smooth facility to the distant screen of oaks and beeches and firs on its far border. it was all new. fleda's memory had retained only an indistinct vision of beauty, like the face of an angel in a cloud as painters have drawn it; now came out the beautiful features one after another, as if she had never seen them. so far nature had seemed to stand alone. but now another hand appeared; not interfering with nature, but adding to her. the road came upon a belt of the shrubbery where the old tenants of the soil were mingled with lighter and gayer companionship, and in some instances gave it place, though in general the mingling was very graceful. there was never any crowding of effects; it seemed all nature still, only as if several climes had joined together to grace one. then that was past; and over smooth undulating ground, bearing a lighter growth of foreign wood, with here and there a stately elm or ash that disdained their rivalry, the carriage came under the brown walls and turrets of the house. fleda's mood had changed again, and, as the grave outlines rose above her, half remembered, and all the more for that imposing, she trembled at the thought of what she had come there to do and to be. she felt very nervous and strange and out of place, and longed for the familiar face and voice that would bid her be at home. mrs. carleton, now, was not enough of a stand-by. with all that, fleda descended from the carriage with her usual quiet demureness; no one that did not know her well would have seen in her any other token of emotion than a somewhat undue and wavering colour. they were welcomed, at least one of them was, with every appearance of sincerity by the most respectable-looking personage who opened to them, and whom fleda remembered instantly. the array of servants in the hall would almost have startled her if she had not recollected the same thing on her first coming to carleton. she stepped in with a curious sense of that first time, when she had come there a little child. "where is your master?" was mrs. carleton's immediate demand. "mr. carleton set off this morning for liverpool." mrs. carleton gave a quick glance at fleda, who kept her eyes at home. "we did not meet him � we have not passed him � how long ago?" were her next rapid words. "my master left carleton as early as five o'clock; he gave orders to drive as fast as possible." "then he had gone through hollonby an hour before we left it," said mrs. carleton, looking again to her companion; "but he will hear of us at carstairs � we stopped there yesterday afternoon � he will be back again in a few hours, i am sure. then we have been expected?" "yes ma'am � my master gave orders that you should be expected." "is all well, popham?" "all is well, madam." "is lady peterborough here?" "his lordship and lady peterborough arrived the day before yesterday," was the succinct reply. drawing fleda's arm within hers, and giving kind recognition to the rest who stood around, mrs. carleton led her to the stairs and mounted them, repeating in a whisper, "he will be here presently again." they went to mrs. carleton's dressing- room, fleda wondering in an internal fever, whether "orders had been given" to expect her also? � from the old butler's benign look at her, as he said, "all is well!" she could not help thinking it. if she maintained her outward quiet, it was the merest external crust of seeming; there was nothing like quiet beneath it; and mrs. carleton's kiss and fond words of welcome were hardly composing. mrs. carleton made her sit down, and with very gentle hands was busy arranging her hair, when the housekeeper came in to pay her more particular respects, and to offer her services. fleda hardly ventured a glance to see whether _she_ looked benign. she was a dignified elderly person, as stately and near as handsome as mrs. carleton herself. "my dear fleda," said the latter, when she had finished the hair, "i am going to see my sister; will you let mrs. fothergill help you in anything you want, and take you then to the library � you will find no one, and i will come to you there. mrs. fothergill, i recommend you to the particular care of this lady." the recommendation was not needed, fleda thought, or was very effectual; the housekeeper served her with most assiduous care, and in absolute silence. fleda hurried the finishing of her toilet. "are the people quiet in the country?" she forced herself to say. "perfectly quiet, ma'am. it needed only that my master should be at home to make them so." "how is that?" "he has their love and their ear, ma'am, and so it is that he can just do his pleasure with them." "how is it in the neighbouring country?" "they're quiet, ma'am, i believe � mostly � there's been some little disturbance in one place and another, and more fear of it, as well as i can make out, but it's well got over, as it appears. the noblemen and gentlemen in the country around were very glad, all of them, i am told, of mr. carleton's return. is there nothing more i can do for you, ma'am?" the last question was put with an indefinable touch of kindliness which had not softened the respect of her first words. fleda begged her to show the way to the library, which mrs. fothergill immediately did, remarking, as she ushered her in, that "those were mr. carleton's favourite rooms." fleda did not need to be told that; she put the remark and the benignity together, and drew a nervous inference. but mrs. fothergill was gone, and she was alone. nobody was there, as mrs. carleton had said. fleda stood still in the middle of the floor, looking around her, in a bewildered effort to realize the past and the present; with all the mind in the world to cry, but there was too great a pressure of excitement, and too much strangeness of feeling at work. nothing before her, in the dimly familiar place, served at all to lessen this feeling, and, recovering from her maze, she went to one of the glazed doors, which stood open, and turned her back upon the room with its oppressive recollections. her eye lighted upon nothing that was not quiet now. a secluded piece of smooth green, partially bordered with evergreens, and set with light shrubbery of rare kinds, exquisitely kept; over against her a sweetbriar that seemed to have run wild, indicating, fleda was sure, the entrance of the path to the rose garden, that her memory alone would hardly have helped her to find. all this in the bright early summer morning, and the sweet aromatic smell of firs and flowers coming with every breath. there were draughts of refreshment in the air. it composed her, and drinking it in delightedly, fleda stood with folded arms in the doorway, half forgetting herself and her position, and going in fancy from the firs and the roses, over a very wide field of meditation indeed. so lost that she started fearfully on suddenly becoming aware that a figure had come just beside her. it was an elderly and most gentlemanly-looking man, as a glance made her know. fleda was reassured and ashamed in a breath. the gentleman did not notice her confusion, however, otherwise than by a very pleasant and well-bred smile, and immediately entered into some light remarks on the morning, the place, and the improvements mr. carleton had made in the latter. though he said the place was one of those which could bear very well to want improvement; but carleton was always finding something to do which excited his admiration. "landscape gardening is one of the pleasantest of amusements," said fleda. "i have just knowledge enough in the matter to admire; to originate any ideas is beyond me; i have to depend for them upon my gardener and my wife, and so i lose a pleasure, i suppose; but every man has his own particular hobby. carleton, however, has more than his share � he has half a dozen, i think." "half a dozen hobbies!" said fleda. "perhaps i should not call them hobbies, for he manages to ride them all skilfully; and a hobby-horse, i believe, always runs away with a man." fleda could hardly return his smile. she thought people were possessed with an unhappy choice of subjects in talking to her that morning. but fancying that she had very ill kept up her part in the conversation, and must have looked like a simpleton, she forced herself to break the silence which followed the last remark, and asked the same question she had asked mrs. fothergill � if the country was quiet? "outwardly quiet," he said; "o yes � there is no more difficulty � that is, none which cannot easily be handled. there was some danger a few months ago, but it is blown over; all was quiet on carleton's estates so soon as he was at home, and that, of course, had great influence on the neighbourhood. no, there is nothing to be apprehended. he has the hearts of his people completely, and one who has their hearts can do what he pleases with their heads, you know. well, he deserves it � he has done a great deal for them." fleda was afraid to ask in what way; but perhaps he read the question in her eyes. "that's one of his hobbies � ameliorating the condition of the poorer classes on his estates. he has given himself to it for some years back; he has accomplished a great deal for them � a vast deal indeed! he has changed the face of things, mentally and morally, in several places, with his adult schools, and agricultural systems, and i know not what; but the most powerful means, i think, after all, has been the weight of his personal influence, by which he can introduce and carry through any measure; neither ignorance, nor prejudice, nor obstinacy, seem to make head against him. it requires a peculiar combination of qualities, i think � very peculiar and rare � to deal successfully with the mind of the masses." "i should think so, indeed," said fleda. "he has it � i don't comprehend it � and i have not studied his machinery enough to understand that; but i have seen the effects. never should have thought he was the kind of man either � but there it is � i don't comprehend him. there is only one fault to be found with him, though." "what is that?" said fleda, smiling. "he has built a fine dissenting chapel down here towards hollonby," he said, gravely, looking her in the face � "and, what is yet worse, his uncle tells me, he goes there half the time himself." fleda could not help laughing, nor colouring, at his manner. "i thought it was always considered a meritorious action to build a church," she said. "indubitably. � but you see, this was a chapel." the laugh and the colour both grew more unequivocal � fleda could not help it. "i beg your pardon, sir � i have not learned such nice distinctions. perhaps a chapel was wanted just in that place." "that is presumable. but _he_ might be wanted somewhere else. however," said the gentleman, with a good-humoured smile � "his uncle forgives him; and if his mother cannot influence him, i am afraid nobody else will. there is no help for it. and i should be very sorry to stand ill with him. i have given you the dark side of his character." "what is the other side in the contrast?" said fleda, wondering at herself for her daring. "it is not for me to say," he answered, with a slight shrug of the shoulders and an amused glance at her; "i suppose it depends upon people's vision � but if you will permit me, i will instance a bright spot that was shown to me the other day, that i confess, when i look at it, dazzles my eyes a little." fleda only bowed; she dared not speak again. "there was a poor fellow � the son of one of mr. carleton's old tenants down here at enchapel � who was under sentence of death, lying in prison at carstairs. the father, i am told, is an excellent man, and a good tenant; the son had been a miserable scapegrace, and now for some crime � i forget what � had at last been brought to justice. the evidence against him was perfect, and the offence was not trifling; there was not the most remote chance of a pardon, but it seemed the poor wretch had been building up his dependence upon that hope, and was resting on it; and, consequently, was altogether indisposed and unfit to give his attention to the subjects that his situation rendered proper for him. "the gentleman who gave me this story was requested by a brother clergyman to go with him to visit the prisoner. they found him quite stupid � unmovable by all that could be urged, or rather, perhaps, the style of the address, as it was described to me, was fitted to confound find bewilder the man rather than enlighten him. in the midst of all this, mr. carleton came in � he was just then on the wing for america, and he had heard of the poor creature's condition in a visit to his father. he came � my informant said � like a being of a different planet. he took the man's hand � he was chained foot and wrist � 'my poor friend,' he said, 'i have been thinking of you here, shut out from the light of the sun, and i thought you might like to see the face of a friend;' � with that singular charm of manner which he knows how to adapt to everybody and every occasion. the man was melted at once � at his feet, as it were � he could do anything with him. carleton began then, quietly, to set before him the links in the chain of evidence which had condemned him � one by one � in such a way as to prove to him, by degrees, but irresistibly, that he had no hope in this world. the man was perfectly subdued � sat listening and looking into those powerful eyes that perhaps you know � taking in all his words, and completely in his hand. and then carleton went on to bring before him the considerations that he thought should affect him in such a case, in a way that this gentleman said was indescribably effective and winning; till that hardened creature was broken down � sobbing like a child � actually sobbing!" fleda did her best, but she was obliged to hide her face in her hands, let what would be thought of her. "it was the finest exhibition of eloquence, this gentleman said, he had ever listened to. for me it was an exhibition of another kind. i would have believed such an account of few men, but of all the men i know i would least have believed it of guy carleton a few years ago; even now i can hardly believe it. but it is a thing that would do honour to any man." fleda felt that the tears were making their way between her fingers, but she could not help it; and she presently knew that her companion had gone, and she was left alone again. who was this gentleman? and how much did he know about her? more than that she was a stranger, fleda was sure; and dreading his return, or that somebody else might come and find her with the tokens of tears upon her face, she stepped out upon the greensward, and made for the flaunting sweet-briar that seemed to beckon her to visit its relations. the entrance of a green path was there, or a grassy glade, more or less wide, leading through a beautiful growth of firs and larches. no roses, nor any other ornamental shrubs � only the soft well-kept footway through the woodland. fleda went gently on and on, admiring where the trees sometimes swept back, leaving an opening, and at other places stretched their graceful branches over her head. the perfect condition of everything to the eye � the rich coloured vegetation � of varying colour above and below � the absolute retirement, and the strong pleasant smell of the evergreens, had a kind of charmed effect upon senses and mind too. it was a fairyland sort of place. the presence of its master seemed everywhere � it was like him, and fleda pressed on to see yet livelier marks of his character and fancy beyond. by degrees the wood began to thin on one side � then at once the glade opened into a bright little lawn, rich with roses in full bloom. fleda was stopped short at the sudden vision of loveliness. there was the least possible appearance of design � no dry beds were to be seen � the luxuriant clumps of provence and white roses, with the varieties of the latter seemed to have chosen their own places, only to have chosen them very happily. one hardly imagined that they had submitted to dictation, if it were not that queen flora never was known to make so effective a disposition of her forces without help. the screen of trees was very thin on the border of this opening � so thin that the light from beyond came through. on a slight rocky elevation, which formed the further side of it, sat an exquisite little gothic chapel, about which, and the face of the rock below, some noisette and multiflora climbers were vying with each other, and just at the entrance of the further path a white dog-rose had thrown itself over the way, covering the lower branches of the trees with its blossoms. fleda stood spell-bound a good while, with a breath oppressed with pleasure. but what she had seen excited her to see more, and a dim recollection of the sea-view from somewhere in the walk drew her on. roses met her now frequently. now and then a climber, all alone, seemed to have sought protection in a tree by the path-side, and to have displayed itself thence in the very wantonness of security, hanging out its flowery wreaths, fearless of hand or knife. clusters of noisettes, or of french or damask roses, where the ground was open enough, stood without a rival, and needing no foil other than the beautiful surrounding of dark evergreen foliage. but the distance was not long before she came out upon a wider opening, and found what she was seeking � the sight of the sea. the glade here was upon the brow of high ground, and the wood disappearing entirely for a space, left the eye free to go over the lower tree-tops, and the country beyond to the distant shore and sea-line. roses were here too � the air was full of the sweetness of damask and bourbon varieties � and a few beautiful banksias, happily placed, contrasted without interfering with them. it was very still � it was very perfect � the distant country was fresh-coloured with the yet early light which streamed between the trees, and laid lines of enchantment upon the green turf; and the air came up from the sea-board, and bore the breath of the roses to fleda every now and then with a gentle puff of sweetness. such light � she had seen none such light since she was a child. was it the burst of mental sunshine that had made it so bright? � or was she going to be really a happy child again? no � no � not that, and yet something very like it � so like it, that she almost startled at herself. she went no further. she could not have borne, just then, to see any more; and feeling her heart too full, she stood even there, with hands crossed upon her bosom, looking away from the roses to the distant sea-line. that said something very different. that was very sobering; if she had needed sobering, which she did not. but it helped her to arrange the scattered thoughts which had been pressing confusedly upon her brain. "look away from the roses," indeed, she could not, for the same range of vision took in the sea and them � and the same range of thought. these might stand for an emblem of the present; that, of the future � grave, far-off, impenetrable; and passing, as it were, the roses of time, fleda fixed upon that image of eternity; and weighing the one against the other, felt, never in her life more keenly, how wild it would be to forget in smelling the roses her preparations for that distant voyage that must be made from the shores where they grow. with one eye upon this brightest bit of earth before her, the other mentally was upon hugh's grave. the roses could not be sweeter to any one; but, in view of the launching away in to that distant sea-line, in view of the issues on the other shore, in view of the welcome that might be had there � the roses might fade and wither, but her happiness could not go with their breath. they were something to be loved, to be used, to be thankful for � but not to live upon; something too that whispered of an increased burden of responsibility, and never more deeply than at that moment did fleda remember her mother's prayer � never more simply recognised that happiness could not be made of these things. she might be as happy at queechy as here. it depended on the sun-light of undying hopes, which indeed would give wonderful colour to the flowers that might be in her way; on the possession of resources the spring of which would never dry; on the peace which secures the continual feast of a merry heart, fleda could take her new honours and advantages very meekly, and very soberly, with all her appreciation of them. the same work of life was to be done here as at queechy. to fulfil the trust committed to her, larger here � to keep her hope for the future � undeceived by the sunshine of earth, to plant her roses where they would bloom everlastingly. the weight of these things bowed fleda to the ground and made her bury her face in her hands. but there was one item of happiness from which her thoughts never even in imagination dissevered themselves, and round it they gathered now in their weakness. a strong mind and heart to uphold hers � a strong hand for hers to rest in � that was a blessing; and fleda would have cried heartily, but that her feelings were too high-wrought. they made her deaf to the light sound of footsteps coming over the grass, till two hands gently touched hers and lifted her up, and then fleda was at home. but, surprised and startled, she could hardly lift up her face. mr. carleton's greeting was as grave and gentle as if she had been a stray child. "do not fancy i am going to thank you for the grace you have shown me," said he, lightly. "i know you would never have done it if circumstances had not been hard pleaders in my cause. i will thank you presently when you have answered one or two questions for me." "questions?" said fleda, looking up. but she blushed the next instant at her own simplicity. he was leading her back on the path she had come. no further, however, than to the first opening where the climbing dog-rose hung over the way. there he turned aside, crossing the little plot of greensward, and they ascended some steps cut in the rock to the chapel fleda had looked at from a distance. it stood high enough to command the same sea-view. on that side it was entirely open, and of very light construction on the others. several people were there; fleda could hardly tell how many; and when lord peterborough was presented to her, she did not find out that he was her morning's acquaintance. her eye only took in besides that there were one or two ladies, and a clergyman in the dress of the church of england; she could not distinguish. yet she stood beside mr. carleton with all her usual quiet dignity, though her eye did not leave the ground, and her words were in no higher key than was necessary, and though she could hardly bear the unchanged easy tone of his. the birds were in a perfect ecstasy all about them; the soft breeze came through the trees, gently waving the branches and stirring the spray wreaths of the roses, the very fluttering of summer's drapery; some roses looked in at the lattice, and those which could not be there sent in their congratulations on the breath of the wind, while the words were spoken that bound them together. mr. carleton then dismissing his guests to the house, went with fleda again the other way. he had felt the extreme trembling of the hand which he took, and would not go in till it was quieted. he led her back to the very rose-bush where he had found her, and in his own way presently brought her spirit home from its trembling and made it rest; and then suffered her to stand a few minutes quite silent, looking out again over the fair rich spread of country that lay between them and the sea. "now tell me, elfie," said he, softly, drawing back, with the same old caressing and tranquillizing touch, the hair that hung over her brow, "what you were thinking about when i found you here � in the very luxury of seclusion � behind a rose- bush." fleda looked a quick look, smiled, and hesitated, and then said it was rather a confusion of thoughts. "it will be a confusion no longer when you have disentangled them for me." "i don't know" � said fleda. and she was silent, but so was he, quietly waiting for her to go on. "perhaps you will wonder at me, mr. carleton," she said, hesitating and colouring. "perhaps," he said, smiling; � "but if i do, i will not keep you in ignorance, elfie." "i was almost bewildered, in the first place, with beauty � and then �" "do you like the rose garden?" "like it! � i cannot speak of it!" "i don't want you to speak of it," said he, smiling at her. "what followed upon liking it, elfie?" "i was thinking," said fleda, looking resolutely away from him, "in the midst of all this � that it is not these things which make people happy." "there is no question of that," he replied. "i have realized it thoroughly for a few months past." "no, but seriously, i mean," said fleda, pleadingly. "and, seriously, you are quite right, dear elfie. what then?" "i was thinking," said fleda, speaking with some difficulty � "of hugh's grave � and of the comparative value of things; and, afraid, i believe � especially � here �" "of making a wrong estimate?" "yes; and of not doing and being just what i ought." mr. carleton was silent for a minute, considering the brow from which his fingers drew off the light screen. "will you trust me to watch over and tell you?" fleda did not trust her voice to tell him, but her eyes did it. "as to the estimate � the remedy is to 'keep ourselves in the love of god;' and then these things are the gifts of our father's hand, and will never be put in competition with him. and they are never so sweet as when taken so." "oh, i know that!" "this is a danger i share with you. we will watch over each other." fleda was silent with filling eyes. "we do not seek our happiness in these things," he said, tenderly. "i never found it in them. for years, whatever others may have judged, i have felt myself a poor man; because i had not in the world a friend in whom i could have entire sympathy. and if i am rich now, it is not in any treasure that i look to enjoy in this world alone." "oh, do not, mr. carleton!" exclaimed fleda, bowing her head in distress, and giving his hand an earnest entreaty. "what shall i not do?" said he, half laughing and half gently, bringing her face near enough for his lips to try another kind of eloquence. "you shall not do this, elfie, for any so light occasion. was this the whole burden of those grave thoughts?" "not quite � entirely" � she said, stammering. "but grave thoughts are not always unhappy." "not always. i want to know what gave yours a tinge of that colour this morning." "it was hardly that. you know what foster says about 'power to its very last particle being duty.' � i believe it frightened me a little." "if you feel that as strongly as i do, elfie, it will act as a strong corrective to the danger of false estimates." "i do feel it," said fleda. "one of my fears was that i should not feel it enough." "one of my cares will be that you do not act upon it too fiercely," said he, smiling. "the power being limited, so is the duty. but you shall have power enough, elfie, and work enough. i have precisely what i have needed � my good sprite back again." "with a slight difference." "what difference?" "she is to act under direction now." "not at all � only under safe control," he said, laughing. "i am very glad of the difference, mr. carleton," said fleda, with a grave and grateful remembrance of it. "if you think the sprite's old office is gone, you are mistaken," said he. "what were your other fears? � one was that you should not feel enough your responsibility, and the other that you might forget it." "i don't know that there were any other particular fears," said fleda; � "i had been thinking of all these things �" "and what else?" her colour and her silence begged him not to ask. he said no more, and let her stand still again, looking off through the roses, while her mind more quietly and lightly went over the same train of thoughts that had moved it before; gradually calmed; came back from being a stranger to being at home, at least in one presence; and ended, her action even before her look told him where, as her other hand unconsciously was joined to the one already on his arm. a mute expression of feeling, the full import of which he read, even before her eye, coming back from its musings, was raised to him, perhaps unconsciously, too, with all the mind in it; its timidity was not more apparent than its simplicity of clinging affection and dependence. mr. carleton's answer was in three words, but in the tone and manner that accompanied them there was a response to every part of her appeal � so perfect that fleda was confused at her own frankness. they began to move towards the house, but fleda was in a maze again and could hardly realize anything. "his wife!" � was she that? � had so marvellous a change really been wrought in her? � the little asparagus-cutter of queechy transformed into the mistress of all this domain, and of the stately mansion of which they caught glimpses now and then, as they drew near it by another approach into which mr. carleton had diverged. and his wife! � that was the hardest to realise of all. she was as far from realising it when she got into the house. they entered now at once into the breakfast-room, where the same party were gathered whom she had met once before that morning. mr. carleton the elder, and lord peterborough and lady peterborough, she had met without seeing. but fleda could look at them now; and if her colour came and went as frankly as when she was a child, she could speak to them and meet their advances with the same free and sweet self-possession as then � the rare dignity a little wood-flower, that is moved by a breath, but recovers as easily and instantly its quiet standing. there were one or two who looked a little curiously at first to see whether this new member of the family were worthy of her place and would fill it to satisfy them. not mr. carleton; he never sought to ascertain the value of anything that belonged to him by a popular vote; and his own judgment always stood carelessly alone. but mrs. carleton was less sure of her own ground, or of others. for five minutes she noted fleda's motions and words, her blushes and smiles, as she stood talking to one and another � for five minutes, and then, with a little smile at her sister, mrs. carleton moved off to the breakfast-table, well pleased that lady peterborough was too engaged to answer her. fleda had won them all. mr. carleton's intervening shield of grace and kindness was only needed here against the too much attention or attraction that might distress her. he was again, now they were in presence of others, exactly what he had been to her when she was a child � the same cool and efficient friend and protector. nobody in the room showed less thought of her, _except_ in action; a great many little things done for her pleasure or comfort, so quietly that nobody knew it but one person, and she hardly noticed it at the time. all could not have the same tact. there was an uninterrupted easy flow of talk at the table, which fleda heard just enough to join in where it was necessary; the rest of the time she sat in a kind of abstraction, dipping enormous strawberries one by one into white sugar, with a curious want of recognition between them and the ends of her fingers; it never occurred to her that they had picked baskets full. "i have done something for which you will hardly thank me, mr. carleton," said lord peterborough. "i have driven this lady to tears within the first hour of her being in the house." "if she will forgive you, i will, my lord," mr. carleton answered, carelessly. "i will confess myself, though," continued his lordship, looking at the face that was so intent over the strawberries, "i was under the impression, when i first saw a figure in the window, that it was lady peterborough. i own, as soon as i found it was a stranger, i had my suspicions, which did not lack confirmation in the course of the interview. i trust i am forgiven the means i used." "it seems you had your curiosity, too, my lord," said mr. carleton, the uncle. "which ought, in all justice, to have lacked gratification," said lady peterborough. "i hope fleda will not be too ready to forgive you." "i expect forgiveness, nevertheless," said he, looking at fleda. "must i wait for it?" "i am much obliged to you, sir." and then she gave him a very frank smile and blush, as she added, "i beg pardon � you know my tongue is american." "i don't like that," said his lordship, gravely. "out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh," said the elder carleton. "the heart being english, we may hope the tongue will become so too." "i will not assure you of that, sir," fleda said, laughing, though her cheeks showed the conversation was not carried on without effort. oddly enough, nobody saw it with any dissatisfaction. "of what, madam?" said lord peterborough. "that i will not always keep a rag of the stars and stripes flying somewhere." but that little speech had almost been too much for her equanimity. "like queen elizabeth, who retained the crucifix when she gave up the profession of popery." "very unlike indeed!" said fleda, endeavouring to understand what mr. carleton was saying to her about wood strawberries and _hautbois_. "will you allow that, carleton?" "what, my lord?" "a rival banner to float alongside of st. george's?" "the flags are friendly, my lord." "hum � just now � they may seem so. has your little standard- bearer anything of a rebellious disposition." "not against any lawful authority, i hope," said fleda. "then there is hope for you, mr. carleton, that you will be able to prevent the introduction of mischievous doctrines." "for shame, lord peterborough!' said his wife � "what atrocious suppositions you are making! i am blushing, i am sure, for your want of discernment." "why � yes" � said his lordship, looking at another face whose blushes were more unequivocal � "it may seem so � there is no appearance of anything untoward, but she is a woman after all. i will try her. mrs. carleton, don't you think with my lady peterborough that in the present nineteenth century women ought to stand more on that independent footing from which lordly monopoly has excluded them?" the first name fleda thought belonged to another person, and her downcast eyelids prevented her seeing to whom it was addressed. it was no matter, for any answer was anticipated. "the boast of independence is not engrossed by the boldest footing, my lord." "she has never considered the subject," said lady peterborough. "it is no matter," said his lordship. "i must respectfully beg an answer to my question." the silence made fleda look up. "don't you think that the rights of the weak ought to be on a perfect equality with those of the strong?" "the rights of the weak _as such_ � yes, my lord." the gentlemen smiled; the ladies looked rather puzzled. "i have no more to say, mr. carleton," said his lordship, "but that we must make an englishwoman of her!" "i am afraid she will never be a perfect cure," said mr. carleton, smiling. "i conceive it might require peculiar qualities in the physician � but i do not despair. i was telling her of some of your doings this morning, and happy to see that they met with her entire disapproval." mr. carleton did not even glance towards fleda, and made no answer, but carelessly gave the conversation another turn; for which she thanked him unspeakably. there was no other interruption of any consequence to the well-bred flow of talk and kindliness of manner on the part of all the company, that put fleda as much as possible at her ease. still she did not realise anything, and yet she did realise it so strongly, that her woman's heart could not rest till it had eased itself in tears. the superbly appointed table at which she sat � her own, though mrs. carleton this morning presided � the like of which she had not seen since she was at carleton before; the beautiful room with its arrangements, bringing back a troop of recollections of that old time; all the magnificence about her, instead of elevating, sobered her spirits to the last degree. it pressed home upon her that feeling of responsibility, of the change that come over her; and though beneath it all very happy, fleda hardly knew it, she longed so to be alone, and to cry. one person's eyes, however little seemingly observant of her, read sufficiently well the unusual shaded air of her brow and her smile. but a sudden errand of business called him abroad immediately after breakfast. the ladies seized the opportunity to carry fleda up and introduce her to her dressing-room, and take account of lady peterborough's commission, and ladies and ladies' maids soon formed a busy committee of dress and decorations. it did not enliven fleda � it wearied her, though she forgave them the annoyance in gratitude for the pleasure they took in looking at her. even the delight her eye had from the first minute she saw it, in the beautiful room, and her quick sense of the carefulness with which it had been arranged for her, added to the feeling with which she was oppressed; she was very passive in the hands of her friends. in the midst of all this the housekeeper was called in and formally presented, and received by fleda with a mixture of frankness and bashfulness that caused mrs. fothergill afterwards to pronounce her "a lady of a very sweet dignity indeed." "she is just such a lady as you might know my master would have fancied," said mr. spenser. "and what kind of a lady is that?" said mrs. fothergill. but mr. spenser was too wise to enter into any particulars, and merely informed mrs. fothergill that she would know in a few days. "the first words mrs. carleton said when mr. carleton got home," said the old butler � "she put both her hands on his arms and cried out, 'guy, i am delighted with her!' " "and what did _he_ say?" said mrs. fothergill. "he!" echoed mr. spenser, in a tone of indignant intelligence � "what should _he_ say! he didn't say anything; only asked where she was, i believe." in the midst of silks, muslins, and jewels, mr. carleton found fleda still, on his return; looking pale, and even sad, though nobody but himself, through her gentle and grateful bearing, would have discerned it. he took her out of the hands of the committee, and carried her down to the little library, adjoining the great one, but never thrown open � his room, as it was called � where more particularly art and taste had accumulated their wealth of attractions. "i remember this very well," said fleda. "this beautiful room!" "it is as free to you as to me, elfie; and i never gave the freedom of it to any one else." "i will not abuse it," said fleda. "i hope not, my dear elfie," said he smiling, "for the room will want something to me now when you are not in it; and a gift is abused that is not made free use of." a large and deep bay-window in the room looked upon the same green lawn and fir wood, with the windows of the library. like these, this casement stood open, and mr. carleton, leading fleda there, remained quietly beside her for a moment, watching her face, which his last words had a little moved from its outward composure. then, gently and gravely, as if she had been a child, putting his arm round her shoulders, and drawing her to him, he whispered � "my dear elfie � you need not fear being misunderstood �" fleda started, and looked up to see what he meant. but his face said it so plainly, in its perfect intelligence and sympathy with her, that her barrier of self-command and reserve was all broken down; and hiding her head in her hands upon his breast, she let the pent-up burden upon her heart come forth in a flood of unrestrained tears. she could not help herself. and when she would fain have checked them after the first burst, and bidden them, according to her habit, to wait another time, it was out of her power; for the same kindness and tenderness that had set them a-flowing, perhaps witting of her intent, effectually hindered its execution. he did not say a single word, but now and then a soft touch of his hand, or of his lips upon her brow, in its expressive tenderness, would unnerve all her resolution, and oblige her to have no reserve that time, at least in letting her secret thoughts and feelings be known, as far as tears could tell them. she wept, at first in spite of herself, and afterwards in the very luxury of indulged feeling; till she was as quiet as a child, and the weight of oppression was all gone. mr. carleton did not move, nor speak, till she did. "i never knew before how good you were, mr. carleton," said fleda, raising her head, at length, as soon as she dared, but still held fast by that kind arm. "what new light have you got on the subject?" said he, smiling. "why," said fleda, trying as hard as ever did sunshine to scatter the remnants of a cloud � it was a bright cloud too, by this time � "i have always heard that men cannot endure the sight of a woman's tears." "you shall give me a reward, then, elfie." "what reward?" said elfie. "promise me that you will shed them nowhere else." "nowhere else?" "but here � in my arms." "i don't feel like crying any more now," said fleda, evasively; "at least," � for drops were falling rather fast again � "not sorrowfully." "promise me, elfie," said mr. carleton, after a pause. but fleda hesitated still, and looked dubious. "come!" he said, smiling � "you know you promised a little while ago that you would have a particular regard to my wishes." fleda's cheeks answered that appeal with sufficient brightness, but she looked down, and said, demurely � "i am sure one of your wishes is, that i should not say anything rashly." "well?" "one cannot answer for such wilful things as tears." "and for such wilful things as men?" said he, smiling. but fleda was silent. "then i will alter the form of my demand. promise me that no shadow of anything shall come over your spirit that you do not let me either share or remove." there was no trifling in the tone, full of gentleness as it was; there could be no evading its requisition. but the promise demanded was a grave one. fleda was half afraid to make it. she looked up, in the very way he had seen her do when a child, to find a warrant for her words before she uttered them. but the full, clear, steadfast eye into which she looked for two seconds, authorised as well as required the promise; and hiding her face again on his breast, fleda gave it, amid a gush of tears, every one of which was illumined with heart-sunshine. the end. printing office of the publisher. typographical errors : chapter : =biding her tears= silently corrected as =hiding her tears= chapter : =fox within.= silently corrected as =fox within."= chapter : =conque de venus= silently corrected as =conque de vénus= chapter : =said fleda; "to give= silently corrected as =said fleda, "to give= chapter : =drily; stroking= silently corrected as =drily, stroking= chapter : =sure so do i,= silently corrected as =sure so do i,"= chapter : =throwing stones.= silently corrected as =throwing stones."= chapter : =at mrs. evelyn's.'= silently corrected as =at mrs.evelyn's."= chapter : =breakfast, to morrow= silently corrected as =breakfast, to-morrow= chapter : =at the hills; they= silently corrected as =at the hills? they= chapter : ="trembling even= silently corrected as =trembling even= chapter : =following her= silently corrected as =following her.= chapter : =fleda. don't you= silently corrected as =fleda. "don't you= chapter : =prescription.= silently corrected as =prescription."= chapter : =doubt about that= silently corrected as =doubt about that,= chapter : =anybody else.= silently corrected as =anybody else."= chapter : =how far are we!= silently corrected as =how far are we?= chapter : =latter and more= silently corrected as =later and more= chapter : =daughhter, they seem= silently corrected as ="daughter, they seem= transcriber's note: some spelling variations have been standardised to agree with the original french version of "en famille". for example "madamoiselle" and "mademoiselle" have been changed to mademoiselle exclusively. dr cendrier, rather than centrier, is correct according to the original french version, so centrier has been changed to cendrier. in the fourth last paragraph "daughter" has been corrected to "granddaughter". some spelling, punctuation and grammatical errors have been corrected where detected. [illustration: "why, it's beautiful," said perrine, softly. (see page )] nobody's girl (_en famille_) by hector malot translated by florence crewe-jones _illustrated by_ thelma gooch new york mcmxxii cupples & leon company _copyright, , by_ cupples & leon company printed in united states of america contents chapter page i perrine and palikare ii grain-of-salt is kind iii "poor little girl" iv a hard road to travel v storms and fears vi the rescue vii maraucourt at last viii grandfather vulfran ix one sleepless night x the hut on the island xi work in the factory xii new shoes xiii strange housekeeping xiv a banquet in the hut xv aurelie's chance xvi grandfather's interpreter xvii hard questions xviii secretary to m. vulfran xix suspicion and confidence xx the schemers xxi letters from dacca xxii a cable to dacca xxiii grandfather's companion xxiv getting an education xxv meddling relatives xxvi painful arguments xxvii the blind man's grief xxviii an unrespected funeral xxix the angel of reform xxx grandfather finds perrine xxxi the grateful people list of illustrations page "why, it's beautiful," said perrine, softly. (_see page _) _frontispiece_ something warm passing over her face made her open her eyes "what's the matter now?" he cried, angrily she had some time ago decided on the shape she tried to do as she was told, but her emotion increased as she read he told her that she was like a little daughter to him introduction "nobody's girl," published in france under the title "en famille", follows "nobody's boy" as a companion juvenile story, and takes place with it as one of the supreme juvenile stories of the world. like "nobody's boy" it was also crowned by the academy, and that literary judgment has also been verified by the test of time. "nobody's girl" is not a human document, such as is "nobody's boy", because it has more story plot, and the adventure is in a more restricted field, but it discloses no less the nobility of a right-minded child, and how loyalty wins the way to noble deeds and life. this is another beautiful literary creation of hector malot which every one can recommend as an ennobling book, of interest not only to childhood, page by page to the thrilling conclusion, but to every person who loves romance and character. only details, irrelevant for readers in america, have been eliminated. little perrine's loyal ideals, with their inspiring sentiments, are preserved by her through the most discouraging conditions, and are described with the simplicity for which hector malot is famous. the building up of a little girl's life is made a fine example for every child. every reader of this story leaves it inspired for the better way. the publishers. nobody's girl chapter i perrine and palikare it was saturday afternoon about o'clock. there was the usual scene; outside the gates of bercy there was a crowd of people, and on the quays, four rows deep, carts and wagons were massed together. coal carts, carts heaped with hay and straw, all were waiting in the clear, warm june sunshine for the examination from the custom official. all had been hurrying to reach paris before sunday. amongst the wagons, but at some little distance from the gates, stood an odd looking cart, a sort of caravan. over a light frame work which was erected on four wheels was stretched a heavy canvas; this was fastened to the light roof which covered the wagon. once upon a time the canvas might have been blue, but it was so faded, so dirty and worn, that one could only guess what its original color had been. neither was it possible to make out the inscriptions which were painted on the four sides. most of the words were effaced. on one side there was a greek word, the next side bore part of a german word, on the third side were the letters f i a, which was evidently italian, and on the last a newly painted french word stood out boldly. this was _photographie_, and was evidently the translation of all the others, indicating the different countries through which the miserable wagon had come before it had entered france and finally arrived at the gates of paris. was it possible that the donkey that was harnessed to it had brought the cart all this distance? at first glance it seemed impossible, but although the animal was tired out, one could see upon a closer view that it was very robust and much bigger than the donkeys that one sees in europe. its coat was a beautiful dark grey, the beauty of which could be seen despite the dust which covered it. its slender legs were marked with jet black lines, and worn out though the poor beast was, it still held its head high. the harness, worthy of the caravan, was fastened together with various colored strings, short pieces, long pieces, just what was at hand at the moment; the strings had been carefully hidden under the flowers and branches which had been gathered along the roads and used to protect the animal from the sun and the flies. close by, seated on the edge of the curb, watching the donkey, was a little girl of about thirteen years of age. her type was very unusual, but it was quite apparent that there was a mixture of race. the pale blond of her hair contrasted strangely with the deep, rich coloring of her cheeks, and the sweet expression of her face was accentuated by the dark, serious eyes. her mouth also was very serious. her figure, slim and full of grace, was garbed in an old, faded check dress, but the shabby old frock could not take away the child's distinguished air. as the donkey had stopped just behind a large cart of straw, it would not have required much watching, but every now and again he pulled out the straw, in a cautious manner, like a very intelligent animal that knows quite well that it is doing wrong. "palikare! stop that!" said the girl for the third time. the donkey again dropped his head in a guilty fashion, but as soon as he had eaten his wisps of straw he began to blink his eyes and agitate his ears, then again discreetly, but eagerly, tugged at what was ahead of him; this in a manner that testified to the poor beast's hunger. while the little girl was scolding him, a voice from within the caravan called out: "perrine!" jumping to her feet, the child lifted up the canvas and passed inside, where a pale, thin woman was lying on a mattress. "do you need me, mama?" "what is palikare doing, dear?" asked the woman. "he is eating the straw off the cart that's ahead of us." "you must stop him." "he's so hungry." "hunger is not an excuse for taking what does not belong to us. what will you say to the driver of that cart if he's angry?" "i'll go and see that palikare doesn't do it again," said the little girl. "shall we soon be in paris?" "yes, we are waiting for the customs." "have we much longer to wait?" "no, but are you in more pain, mother?" "don't worry, darling; it's because i'm closed in here," replied the woman, gasping. then she smiled wanly, hoping to reassure her daughter. the woman was in a pitiable plight. all her strength had gone and she could scarcely breathe. although she was only about twenty-nine years of age, her life was ebbing away. there still remained traces of remarkable beauty: her head and hair were lovely, and her eyes were soft and dark like her daughter's. "shall i give you something?" asked perrine. "what?" "there are some shops near by. i can buy a lemon. i'll come back at once." "no, keep the money. we have so little. go back to palikare and stop him from eating the straw." "that's not easy," answered the little girl. she went back to the donkey and pushed him on his haunches until he was out of reach of the straw in front of him. at first the donkey was obstinate and tried to push forward again, but she spoke to him gently and stroked him, and kissed him on his nose; then he dropped his long ears with evident satisfaction and stood quite still. there was no occasion to worry about him now, so she amused herself with watching what was going on around her. a little boy about her own age, dressed up like a clown, and who evidently belonged to the circus caravans standing in the rear, had been strolling round her for ten long minutes, without being able to attract her attention. at last he decided to speak to her. "that's a fine donkey," he remarked. she did not reply. "it don't belong to this country. if it does, i'm astonished." she was looking at him, and thinking that after all he looked rather like a nice boy, she thought she would reply. "he comes from greece," she said. "greece!" he echoed. "that's why he's called palikare." "ah! that's why." but in spite of his broad grin he was not at all sure why a donkey that came from greece should be called palikare. "is it far ... greece?" "very far." "farther than ... china?" "no, but it's a long way off." "then yer come from greece, then?" "no, farther than that." "from china?" "no, but palikare's the only one that comes from greece." "are you going to the fair?" "no." "where yer goin'?" "into paris." "i know that, but where yer goin' to put up that there cart?" "we've been told that there are some free places round the fortifications." the little clown slapped his thighs with his two hands. "the fortifications: _oh la la!_" "isn't there any place?" "yes." "well, then?" "it ain't the place for you ... round the fortifications! have yer got any men with yer? big strong men who are not afraid of a stab from a dagger. one who can give a jab as well as take one." "there is only my mother and me, and mother is ill." "do you think much of that donkey?" he asked quickly. "i should say so!" "well, the first thing he'll be stolen. he'll be gone tomorrow. then the rest'll come after, and it's fatty as tells yer so." "really?" "should say so! you've never been to paris before?" "no, never." "that's easy to see. some fools told you where to put your cart up, but you can't put it there. why don't you go to grain-of-salt?" "i don't know grain-of-salt." "why, he owns the guillot fields. you needn't be afraid of him, and he'd shoot anybody who tried to get in his place." "will it cost much to go there?" "it costs a lot in winter, when everybody comes to paris, but at this time i'm sure he won't make you pay more than forty sous a week. and your donkey can find its food in the field. does he like thistles?" "i should say he does like them!" "well, then, this is just the place for him, and grain-of-salt isn't a bad chap," said the little clown with a satisfied air. "is that his name ... grain-of-salt?" "they call him that 'cause he's always thirsty. he's only got one arm." "is his place far from here?" "no, at charonne; but i bet yer don't even know where charonne is?" "i've never been to paris before." "well, then, it's over there." he waved his arms vaguely in a northerly direction. "once you have passed through the gates, you turn straight to the right," he explained, "and you follow the road all along the fortifications for half an hour, then go down a wide avenue, then turn to your left, and then ask where the guillot field is. everybody knows it." "thank you. i'll go and tell mama. if you'll stand beside palikare for a minute, i'll go and tell her at once." "sure, i'll mind him for yer. i'll ask him to teach me greek." "and please don't let him eat that straw." perrine went inside the caravan and told her mother what the little clown had said. "if that is so," said the sick woman, "we must not hesitate; we must go to charonne. but can you find the way?" "yes, it's easy enough. oh, mother," she added, as she was going out, "there are such a lot of wagons outside; they have printed on them 'maraucourt factories,' and beneath that the name, 'vulfran paindavoine.' there are all kinds of barrels and things in the carts. such a number!" "there is nothing remarkable in that, my child," said the woman. "yes, but it's strange to see so many wagons with the same name on them," replied the girl as she left the caravan. perrine found the donkey with his nose buried in the straw, which he was eating calmly. "why, you're letting him eat it!" she cried to the boy. "well, why not?" he retorted. "and if the man is angry?" "he'd better not be with me," said the small boy, putting himself in a position to fight and throwing his head back. but his prowess was not to be brought into action, for at this moment the custom officer began to search the cart of straw, and then gave permission for it to pass on through the gates of paris. "now it's your turn," said the boy, "and i'll have to leave you. goodbye, mademoiselle. if you ever want news of me ask for double fat. everybody knows me." the employés who guard the entrances of paris are accustomed to strange sights, yet the man who went into perrine's caravan looked surprised when he found a young woman lying on a mattress, and even more surprised when his hasty glance revealed to him the extreme poverty of her surroundings. "have you anything to declare?" he asked, continuing his investigations. "nothing." "no wine, no provisions?" "nothing." this was only too true; apart from the mattress, the two cane chairs, a little table, a tiny stove, a camera and a few photographic supplies, there was nothing in this wagon; no trunks, no baskets, no clothes.... "all right; you can pass," said the man. once through the gates, perrine, holding palikare by the bridle, followed the stretch of grass along the embankment. in the brown, dirty grass she saw rough looking men lying on their backs or on their stomachs. she saw now the class of people who frequent this spot. from the very air of these men, with their bestial, criminal faces, she understood why it would be unsafe for them to be there at night. she could well believe that their knives would be in ready use. looking towards the city, she saw nothing but dirty streets and filthy houses. so this was paris, the beautiful paris of which her father had so often spoken. with one word she made her donkey go faster, then turning to the left she inquired for the guillot field. if everyone knew where it was situated, no two were of the same opinion as to which road she should take to get there, and several times, in trying to follow the various directions which were given to her, she lost her way. at last she found the place for which she was looking. this must be it! inside the field there was an old omnibus without wheels, and a railway car, also without wheels, was on the ground. in addition, she saw a dozen little round pups rolling about. yes, this was the place! leaving palikare in the street, she went into the field. the pups at once scrambled at her feet, barked, and snapped at her shoes. "who's there?" called a voice. she looked around and saw a long, low building, which might have been a house, but which might serve for anything else. the walls were made of bits of stone, wood and plaster. even tin boxes were used in its construction. the roof was made of tarred canvas and cardboard, and most of the window panes were of paper, although in one or two instances there was some glass. the man who designed it was another robinson crusoe, and his workman a man friday. a one-armed man with a shaggy beard was sorting out rags and throwing them into the baskets around him. "don't step on my dogs," he cried; "come nearer." she did as she was told. "are you the owner of the guillot field?" she asked. "that's me!" replied the man. in a few words she told him what she wanted. so as not to waste his time while listening, he poured some red wine out of a bottle that stood on the ground and drank it down at a gulp. "it can be arranged if you pay in advance," he said, sizing her up. "how much?" she asked. "forty sous a week for the wagon and twenty for the donkey," he replied. "that's a lot of money," she said, hesitatingly. "that's my price." "your summer price?" "yes, my summer price." "can my donkey eat the thistles?" "yes, and the grass also if his teeth are strong enough." "we can't pay for the whole week because we are only going to stay one day. we are going through paris on our way to amiens, and we want to rest." "well, that's all right; six sous a day for the cart and three for the donkey." one by one she pulled out nine sous from the pocket in her skirt. "that's for the first day," she said, handing them to the man. "you can tell your people they can all come in," he said, "how many are there? if it's a whole company it's two sous extra for each person." "i have only my mother." "all right; but why didn't your mother come and settle this?" "she is in the wagon, ill." "ill! well, this isn't a hospital." perrine was afraid that he would not let her sick mother come in. "i mean she's a little bit tired. we've come a long way." "i never ask people where they come from," replied the man gruffly. he pointed to a corner of the field, and added: "you can put your wagon over there and tie up the donkey. and if it squashes one of my pups you'll pay me five francs, one hundred sous ... understand?" as she was going he called out: "will you take a glass of wine?" "no, thanks," she replied; "i never take wine." "good," he said; "i'll drink it for you." he drained another glass, then returned to his collection of rags. as soon as she had installed palikare in the place that the man had pointed out to her, which was accomplished not without some jolts, despite the care which she took, perrine climbed up into the wagon. "we've arrived at last, poor mama," she said, bending over the woman. "no more shaking, no more rolling about," said the woman weakly. "there, there; i'll make you some dinner," said perrine cheerfully. "what would you like?" "first, dear, unharness palikare; he is very tired also; and give him something to eat and drink." perrine did as her mother told her, then returned to the wagon and took out the small stove, some pieces of coal and an old saucepan and some sticks. outside, she went down on her knees and made a fire; at last, after blowing with all her might, she had the satisfaction of seeing that it had taken. "you'd like some rice, wouldn't you?" she asked, leaning over her mother. "i am not hungry." "is there anything else you would fancy? i'll go and fetch anything you want. what would you like, mama, dearie?" "i think i prefer rice," said her mother. little perrine threw a handful of rice into the saucepan that she had put on the fire and waited for the water to boil; then she stirred the rice with two white sticks that she had stripped of their bark. she only left her cooking once, to run over to palikare to say a few loving words to him. the donkey was eating the thistles with a satisfaction, the intensity of which was shown by the way his long ears stood up. when the rice was cooked to perfection, perrine filled a bowl and placed it at her mother's bedside, also two glasses, two plates and two forks. sitting down on the floor, with her legs tucked under her and her skirts spread out, she said, like a little girl who is playing with her doll: "now we'll have a little din-din, mammy, dear, and i'll wait on you." in spite of her gay tone, there was an anxious look in the child's eyes as she looked at her mother lying on the mattress, covered with an old shawl that had once been beautiful and costly, but was now only a faded rag. the sick woman tried to swallow a mouthful of rice, then she looked at her daughter with a wan smile. "it doesn't go down very well," she murmured. "you must force yourself," said perrine; "the second will go down better, and the third better still." "i cannot; no, i cannot, dear!" "oh, mama!" the mother sank back on her mattress, gasping. but weak though she was, she thought of her little girl and smiled. "the rice is delicious, dear," she said; "you eat it. as you do the work you must feed well. you must be very strong to be able to nurse me, so eat, darling, eat." keeping back her tears, perrine made an effort to eat her dinner. her mother continued to talk to her. little by little she stopped crying and all the rice disappeared. "why don't you try to eat, mother?" she asked. "i forced myself." "but i'm ill, dear." "i think i ought to go and fetch a doctor. we are in paris now and there are good doctors here." "good doctors will not put themselves out unless they are paid." "we'll pay." "with what, my child?" "with our money. you have seven francs in your pocket and a florin which we could change here. i've got sous. feel in your pocket." the black dress, as worn as perrine's skirt but not so dusty, for it had been brushed, was lying on the bed, and served for a cover. they found the seven francs and an austrian coin. "how much does that make in all?" asked perrine; "i don't understand french money." "i know very little more than you," replied her mother. counting the florin at two francs, they found they had nine francs and eighty-five centimes. "you see we have more than what is needed for a doctor," insisted perrine. "he won't cure me with words; we shall have to buy medicine." "i have an idea. you can imagine that all the time i was walking beside palikare i did not waste my time just talking to him, although he likes that. i was also thinking of both of us, but mostly of you, mama, because you are sick. and i was thinking of our arrival at maraucourt. everybody has laughed at our wagon as we came along, and i am afraid if we go to maraucourt with it we shall not get much of a welcome. if our relations are very proud, they'll be humiliated. "so i thought," she added, wisely, "that as we don't need the wagon any more, we could sell it. now that you are ill, no one will let me take their pictures, and even if they would we have not the money to buy the things for developing that we need. we must sell it." "and how much can we get for it?" "we can get something; then there is the camera and the mattress." "everything," said the sick woman. "but you don't mind, do you, mother, dear?..." "we have lived in this wagon for more than a year," said her mother; "your father died here, and although it's a poor thing, it makes me sad to part with it.... it is all that remains of him ... there is not one of these old things here that does not remind us of him...." she stopped, gasping; the tears were rolling down her cheeks. "oh, forgive me, mother, for speaking about it," cried perrine. "my darling, you are right. you are only a child, but you have thought of the things that i should have. i shall not be better tomorrow nor the next day, and we must sell these things, and we must decide to sell...." the mother hesitated. there was a painful silence. "palikare," said perrine at last. "you have thought that also?" asked the mother. "yes," said perrine, "and i have been so unhappy about it, and sometimes i did not dare look at him for fear he would guess that we were going to part with him instead of taking him to maraucourt with us. he would have been so happy there after such a long journey." "if we were only sure of a welcome, but they may turn us away. if they do, all we can do then is to lie down by the roadside and die, but no matter what it costs, we must get to maraucourt, and we must present ourselves as well as we can so that they will not shut their doors upon us...." "would that be possible, mama?... the memory of papa ... he was so good. could they be angry with him now he is dead?" "i am speaking as your father would have spoken, dear ... so we will sell palikare. with the money that we get for him we will have a doctor, so that i can get stronger; then, when i am well enough, we will buy a nice dress for you and one for me, and then we'll start. we will take the train as far as we can and walk the rest of the way." "that boy who spoke to me at the gates told me that palikare was a fine donkey, and he knows, for he is in a circus. it was because he thought palikare was so beautiful that he spoke to me." "i don't know how much an eastern donkey would bring in paris, but we'll see as soon as we can," said the sick woman. leaving her mother to rest, perrine got together their soiled clothing and decided to do some washing. adding her own waist to a bundle consisting of three handkerchiefs, two pairs of stockings and two combinations, she put them all into a basin, and with her washboard and a piece of soap she went outside. she had ready some boiling water which she had put on the fire after cooking the rice; this she poured over the things. kneeling on the grass, she soaped and rubbed until all were clean; then she rinsed them and hung them on a line to dry. while she worked, palikare, who was tied up at a short distance from her, had glanced her way several times. when he saw that she had finished her task he stretched his neck towards her and sent forth five or six brays ... an imperative call. "did you think i had forgotten you?" she called out. she went to him, changed his place, gave him some water to drink from her saucepan, which she had carefully rinsed, for if he was satisfied with all the food that they gave him, he was very particular about what he drank. he would only drink pure water from a clean vessel, or red wine ... this he liked better than anything. she stroked him and talked to him lovingly, like a kind nurse would to a little child, and the donkey, who had thrown himself down on the grass the moment he was free, placed his head against her shoulder. he loved his young mistress, and every now and again he looked up at her and shook his long ears in sign of utter content. all was quiet in the field and the streets close by were now deserted. from the distance came the dim roar of the great city, deep, powerful, mysterious; the breath and life of paris, active and incessant, seemed like the roar of a mighty ocean going on and on, in spite of the night that falls. then, in the softness of the coming night, little perrine seemed to feel more impressed with the talk that she had had with her mother, and leaning her head against her donkey's, she let the tears, which she had kept back so long, flow silently, and palikare, in mute sympathy, bent his head and licked her hands. chapter ii grain-of-salt is kind many times that night perrine, lying beside her mother, had jumped up and run to the well for water so as to have it fresh. in spite of her desire to fetch the doctor as early as possible the next morning, she had to wait until grain-of-salt had risen, for she did not know what doctor to call in. she asked him. certainly he knew of a good doctor! and a famous one, too! who made his rounds in a carriage, not on foot, like doctors of no account. dr. cendrier, rue rublet, near the church; he was the man! to find the street she had only to follow the railway tracks as far as the station. when he spoke of such a great doctor who made his rounds in a carriage, perrine was afraid that she would not have enough money to pay him, and timidly she questioned grain-of-salt, not daring to ask outright what she wanted to know. finally he understood. "what you'd have to pay?" he asked. "it's a lot, but it won't be more than forty sous, and so as to make sure, you'll have to pay him in advance." following the directions that grain-of-salt gave her, she easily found the house, but the doctor had not yet risen, so she had to wait. she sat down on a bench in the street, outside a stable door, behind which a coachman was harnessing a horse to a carriage. she thought if she waited there she would be sure to catch the doctor as he left the house, and if she gave him her forty sous he would consent to come. she was quite sure that he would not if she had simply asked him to visit a patient who was staying in the guillot field. she waited a long time; her suspense increased at the thought that her mother would be wondering what kept her away so long. at last an old-fashioned carriage and a clumsy horse came out of the stables and stood before the doctor's house. almost immediately the doctor appeared, big, fat, with a grey beard. before he could step into his carriage perrine was beside him. she put her question tremblingly. "the guillot field?" he said. "has there been a fight?" "no, sir; it's my mother who is ill." "who is your mother?" "we are photographers." he put his foot on the step. she offered him her forty sous quickly. "we can pay you," she hastened to say. "then it's sixty sous," said he. she added twenty sous more. he took the money and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. "i'll be with your mother in about fifteen minutes," he said. she ran all the way back, happy, to take the good news. "he'll cure you, mama; he's a real, real doctor!" she said, breathlessly. she quickly busied herself with her mother, washing her hands and face and arranging her hair, which was beautiful, black and silky; then she tidied up the "room," which only had the result of making it look emptier and poorer still. she had not long to wait. hearing the carriage in the road, she ran out to meet the doctor. as he was walking towards the house she pointed to the wagon. "we live there in our wagon," she said. he did not seem surprised; he was accustomed to the extreme poverty of his patients; but perrine, who was looking at him, noticed that he frowned when he saw the sick woman lying on the mattress in the miserable cart. "put out your tongue and give me your hand," he said. those who pay forty or a hundred francs for a visit from a doctor have no idea of the brevity with which the poor people's cases are diagnosed. in less than a minute his examination was made. "a case for the hospital," he said. simultaneously, little perrine and her mother uttered a cry. "now, child, leave me alone with your mother," he said in a tone of command. for a moment perrine hesitated, but at a sign from her mother she left the wagon and stood just outside. "i am going to die," said the woman in a low voice. "who says that? what you need is nursing, and you can't get that here." "could i have my daughter at the hospital?" "she can see you thursdays and sundays." "what will become of her without me," murmured the mother, "alone in paris? if i have to die i want to go holding her hand in mine." "well, anyway, you can't be left in this cart. the cold nights would be fatal for you. you must take a room. can you?" "if it is not for long, perhaps." "grain-of-salt can rent you one, and won't charge much; but the room is not all. you must have medicine and good food and care, all of which you would get at the hospital." "doctor, that is impossible," said the sick woman. "i cannot leave my little girl. what would become of her?" "well, it's as you like; it's your own affair. i have told you what i think." "you can come in, little girl, now," he called out. then taking a leaf from his note pad, he wrote out a prescription. "take that to the druggist, near the church," he said, handing it to perrine. "no other, mind you. the packet marked _no. _ give to your mother. then give her the potion every hour. give her the quinquina wine when she eats, for she must eat anything she wants, especially eggs. i'll drop in again this evening." she ran out after him. "is my mama very ill?" she asked. "well ... try and get her to go to the hospital." "can't you cure her?" "i hope so, but i can't give her what she'll get at the hospital. it is foolish for her not to go. she won't go because she has to leave you. nothing will happen to you, for you look like a girl who can take care of yourself." striding on, he reached his carriage. perrine wanted him to say more, but he jumped in quickly and was driven off. she returned to the wagon. "go quickly to the druggist; then get some eggs. take all the money; i must get well," said the mother. "the doctor said he could cure you," said perrine. "i'll go quickly for the things." but all the money she took was not enough. when the druggist had read the prescription he looked at perrine. "have you the money to pay for this?" he asked. she opened her hand. "this will come to seven francs, fifty," said the man who had already made his calculation. she counted what she had in her hand and found that she had six francs eighty-five centimes, in counting the austrian florin as two francs. she needed thirteen sous more. "i have only six francs eighty-five centimes. would you take this florin? i have counted that," she said. "oh, no; i should say not!" replied the man. what was to be done? she stood in the middle of the store with her hand open. she was in despair. "if you'll take the florin there will be only thirteen sous lacking," she said at last, "and i'll bring them this afternoon." but the druggist would not agree to this arrangement. he would neither give her credit for thirteen sous nor accept the florin. "as there is no hurry for the wine," he said, "you can come and fetch it this afternoon. i'll prepare the other things at once and they'll only cost you three francs fifty." with the money that remained she bought some eggs, a little vienna loaf which she thought might tempt her mother's appetite, and then she returned to the field, running as fast as she could all the way. "the eggs are fresh," she said. "i held them up to the light. and look at the bread! isn't it a beautiful loaf, mama? you'll eat it, won't you?" "yes, darling." both were full of hope. perrine had absolute faith in the doctor, and was certain that he would perform the miracle. why should he deceive them? when one asks the doctor to tell the truth, doesn't he do so? hope had given the sick woman an appetite. she had eaten nothing for two days; now she ate a half of the roll. "you see," said perrine, gleefully. "everything will be all right soon," answered her mother with a smile. perrine went to the house to inquire of grain-of-salt what steps she should take to sell the wagon and dear palikare. as for the wagon, nothing was easier. grain-of-salt would buy it himself; he bought everything, furniture, clothes, tools, musical instruments ... but a donkey! that was another thing. he did not buy animals, except pups, and his advice was that they should wait for a day and sell it at the horse market. that would be on wednesday. wednesday seemed a long way off, for in her excitement, and filled with hope, perrine had thought that by wednesday her mother would be strong enough to start for maraucourt. but to have to wait like this! there was one thing, though: with what she got for the wagon she could buy the two dresses and the railway tickets, and if grain-of-salt paid them enough, then they need not sell palikare. he could stay at the guillot field and she could send for him after they arrived at maraucourt. dear palikare! how contented he would be to have a beautiful stable to live in and go out every day in the green fields. but alas! grain-of-salt would not give one sou over fifteen francs for the wagon. "only fifteen francs!" she murmured. "yes, and i am only doing that to oblige you. what do you think i can do with it?" he said. he struck the wheels and the shafts with an iron bar; then shrugged his shoulders in disgust. after a great deal of bargaining all she could get was two francs fifty on the price he had offered, and the promise that he would not take it until after they had gone, so that they could stay in it all day, which she thought would be much better for her mother than closed up in the house. after she had looked at the room that grain-of-salt was willing to rent, she realized how much the wagon meant to them, for in spite of the pride in which he spoke of his "apartments," and the contempt in which he spoke of the wagon, perrine was heartbroken at the thought that she must bring her dear mother to this dirty smelling house. as she hesitated, wondering if her mother would not be poisoned from the odor which came from the heaps of things outside, grain-of-salt said impatiently: "hurry up! the rag pickers will be here in a moment and i'll have to get busy." "does the doctor know what these rooms are like?" she asked. "sure! he came to this one lots of times to see the baroness." that decided her. if the doctor had seen the rooms he knew what he was doing in advising them to take one, and then if a baroness lived in one, her mother could very well live in the other. "you'll have to pay one week in advance," said the landlord, "and three sous for the donkey and six for the wagon." "but you've bought the wagon," she said in surprise. "yes, but as you're using it, it's only fair that you should pay." she had no reply to make to this. it was not the first time that she had been cheated. it had happened so often on their long journey. "very well," said the poor little girl. she employed the greater part of the day in cleaning their room, washing the floor, wiping down the walls, the ceiling, the windows. such a scrubbing had never been seen in that house since the place had been built! during the numerous trips that she made from the house to the pump she saw that not only did grass and thistles grow in the field, but there were flowers. evidently some neighbors had thrown some plants over the fence and the seeds had sprung up here and there. scattered about she saw a few roots of wall-flowers, pinks and even some violets! what a lovely idea! she would pick some and put them in their room. they would drive away the bad odor, and at the same time make the place look gay. it seemed that the flowers belonged to no one, for palikare was allowed to eat them if he wished, yet she was afraid to pick the tiniest one without first asking grain-of-salt. "do you want to sell them?" he asked. "no, just to put a few in our room," she replied. "oh, if that's it you may take as many as you like, but if you are going to sell them, i might do that myself. as it's for your room, help yourself, little one. you like the smell of flowers. i like the smell of wine. that's the only thing i can smell." she picked the flowers, and searching amongst the heap of broken glass she found an old vase and some tumblers. the miserable room was soon filled with the sweet perfume of wall-flowers, pinks and violets, which kept out the bad odors of the rest of the house, and at the same time the fresh, bright colors lent a beauty to the dark walls. while working, she had made the acquaintance of her neighbors. on one side of their room lived an old woman whose gray head was adorned with a bonnet decorated with the tri-color ribbon of the french flag. on the other side lived a big man, almost bent double. he wore a leather apron, so long and so large that it seemed to be his only garment. the woman with the tri-color ribbons was a street singer, so the big man told her, and no less a person than the baroness of whom grain-of-salt had spoken. every day she left the guillot field with a great red umbrella and a big stick which she stuck in the ground at the crossroads or at the end of a bridge. she would shelter herself from the sun or the rain under her red umbrella and sing, and then sell to the passersby copies of the songs she sang. as to the big man with the apron, he was a cobbler, so she learned from the baroness, and he worked from morning to night. he was always silent, like a fish, and for this reason everybody called him father carp. but although he did little talking he made enough noise with his hammer. at sunset perrine's room was ready. her mother, as she was helped in, looked at the flowers with surprise and pleasure. "how good you are to your mama, darling," she murmured as she clung to perrine's arm. "how good i am to myself," perrine cried gayly, "because if i do anything that pleases you, i am so happy." at night they had to put the flowers outside. then the odors of the old house rose up terribly strong, but the sick woman did not dare complain. what would be the use, for she could not leave the guillot field to go elsewhere? her sleep was restless, and when the doctor came the next morning he found her worse, which made him change the treatment, and perrine was obliged to go again to the druggist. this time he asked five francs to fill out the prescription. she did not flinch, but paid bravely, although she could scarcely breathe when she got outside the store. if the expenses continued to increase at this rate poor palikare would have to be sold on wednesday. he would have to go now anyway. and if the doctor prescribed something else the next day, costing five francs or more, where would she find the money? when, with her mother and father, she had tramped over the mountains, they had often been hungry, and more than once since they had left greece on their way to france they had been without food. but hunger in the mountains and in the country was another thing--there was always the chance that they would find some wild fruit or vegetables. but in paris there was no hope for those who had no money in their pockets. what would become of them? and the terrible thing was that she must take the responsibility. her mother was too ill now to think or plan, and perrine, although only a child, realized that she must now be the mother. on tuesday morning her fears were realized. after a brief examination, the doctor took from his pocket that terrible notebook that perrine dreaded to see and began to write. she had the courage to stop him. "doctor, if the medicines which you are ordering are not all of the same importance," she said, "will you please write out those which are needed the most?" "what do you mean?" he asked angrily. she trembled but continued bravely: "i mean that we have not much money today, and we shall not get any perhaps until tomorrow ... so...." he looked at her, then glanced round the room, as though for the first time remarking their poverty; then he put his notebook back in his pocket. "we won't change the treatment until tomorrow, then," he said. "there is no hurry for this. continue the same today." "no hurry!" perrine repeated the words to herself. there was no hurry then ... her mother was not so ill as she had feared; they had just to wait and hope.... wednesday was the day for which she was waiting, yet at the same time how she dreaded it. dear, dear palikare.... whenever her mother did not need her she would run out into the field and kiss his nose and talk to him, and as he had no work to do, and all the thistles to eat that he wanted and his little mistress' love, he was the happiest donkey in the world. "ah, if you only knew," murmured perrine, as she caressed him. but he did not know. all he knew was that she loved him and that the thistles were good. so, as she kissed and kissed, he brayed in contentment and shook his long ears as he looked at her from the corner of his eyes. besides, he had made friends with grain-of-salt and had received a proof of his friendship in a way that flattered his greed. on monday, having broken loose, he had trotted up to grain-of-salt, who was occupied in sorting out the rags and bones that had just arrived, and he stood beside him. the man was about to pour out a drink from the bottle that was always beside him when he saw palikare, his eyes fixed on him, his neck stretched out. "what are you doing here?" he asked. as the words were not said in anger, the donkey knew, and he did not move. "want a drink ... a glass of wine?" he asked mockingly. the glass that he was about to put to his lips he offered in a joke to the donkey. palikare, taking the offer seriously, came a step nearer and pushing out his lips to make them as thin and as long as possible, drank a good half of the glass which had been filled to the brim. "_oh la la! la la!_" cried grain-of-salt, bursting with laughter. "baroness! carp! come here!" at his calls, the baroness and carp, also a rag picker who came into the field at that moment and a man with a push-cart who sold red and yellow and blue sugar sticks, ran up. "what's the matter?" demanded the baroness. he filled the glass again and held it out to the donkey, who, as before, absorbed half of the contents amidst the laughter and shouts of those who looked on. "i heard that donkeys liked wine, but i never believed it," said the candy man. "you ought to buy him; he'd be a good companion for you," said the baroness. "a fine pair," said another. but grain-of-salt did not buy him, although he took a great liking to him, and told perrine that he would go with her on wednesday to the horse market. this was a great relief for perrine, for she had wondered how she would ever be able to find the place; neither did she know how to discuss prices, and she was very much afraid that she would be robbed. she had heard so many stories about paris thieves, and what could she have done to protect herself?... wednesday morning came. at an early hour she busied herself with brushing palikare and making his beautiful coat shine so that he would look his best. how she kissed him! how she stroked him while her tears fell! when palikare saw that instead of being hitched to the wagon, a rope was put round his neck, his surprise was great; and still more surprised was he when grain-of-salt, who did not want to walk all the way from charonne to the horse market, climbed up on a chair and from the chair onto his back. but as perrine held him and spoke to him, he offered no resistance. besides, was not grain-of-salt his friend? they started thus. palikare, still surprised, walked gravely along, led by perrine. on through the streets they went. at first they met but few vehicles, and soon they arrived at a bridge which jutted into a large garden. "that's the zoo," said grain-of-salt, "and i'm sure that they haven't got a donkey there like yours." "then perhaps we can sell him to the zoo," exclaimed perrine, thinking that in a zoological garden all the animals have to do is to walk about and be looked at. that would be very nice for dear palikare! "an affair with the government," said grain-of-salt; "better not, 'cause the government...." from his expression it was evident that grain-of-salt had no faith in the government. from now on the traffic was intense. perrine needed all her wits and eyes about her. after what seemed a long time they arrived at the market and grain-of-salt jumped off the donkey. but while he was getting down palikare had time to gaze about him, and when perrine tried to make him go through the iron gate at the entrance he refused to budge. he seemed to know by instinct that this was a market where horses and donkeys were sold. he was afraid. perrine coaxed him, commanded him, begged him, but he still refused to move. grain-of-salt thought that if he pushed him from behind he would go forward, but palikare, who would not permit such familiarity, backed and reared, dragging perrine with him. there was already a small circle of onlookers around them. in the first row, as usual, there were messenger boys and errand boys, each giving his word of advice as to what means to use to force the donkey through the gate. "that there donkey is going to give some trouble to the fool who buys him," cried one. these were dangerous words that might affect the sale, so grain-of-salt thought he ought to say something. "he's the cleverest donkey that ever was!" he cried. "he knows he's going to be sold, and he's doin' this 'cause he loves us and don't want ter leave us!" "are you so sure of that, grain-of-salt?" called out a voice in the crowd. "zooks! who knows my name here?" cried the one addressed. "don't you recognize la rouquerie?" "my faith, that's so," he cried, as the speaker came forward. they shook hands. "that donkey yours?" "no; it belongs to this little gal." "do you know anything about it?" "we've had more than one glass together, and if you want a good donkey i'll speak for him." "i need one and yet i don't need one," said la rouquerie. "well, come and take a drink. 'tain't worthwhile to pay for a place in the market...." "especially if he won't budge!" "i told you he was a smart one; he's that intelligent." "if i buy him it's not for his tricks nor 'cause he can take a drink with one, but he must work." "he can work, sure! he's come all the way from greece without stopping." "from greece!" grain-of-salt made a sign to perrine to follow him, and palikare, now that he knew that he was not going into the market, trotted beside her docilely. she did not even have to pull his rope. who was this prospective buyer? a man? a woman? from the general appearance and the hairless face it might be a woman of about fifty, but from the clothes, which consisted of a workingman's blouse and trousers and a tall leather hat like a coachman wears, and from the short, black pipe which the individual was smoking, it surely was a man. but whatever it was, perrine decided that the person looked kind. the expression was not hard or wicked. grain-of-salt and the stranger turned down a narrow street and stopped at a wine shop. they sat down at one of the tables outside on the pavement and ordered a bottle of wine and two glasses. perrine remained by the curb, still holding her donkey. "you'll see if he isn't cunning," said grain-of-salt, holding out his full glass. palikare stretched out his neck, thinned his lips and quickly drank the half glass of wine. but this feat did not give la rouquerie any particular satisfaction. "i don't want him to drink my wine, but to drag my cart with the rabbit skins," she said. "didn't i just tell you that he came from greece, draggin' a wagon the whole way?" "ah, that's another thing!" the strange looking woman carefully examined the animal; then she gave the greatest attention to every detail; then asked perrine how much she wanted for him. the price which perrine had arranged with her landlord beforehand was one hundred francs. this was the sum that she asked. la rouquerie gave a cry of amazement. one hundred francs! sell a donkey without any guarantee for that sum! were they crazy? then she began to find all kind of faults with the unfortunate palikare. "oh, very well," said grain-of-salt, after a lengthy discussion; "we'll take him to the market." perrine breathed. the thought of only getting twenty francs had stunned her. in their terrible distress what would twenty francs be? a hundred francs even was not sufficient for their pressing needs. "let's see if he'll go in any more now than he did then," cried la rouquerie. palikare followed perrine up to the market gates obediently, but once there he stopped short. she insisted, and talked, and pulled at the rope, but it was no use. finally he sat down in the middle of the street. "palikare, do come! do come, dear palikare," perrine said, imploringly. but he sat there as though he did not understand a word of what she was saying. a crowd gathered round and began to jeer. "set fire to his tail," cried one. grain-of-salt was furious, perrine in despair. "you see he won't go in," cried la rouquerie. "i'll give thirty francs, that's ten more'n i said, 'cause his cunning shows that this donkey is a good boy, but hurry up and take the money or i'll buy another." grain-of-salt consulted perrine with a glance; he made her a sign that she ought to accept the offer. but she seemed stunned at such a fraud. she was standing there undecided when a policeman told her roughly that she was blocking up the street and that she must move on. "go forward, or go back, but don't stand there," he ordered. she could not go forward, for palikare had no intention of doing so. as soon as he understood that she had given up all hope of getting him into the market, he got up and followed her docilely, agitating his long ears with satisfaction. "now," said la rouquerie, after she had put thirty francs into poor perrine's hand, "you must take him to my place, for i'm beginning to know him and he's quite capable of refusing to come with me. i don't live far from here." but grain-of-salt would not consent to do this; he declared that the distance was too far for him. "you go with the lady alone," he said to perrine, "and don't be too cut up about your donkey. he'll be all right with her. she's a good woman." "but how shall i find my way back to charonne?" asked perrine, bewildered. she dreaded to be lost in the great city. "you follow the fortifications ... nothing easier." as it happened, the street where la rouquerie lived was not far from the horse market, and it did not take them long to get there. there were heaps of garbage before her place, just like in guillot field. the moment of parting had come. as she tied palikare up in a little stable, her tears fell on his head. "don't take on so," said the woman; "i'll take care of him, i promise you." "we loved him so much," said little perrine. then she went on her way. chapter iii "poor little girl" what was she to do with thirty francs when she had calculated that they must at least have one hundred? she turned this question over in her mind sadly as she walked along by the fortifications. she found her way back easily. she put the money into her mother's hand, for she did not know how to spend it. it was her mother who decided what to do. "we must go at once to maraucourt," she said. "but are you strong enough?" perrine asked doubtfully. "i must be. we have waited too long in the hope that i should get better. and while we wait our money is going. what poor palikare has brought us will go also. i did not want to go in this miserable state...." "when must we go? today?" asked perrine. "no; it's too late today. we must go tomorrow morning. you go and find out the hours of the train and the price of the tickets. it is the gare du nord station, and the place where we get out is picquigny." perrine anxiously sought grain-of-salt. he told her it was better for her to consult a time table than to go to the station, which was a long way off. from the time table they learned that there were two trains in the morning, one at six o'clock and one at ten, and that the fare to picquigny, third class, was nine francs twenty-five centimes. "we'll take the ten o'clock train," said her mother, "and we will take a cab, for i certainly cannot walk to the station." and yet when nine o'clock the next day came she could not even get to the cab that perrine had waiting for her. she attempted the few steps from her room to the cab, but would have fallen to the ground had not perrine held her. "i must go back," she said weakly. "don't be anxious ... it will pass." but it did not pass, and the baroness, who was watching them depart, had to bring a chair. the moment she dropped into the seat she fainted. "she must go back and lie down," said the baroness, rubbing her cold hands. "it is nothing, girl; don't look so scared ... just go and find carp. the two of us can carry her to her room. you can't go ... not just now." the baroness soon had the sick woman in her bed, where she regained consciousness. "now you must just stay there in your bed," said the baroness, kindly. "you can go just as well tomorrow. i'll get carp to give you a nice cup of bouillon. he loves soup as much as the landlord loves wine; winter and summer he gets up at five o'clock and makes his soup; good stuff it is, too. few can make better." without waiting for a reply, she went to carp, who was again at his work. "will you give me a cup of your bouillon for our patient?" she asked. he replied with a smile only, but he quickly took the lid from a saucepan and filled a cup with the savory soup. the baroness returned with it, carrying it carefully, so as not to spill a drop. "take that, my dear lady," she said, kneeling down beside the bed. "don't move, but just open your lips." a spoonful was put to the sick woman's lips, but she could not swallow it. again she fainted, and this time she remained unconscious for a longer time. the baroness saw that the soup was not needed, and so as not to waste it, she made perrine take it. a day passed. the doctor came, but there was nothing he could do. perrine was in despair. she wondered how long the thirty francs that la rouquerie had given her would last. although their expenses were not great, there was first one thing, then another, that was needed. when the last sous were spent, where would they go? what would become of them if they could get no more money? she was seated beside her mother's bedside, her beautiful little face white and drawn with anxiety. suddenly she felt her mother's hand, which she held in hers, clasp her fingers more tightly. "you want something?" she asked quickly, bending her head. "i want to speak to you ... the hour has come for my last words to you, darling," said her mother. "oh, mama! mama!" cried perrine. "don't interrupt, darling, and let us both try to control ourselves. i did not want to frighten you, and that is the reason why, until now, i have said nothing that would add to your grief. but what i have to say must be said, although it hurts us both. we are going to part...." in spite of her efforts, perrine could not keep back her sobs. "yes, it is terrible, dear child, and yet i am wondering if, after all, it is not for the best ... that you will be an orphan. it may be better for you to go alone than to be taken to them by a mother whom they have scorned. well, god's will is that you should be left alone ... in a few hours ... tomorrow, perhaps...." for a moment she stopped, overcome with emotion. "when i ... am gone ... there will be things for you to do. in my pocket you will find a large envelope which contains my marriage certificate. the certificate bears my name and your father's. you will be asked to show it, but make them give it back to you. you might need it later on to prove your parentage. take great care of it, dear. however, you might lose it, so i want you to learn it by heart, so that you will never forget it. then, when a day comes and you need it, you must get another copy. you understand? remember all that i tell you." "yes, mama; yes." "you will be very unhappy, but you must not give way to despair. when you have nothing more to do in paris ... when you are left alone ... then you must go off at once to maraucourt ... by train if you have enough money ... on foot, if you have not. better to sleep by the roadside and have nothing to eat than to stay in paris. you promise to leave paris at once, perrine?" "i promise, mama," sobbed the little girl. the sick woman made a sign that she wanted to say more, but that she must rest for a moment. little perrine waited, her eyes fixed on her mother's face. "you will go to maraucourt?" said the dying woman after a few moments had passed. "you have no right to claim anything ... what you get must be for yourself alone ... be good, and make yourself loved. all is there ... for you. i have hope ... you will be loved for yourself ... they cannot help loving you ... and then your troubles will be over, my darling." she clasped her hands in prayer. then a look of heavenly rapture came over her face. "i see," she cried; "i see ... my darling will be loved! she will be happy ... she will be cared for. i can die in peace now with this thought ... perrine, my perrine, keep a place in your heart for me always, child...." these words, which seemed like an exaltation to heaven, had exhausted her; she sank back on the mattress and sighed. perrine waited ... waited. her mother did not speak. she was dead. then the child left the bedside and went out of the house. in the field she threw herself down on the grass and broke into sobs. it seemed as though her little heart would break. it was a long time before she could calm herself. then her breath came in hiccoughs. vaguely she thought that she ought not to leave her mother alone. someone should watch over her. the field was now filled with shadows; the night was falling. she wandered about, not knowing where she went, still sobbing. she passed the wagon for the tenth time. the candy man, who had watched her come out of the house, went towards her with two sugar sticks in his hand. "poor little girl," he said, pityingly. "oh!..." she sobbed. "there, there! take these," he said, offering her the candy. "sweetness is good for sorrow." chapter iv a hard road to travel the last prayers had been uttered. perrine still stood before the grave. the baroness, who had not left her, gently took her arm. "come," she said; "you must come away," she added more firmly as perrine attempted to resist her. holding her tightly by the arm, she drew her away. they walked on for some moments, perrine not knowing what was passing around her, nor understanding where they were leading her. her thoughts, her spirit, her heart, were with her mother. at last they stopped in one of the side paths; then she saw standing round her the baroness, who had now let go of her arm, grain-of-salt and the candy man, but she saw them only vaguely. the baroness had black ribbons on her bonnet; grain-of-salt was dressed like a gentleman and wore a high silk hat; carp had replaced his leather apron by a black prince albert which came down to his feet, and the candy man had cast aside his white blouse for a cloth coat. for, like the real parisian who practises the cult of the dead, they had dressed themselves up in their best to pay respect to the one they had just buried. "i want to tell you, little one," commenced grain-of-salt, who thought that he should speak first, being the most important person present; "i want to tell you that you can stay as long as you like in guillot fields without paying." "if you'd like to sing with me," said the baroness, "you can earn enough to live on. it's a nice profession." "if you'd like to go into the candy business, i'll teach you; that's a real trade and a nice one," said the candy man. carp said nothing, but with a smile and a gesture he let her understand that she could always find a bowl of soup at his place ... and good soup, too! perrine's eyes filled with fresh tears, soft tears which washed away the bitterness of the burning ones which for two days had flowed from her eyes. "how good you all are to me," she murmured. "one does what one can," said grain-of-salt. "one should not leave an honest little girl like you on the streets of paris," said the baroness. "i must not stay in paris," replied perrine; "i must go at once to my relations." "you have relations?" exclaimed grain-of-salt, looking at the others with an air which said that he did not think that those relations could be worth much. "where are your relations?" "near amiens." "and how can you go to amiens? have you got money?" "not enough to take the train, but i'm going to walk there." "do you know the way?" "i have a map in my pocket...." "yes, but does that tell you which road you have to take from here, here in paris?" "no, but if you will tell me...." they all were eager to give her this information, but it was all so confused and contradictory that grain-of-salt cut the talk short. "if you want to lose yourself in paris, just listen to what they are saying," he said. "now, this is the way you must go," and he explained to her which road she should take. "now, when do you want to go?" "at once; i promised my mother," said perrine. "you must obey her," said the baroness, solemnly, "but not before i've kissed you; you're a good girl." the men shook hands with her. she knew she must leave the cemetery, yet she hesitated and turned once more towards the grave that she had just left, but the baroness stopped her. "as you are obliged to go, go at once; it is best," she said. "yes, go," said grain-of-salt. when she had climbed into the car on the belt line she took an old map of france from her pocket which she had consulted many times alone since they left italy. from paris to amiens the road was easy; she had only to take the calais road; this was indicated on her map by a little black line. from amiens she would go to boulogne, and as she had learned also to calculate distances, she thought that to maraucourt it ought to be about one hundred and fifty-eight miles. but could she do all those miles, regularly ... go on day after day? she knew that to walk four or five miles by chance on one day was a very different matter to taking a long, continuous journey like she was contemplating. there would be bad days ... rainy days ... and how long would her money last? she had only five francs thirty-five centimes left. the train pulled up at the station at which she had to get out. now she had to turn to the right, and as the sun would not go down for two or three hours she hoped to be far away from paris by night, and find a place in the open country where she could sleep. yet as far as her eyes could see there was nothing but houses and factories, factories with great tall chimneys sending forth clouds of thick, black smoke, and all along the road wagons, tramways and carts. again she saw a lot of trucks bearing the name that she had noticed while waiting to pass through the gates: "maraucourt factories, vulfran paindavoine." would paris ever end? would she ever get out of this great city? she was not afraid of the lonely fields, nor the silence of the country at night, nor the mysterious shadows, but of paris, the crowd, the lights. she was now on the outskirts of the city. before leaving it (although she had no appetite), she thought she would buy a piece of bread so that she would have something to eat before going to sleep. she went into a baker shop. "i want some bread, please," she said. "have you any money?" demanded the woman, who did not seem to put much confidence in perrine's appearance. "yes, and i want one pound, please. here is five francs. will you give me the change?" before cutting the bread the woman took up the five franc piece and examined it. "what! that!" she exclaimed, making it ring on the marble slab. "it's a five franc piece," said perrine. "who told you to try and pass that off on me?" asked the woman, angrily. "no one, and i am asking you for a pound of bread for my supper." "well, then, you won't get any bread, and you'd better get out of here as quickly as you can before i have you arrested." "arrested! why?" she stammered in surprise. "because you're a thief!" "oh!..." "you want to pass counterfeit money on me. you vagabond ... you thief! be off! no, wait; i'll get a policeman." perrine knew that she was not a thief, whether the money was real or false, but vagabond she was. she had no home, no parents. what would she answer the policeman? they would arrest her for being a vagabond. she put this question to herself very quickly, but although her fear was great, she thought of her money. "if you don't wish to sell me the bread, at least you can give me back my money," she said, holding out her hand. "so that you can pass it on someone else, eh? i'll keep your money. if you want it, go and fetch the police," cried the woman, furiously. "be off, you thief." the woman's loud cries could be heard in the street, and several people by now had gathered round the door. "what's the matter?" someone cried. "why, this girl here is trying to rob my till," shouted the woman. "there never is a cop when one wants one." terrified, perrine wondered how she could get out, but they let her pass as she made for the door, hissing her and calling her names as she ran. she ran on and on, too afraid to turn round to see if anyone was following her. after a few minutes, which to her seemed hours, she found herself in the country, and was able to stop and breathe. no one was calling after her; no one following her. after her fears had calmed down she realized that she had nothing to eat and no money. what should she do? instinctively she glanced at the fields by the wayside. she saw beets, onions, cabbages, but there was nothing there ready to eat, and besides, even if there had been ripe melons and trees laden with fruit, what good would they have been to her; she could not stretch out her hand to pick the fruit any more than she could stretch it out to beg of the passersby. no, little perrine was not a thief, nor a beggar, nor a vagabond. she felt very depressed. it was eventide, and in the quietness of the twilight she realized how utterly alone she was; but she knew that she must not give way; she felt that while there was still light she must walk on, and by the time night fell perhaps she would have found a spot where she could sleep in safety. she had not gone far before she found what she thought would be the very place. as she came to a field of artichokes she saw a man and woman picking artichoke heads and packing them in baskets, which they piled up in a cart that stood by the roadside. she stopped to look at them at their work. a moment later another cart driven by a girl came up. "so you're getting yours all in?" called out the girl. "should say so, and it's none too soon," replied the man. "it's no fun sleeping here all night to watch for those rogues. i at least shall sleep in my bed tonight." "and what about monneau's lot?" grinned the girl. "oh, monneau's a sly dog," answered the man; "he counts on us others watching out for his. he's not going to be here tonight. serve him right if he finds all his gone!" all three laughed heartily. they were not over-anxious that monneau should prosper. didn't he profit by their watch to take his own slumbers in peace? "that'll be a joke, eh?" "wait for me," said the girl. "i won't be a jiffy; then we'll go together." the man and the woman waited, and in a few minutes the girl had finished her task and the two carts, laden with artichokes, went towards the village. perrine stood in the deserted road looking at the two fields, which presented such a difference in appearance. one was completely stripped of its vegetables; the other was filled with a splendid crop. at the end of the field was a little hut made of branches where the man who watched the field had slept. perrine decided that she would stay there for the night, now that she knew it would not be occupied by the watch. she did not fear that she would be disturbed, yet she dared not take possession of the place until it was quite dark. she sat down by a ditch and waited, thankful that she had found what she wanted. then at last, when it was quite dark and all was quiet, she picked her way carefully over the beds of artichokes and slipped into the hut. it was better inside than she had hoped, for the ground was covered with straw and there was a wooden box that would serve her for a pillow. ever since she had run from the baker's shop it had seemed to her that she was like a tracked animal, and more than once she had looked behind her with fear, half expecting to see the police on her heels. she felt now in the hut that she was safe. her nerves relaxed. after a few minutes she realized that she had another cause for anxiety. she was hungry, very hungry. while she was tramping along the roads, overwhelmed by her great loss, it had seemed to her that she would never want to eat or drink again. she felt the pangs of hunger now and she had only one sou left. how could she live on one sou for five or six days? this was a very serious question. but then, had she not found shelter for the night; perhaps she would find food for the morrow. she closed her eyes, her long black lashes heavy with tears. the last thing at night she had always thought of her dead father; now it was the spirits of both her father and her mother that seemed to hover around her. again and again she stretched out her arms in the darkness to them, and then, worn out with fatigue, with a sob she dropped off to sleep. but although she was tired out, her slumbers were broken. she turned and tossed on the straw. every now and again the rumbling of a cart on the road would wake her, and sometimes some mysterious noise, which in the silence of the night made her heart beat quickly. then it seemed to her that she heard a cart stop near the hut on the road. she raised herself on her elbow to listen. she had not made a mistake; she heard some whispering. she sprang to her feet and looked through the cracks of the hut. a cart had stopped at the end of the field, and by the pale light from the stars she could dimly see the form of a man or woman throwing out baskets to two others, who carried them into the field. this was monneau's lot. what did it mean at such an hour? had monneau come so late to cut his artichokes? then she understood! these were the thieves! they had come to strip monneau's field! they quickly cut the artichoke heads and heaped them up in the baskets. the woman had taken the cart away; evidently they did not want it to stay on the road while they worked for fear of attracting the attention of anyone passing by. what would happen to her if the thieves saw her? she had heard that thieves sometimes killed a person who caught them at their work. there was the chance that they would not discover her. for they certainly knew that the hut would not be occupied on this night that they had planned to strip the field. but if they caught her? and then ... if they were arrested, she would be taken with them! at this thought cold beads of perspiration broke out on her forehead. thieves work quickly; they would soon have finished! but presently they were disturbed. from the distance could be heard the noise of a cart on the paved road. as it drew nearer they hid themselves, lying down flat between the artichoke beds. the cart passed. then they went on with their work even more quickly. in spite of their feverish haste it seemed to little perrine that they would never be finished. every moment she feared that someone would come and catch them and she be arrested with them. if she could only get away. she looked about her to see if it were possible for her to leave the hut. this could easily be done, but then they would be sure to see her once she was on the road. it would be better to remain where she was. she lay down again and pretended to sleep. as it was impossible for her to go out without being seen, it was wiser to pretend that she had not seen anything if they should come into the hut. for some time they went on cutting the artichokes. then there was another noise on the road. it was their cart coming back. it stopped at the end of the field. in a few minutes the baskets were all stowed in the cart and the thieves jumped in and drove off hurriedly in the direction of paris. if she had known the hour she could have slept until dawn, but not knowing how long she had been there, she thought that it would be better if she went on her way. in the country people are about at an early hour. if, when day broke, the laborers going to work saw her coming out of the hut, or even if they saw her round about the field, they might suspect her of having been with the thieves and arrest her. so she slipped out of the hut, ears on the alert for the slightest noise, eyes glancing in every direction. she reached the main road, then hurried off. the stars in the skies above were disappearing, and from the east a faint streak of light lit the shadows of the night and announced the approach of day. chapter v storms and fears she had not walked far before she saw in the distance a black mass silhouetted against the dawning light to the grey sky. chimneys, houses and steeples rose up in the coming dawn, leaving the rest of the landscape obscure in the shadows. she reached the first straggling cottages of the village. instinctively she trod more softly on the paved road. this was a useless precaution, for with the exception of the cats which ran about the streets, everyone slept, and her little footsteps only awoke a few dogs who barked at her behind closed gates. she was famished; she was weak and faint with hunger. what would become of her if she dropped unconscious? she was afraid she might soon. so that this would not happen, she thought it better to rest a minute, and as she was now passing before a barn full of hay, she went in quietly and threw herself down on the soft bed. the rest, the warmth, and also the sweet smell of the hay, soothed her and soon she slept. when she awoke the sun was already high in the heavens and was casting its rays over the fields where men and women were busily at work. the pangs of hunger were now more acute than ever. her head whirled; she was so giddy that she could scarcely see where she went as she staggered on. she had just reached the top of a hill, and before her, close by, was the village with its shops. she would spend her last sou for a piece of bread! she had heard of people finding money on the road; perhaps she would find a coin tomorrow; anyhow, she must have a piece of bread now. she looked carefully at the last sou she possessed. poor little girl, she did not know the difference between real money and false, and although she thought this sou looked real, she was very nervous when she entered the first baker shop that she came across. "will you cut me a sou's worth of bread?" she asked, timidly. the man behind the counter took from the basket a little penny roll and handed it to her. instead of stretching out her hand, she hesitated. "if you'll cut a piece for me," she said, "it doesn't matter if it is not today's bread." the baker gave her a large piece of bread that had been on the counter for two or three days. what did that matter? the great thing was that it was larger than the little penny roll. it was worth two rolls. as soon as it was in her hand her mouth filled with water. but she would not eat it until she had got out of the village. this she did very quickly. as soon as she had passed the last house, she took her little knife from her pocket and made a cross on the piece of bread so as to be able to cut it into four equal parts. she took one piece, keeping the three others for the three following days, hoping that it might last her until she reached amiens. she had calculated this as she had hurried through the village, and it had seemed such an easy matter. but scarcely had she swallowed a mouthful of her little piece of bread than she felt that the strongest arguments had no power against hunger. she was famished! she must eat! the second piece followed the first, the third followed the second. never had her will power been so weak. she was hungry; she must have it ... all ... all. her only excuse was that the pieces were so tiny. when all four were put together, the whole only weighed a half a pound. and a whole pound would not have been enough for her in her ravenous condition. the day before she had only had a little cup of soup that carp had given her. she devoured the fourth piece. she went on her way. although she had only just eaten her piece of bread, a terrible thought obsessed her. where would she next get a mouthful? she now knew what torture she would have to go through ... the pangs of hunger were terrible to endure. where should she get her next meal? she walked through two more villages. she was getting thirsty now, very thirsty. her tongue was dry, her lips parched. she came to the last house in the village, but she did not dare ask for a glass of water. she had noticed that the people looked at her curiously, and even the dogs seemed to show their teeth at the ragged picture she presented. she must walk on. the sun was very hot now, and her thirst became more intense as she tramped along the white road. there was not a tree along the road, and little clouds of dust rose around her every instant, making her lips more parched. oh, for a drink of water! the palate of her mouth seemed hard, like a corn. the fact that she was thirsty had not worried her at first. one did not have to go into a shop to buy water. anybody could have it. when she saw a brook or a river she had only to make a cup of her hands and drink all she wanted. but she had walked miles in the dust and could see no sign of water. at last she picked up some little round stones and put them in her mouth. her tongue seemed to be moister while she kept them there. she changed them from time to time, hoping that she would soon come to a brook. then suddenly the atmosphere changed, and although the heat was still suffocating, the sun was hidden. thick black clouds filled the sky. a storm was coming on, there would be rain, and she would be able to hold her mouth up to it, or she could stoop down to the puddles that it made and drink! the wind came up. a terrific swirl, carrying clouds of dust and leaves, swept over the country and battered down the crops, uprooting plants and shrubs in its mad fracas. perrine could not withstand this whirlwind. as she was lifted off her feet, a deafening crash of thunder shook the earth. throwing herself down in the ditch, she laid flat on her stomach, covering her mouth and her eyes with her two small hands. the thunder rolled heavily on. a moment ago she had been mad with thirst and had prayed that the storm would break quickly; now she realized that the storm would not only bring thunder and rain, but lightning--terrible flashes of lightning that almost blinded her. and there would be torrents of rain and hail! where could she go? her dress would be soaked, and how could she dry it? she clambered out of the ditch. in the distance she saw a wood. she thought that she might find a nook there where she could take shelter. she had no time to lose. it was very dark. the claps of thunder became more frequent and louder, and the vivid lightning played fantastically on the black sky. would she be able to reach the wood before the storm broke? she ran as quickly as her panting breath would allow, now and again casting a look behind her at the black clouds which seemed to be sweeping down upon her. she had seen terrible storms in the mountains when travelling with her father and mother, but they were with her then; now she was alone. not a soul near her in this desolate country. fortunately the wind was behind her; it blew her along, at times carrying her off her feet. if she could only keep up this pace; the storm had not caught up with her yet. holding her elbows against her little body and bending forward, she ran on ... but the storm also made greater strides. at this moment came a crash, louder and heavier. the storm was just over her now and the ground around her was cleaved with blue flames. it was better to stop running now; far better be drenched than struck down by lightning. soon a few drops of rain fell. fortunately she was nearing the wood, and now she could distinguish clearly the great trees. a little more courage. many times her father had told her that if one kept one's courage in times of danger one stood a better chance of being saved. she kept on. when at last she entered the forest it was all so black and dark she could scarcely make out anything. then suddenly a flash of lightning dazzled her, and in the vivid glare she thought she saw a little cabin not far away to which led a bad road hollowed with deep ruts. again the lightning flashed across the darkness, and she saw that she had not made a mistake. about fifty steps farther on there was a little hut made of faggots, that the woodcutters had built. she made a final dash; then, at the end of her strength, worn out and breathless, she sank down on the underbrush that covered the floor. she had not regained her breath when a terrible noise filled the forest. the crash, mingled with the splintering of wood, was so terrific that she thought her end had come. the trees bent their trunks, twisting and writhing, and the dead branches fell everywhere with a dull, crackling sound. could her hut withstand this fury? she crawled to the opening. she had no time to think--a blue flame, followed by a frightful crash, threw her over, blinded and dazed. when she came to herself, astonished to find that she was still alive, she looked out and saw that a giant oak that stood near the hut had been struck by lightning. in falling its length the trunk had been stripped of its bark from top to bottom, and two of the biggest branches were twisted round its roots. she crept back, trembling, terrified at the thought that death had been so near her, so near that its terrible breath had laid her low. as she stood there, pale and shaking, she heard an extraordinary rolling sound, more powerful than that of an express train. it was the rain and the hail which was beating down on the forest. the cabin cracked from top to bottom; the roof bent under the fury of the tempest, but it did not fall in. no house, however solid, could be to her what this little hut was at this moment, and she was mistress of it. she grew calm; she would wait here until the storm had passed. a sense of well-being stole over her, and although the thunder continued to rumble and the rain came down in a deluge, and the wind whistled through the trees, and the unchained tempest went on its mad way through the air and on the earth, she felt safe in her little hut. then she made a pillow for her head from the underbrush, and stretching herself out, she fell asleep. when she awoke the thunder had stopped, but the rain was still falling in a fine drizzle. the forest, with its solitude and silence, did not terrify her. she was refreshed from her long sleep and she liked her little cabin so much that she thought she would spend the night there. she at least had a roof over her head and a dry bed. she did not know how long she had slept, but that did not matter; she would know when night came. she had not washed herself since she had left paris, and the dust which had covered her from head to foot made her skin smart. now she was alone, and there was plenty of water in the ditch outside and she would profit by it. in her pocket she had, beside her map and her mother's certificate, a few little things tied up in a rag. there was a piece of soap, a small comb, a thimble, and a spool of thread, in which she had stuck two needles. she undid her packet; then taking off her vest, her shoes, and her stockings, she leaned over the ditch, in which the water flowed clear, and soaped her face, shoulders and feet. for a towel she had only the rag she had used to tie up her belongings, and it was neither big nor thick, but it was better than nothing. this _toilette_ did her almost as much good as her sleep. she combed her golden hair in two big braids and let them hang over her shoulders. if it were not for the little pain in her stomach, and the few torn places in her shoes, which had been the cause of her sore feet, she would have been quite at ease in mind and body. she was hungry, but there was nothing she could do. she could not find a bit of nourishment in this cabin, and as it was still raining, she felt that she ought not to leave this shelter until the next day. then when night came her hunger became more intense, till finally she began to cut some twigs and nibble on them, but they were hard and bitter, and after chewing on them for a few minutes she threw them away. she tried the leaves; they went down easier. while she ate her meal and darned her stockings, night came on. soon all was dark and silent. she could hear no other sound than that of the raindrops falling from the branches. although she had made up her mind to spend the night there, she experienced a feeling of fright at being all alone in this black forest. true, she had spent a part of the day in the same place, running no other danger than that of being struck, but the woods in the daytime are not like the woods at night, with the solemn silence and the mysterious shadows, which make one conjure up the vision of so many weird things. what was in the woods? she wondered. wolves, perhaps! at this thought she became wide awake, and jumping up, she found a big stick, which she cut to a point with her knife; then she strewed branches and fagots all around her, piling them high. she could at least defend herself behind her rampart. reassured, she laid down again, and it was not long before she was asleep. the song of a bird awoke her. she recognized at once the sweet, shrill notes of a blackbird. day was breaking. she began to shake, for she was chilled to the bone. the dampness of the night had made her clothes as wet as though she had been through a shower. she jumped to her feet and shook herself violently like a dog. she felt that she ought to move about, but she did not want to go on her way yet, for it was not yet light enough for her to study the sky to see if it were going to rain again. to pass the time, and still more with the wish to be on the move, she arranged the fagots which she had disturbed the night before. then she combed her hair and washed herself in the ditch, which was full of water. when she had finished the sun had risen, and the sky gleamed blue through the branches of the trees. there was not the slightest cloud to be seen. she must go. although she had darned her stockings well which had worn away through the holes in her shoes, the continual tramp, tramp, tramp, made her little feet ache. after a time, however, she stepped out with a regular step on the road, which had been softened by the rain, and the rays from the beautiful sun fell upon her back and warmed her. never had she seen such a lovely morning. the storm, which had washed the roads and the fields, had given new life to the plants. surely this was a good omen. she was full of hope. her imagination began to soar on wings. she hoped that somebody had had a hole in their pockets and had lost some money, and that she could find it on the road. she hoped she might find something, not a purse full, because she would have to try to find the owner, but just a little coin, one penny, or perhaps ten cents. she even thought that she might find some work to do, something that could bring her in a few cents. she needed so little to be able to live for three or four days. she trudged along with her eyes fixed on the ground, but neither a copper nor a silver coin did she see, and neither did she meet anybody who could give her work. oh, for something to eat! she was famished. again and again she had to sit down by the wayside, she was so weak from lack of food. she wondered if she found nothing would she have to sit down by the road and die. finally she came to a field and saw four young girls picking peas. a peasant woman seemed to be in charge. gathering courage, she crossed over the road and walked towards the woman. but the woman stopped her before she could reach her. "what cher want?" she shouted. "i want to know if i can help, too," answered perrine. "we don't want no one!" "you can give me just what you wish." "where d'ye come from?" "from paris." one of the girls raised her head and cast her an angry look. "the galavanter!" she cried, "she comes from paris to try to get our job." "i told yer we don't want nobody," said the woman again. there was nothing to do but to go on her way, which she did with a heavy heart. "look out! a cop's comin'!" cried one of the girls. perrine turned her head quickly, and they all burst out laughing, amused at the joke. she had not gone far before she had to stop. she could not see the road for the tears which filled her eyes. what had she done to those girls that they should be so mean to her? evidently it was as difficult for tramps to get work as it was for them to find pennies. she did not dare ask again for a job. she dragged her feet along, only hurrying when she was passing through the villages so that she could escape the stares. she was almost prostrated when she reached a wood. it was mid-day and the sun was scorching; there was not a breath of air. she was exhausted and dripping with perspiration. then her heart seemed to stop and she fell to the ground, unable to move or think. a wagon coming up behind her passed by. "this heat'll kill one," shouted the driver. in a half conscious state she caught his words. they came to her like in a dream; it was as though sentence had been passed upon her. so she was to die? she had thought so herself, but now a messenger of death was saying so. well, she would die. she could keep up no longer. her father was dead, and her mother was dead, now she was going to die. a cruel thought flitted through her dull brain. she wondered why she could not have died with them rather than in a ditch like a poor animal. she tried to make a last effort to get to the wood where she could find a spot to lie down for her last sleep, somewhere away from the road. she managed to drag herself into the wood, and there she found a little grassy spot where violets were growing. she laid down under a large tree, her head on her arm, just as she did at night when she went to sleep. chapter vi the rescue something warm passing over her face made her open her eyes. dimly she saw a large velvety head bending over her. in terror she tried to throw herself on one side, but a big tongue licked her cheek and held her to the grass. so quickly had this happened that she had not had time to recognize the big velvety head which belonged to a donkey, but while the great tongue continued to lick her face and hands she was able to look up at it. palikare! it was dear, dear palikare! she threw her arms around her donkey's neck and burst into tears. "my darling, dear, darling palikare," she murmured. when he heard his name he stopped licking her and lifting his head he sent forth five or six triumphant brays of happiness. then, as though that was not enough to express his contentment, he let out five or six more, but not quite so loud. perrine then noticed that he was without a harness or a rope. while she stroked him with her hand and he bent his long ears down to her, she heard a hoarse voice calling: "what yer found, old chap? i'll be there in a minute. i'm comin', old boy." [illustration: something warm passing over her face made her open her eyes.] there was a quick step on the road, and perrine saw what appeared to be a man dressed in a smock and wearing a leather hat and with a pipe in his mouth. "hi, kid, what yer doin' with my donkey?" he cried, without taking the pipe from his lip. then perrine saw that it was the rag woman to whom she had sold palikare at the horse market. the woman did not recognize her at first. she stared hard at her for a moment. "sure i've seen yer somewhere," she said at last. "it was i who sold you palikare," said perrine. "why, sure it's you, little one, but what in heaven's name are you doin' here?" perrine could not reply. she was so giddy her head whirled. she had been sitting up, but now she was obliged to lie down again, and her pallor and tears spoke for her. "what's the matter? are you sick?" demanded la rouquerie. although perrine moved her lips as though to speak, no sound came. again she was sinking into unconsciousness, partly from emotion, partly from weakness. but la rouquerie was a woman of experience; she had seen all miseries. "the kid's dying of hunger," she muttered to herself. she hurried over the road to a little truck over the sides of which were spread out some dried rabbit skins. the woman quickly opened a box and took out a slice of bread, a piece of cheese and a bottle. she carried it back on the run. perrine was still in the same condition. "one little minute, girlie; one little minute," she said encouragingly. kneeling down beside little perrine, she put the bottle to her lips. "take a good drink; that'll keep you up," she said. true, the good drink brought the blood back to her cheeks. "are you hungry?" "yes," murmured perrine. "well, now you must eat, but gently; wait a minute." she broke off a piece of bread and cheese and offered it to her. "eat it slowly," she said, advisedly, for already perrine had devoured the half of what was handed to her. "i'll eat with you, then you won't eat so fast." palikare had been standing quietly looking on with his big soft eyes. when he saw la rouquerie sit down on the grass beside perrine, he also knelt down beside them. "the old rogue, he wants a bite, too," said the woman. "may i give him a piece?" asked perrine. "yes, you can give him a piece or two. when we've eaten this there is more in the cart. give him some; he is so pleased to see you again, good old boy. you know he _is_ a good boy." "yes, isn't he a dear?" said perrine, softly. "now when you've eaten that you can tell me how you come to be in these woods pretty near starved to death. sure it'd be a pity for you to kick the bucket yet awhile." after she had eaten as much as was good for her, perrine told her story, commencing with the death of her mother. when she came to the scene she had had with the baker woman at st. denis, the woman took her pipe from her mouth and called the baker woman some very bad names. "she's a thief, a thief!" she cried. "i've never given bad money to no one, 'cause i never take any from nobody. be easy! she'll give that back to me next time i pass by her shop, or i'll put the whole neighborhood against her. i've friends at st. denis, and we'll set her store on fire if she don't give it up!" perrine finished her story. "you was just about goin' to die," said la rouquerie; "what was the feelin' like?" "at first i felt very sad," said perrine, "and i think i must have cried like one cries in the night when one is suffocating; then i dreamed of heaven and of the good food i should have there. mama, who was waiting for me, had made me some milk chocolate; i could smell it." "it's funny that this heat wave, which was going to kill you, really was the cause of yer bein' saved. if it hadn't been for this darned heat i never should have stopped to let that donkey rest in this wood, and then he wouldn't have found yer. what cher goin' to do now?" "go on my way." "and tomorrow? what yer got to eat? one's got to be young like you to take such a trip as this." "but what could i do?" la rouquerie gravely took two or three puffs at her pipe. she was thoughtful for a moment; then she said: "see here, i'm goin' as far as creil, no farther. i'm buyin' odds and ends in the villages as i go along. it's on the way to chantilly, so you come along with me. now yell out a bit if you've got the strength: 'rabbit skins! rags and bones to sell!'" perrine straightened herself and cried out as she was told. "that's fine! you've got a good, clear voice. as i've got a sore throat, you can do the calling out for me, so like that you'll earn your grub. when we get to creil i know a farmer there who goes as far as amiens to get eggs and things. i'll ask him to take you in his cart. when you get to amiens you can take the train to where yer relations hang out." "but what with? how can i take a train?" "i'll advance you the five francs that i'm goin' to get back from that baker. i'll get it! so i'll give yer five francs for your fare." chapter vii maraucourt at last things came to pass as la rouquerie had arranged. for eight days perrine ran through the streets of the villages and towns crying out: "rabbit skins! rags! bones!" "you've got a voice that would make yer famous for this here business," said la rouquerie admiringly, as perrine's clear treble was heard in the streets. "if yer'd stay with me you'd be doin' me a service and yer wouldn't be unhappy. you'd make a livin'. is it a go?" "oh, thank you, but it's not possible," replied perrine. finding that the reasons she advanced were not sufficient to induce perrine to stay with her, la rouquerie put forth another: "and yer wouldn't have to leave palikare." this was a great grief, but perrine had made up her mind. "i must go to my relations; i really must," she said. "did your relatives save yer life, like that there donkey?" insisted la rouquerie. "but i promised my mother." "go, then, but you see one fine day you'll be sorry yer didn't take what i offered yer p'raps." "you are very kind and i shall always remember you." when they reached creil, la rouquerie hunted up her friend, the farmer, and asked him to give perrine a lift in his cart as far as amiens. he was quite willing, and for one whole day perrine enjoyed the comfort of lying stretched out on the straw, behind two good trotting horses. at essentaux she slept in a barn. the next day was sunday, and she was up bright and early and quickly made her way to the railway station. handing her five francs to the ticket seller she asked for a ticket to picquigny. this time she had the satisfaction of seeing that her five francs was accepted. she received her ticket and seventy-five cents in change. it was o'clock when the train pulled in at the station at picquigny. it was a beautiful, sunny morning, the air was soft and warm, far different from the scorching heat which had prostrated her in the woods, and she ... how unlike she was from that miserable little girl who had fallen by the wayside. and she was clean, too. during the days she had spent with la rouquerie she had been able to mend her waist and her skirt, and had washed her linen and shined her shoes. her past experience was a lesson: she must never give up hope at the darkest moment; she must always remember that there was a silver cloud, if she would only persevere. she had a long walk after she got out of the train at picquigny. but she walked along lightly past the meadows bordered with poplars and limes, past the river where the villagers in their sunday clothes were fishing, past the windmills which, despite the fact that the day was calm, were slowly moving round, blown by the breeze from the sea which could be felt even there. she walked through the pretty village of st. pipoy, with its red roofs and quaint church, and over the railway tracks which unites the towns wherein vulfran paindavoine has his factories, and which joins the main line to boulogne. as perrine passed the pretty church the people were coming out from mass. listening to them as they talked in groups she heard again the sing-song manner of talking that her father had often imitated so as to amuse her. on the country road she saw a young girl walking slowly ahead of her carrying a very heavy basket on her arm. "is this the way to maraucourt?" perrine asked. "yes, this road ... quite straight." "quite straight," said perrine laughing, "it isn't so very straight after all." "if you are going to maraucourt, i'm going there too, and we could go together," suggested the girl. "i will if you'll let me help you carry your basket," said perrine with a smile. "i won't say no to that, for it's sure heavy!" the girl put her basket on the ground and breathed a sigh of relief. "you don't belong to maraucourt, do you?" asked the girl. "no, do you?" "sure i do." "do you work in the factories?" "should say so, everybody does here." "how much do they pay?" "ten sous." "and is it hard work?" "not very; but you have to have a sharp eye and not waste time. do you want to get in there?" "yes, if they'd have me." "should say they would have you; they take anybody. if they didn't how do you think they'd get the seven thousand hands they've got. just be there tomorrow morning at o'clock at the gate. we must hurry now or i'll be late. come on." she took the handle of the basket on one side and perrine took it on the other side and they set out on the road, keeping in step down the middle. here was an opportunity for perrine to learn what held interest for her. it was too good for her not to seize it. but she was afraid to question this girl openly. she must put the questions she wanted answered in a way that would not arouse her suspicions. "were you born at maraucourt?" she began. "sure, i'm a native and my mother was too, my father came from picquigny." "have you lost them?" "yes, i live with my grandmother who keeps a grocer store and restaurant. she's madame françoise." "ah! madame françoise." "what! do you know her?" "no, i just said, 'ah, madame françoise.'" "she's known everywhere for her 'eats' and 'cause she was nurse to monsieur edmond paindavoine. whenever the men want to ask the boss, monsieur vulfran paindavoine, for anything, they get my grandmother to ask for them." "does she always get what they want?" "sometimes yes, sometimes no; monsieur vulfran ain't always obliging." "if your grandmother was nurse to monsieur edmond why doesn't she ask him?" "m. edmond? he's the boss' son, and he went away from here before i was born, no one's seen him since. he had a quarrel with his father, and his father sent him to india to buy jute. the boss has made his fortune out of jute. he's rich, as rich as...." she could not think how rich m. vulfran was so she said abruptly: "now shall we change arms?" "if you like. what is your name?" "rosalie. what's yours?" perrine did not want to give her real name, so she chanced on one. "aurelie," she said. they rested for a while, then went on again at their regular step. "you say that the son had a quarrel with his father," said perrine, "then went away?" "yes, and the old gentleman got madder still with him 'cause he married a hindu girl, and a marriage like that doesn't count. his father wanted him to marry a young lady who came of a very fine family, the best in picardy. it was because he wanted his son to marry this other girl that he built the beautiful mansion he's got. it cost millions and millions of francs. but m. edmond wouldn't part with the wife he's got over there to take up with the young lady here, so the quarrel got worse and worse, and now they don't even know if the son is dead or alive. they haven't had news of him for years, so they say. monsieur vulfran doesn't speak to anyone about it, neither do the two nephews." "oh, he has nephews?" "yes, monsieur theodore paindavoine, his brother's son, and monsieur casimir bretoneux, his sister's son, who help him in the business. if m. edmond doesn't come back the fortune and all the factories will go to his two nephews." "oh, really!" "yes, and that'll be a sad thing, sad for the whole town. them nephews ain't no good for the business ... and so many people have to get their living from it. sure, it'll be a sad day when they get it, and they will if poor m. edmond doesn't come back. on sundays, when i serve the meals, i hear all sorts of things." "about his nephews?" "yes, about them two and others also. but it's none of our business; let's talk of something else." "yes, why not?" as perrine did not want to appear too inquisitive, she walked on silently, but rosalie's tongue could not be still for very long. "did you come along with your parents to maraucourt?" she asked. "i have no parents." "no father, no mother!" "no." "you're like me, but i've got a grandmother who's very good, and she'd be still better if it wasn't for my uncles and aunts; she has to please them. if it wasn't for them i should not have to work in the factories; i should stay at home and help in the store, but grandmother can't do as she wants always. so you're all alone?" "yes, all alone." "was it your own idea to leave paris and come to maraucourt?" "i was told that i might find work at maraucourt, so instead of going further on to some relations, i stopped here. if you don't know your relations, and they don't know you, you're not sure if you're going to get a welcome." "that's true. if there are kind ones, there are some mighty unkind ones in this world." "yes, that is so," perrine said, nodding her pretty head. "well, don't worry; you'll find work in the factories. ten sous a day is not much, but it's something, and you can get as much as twenty-two sous. i'm going to ask you a question; you can answer or not, as you like. have you got any money?" "a little." "well, if you'd like to lodge at my grandmother's, that'll cost you twenty-eight sous a week, pay in advance." "i can pay twenty-eight sous." "now, i don't promise you a fine room all to yourself at that price; there'll be six in the same room, but you'll have a bed, some sheets and a coverlet. everybody ain't got that." "i'd like it and thank you very much." "my grandmother don't only take in lodgers who can only pay twenty-eight sous. we've got some very fine rooms in our house. our boarders are employed at the factories. there's monsieur fabry, the engineer of the building; monsieur mombleux, the head clerk, and mr. bendit, who has charge of the foreign correspondence. if you ever speak to him always call him mr. benndite. he's an englishman, and he gets mad if you pronounce his name 'bendit.' he thinks that one wants to insult him, just as though one was calling him 'thief'!" "i won't forget; besides, i know english." "you know english! you!" "my mother was english." "so, so! well, that'll be fine for mr. bendit, but he'd be more pleased if you knew every language. his great stunt on sunday is to read prayers that are printed in twenty-five languages. when he's gone through them once, he goes over them again and again. every sunday he does the same thing. all the same, he's a very fine man." chapter viii grandfather vulfran through the great trees which framed the road on either side, perrine could see beyond the hill the tops of some high chimneys and buildings. "we're coming to maraucourt," said rosalie; "you'll see monsieur paindavoine's mansion soon, then the factories. we shan't see the village until we get down the other side of the hill. over by the river there's the church and cemetery." then, as they neared the spot where the poplars were swaying, there came into view a beautiful chateau towering grandly above the trees, with its façade of stone gabled roofs and chimneys standing out magnificently in a park planted with trees and shrubs which stretched out as far as the meadows. perrine stopped short in amazement, whilst rosalie continue to step out. this made them jolt the basket, whereupon rosalie plumped it down on the ground and stretched herself. "ah, you think that fine, don't you?" said rosalie, following perrine's glance. "why, it's beautiful," said perrine, softly. "well, old monsieur vulfran lives there all alone. he's got a dozen servants to wait on him, without counting the gardeners and stablemen who live in those quarters over there at the end of the park. that place over there is the electric power house for lighting up the chateau. fine, ain't it? and you should see the inside! there's gold everywhere, and velvets, and such carpets! them nephews want to live there with him, but he won't have 'em. he even eats his meals all alone." they took up the basket and went on again. soon they saw a general view of the works. but to perrine's eyes there seemed only a confusion of buildings, some old, some new, just a great gray mass with big, tall chimneys everywhere. then they came to the first houses of the village, with apple trees and pear trees growing in the gardens. here was the village of which her father had spoken so often. what struck her most was the number of people she saw. groups of men, women and children dressed up in their sunday clothes stood chatting before the houses or sat in the low rooms, the windows of which were thrown wide open. a mass of people, people everywhere. in the low-ceiling rooms, where those from outside could see all that was passing within, some were drinking bright colored drinks, others had jugs of cider, while others had on the tables before them black coffee or whisky. and what a tapping of glasses and voices raised in angry dispute! "what a lot of people there seem to be drinking," said perrine. "that's because it's sunday. they got two weeks' pay yesterday. they can't always drink like this; you'll see." what was characteristic of most of the houses was that nearly all, although old and badly built of brick or wood, affected an air of coquetry, at least in the painting that embellished the doors and windows. this attracted the eye like a sign. and in truth it was a sign, for in default of other preparations, the bright paint gave a promise of cleanliness which a glance at the inside of the place belied at once. "we've arrived," said rosalie, pointing with her free hand to a small red brick house which stood a little way from the road, behind a ragged hedge. adjoining the house was a store where general provisions were sold, and also liquor. the floors above were rented to the best lodgers, and behind the house was a building which was rented out to the factory hands. a little gate in the hedge led to a small garden planted with apple trees and to a gravel walk leading to the house. as soon as rosalie and perrine entered the yard, a woman, still young, called out from the doorway: "hurry up, you slow coach! say, you take a time to go to picquigny, don't you?" "that's my aunt zenobie," whispered rosalie; "she's none too nice." "what yer whispering there?" yelled the disagreeable woman. "i said that if somebody hadn't been there to help carry this basket i wouldn't be here by now," retorted rosalie. "you'd better hold your tongue!" these words were uttered in such a shrill tone that they brought a tall old woman to the door. "who are you going on at now, zenobie?" she asked, calmly. "she's mad 'cause i'm late, grandmother; but the basket's awful heavy," said rosalie. "there, there!" said the grandmother, placidly; "put it down and go and get your supper; you'll find it kept warm on the stove." "you wait for me here in the yard," said rosalie to perrine; "i'll be out in a minute and we'll have supper together. you go and buy your bread. you'll find the baker in the third house on the left. hurry up." when perrine returned she found rosalie seated at a table under a big apple tree. on the table were two plates full of meat stew and potatoes. "sit down and share my stew," said rosalie. "but ..." hesitated perrine. "you don't like to take it; you can. i asked my grandmother, and it's all right." in that case perrine thought that she should accept this hospitality, so she sat down at the table opposite her new friend. "and it's all arranged about your lodging here," said rosalie, with her mouth full of stew. "you've only to give your twenty-eight sous to grandmother. that's where you'll be." rosalie pointed to a house a part of which could be seen at the end of the yard; the rest of it was hidden by the brick house. it looked such a dilapidated old place that one wondered how it still held together. "my grandmother lived there before she built this house," explained rosalie. "she did it with the money that she got when she was nurse for monsieur edmond. you won't be comfortable down there as you would in this house, but factory hands can't live like rich people, can they?" perrine agreed that they could not. at another table, standing a little distance from theirs, a man about forty years of age, grave, stiff, wearing a coat buttoned up and a high hat, was reading a small book with great attention. "that's mr. bendit; he's reading his bible," whispered rosalie. then suddenly, with no respect for the gentleman's occupation, she said: "monsieur bendit, here's a girl who speaks english." "ah!" he said, without raising his eyes from his bible. two minutes elapsed before he lifted his eyes and turned them to perrine. "are you an english girl?" he asked in english. "no, but my mother was," replied perrine in the same language. without another word he went on with his reading. they were just finishing their supper when a carriage coming along the road stopped at the gate. "why, it's monsieur vulfran in his carriage!" cried rosalie, getting up from her seat and running to the gate. perrine did not dare leave her place, but she looked towards the road. two people were in the buggy. a young man was driving for an old man with white hair, who, although seated, seemed to be very tall. it was m. paindavoine. rosalie went up to the buggy. "here is someone," said the young man, who was about to get out. "who is it?" demanded m. paindavoine. it was rosalie who replied to this question. "it's rosalie, monsieur," she said. "tell your grandmother to come and speak to me," said the gentleman. rosalie ran to the house and came hurrying back with her grandmother. "good day, monsieur vulfran," said the old woman. "good day, françoise." "what can i do for you, sir; i'm at your service." "i've come about your brother omer. i've just come from his place. his drunken wife was the only person there and she could not understand anything." "omer's gone to amiens; he comes back tonight." "tell him that i have heard that he has rented his hall to some rascals to hold a public meeting and ... i don't wish that meeting to take place." "but if they've rented it, sir?" "he can compromise. if he doesn't, the very next day i'll put him out. that's one of the conditions that i made. i'll do what i say. i don't want any meeting of that sort here." "there have been some at flexelles." "flexelles is not maraucourt. i do not want the people of my village to become like those at flexelles. it's my duty to guard against that. you understand? tell omer what i say. good day, françoise." "good day, monsieur vulfran." he fumbled in his vest pocket. "where is rosalie?" "here i am, monsieur vulfran." he held out a ten cent piece. "this is for you," he said. "oh, thank you, monsieur vulfran," said rosalie, taking the money with a smile. the buggy went off. perrine had not lost a word of what had been said, but what impressed her more than the actual words was the tone of authority in which they had been spoken. "i don't wish that meeting to take place." she had never heard anyone speak like that before. the tone alone bespoke how firm was the will, but the old gentleman's uncertain, hesitating gestures did not seem to accord with his words. rosalie returned to her seat, delighted. "monsieur paindavoine gave me ten cents," she said. "yes, i saw him," replied perrine. "let's hope aunt zenobie won't know, or she'll take it to keep it for me." "monsieur paindavoine did not seem as though he knew you," said perrine. "not know me? why, he's my godfather!" exclaimed rosalie. "but he said 'where is rosalie?' when you were standing quite near him." "that's because he's blind," answered rosalie, placidly. "blind!" cried perrine. she repeated the word quite softly to herself two or three times. "has he been blind long?" she asked, in the same awed voice. "for a long time his sight was failing," replied rosalie, "but no one paid any attention; they thought that he was fretting over his son being away. then he got pneumonia, and that left him with a bad cough, and then one day he couldn't see to read, then he went quite blind. think what it would have meant to the town if he had been obliged to give up his factories! but no; he wasn't going to give them up; not he! he goes to business just the same as though he had his sight. those who counted on being the master there, 'cause he fell ill have been put in their places." she lowered her voice. "his nephews and talouel; they're the ones i mean." aunt zenobie came to the door. "say, rosalie, have you finished, you young loafer?" she called. "i've only just this minute got through," answered rosalie, defiantly. "well, there are some customers to wait on ... come on." "i'll have to go," said rosalie, regretfully. "sorry i can't stay with you." "oh, don't mind me," said little perrine, politely. "see you tonight." with a slow, reluctant step rosalie got up and dragged herself to the house. chapter ix one sleepless night after her new friend had left, perrine would like to have still sat at the table as though she were in her own place, but it was precisely because she was not in the place where she belonged that she felt she could not. she had learned that the little garden was reserved for the boarders and that the factory hands were not privileged to sit there. she could not see any seats near the old tumble-down house where she was to lodge, so she left the table and sauntered down the village street. although she went at a slow step, she had soon walked down all the streets, and as everyone stared at her, being a stranger, this had prevented her from stopping when she had wanted to. on the top of the hill opposite the factories she had noticed a wood. perhaps she would be alone there and could sit down without anyone paying attention to her. she climbed the hill, then stretched herself out on the grass and looked down over the village ... her father's birthplace, which he had described so often to her mother and herself. she had arrived at maraucourt! this name, which she had repeated so often since she had trod on french soil, the name she had seen on the big vans standing outside the gates of paris. this was not a country of dreams. she was in maraucourt; before her she could see the vast works which belonged to her grandfather. he had made his fortune here, bit by bit, sou by sou, until now he was worth millions. her eyes wandered from the great chimneys to the railway tracks, where all was quiet on this sabbath day, to the winding streets and the quaint houses with their tiled or thatched roofs. amongst the very old houses there was one which seemed more pretentious than the others. it stood in a large garden in which there were great trees and a terrace, and at the remote corner of the garden a wash-house. that house had been described to her so many times, she recognized it. it was the one in which her grandfather had lived before he had built the beautiful chateau. how many hours her father, when a boy, had spent in that wash-house on washing days, listening to the washerwomen's chatter and to the stories they told, quaint old legends. he had remembered them all those years, and later on had told them to his little daughter. there was the "fairy of the cascade", "the whirling dwarf", and lots of others. she remembered them all, and her dead father had listened to the old women telling them at that very spot down there by the river. the sun was in her eyes now, so she changed her place. she found another grassy nook and sat down again, very thoughtful. she was thinking of her future, poor little girl. she was sure of getting work now, and bread and a place in which to sleep, but that was not all. how would she ever be able to realize her dead mother's hopes? she trembled; it all seemed so difficult; but at least she had accomplished one great thing in having reached maraucourt. she must never despair, never give up hope, and now that she had a roof over her head and ten sous a day, although not much, it was far better now for her than a few days ago, when she had been penniless, famished, and had had no place where to lay her head. she thought it would be wise, as she was beginning a new life on the morrow, that she should make a plan of what she should and what she should not say. but she was so ignorant of everything, and she soon realized that this was a task beyond her. if her mother had reached maraucourt she would have known just what to have done. but she, poor little girl, had had no experience; she had not the wisdom nor the intelligence of a grown-up person; she was but a child, and alone. this thought and the memory of her mother brought tears to her eyes. she began to cry unrestrainedly. "mother, dear mother," she sobbed. then her mother's last words came to her: "i see ... i know that you will be happy!" her mother's words might come true. those who are at death's door, their souls hovering between heaven and earth, may have sometimes a divine knowledge of things which are not revealed to the living. this burst of emotion, instead of making her more despondent, did her good. after she had wiped her tears away she was more hopeful, and it seemed to her that the light evening breeze which fanned her cheek from time to time brought her a kiss from her mother, touching her wet cheeks and whispering to her her last words: "i see ... i know you will be happy." and why should it not be so? why should her mother not be near her, leaning over her at this moment like a guardian angel? for a long time she sat deep in thought. her beautiful little face was very grave. she wondered, would everything come out all right for her in the end? then mechanically her eye fell on a large cluster of marguerites. she got up quickly and picked a few, closing her eyes so as not to choose. she came back to her place and, taking up one with a hand that shook, she commenced to pick off the petals, one at a time, saying: "i shall succeed; a little; a lot; completely; not at all." she repeated this very carefully until there were only a few petals left on the last flower. how many, she did not want to count, for their number would have told her the answer. so, with a heart beating rapidly, she quickly pulled off the last petals. "i shall succeed; a little; a lot; completely...." at the same moment a warm breeze passed over her hair, over her lips. it was surely her mother's reply in a kiss, the tenderest that she had ever given her. the night fell. she decided to go. already down the straight road as far as the river white vapors were rising, floating lightly around the great trees. here and there little lights from behind the windows of the houses pierced the gathering darkness, and vague sounds broke the silence of the peaceful sabbath evening. there was no need for her to stay out late now, for she had a roof to cover her and a bed to sleep in; besides, as she was to get up early the next day to go to work, it would be better to go to bed early. as she walked through the village she recognized that the noises that she had heard came from the cabarets. they were full. men and women were seated at the tables drinking. from the open door the odor of coffee, hot alcohol and tobacco filled the street as though it were a vast sink. she passed one cabaret after another. there were so many that to every three houses there was at least one in which liquor was sold. on her tramps along the high roads and through the various towns she had seen many drinking places, but nowhere had she heard such words, so clear and shrill, as those which came confusedly from the low rooms. when she reached mother françoise's garden she saw mr. bendit still reading. before him was a lighted candle, a piece of newspaper protecting the light, around which the moths and mosquitoes flew. but he paid no attention to them, so absorbed was he in his reading. yet, as she was passing him, he raised his head and recognized her. for the pleasure of speaking in his own language, he spoke to her in english. "i hope you'll have a good night's rest," he said. "thank you," she replied. "good night, sir." "where have you been?" he continued in english. "i took a walk as far as the woods," she replied in the same language. "all alone?" "yes; i do not know anyone here." "then why don't you stay in and read. there is nothing better to do on sunday than read." "i have no books." "oh! well, i'll lend you. good night." "good night, sir." rosalie was seated in the doorway taking the fresh air. "do you want to go to bed now?" she asked. "yes, i'd like to," replied perrine. "i'll take you up there then, but first you'll have to arrange with grandmother. go to the café; she's there." the matter, having been arranged by rosalie and her grandmother beforehand, was quickly settled. perrine laid her twenty-eight sous on the table and two sous extra for lighting for the week. "so you are going to stay in our village, little one?" asked mother françoise, with a kindly, placid air. "yes, if it is possible." "you can do it if you'll work." "that is all i ask," replied perrine. "well, that's all right. you won't stop at ten sous; you'll soon get a franc or perhaps two, then later on you'll marry a good workingman who'll earn three. between you, that'll be five francs a day. with that you're rich ... if you don't drink; but one mustn't drink. it's a good thing that m. vulfran can give employment to the whole county. there is the land, to be sure, but tilling ground can't provide a living to all who have to be fed." whilst the old nurse babbled this advice with the importance and the authority of a woman accustomed to having her word respected, rosalie was getting some linen from a closet, and perrine, who, while listening, had been looking at her, saw that the sheets were made of a thick yellow canvas. it was so long since she had slept in sheets that she ought to think herself fortunate to get even these, hard though they were. la rouquerie on her tramps had never spent money for a bed, and a long time ago the sheets they had in the wagon, with the exception of those kept for her mother, had been sold or worn to rags. she went with rosalie across the yard where about twenty men, women and children were seated on a clump of wood or standing about, talking and smoking, waiting for the hour to retire. how could all these people live in the old house, which seemed far from large? at the sight of the attic, after rosalie had lit a candle stuck behind a wire trellis, perrine understood. in a space of six yards long and a little more than three wide, six beds were placed along the length of the walls, and the passage between the beds was only one yard wide. six people, then, had to spend the night in a place where there was scarcely room for two. although a little window opened on the yard opposite the door, there was a rank, sharp odor which made perrine gasp. but she said nothing. "well," said rosalie, "you think it's a bit small, eh?" "yes, it is, rather," was all she said. "four sous a night is not one hundred sous, you know," remarked rosalie. "that is true," answered perrine, with a smothered sigh. after all, it was better for her to have a place in this tiny room than be out in the woods and fields. if she had been able to endure the odor in grain-of-salt's shack, she would probably be able to bear it here. "there's your bed," said rosalie, pointing to one placed near the window. what she called a bed was a straw mattress placed on four feet and held together by two boards. instead of a pillow there was a sack. "you know," said rosalie, "this is fresh straw; they never give old straw to anyone to sleep on. in the hotels they do that sort of thing, but we don't here." although there were too many beds in the little room, there was not one chair. "there are some nails on the walls," said rosalie, in reply to perrine's questioning look; "you can hang your clothes up there." there were also some boxes and baskets under the bed. if the lodgers had any underwear they could make use of these, but as perrine had only what she was wearing, the nail at the head of the bed was sufficient. "they're all honest here," remarked rosalie, "and if la noyelle talks in the night it's 'cause she's been drinking; she's a chatterbox. tomorrow you get up with the others. i'll tell you where you have to go to wash. good night." "good night, and thank you," replied perrine. she hurriedly undressed, thankful that she was alone and would not have to submit to the inquisitive regards of the other occupants of the room. but when she was between the sheets she did not feel so comfortable as she had hoped, for they were very rough and hard. but then the ground had seemed very hard the first time she had slept on it, and she had quickly grown accustomed to it. it was not long before the door was opened and a young girl about fifteen came in and commenced to get undressed. from time to time she glanced at perrine, but without saying a word. as she was in her sunday clothes, her disrobing took longer than usual, for she had to put away her best dress in a small box and hang her working clothes on the nail for the next day. a second girl came in, then a third, then a fourth. there was a babble of tongues, all talking at the same time, each relating what had happened during the day. in the narrow space between the beds they pulled out and pushed back their boxes or baskets, and with each effort came an outburst of impatience and furious upbraidings against the landlady. "what a hole!" "she'll be putting another bed in here soon." "sure! but i won't stay!" "where would yer go? it ain't no better nowhere else." the complaining, mixed with a desultory chatter, continued. at length, however, when the two who had first arrived were in bed, a little order was established. soon all the beds were occupied but one. but even then the conversation did not cease. they had discussed the doings of the day just passed, so now they went on to the next day, to the work at the factories, the quarrels, the doings of the heads of the concern--m. vulfran paindavoine and his nephews, whom they called "the kids," and the foreman, talouel. they spoke of this man by name only once, but the names they called him bespoke better than words what they thought of him. perrine experienced a strange contradictory feeling which surprised her. she wanted to hear everything, for this information might be of great importance to her, yet on the other hand she felt embarrassed, almost ashamed, to listen to such talk. most of the talk was rather vague to perrine, not knowing the persons to whom it applied, but she soon gathered that "skinny", "judas", and "sneak" were all one and the same man, and that man was talouel, the foreman. the factory hands evidently considered him a bully; they all hated him, yet feared him. "let's go to sleep," at last said one. "yes, why not?" "la noyelle hasn't come in yet." "i saw her outside when i came in." "how was she?" "full. she couldn't stand up." "ugh! d'ye think she can get upstairs?" "not sure about that." "suppose we lock the door?" "yes, and what a row she'd make!" "like last sunday; maybe worse." they groaned. at this moment the sound of heavy shambling footsteps was heard on the stairs. "here she is." the steps stopped, then there was a fall, followed by a moan. "she's fallen down!" "suppose she can't get up?" "she'd sleep as well on the stairs as here." "and we'd sleep better." the moaning continued, interrupted by calls for help. "come, laide," called out a thick voice; "give us a hand, my child." but laide did not move. after a time the calls ceased. "she's gone to sleep. that's luck." but the drunken girl had not gone to sleep at all; on the contrary, she was using every effort to get up the stairs again. "laide, come and give me a hand, child. laide, laide," she cried. she evidently made no progress, for the calls still came from the bottom of the stairs, and became more and more persistent. finally she began to cry. "little laide, little laide, come to me," she wailed. "oh! oh! the stairs are slipping; where am i?" a burst of laughter came from each bed. "it's cause yer ain't come in yet, laide; that's why yer don't come. i'll go and find yer." "now she's gone and we'll have some peace," said one. "no, she'll go to look for laide and won't find her, and it'll all begin over again. well never get to sleep." "go and give her a hand, laide," advised one. "go yerself," retorted laide. "but she wants you." laide decided to go, and slipping on her skirt, she went down the stairs. "oh, my child, my child," cried la noyelle, brokenly, when she caught sight of her. the joy of seeing laide drove all thoughts of getting upstairs safely away. "come with me, little one, and i'll treat you to a glass; come on," urged the drunken creature. but laide would not be tempted. "no, come on to bed," she said. the woman continued to insist. they argued for a long time, la noyelle repeating the words, "a little glass." "i want to go to sleep," said one of the girls in bed. "how long is this going to keep up? and we got to be up early tomorrow." "oh, lord! and it's like this every sunday," sighed another. and little perrine had thought that if she only had a roof over her head she would be able to sleep in peace! the open fields, with their dark shadows and the chances of bad weather, was far better than this crowded room, reeking with odors that were almost suffocating her. she wondered if she would be able to pass the night in this dreadful room. the argument was still going on at the foot of the stairs. la noyelle's voice could be heard repeating "a little glass." "i'm goin' to help laide," said one, "or this'll last till tomorrow." the woman got up and went down the narrow stairs. then came the sound of angry voices, heavy footsteps and blows. the people on the ground floor came out to see what was the matter, and finally everyone in the house was awake. at last la noyelle was dragged into the room, crying out in despair. "what have i done to you that you should be so unkind to me?" ignoring her complaints, they undressed her and put her into bed, but even then she did not sleep, but continued to moan and cry. "what have i done to you girls that you should treat me so badly. i'm very unhappy, and i'm thirsty." she continued to complain until everyone was so exasperated that they one and all shouted out in anger. however, she went on all the same. she carried on a conversation with an imaginary person till the occupants of the room were driven to distraction. now and again her voice dropped as though she were going off to sleep, then suddenly she cried out in a shriller voice, and those who had dropped off into a slumber awoke with a start and frightened her badly, but despite their anger she would not stop. perrine wondered if it really was to be like that every sunday. how could they put up with her? was there no place in maraucourt where one could sleep peacefully? it was not alone the noise that disturbed her, but the air was now so stifling that she could scarcely breathe. at last la noyelle was quiet, or rather it was only a prolonged snore that came from her lips. but although all was silent perrine could not sleep. she was oppressed. it seemed as though a hammer was beating on her forehead, and she was perspiring from head to foot. it was not to be wondered at. she was suffocating for want of air; and if the other girls in the room were not stifled like her, it was because they were accustomed to this atmosphere, which to one who was in the habit of sleeping in the open air was unbearable. but she thought that if they could endure it she should. but unfortunately one does not breathe as one wishes, nor when one wishes. if she closed her mouth she could not get enough air into her lungs. what was going to happen to her? she struggled up in bed, tearing at the paper which replaced the window pane against which her bed was placed. she tore away the paper, doing so as quietly as possible so as not to wake the girls beside her. then putting her mouth to the opening she leaned her tired little head on the window sill. finally in sheer weariness she fell asleep. chapter x the hut on the island when she awoke a pale streak of light fell across the window, but it was so feeble that it did not lighten the room. outside the cocks were crowing. day was breaking. a chill, damp air was penetrating through the opening she had made in the window, but in spite of that the bad odor in the room still remained. it was dreadful! yet all the girls slept a deep slumber, only broken now and again with a stifled moan. very quietly she got up and dressed. then taking her shoes in her hands she crept down the stairs to the door. she put on her shoes and went out. oh! the fresh, delicious air! never had she taken a breath with such thankfulness. she went through the little yard with her mouth wide open, her nostrils quivering, her head thrown back. the sound of her footsteps awoke a dog, which commenced to bark; then several other dogs joined in. but what did that matter? she was no longer a little tramp at whom dogs were at liberty to bark. if she wished to leave her bed she had a perfect right to do so; she had paid out money for it. the yard was too small for her present mood; she felt she must move about. she went out onto the road and walked straight ahead without knowing where. the shades of night still filled the roads, but above her head she saw the dawn already whitening the tops of the trees and the roofs of the houses. in a few minutes it would be day. at this moment the clang of a bell broke the deep silence. it was the factory clock striking three. she still had three more hours before going to work. how should she pass the time? she could not keep walking until six, she would be too tired; so she would find a place where she could sit down and wait. the sky was gradually getting brighter, and round about her various forms were taking a concrete shape. at the end of a glade she could see a small hut made of branches and twigs which was used by the game keepers during the winter. she thought that if she could get to the hut she would be hidden there and no one would see her and inquire what she was doing out in the fields at that early hour. she found a small trail, barely traced, which seemed to lead to the hut. she took it, and although it led her straight in the direction of the little cabin, she had not reached it when the path ended, for it was built upon a small island upon which grew three weeping willows. around it was a ditch full of water. fortunately, the trunk of a tree had been thrown across the ditch. although it was not very straight, and was wet with the morning dew, which made it very slippery, perrine was not deterred from crossing. she managed to get across, and soon found herself before the door of the little hut, which she only had to push to open. oh, what a pretty nest! the hut was square, and from roof to floor was lined inside with ferns. there was a little opening on each of the four sides, which from without was invisible, but from within one could gain a good view of the surrounding country. on the ground was a thick bed of ferns, and in one of the corners a bench made from the trunk of a tree. how delightful! and how little it resembled the room she had just left! how much better it would be for her if she could sleep here in the fresh air, sleeping in peace amongst the ferns, with no other noise but the rustling of the leaves and the ripple of the water. how much better to be here than lying between mother françoise's hard sheets, listening to the complaints of la noyelle and her friends in that dreadful atmosphere which even now seemed to assail her nostrils. she laid down on the ferns, curled up in a corner against the soft walls covered with reeds, then closed her eyes. before long she felt a soft numbness creeping over her. she jumped to her feet, fearing that she might drop off to sleep and not awake before it was time for her to go to the factory. the sun had now risen, and through the aperture facing east a streak of gold entered the hut. outside the birds were singing, and all over the tiny island, on the pond, on the branches of the weeping willows, was heard a confusion of sounds, twittering and little shrill cries which announced an awakening to life. looking out of the window, she could see the birds picking at the humid earth with their beaks, snapping at the worms. over the pond floated a light mist. a wild duck, far prettier than the tame ducks, was swimming on the water, surrounded with her young. she tried to keep them beside her with continual little quacks, but she found it impossible to do so. the ducklings escaped from the mother duck, scurrying off amongst the reeds to search for the insects which came within their reach. suddenly a quick blue streak, like lightning, flashed before perrine's eyes. it was not until it had disappeared that she realized that it was a kingfisher which had just crossed the pond. for a long time, standing quite still for fear a movement might betray her presence and cause the birds to fly away, she stood at the opening looking out at them. how pretty it all was in the morning light, gay, alive, amusing, something new to look upon. now and again she saw dark shadows pass capriciously over the pond. the shadows grew larger without apparent cause, covering the pond. she could not understand this, for the sun, which had risen above the horizon, was shining in the sky without a cloud. how did these shadows come? she went to the door and saw a thick black smoke coming from the factory chimneys. work would commence very soon; it was time to leave the hut. as she was about to go she picked up a newspaper from the seat that she had not noticed before in the dim light. the newspaper was dated february . then this thought came to her: this newspaper was on the only spot in the place where one could sit down, and the date of it was several months previous, so then this proved that the hut had been abandoned and no one had passed through the door since last february. chapter xi work in the factory when she reached the road a loud whistle was heard, shrill and powerful. almost immediately other whistles replied from the distance. this was the call for the factory hands who lived in maraucourt, and the other whistles repeated the summons to work from village to village, st. pipoy, harcheux, racour, flexelles, in all the paindavoine factories, announcing to the owner of the vast works that everywhere, at the same time, his factories were calling to his employés to be ready for the day's work. fearing she might be late she ran as far as the village. there she found all the doors of the houses open. on the thresholds the men were eating their soups or leaning against the walls; others were in the cabarets drinking wine; others were washing at the pump in the yard. no one seemed to be going to work, so evidently it was not time yet, so perrine thought that there was no occasion for her to hurry. but before long a louder whistle was blown, and then there was a general movement everywhere; from houses, yards and taverns came a dense crowd, filling the street. men, women and children went towards the factories, some smoking their pipes, others munching a crust of bread, the greater number chattering loudly. in one of the groups perrine caught sight of rosalie in company with la noyelle. she joined them. "why, where have you been?" asked rosalie in surprise. "i got up early so as to take a walk," perrine replied. "you did? i went to look for you." "oh, thank you; but never do that, for i get up very early," said perrine. upon arriving at the factory the crowd went into the various workshops under the watchful eye of a tall thin man who stood near the iron gates, his hand in the pocket of his coat, his straw hat stuck on the back of his head. his sharp eyes scanned everyone who passed. "that's skinny," informed rosalie in a whisper. perrine did not need to be told this. she seemed to know at once that this was the foreman talouel. "do i come in with you?" asked perrine. "sure!" this was a decisive moment for little perrine, but she controlled her nervousness and drew herself up to her full height. why should they not take her if they took everyone? rosalie drew perrine out of the crowd, then went up to talouel. "monsieur," she said, "here's a friend of mine who wants a job." talouel glanced sharply at the friend. "in a moment ... we'll see," he replied curtly. rosalie, who knew what to do, signed to perrine to stand aside and wait. at this moment there was a slight commotion at the gates, and the crowd drew aside respectfully to allow monsieur paindavoine's carriage to pass. the same young man who had driven him the evening before was now driving. although everyone knew that their chief, vulfran paindavoine, was blind, all the men took off their hats as he passed and the women curtseyed. "you see he's not the last one to come," said rosalie, as the phaeton passed through the gates, "but his nephews likely will be late." the clock struck, then a few late comers came running up. a young man came hurrying along, arranging his tie as he ran. "good morning, talouel," he said; "is uncle here yet?" "yes, monsieur theodore," said the foreman, "he got here a good five minutes ago." "oh!" "you're not the last, though. monsieur casimir is late also. i can see him coming now." as theodore went towards the offices his cousin casimir came up hurriedly. the two cousins were not at all alike, either in their looks or ways. casimir gave the foreman a short nod, but did not say a word. "what can your friend do?" asked talouel, turning to rosalie, his hands still in his pockets. perrine herself replied to this question. "i have not worked in a factory before," she said in a voice that she tried to control. talouel gave her a sharp look, then turned again to rosalie. "tell oneux to put her with the trucks. now be off. hurry up!" thus dismissed, rosalie hurried perrine away. "what are the trucks?" asked little perrine as she followed her friend through the big courtyard. she wondered, poor child, if she had the strength and the intelligence to do what was required of her. "oh, it's easy enough," replied rosalie, lightly. "don't be afraid; you've only got to load the trucks." "oh!..." "and when it's full," continued rosalie, "you push it along to the place where they empty it. you give a good shove to begin with, then it'll go all alone." as they passed down the corridors they could scarcely hear each other speak for the noise of the machinery. rosalie pushed open the door of one of the workshops and took perrine into a long room. there was a deafening roar from the thousand tiny machines, yet above the noise they could hear a man calling out: "ah, there you are, you loafer!" "who's a loafer, pray?" retorted rosalie. "that ain't me, just understand that, father ninepins." "what have you been doin'?" "skinny told me to bring my friend to you to work on the trucks." the one whom she had addressed in this amiable manner was an old man with a wooden leg. he had lost his leg in the factory twelve years previous, hence his nickname, "ninepins." he now had charge of a number of girls whom he treated rudely, shouting and swearing at them. the working of these machines needed as much attention of the eye as deftness of hand in lifting up the full spools and replacing them with empty ones, and fastening the broken thread. he was convinced that if he did not shout and swear at them incessantly, emphasizing each curse with a stout bang of his wooden leg on the floor, he would see his machines stop, which to him was intolerable. but as he was a good man at heart, no one paid much attention to him, and besides, the greater part of his cursing was lost in the noise of the machinery. "yes, and with it all, your machine has stopped," cried rosalie triumphantly, shaking her fist at him. "go on with you," he shouted back; "that ain't my fault." "what's your name?" he added, addressing perrine. this request, which she ought to have foreseen, for only the night before rosalie had asked the same question, made her start. as she did not wish to give her real name, she stood hesitating. old ninepins thought that she had not heard, and banging his wooden leg on the floor again, he cried: "i asked you what your name was, didn't i? eh?" she had time to collect herself and to recall the one that she had already given to rosalie. "aurelie," she said. "aurelie what?" he demanded. "that is all ... just aurelie," she replied. "all right, aurelie; come on with me," he said. he took her to a small truck stationed in a far corner and explained what she had to do, the same as rosalie had. "do you understand?" he shouted several times. she nodded. and really what she had to do was so simple that she would indeed have been stupid if she had been unable to do it. she gave all her attention to the task, but every now and again old ninepins called after her: "now, don't play on the way." but this was more to warn than to scold her. she had no thought of playing, but as she pushed her truck with a good regular speed, while not stopping, she was able to see what was going on on the way. one push started the truck, and all she had to do was to see that there were no obstacles in its way. at luncheon time each girl hurried to her home. perrine went to the baker's and got the baker to cut her a half a pound of bread, which she ate as she walked the streets, smelling the while the good odor of the soup which came from the open doors before which she passed. she walked slowly when she smelled a soup that she liked. she was rather hungry, and a half a pound of bread is not much, so it disappeared quickly. long before the time for her to go back to work she was at the gates. she sat down on a bench in the shade of a tree and waited for the whistle, watching the boys and girls playing, running and jumping. she was too timid to join in their games, although she would like to have done so. when rosalie came she went back to her work with her. before the day was ended she was so tired that she did indeed merit ninepins' sharp rebuke. "go on! can't you go faster than that?" he cried. startled by the bang from his wooden leg which accompanied his words, she stepped out like a horse under the lash of a whip, but only to slow up the moment she was out of his sight. her shoulders ached, her arms ached, her head ached. at first it had seemed so easy to push the truck, but to have to keep at it all day was too much for her. all she wanted now was for the day to end. why could she not do as much as the others? some of them were not so old as she, and yet they did not appear tired. perhaps when she was accustomed to the work she would not feel so exhausted. she reasoned thus as she wearily pushed her loaded truck, glancing at the others with envy as they briskly went on with their work. suddenly she saw rosalie, who was fastening some threads, fall down beside the girl who was next to her. at the same time a girlish cry of anguish was heard. the machinery was stopped at once. all was silent now, the silence only broken by a moan. boys and girls, in fact everyone, hurried towards rosalie, despite the sharp words from old ninepins. "thunder in heaven, the machines have stopped. what's the matter?" he cried. the girls crowded around rosalie and lifted her to her feet. "what's the matter?" they asked. "it's my hand," she murmured; "i caught it in the machine. oh!..." her face was very pale, her lips bloodless. drops of blood were falling from her crushed hand. but upon examining it, it was found that only two fingers were hurt, one probably broken. ninepins, who at first had felt pity for the girl, now began pushing those who surrounded her back to their places. "be off; go back to your work," he cried. "a lot of fuss about nothing." "yes; it was a lot of fuss for nothing when you broke your leg, wasn't it?" cried out a voice. he glanced about to see who had spoken, but it was impossible to find out in the crowd. then he shouted again: "get back to your work. hurry up!" slowly they dispersed and perrine, like the others, was on her way back to her truck, when ninepins called to her: "here, you new one, there; come here! come on, quicker than that." she came back timidly, wondering why she was more guilty than the others who had also left their work. but she found that he did not wish to punish her. "take that young fool there to the foreman," he said. "what do you call me a fool for?" cried rosalie, raising her voice, for already the machines were in motion. "it wasn't my fault, was it?" "sure, it was your fault, clumsy." then he added in a softer tone: "does it hurt?" "not so very much," replied rosalie bravely. "well, go on home; be off now." rosalie and perrine went out together, rosalie holding her wounded hand, which was the left, in her right hand. "won't you lean on me, rosalie?" asked little perrine anxiously. "i am sure it must be dreadful." "no, i'm all right; thank you," said rosalie. "at least i can walk." "well, then, it isn't much then, is it?" asked perrine. "one can't tell the first day. it's later that one suffers. i slipped, that's how it happened." "you must have been getting tired," said perrine, thinking of her own feelings. "sure, it's always when one is tired that one is caught," said rosalie. "we are quick and sharp first thing in the morning. i wonder what aunt zenobie will say!" "but it wasn't your fault," insisted perrine. "i know that," said rosalie, ruefully. "grandmother will believe that, but aunt zenobie won't. she'll say it's 'cause i don't want to work." on their way through the building several men stopped them to ask what was the matter. some pitied rosalie, but most of them listened indifferently, as though they were used to such accidents. they said that it was always so: one gets hurt the same as one falls sick; just a matter of chance, each in his turn, you today, and me tomorrow. but there were some who showed anger that such an accident could have occurred. they came to a small outside building which was used for offices. they had to mount some wide steps which led to a porch. talouel was standing on the porch, walking up and down with his hands in his pockets, his hat on his head. he seemed to be taking a general survey, like a captain on the bridge. "what's the matter now?" he cried, angrily, when he saw the two girls. rosalie showed him her bleeding hand. "wrap your paw up in your handkerchief then," he said, roughly. [illustration: "what's the matter now?" he cried angrily.] with perrine's aid she got her handkerchief out of her pocket. talouel strode up and down the porch. after the handkerchief had been twisted around the wounded hand he came over to poor rosalie and stood towering above her. "empty your pockets," he ordered. she looked at him, not understanding. "i say, take everything out of your pockets," he said again. she did what she was told, and drew from her pockets an assortment of things--a whistle made from a nut, some bones, a thimble, a stick of liquorice, three cents, and a little mirror. the bully at once seized the mirror. "ah, i was sure of it," he cried. "while you were looking at yourself in the glass a thread broke and your spool stopped. you tried to catch the time lost and that's how it happened." "i did not look in my glass," said rosalie. "bah! you're all the same. i know you. now: what's the trouble?" "i don't know, but my hand is crushed," said poor rosalie, trying to keep back her tears. "well, and what do you want me to do?" "father ninepins told me to come to you," said rosalie. "and you ... what's the matter with you?" he asked, turning to perrine. "nothing," she replied, disconcerted. "well?" "father ninepins told her to bring me here," said rosalie. "well, she can take you to dr. ruchon and let him see it. but i'm going to look into this matter and find out if it is your fault, and if it is ... look out!" he spoke in a loud, bullying voice which could be heard throughout the offices. as the two girls were about to go m. vulfran paindavoine appeared, guiding himself with his hand along the wall. "what's it all about, talouel? what's the matter here?" "nothing much, sir," replied the foreman. "one of the girls has hurt her hand." "where is she?" "here i am, monsieur vulfran," said rosalie, going up to him. "why, it's mother françoise's granddaughter, rosalie, isn't it?" asked the blind man. "yes, it's me, monsieur vulfran," said rosalie, beginning to cry. harsh words had hardened her heart, but this tone of pity was too much for poor rosalie. "what is the matter with your hand, my poor girl?" asked the blind man. "oh, sir, i think my two fingers are broken," she said, "although i am not in much pain." "well, why are you crying?" asked m. vulfran, tenderly. "because you speak so kindly to me." talouel shrugged his shoulders. "now go home at once," said m. vulfran, "and i'll send the doctor to you." "write a note to dr. ruchon," he said, turning to talouel, "and tell him to call at mother françoise's house; say that the matter is urgent and he must go there at once." "do you want anyone to go with you?" he asked, addressing rosalie. "oh, thank you, monsieur vulfran; i have a friend here with me," she replied. "she can go with you then, and tell your grandmother that you will be paid while you are away." it was perrine now who felt like crying, but catching talouel's glance, she stiffened. it was not until they had passed out of the yard that she betrayed her emotion. "isn't monsieur vulfran kind?" she said. "yes," replied rosalie; "he would be all right if he were alone, but with skinny he can't be; he hasn't the time and he has a lot to think about." "well, he seemed very kind to you," said little perrine. "oh, yes," rosalie said, drawing herself up; "i make him think of his son. my mother was monsieur edmond's foster sister." "does he think of his son?" "he thinks of nothing else." everybody came to their doors as rosalie and perrine passed. rosalie's handkerchief was covered with blood. most of the people were merely curious, others felt sorry, others were angry, knowing that what had happened to this girl that day might happen the next day, at any moment, to their fathers, husbands, and children. was not everyone in maraucourt employed at the factory? "you come on in with me," said rosalie, when they reached the house; "then perhaps aunt zenobie won't say much." but perrine's presence had no effect upon the terrible aunt. seeing rosalie arrive at such an unusual hour, and noticing that her hand was wrapped up, she cried out shrilly: "now, then, you've gone and hurt yourself, you lazy bones. i bet you did it on purpose." "oh, i'm goin' to be paid," retorted rosalie, scornfully. "you think so, do you?" "monsieur vulfran told me that i should." but this information did not appease aunt zenobie. she continued to scold until mother françoise, leaving her store, came to see what was the matter. but the old grandmother, instead of showing anger, put her arms about rosalie and said: "oh, my dearie; you've gone and got hurt." "just a little, grandmother ... it's my fingers ... but it ain't much." "we must have dr. ruchon." "monsieur vulfran is going to send him here." perrine was about to follow them into the house when aunt zenobie turned upon her and stopped her. "what are you coming for?" she asked. "do you think we need you to look after her?" "thank you for coming," called out rosalie to perrine. perrine had nothing to do but to return to the factory, which she did. but just as she reached the gates a whistle announced that it was closing time. chapter xii new shoes a dozen times during the day she had asked herself how she could possibly sleep in that room where she had been almost suffocated. she was sure that she would not be able to sleep any better that night, or the next, or the next. and if she could not find rest after a hard day's work, whatever would happen to her? in her little mind she weighed all the consequences of this terrible question. if she had not the strength to do her work she would be sent away from the factory, and that would be the end of all her hopes. she would be ill and there would be no one to help her, and she would have to lie down at the foot of a tree and die. it is true that unless she wished she was not obliged to occupy the bed that she had paid for, but where would she find another, and what would she say to rosalie? how could she say in a nice way that what was good for others was not good for her, and when they knew how disgusted she had been, how would they treat her? she might create such ill feeling that she would be forced to leave the factory. the day had passed without her having come to a decision. but now that rosalie had hurt her hand the situation was changed. poor rosalie would probably have to stay in bed for several days, and she would not know what happened in the house at the end of the yard. she would not know who slept in the room or who did not; consequently she need fear no questions. and, on the other hand, as none of the girls in the room knew who the new lodger for the night had been, neither would they bother about her; it might very well be someone who had decided to find a lodging elsewhere. reasoning thus, she decided quickly that she would go and sleep in her new little home. how good it would be to sleep there--nothing to fear from anyone, a roof to cover her head, without counting the enjoyment of living in a house of one's own. the matter was quite decided, and after having been to the baker's to buy another half a pound of bread for her supper, instead of returning to mother françoise's she again took the road that she had taken early that morning. she slipped behind the hedge as the factory hands who lived outside maraucourt came tramping along the road on their way home. she did not wish to be seen by them. while she waited for them to pass she gathered a quantity of rushes and ferns and made a broom. her new home was clean and comfortable, but with a little attention it could be made more so, and she would pick a lot of dried ferns and make a good soft bed to lie upon. forgetting her fatigue, she quickly tied the broom together with some wisps of straw and fastened it to a stick. no less quickly a bunch of ferns was arranged in a mass so that she could easily carry them to her hut. the road was now deserted as far as she could see. hoisting the bed of ferns on her back and taking the broom in her hands, she ran down the hill and across the road. when she came to the narrow path she had to slacken her speed, for the ferns caught in the branches and she could not pass without going down on her knees. upon arriving at the island, she began at once to do her housework. she threw away the old ferns, then commenced to sweep everywhere, the roof, the walls and the ground. as she looked out over the pond and saw the reeds growing thickly, a bright idea came to her. she needed some shoes. one does not go about a deserted island in leather shoes. she knew how to plait, and she would make a pair of soles with the reeds and get a little canvas for the tops and tie them on with ribbon. as soon as she had finished her sweeping she ran out to the pond and picked a quantity of the most flexible reeds and carried them back to the door of her hut and commenced to work. but after she had made a plait of reeds about a yard long she found that this sole that she was making would be too light; because it was too hollow, there would be no solidity, and that before plaiting the reeds they would have to undergo a preparation which in crushing the fibres would transform them into coarse strings. however, this did not stop her. now she needed a hammer, of course she could not find one, but what she did find was a big round stone, which served her purpose very well indeed. then she commenced to beat the reeds. night came on while she was still at work, and she went to sleep dreaming of the beautiful sandals tied with blue ribbons which she would have, for she did not doubt but that she would succeed with what she had undertaken ... if not the first time, well, then the second or the third ... or the tenth. by the next evening she had plaited enough to begin the soles, and the following day, having bought a curved awl for the price of one sou, some thread for one sou, a piece of ribbon for the same price, a small piece of rough canvas for four sous, in all seven sous, which was all that she could spend if she did not wish to go without bread on the saturday, she tried to make a sole like those worn on shoes. the first one that she made was almost round. this was not exactly the shape of the foot. the second one, to which she gave much more attention, seemed to resemble nothing at all; the third was a little better, but finally the fourth, which, with some practice, she had managed to tighten in the center and draw in at the heel, could pass for a sole. once more she had proved that with a little perseverance, a little will, one can do what one wants, even if at first it seems impossible. and she had done this with scarcely anything, a few sous, with no tools, with hardly anything at her command. she was really very happy and she considered that her work was very successful. now what she needed most to finish her sandals were scissors. they would cost so much to buy she would have to manage without them. fortunately she had her knife, and with the help of a stone to sharpen the point she could make it fine enough to trim the canvas. but the cutting of the pieces of canvas she found quite a difficult matter. finally she accomplished it, and on the following saturday morning she had the satisfaction of going forth shod in a nice pair of gray canvas shoes, tied with blue ribbons crossed over her stockings. while she had been working on her shoes (the work had taken four evenings and three mornings beginning at the break of day), she had wondered what she should do with her leather shoes while she was away from the hut. she had no fear that they would be stolen by anyone, for no one came to the place, but then the rats might eat them. so as to prevent this she would put them in a place where the rats could not get at them. this was a rather difficult matter, for the rats seemed to be everywhere. she had no closet, no box to put them away in. finally she tied them to the roof with some wisps of straw. chapter xiii strange housekeeping although she was very proud of her shoes, she was rather anxious as to how she would conduct herself while wearing them at work. while she loaded her truck or pushed it along she was continually looking down at her feet. by doing so she would probably attract the attention of the other girls. this is exactly what did happen. several of her comrades noticed them and complimented her. "where did you buy those shoes?" one asked. "they are not shoes; they are sandals," corrected perrine. "no, they are not; they are shoes," said the girl; "but whatever they are they sure are pretty. where did you buy them?" "i made them myself with plaited reeds and four cents worth of canvas," replied perrine. "they _are_ beautiful." the success she had made of her shoes decided her to undertake another task. she had thought several times of doing it, but it was much more difficult, or so she thought, and might mean too much expense. she wanted to make a chemise to replace the only one which she possessed. for it was very inconvenient to take off this only garment to wash it and then wait until it was dry to put it on again. she needed two yards of calico, and she wondered how much it would cost. and how would she cut the goods when she had them? these were very difficult questions to answer. she certainly had something to think about. she wondered if it would not be wiser to begin by making a print dress to replace her waist and skirt, which was worn more than ever now, as she had to sleep in it. it could last a very little while longer. when it was finished, how would she go out? for her daily bread, as much as for the success of her future plans, she must continue to be admitted to the factory. yet on the saturday evening when she had the three francs in her hand which she had earned for the week's work, she could not resist the temptation of a chemise. she still considered a waist and skirt of the utmost utility, but then a chemise also was indispensable, and besides there were many arguments in favor of the chemise--cleanliness in which she had been brought up, self-respect. finally the chemise won the day. she would mend her waist and skirt; as the material had formerly been very strong, it would still hold a few more darns. every day at the luncheon hour she went to mother françoise's house to ask news of rosalie. sometimes news was given to her, sometimes not, according to whether it was the grandmother or the aunt whom she saw. on her way to inquire for rosalie she passed a little store which was divided into two sections. on one side newspapers, pictures and songs were sold, and on the other linens, calicos and prints. perrine had often looked in this store. how nice it would be to go in and have them cut off as much material as she wished! sometimes, when she had been looking in the window, pretending to look at the newspapers or a song, she had seen girls from the factory enter and come out shortly after with parcels carefully wrapped up, which they held clasped tightly to them. she had thought then that such pleasure was not for her ... at least not then. now she could enter the store if she wished, for she had three silver coins in her hand. she went in. "what is it you want, mademoiselle?" asked a little old woman politely, with a pleasant smile. "will you please tell me what is the price of calico the yard ... the cheapest?" asked perrine timidly. "i have it at forty centimes the yard," said the old woman. perrine gave a sigh of relief. "will you cut me two yards, please?" she said. "it won't wear very well ... but the sixty centimes...." "the forty centime one will do, thank you," said little perrine. "as you like," said the old woman. "i wouldn't like you to come back after and say...." "oh, i wouldn't do that," interrupted perrine hastily. [illustration: she had some time ago decided on the shape.] the old woman cut off two yards, and perrine noticed that it was not white nor shiny like the one she had admired in the window. "any more?" asked the shopkeeper when she had torn the calico with a sharp, dry rip. "i want some thread also," said perrine; "a spool of white, number forty." now it was perrine's turn to leave the store with her little newspaper parcel hugged tightly to her heart. out of her three francs (sixty centimes) she had spent eighteen, so there still remained forty-two until the following saturday. she would have to spend twenty sous for bread, so that left her fourteen sous for extras. she ran back all the way to her little island. when she reached her cabin she was out of breath, but that did not prevent her from beginning her work at once. she had some time ago decided upon the shape she would give her chemise. she would make it quite straight, first, because that was the simplest and the easiest way for one who had never cut out anything before and who had no scissors, and secondly, because she could use the string that was in her old one for this new one. everything went very well; to begin with, there was no cutting in the straight piece. perhaps there was nothing to admire in her work but at any rate she did not have to do it over again. but when the time came for shaping the openings for the head and arms then she experienced difficulties! she had only a knife to do the cutting and she was so afraid that she would tear the calico. with a trembling hand she took the risk. at last it was finished, and on tuesday morning she would be able to go to the factory wearing a chemise earned by her own work, cut and sewn by her own hands. that day when she went to mother françoise's; it was rosalie who came to meet her with her arm in a sling. "are you better?" asked perrine. "no, but they let me get up and they said that i could come out in the yard," replied rosalie. perrine was very pleased to see her friend again and asked all kinds of questions, but rosalie seemed rather reserved. perrine could not understand this attitude. "where are you living now?" asked rosalie. fearing to say where, perrine evaded a direct answer to this question. "it was too expensive for me here," she said, "and i had so little money left for food and other things." "well, did you find anything cheaper elsewhere?" "i don't have to pay." "oh!..." she looked narrowly at perrine, then her curiosity got the better of her. "who are you with?" she asked. again perrine could not give a direct answer. "i'll tell you that later," she said. "oh, when you like," replied rosalie carelessly, "only let me tell you this, if you see aunt zenobie in the yard or at the door you had better not come in. she doesn't want to see you here. if you come it is better to come in the evening, then she ... she is busy." perrine went to the factory very saddened by this welcome. what had she done that she could not go into the house? all day long she remained under the impression that she had offended them. when evening came and she found herself alone in the cabin having nothing to do for the first time in eight days, she was even more depressed. then she thought that she would go and walk in the fields that surrounded her little island, for she had not yet had time to do this. it was a beautiful evening. she wandered around the pond, walking in the high grass that had not been trodden by anyone. she looked across the water at her little home which seemed almost hidden amongst the trees. the birds and beasts could not suspect that it was the work of man behind which he could lie in ambush with his gun. at that moment she heard a noise at her feet which frightened her and a water hen jumped into the water, terrified. then looking about her she saw a nest made of grass and feathers in which were ten white eggs, dirty little eggs with small dark spots. instead of being placed on the ground amongst the grass the nest was floating on the water. she examined it but without touching it, and noticed that it was made in a way to go up and down according to the flow of the water, and was so surrounded with reeds that neither the current nor the wind could carry it away. the mother hen, anxious, took up her position at a distance and stayed there. perrine hid herself in the high grass and waited to see if she would come back to her nest. as she did not return, she went on with her walk, and again and again the rustling of her dress frightened other birds. the water hens, so lissom in their escape, ran to the floating leaves of the water lilies without going under. she saw birds everywhere. when an hour later she returned to her little home the hut was hidden half in the shadows of night. it was so quiet and pretty she thought, and how pleased she was that she had shown as much intelligence as these birds ... to make her nest here. with perrine, as with many little children, it was the events of the day which shaped her dreams by night. the unhappiness through which she had passed the last few months had often colored her dreams, and many times since her troubles had commenced, she had awakened in the night with the perspiration pouring off her. her sleep was disturbed with nightmares caused by the miseries she had experienced in the day. now since she had been at maraucourt and had new hopes and was at work, the nightmares had been less frequent and so she was not so sad. now she thought of what she was going to do at the factory the next day, of the skirt and waist that she would make, of her underwear. now on this particular evening after she had wandered over the fields surrounding her home and had entered her little nest to go to sleep, strange visions passed before her sleepy eyes. she thought that she was walking about the field exploring, and came upon a great big kitchen, a wonderful kitchen like in castles, and there were a number of little dwarfs of the most diabolical shapes, sitting around a big table before a blazing fire; some of them were breaking eggs, others were beating them up until they were white and frothy; and some of these eggs were as large as melons and others were as small as a little pea, and the dwarfs made the most extraordinary dishes from them. they seemed to know the every kind of dish that could be made with eggs,--boiled eggs with cheese and butter; with tomatoes; poached; fried eggs; various omelettes with ham and kidney, jam or rum; the rum set afire and flaming with sparkling lights. and then there were more important dishes still which only the head cooks were handling ... pastries and delicious creams. now and again she half woke and she tried to banish the stupid dream but it came again and the elfs still went on doing their fantastic work, so that when the factory whistle sounded she was still watching them prepare some chocolate creams which she could almost taste in her mouth. then she knew that what had impressed her most during her walk was not the beauty of the night but simply those eggs which she had seen in the nest, which had told her stomach that for fourteen days she had eaten only bread and water. these eggs had made her dream of the elfs and all those delicious things that they were making; she was hungry for good things and she had found it out through her dream. why had she not taken those eggs, or at least some of them, they did not belong to anyone for the duck was wild? of course as she had no saucepan or frying pan or any kitchen utensils whatever, she could not prepare any of the dishes that she had seen made before her dream eyes. but there, that was the best about eggs, they could be used without any very skillful preparation; a lighted match put to a little heap of dry wood and then she could cook them hard or soft, how she liked, in the hot ashes. and she would buy a saucepan or a pan as soon as possible. several times this idea came to her while she was at work that day until finally she decided to buy a box of matches and a cent's worth of salt. as soon as she had made her purchases she ran back to her hut. she had been too interested in the place where she had discovered the nest not to be able to find it again. the mother was not occupying the nest but she had been there during the day because perrine saw now that instead of ten eggs there were eleven, which proved that she had not finished laying. here was a good chance for her to help herself. in the first place the eggs were fresh, and then if she only took five or six, the duck, who did not know how to count, would not notice that any one had been there. a short time ago perrine would not have had any scruples and she would have quickly emptied the nest, without a thought, but the sorrows that she had experienced had made her very thoughtful for the griefs of others; in this same manner her love for palikare had made her feel an affection for all animals that she had not known in her early childhood. after she had taken the eggs she wondered where she could cook them; naturally this could not be done in the cabin for the slightest wreath of smoke which would emerge from it would indicate to anyone who saw it that someone was living there. there was a gypsy camp quite near which she passed by to get to her island, and a little smoke coming from there would attract no attention. she quickly got together some wood and lighted it; soon she had a fire in the ashes of which she cooked one of her eggs. she lacked an egg cup but what did that matter? a little hole made in a piece of bread could hold the egg. in a few minutes she had the satisfaction of dipping a piece of bread in her egg, which was cooked to perfection. it seemed to her as she took the first mouthful that she had never eaten anything so good. when she had finished her supper she wondered how she should use the remainder of her eggs. she would have to use them sparingly for she might not be able to get any more for a long time. a hot soup with an egg broken into it would be very good. as the idea of having some soup came into her head, it was almost immediately followed by the regret that she could not have it. the success of her canvas shoes and her underwear had inspired her with a certain amount of confidence. she had proved that one can do a great deal if one perseveres, but she had not enough confidence to imagine that she could ever make a saucepan for her soup or a metal or wooden spoon, and if she waited until she had the money required to buy these utensils, she would have to content herself with the smell of the soup that came to her as she passed by the open doors. she was telling herself this as she went to work, but just before she reached the village she saw a heap of rubbish by the side of the road and amongst the debris she noticed some tin cans which had been used for potted meat, fish and vegetables. there were different shapes, some large, some small, some high, some low. noticing how shiny they were on the surface, she instinctively stopped; she had not a moment's hesitation. the saucepans, dishes, forks, spoons which she lacked were all here; she could have a whole array of kitchen utensils; she had only to make her choice. with a bound she was across the road; quickly picking out four cans she ran back and hid them behind a hedge so that when evening came she would be able to find them. when evening came she found her treasures and made for her home. she did not wish to make a noise on her island any more than she wished smoke to be seen, so at the end of her day's work she went to her gypsy's camp hoping that she might find a tool or something that would serve her for a hammer with which to flatten the tins that were to be used for plates, saucepans, spoons, etc. she found that it was a very difficult task to make a spoon. it took her no less than three days to do so, and when it was done, she was not at all sure that if she had shown it to anyone, he would have recognized it for a spoon. but she had made something that served her purpose, that was enough; besides, she ate alone and there would be no one to notice her utensils. now for the soup for which she longed! all she wanted was butter and sorrel. she would have to buy butter and naturally as she couldn't make milk she would have to buy that also. the sorrel she would find wild in the fields and she could also find wild carrots and oyster plants. they were not so good as the cultivated vegetables but they would suit her very well indeed. she not only had eggs and vegetables for her dinner, and her pots and pans, but there were fish in the pond and if she were sharp enough to catch them she would have fish too. she needed a line and some worms. she had a long piece of string left over from the piece she had bought for her shoes and she had only to spend one sou for some hooks, then with a piece of horse hair she could pick up outside the blacksmith's door, she would have a line good enough to catch several kinds of fish; if the best in the pond passed disdainfully before her simple bait then she would have to be satisfied with little ones. chapter xiv a banquet in the hut perrine was so busy of an evening that she let an entire week pass before she again went to see rosalie. however, one of the girls at the factory who lodged with mother françoise had brought her news of her friend. perrine, as well as being busy, had been afraid that she might see that terrible aunt zenobie and so she had let the days pass. then one evening after work she thought that she would not return at once to her little island. she had no supper to prepare. the night before she had caught some fish and cooked it, and she intended to have it cold for her supper that evening. rosalie was alone in the garden sitting under an apple tree. when she saw perrine she came to the gate, half pleased, half annoyed. "i thought that you were not coming any more," she said. "i've been very busy." "what with?" perrine showed rosalie her shoes. then she told her how she had made herself a chemise and the trouble she had had in cutting it. "couldn't you borrow a pair of scissors from the people in your house?" asked rosalie in astonishment. "there is no one in my house who could lend me scissors," replied perrine. "everybody has scissors!" perrine wondered if she ought to keep her abode a secret any longer. she was afraid that if she did so she might offend rosalie, so she decided to tell her. "nobody lives in my house," she said smiling. "whatever do you mean?" asked rosalie with round eyes. "that's so, and that's why, as i wasn't able to borrow a saucepan to cook my soup in and a spoon to eat it with, i had to make them and i can tell you that it was harder for me to make my spoon than to make my shoes." "you're joking!" "no, really." then she told her everything, how she had taken possession of the cabin, and made her own cooking utensils, and about her search for eggs, and how she fished and cooked in the gypsy's camping ground. rosalie's eyes opened wider still in wonder and delight. she seemed to be listening to a wonderful story. when perrine told her how she made her first sorrel soup, she clapped her hands. "oh, how delicious! how you must have enjoyed it!" she cried. "what fun!" "yes, everything is great fun when things go right," said perrine; "but when things won't go! i worked three days for my spoon. i couldn't scoop it out properly. i spoiled two large pieces of tin and had only one left. and my! how i banged my fingers with the stones that i had to use in place of a hammer!" "but your soup, that's what i'm thinking of," said rosalie. "yes, it was good." "you know," said perrine, "there's sorrel and carrots, watercress, onions, parsnips, turnips, and ever so many things to eat that one can find in the fields. they are not quite the same as the cultivated vegetables, but they are good!" "one ought to know that!" "it was my father who taught me to know them." rosalie was silent for a moment, then she said: "would you like me to come and see you?" "i should love to have you if you'll promise not to tell anyone where i live," said perrine, delightedly. "i promise," said rosalie, solemnly. "well, when will you come?" "on sunday i am going to see one of my aunts at saint-pipoy; on my way back in the afternoon i can stop...." perrine hesitated for a moment, then she said amiably: "do better than just call; stay to dinner with me." rosalie, like the real peasant that she was, began to reply vaguely in a ceremonious fashion, neither saying yes nor no; but it was quite plain to see that she wished very much to accept the invitation. perrine insisted. "do come; i shall be so pleased," she said. "i am so lonesome." "well, really...." began rosalie. "yes, dine with me; that is settled," said perrine, brightly; "but you must bring your own spoon, because i shall not have the time nor the tin to make another one." "shall i bring my bread also? i can...." "i wish you would. i'll wait for you in the gypsy's ground. you'll find me doing my cooking." perrine was very pleased at the thought of receiving a guest in her own home ... there was a menu to compose, provisions to find ... what an affair! she felt quite important. who would have said a few days before that she would be able to offer dinner to a friend! but there was a serious side. suppose she could not find any eggs or catch a fish! her menu then would be reduced to sorrel soup only. what a dinner! but fortune favored her. on friday evening she found some eggs. true, they were only water-hen's eggs, and not so large as the duck's eggs, but then she must not be too particular. and she was just as lucky with her fishing. with a red worm on the end of her line, she managed to catch a fine perch, which was quite sufficient to satisfy hers and rosalie's appetite. yet, however, she wanted a dessert, and some gooseberries growing under a weeping willow furnished it. true, they were not quite ripe, but the merit of this fruit is that you can eat it green. when, late sunday afternoon, rosalie arrived at the gypsy camping ground, she found perrine seated before her fire upon which the soup was boiling. "i waited for you to mix the yolk of an egg in the soup," said perrine. "you have only to turn it with your free hand while i gently pour the soup over it; the bread is soaked." although rosalie had dressed herself specially for this dinner, she was not afraid to help. this was play, and it all seemed very amusing to her. soon the soup was ready, and it only had to be carried across to the island. this perrine did. the cabin door was open, and rosalie could see before she entered that the place was filled with flowers. in each corner were grouped, in artistic showers, wild roses, yellow iris, cornflowers, and poppies, and the floor was entirely covered with a beautiful soft green moss. rosalie's exclamations of delight amply repaid perrine for all the trouble she had taken. "how beautiful! oh, isn't it pretty!" she exclaimed. on a bed of fresh ferns two large flat leaves were placed opposite each other; these were to serve for plates; and on a very much larger leaf, long and narrow, which is as it should be for a dish, the perch was placed, garnished with a border of watercress. another leaf, but very small, served as a salt-cellar, also another holding the dessert. between each dish was a white anemone, its pure whiteness standing out dazzlingly against the fresh verdure. "if you will sit down...." said perrine, extending her hand. and when they had taken their seats opposite one another the dinner commenced. "how sorry i should have been if i hadn't have come," said rosalie, speaking with her mouth full; "it is so pretty and so good." "why shouldn't you have come?" "because they wanted to send me to picquigny for mr. bendit; he is ill." "what's the matter with him?" "he's got typhoid fever. he's very ill. since yesterday he hasn't known what he's been talking about, and he doesn't know anybody. and i had an idea about you...." "me! what about me?" "something you can do...." "if there is anything i can do for mr. bendit i'd be only too willing. he was kind to me; but i'm only a poor girl; i don't understand." "give me a little more fish and some more watercress, and i'll explain," said rosalie. "you know that mr. bendit has charge of the foreign correspondence; he translates the english and german letters. naturally, as he is off his head now, he can't translate. they wanted to get somebody else to replace him, but as this other man might take his place after he is better (that is, if he does get better), m. fabry and m. mombleux have taken charge of the work, so that he will be sure to have his job when he's up again. but now m. fabry has been sent away to scotland and m. mombleux is in a fix, because, although he can read german all right, he's not much on english. if the writing isn't very clear he can't make out the letters at all. i heard him saying so at the table when i was waiting on them. so i thought i'd tell him that you can speak english just as good as you can french." "i spoke french with my father, and english with my mother," said perrine, "and when we were all three talking together we spoke sometimes one, sometimes the other, mixing two languages without paying attention." "i wasn't sure whether i should say anything about you or not, but now i will, if you like." "why, yes; do, if you think a poor girl like me could be of any use to them." "'tain't a question of being a poor girl or a young lady; it's a question of knowing english," said rosalie. "i speak it, but to translate a business letter is another thing," said perrine, doubtfully. "it'll be all right with m. mombleux; he knows the business part." "well, then, tell him i shall be very pleased if i can do anything for m. bendit." "i'll tell him." the perch, although a large one, had all been eaten, and all the watercress had disappeared. it was now time for the dessert. perrine got up and replaced the fish plates with smaller leaf plates in the shape of a cup; she had picked the prettiest, with variegated shades, and marked as exquisitely as enameled ware. then she offered her guest the gooseberries. "let me offer you some fruit from my own garden," she said, laughing, as though she were playing at keeping doll's house. "where is your garden?" "over your head. there is a gooseberry bush growing in the branches of this willow tree which holds up the cabin, so it seems." "you know you won't be able to live in here much longer," said rosalie. "until the winter, i think." "until winter! why, the bird catchers will need this place pretty soon; that i'm sure." "oh! ... oh, dear ... oh, dear!" the day, which had begun so brightly for perrine, ended sadly. that night was certainly the worst perrine had passed since she had been on her little island. where should she go? and all her utensils that she had taken such trouble to make; what should she do with them? chapter xv aurelie's chance if rosalie had not spoken to perrine of the near opening of the shooting season for water fowl, perrine would have stayed on in her cabin unaware of the danger that might come to her. although this news came as a blow to her, what rosalie had said about m. bendit and the translations she might do for m. mombleux gave her something else to think about. yes, her island was charming, and it would be a great grief for her to leave it. and yet here was an opportunity where she could be useful to two valued employés at the factory, and this step would lead to other steps, and it would open doors perhaps through which she could pass later. this was something that she should consider above all else, even above the sorrow of being dispossessed of her little kingdom. it was not for this game--robbing nests, catching fish, picking flowers, listening to the birds sing--that she had endured all the misery and fatigue of her long journey. she had an object in view. she must remember what her mother told her to do, and do it. she had told rosalie that she would call at mother françoise's house on monday to see if mombleux had need of her services. rosalie came to meet her and said that as no letters had come from england that monday, there would not be any translations to make that day, but perhaps there would be something for the next day. this was at the luncheon hour, so perrine returned to the factory. it had just struck two when ninepin hopped up to her on his wooden leg and told her that she was wanted at the offices at once. "what for?" she asked in amazement. "what's that to do with me? they just sent word for you to go to the office ... go on," he said, roughly. she hurried off. she could not understand. if it was a matter of helping mombleux with a translation, why should she have to go to the office, where everyone could see her and know that he had had to ask for her help? she quickly went up the steps, where she saw talouel standing outside waiting for her. "are you the girl who speaks english?" he asked. "now, no lies, 'cause you speak french without an accent." "my mother was english and my father was french," replied perrine, "so i speak both languages." "good. you are to go to saint-pipoy. monsieur paindavoine wants you." she was so surprised at this news that she stood staring at the manager in amazement. "well, stupid?" he said. as though to excuse herself, she said: "i was taken aback. i'm a stranger here and i don't know where saint-pipoy is." "you won't be lost; you are to go in the carriage," said the manager. "here, william...." m. paindavoine's horse and carriage, which had been standing in the shade, now drew up. "here's the girl," said the manager to a young man. "take her to m. paindavoine quickly." perrine was already down the steps, and was about to take her seat beside william when he stopped her with a sign of his hand. "not here; take the back seat," he said. there was a narrow seat for one person at the back. she got up into it and they started off at a brisk trot. when they had left the village behind william, slacking the horse's speed, turned round to perrine. "you're going to have a chance to please the boss," he said. "how so?" asked perrine. "he's got some english mechanics come over to put a machine together, and they can't understand each other. he's got m. mombleux there, who says he can speak english, but if he does it isn't the same english as these englishmen speak. they keep on jabbering, but don't seem to understand, and the boss is mad. it makes you split your sides to hear 'em. at last m. mombleux couldn't go on any longer, and to calm the boss he said that he knew of a girl named aurelie in the factory who spoke english, and the boss made me come off at once for you." there was a moment's silence; then he turned round again to perrine. "if you speak english like m. mombleux," he said mockingly, "perhaps it'd be better if you didn't go any farther. "shall i put you down?" he added with a grin. "you can go on," said perrine, quietly. "well, i was just thinking for you; that's all," he said. "thank you; but i wish to go on, please." yet in spite of her apparent coolness, little perrine was very nervous, because, although she was sure of her english, she did not know what sort of english the engineer spoke. as william had said mockingly, it was not the same that m. mombleux understood. and she fully realized that there would be many technical words that she would not be able to translate. she would not understand, and she would hesitate, and then probably m. paindavoine would be angry with her, the same as he had been with m. mombleux. above the tops of the poplars she could already see the great smoking chimneys of the factories of saint-pipoy. she knew that spinning and weaving were done here, the same as at maraucourt, and, besides that, it was here that they manufactured red rope and string. but whether she knew that or not, it was nothing that would help her in the task before her. they turned the bend of the road. with a sweeping glance she could take in all the great buildings, and although these works were not so large as those of maraucourt, they were nevertheless of considerable importance. the carriage passed through the great iron gates and soon stopped before the main office. "come with me," said william. he led her into an office where m. paindavoine was seated talking to the manager of the saint-pipoy works. "here's the girl, sir," said william, holding his hat in his hand. "very well; you can go," said his master. without speaking to perrine, m. paindavoine made a sign to his manager to come nearer to him. then he spoke to him in a low voice. the manager also dropped his voice to answer. but perrine's hearing was keen, and she understood that they were speaking of her. she heard the manager reply: "a young girl, about twelve or thirteen, who looks intelligent." "come here, my child," said m. paindavoine, in the same tone that she had already heard him use to rosalie, and which was very different from that which he used for his employés. she felt encouraged and went up to him. "what is your name?" he asked. "aurelie." "where are your father and mother?" "they are both dead." "how long have you been in my employ?" "for three weeks." "where do you come from?" "i have just come from paris." "you speak english?" "my mother was english, and i can speak in conversation, and i understand, but...." "there are no 'buts'; you know or you do not know." "i don't know the words used in various trades, because they use words that i have never heard, and i don't know the meaning of them," said perrine. "you see, benoist," said m. paindavoine quickly; "what this little girl says is so; that shows she is not stupid." "she looks anything but that," answered benoist. "well, perhaps we shall be able to manage somehow," said m. vulfran. he got up, and placing one arm on the manager, he leaned on his cane with the other. "follow us, little girl," he said. perrine usually had her eyes about her and noticed everything that happened, but she took no heed where she was going. as she followed in her grandfather's footsteps, she was plunged in thought. what would be the result of this interview with the english mechanics? they came to a big red brick building. here she saw mombleux walking back and forth, evidently in a bad humor, and it seemed to her that he threw her anything but a friendly look. they went in and were taken up to the first floor. here in a big hall stood a number of wooden crates bearing a firm's name, "morton and pratt, manchester." on one of the crates the englishmen were sitting, waiting. perrine noticed that from their dress they had every appearance of being gentlemen, and she hoped that she would be able better to understand them than if they had been rough workingmen. when m. vulfran entered they rose. "tell them that you can speak english and that they can explain to you," said m. vulfran. she did what she was told, and at the first words she had the satisfaction of seeing the englishmen's faces brighten. it is true she only spoke a few words to begin the conversation, but the pleasant smile they gave her banished all her nervousness. "they understand her perfectly," said the manager. "well, then, ask them," said m. vulfran, "why they have come a week earlier than the date arranged for their coming, because it so happens that the engineer who was to direct them in their work, and who speaks english, is away for a few days." perrine translated the phrase accurately, and one of the men answered at once. "they say," she said, "that they have been to cambrai and put up some machinery, and they got through with their work quicker than they thought they would, so they came here direct instead of going back to england and returning again." "whose machinery were they working on at cambrai?" asked m. vulfran. "it was for the m. m. and e. aveline and company." "what were the machines?" the question was put and the reply was given in english, but perrine hesitated. "why do you hesitate?" asked m. vulfran, impatiently. "because it's a word used in the business that i don't know," answered perrine, timidly. "say the word in english." "hydraulic mangle." "that's all right," said m. vulfran. he repeated the word in english, but with quite a different accent from the english mechanics, which explains why he had not understood them when they had spoken the words. "you see that aveline and company are ahead of us," he said, turning to his manager. "we have no time to lose. i am going to cable to fabry to return at once; but while waiting we must persuade these young men to get to work. ask them what they are standing there for, little girl." she translated the question, and the one who seemed to be the chief gave her a long answer. "well?" asked m. vulfran. "they are saying some things that are very difficult for me to understand." "however, try and explain to me." "they say that the floor is not strong enough to hold their machine, which weighs...." she stopped to question the workmen in english, who told her the weight. "ah, that is it, is it?" said m. vulfran. "and when the machine is started going its weight will break the flooring," she continued, turning to m. vulfran. "the beams are sixty centimetres in width." she told the men what m. vulfran said, listened to their reply, then continued: "they say that they have examined the flooring, and that it is not safe for this machine. they want a thorough test made and strong supports placed under the floor." "the supports can be placed there at once, and when fabry returns a thorough examination will be made. tell them that. let them get to work without losing a moment. they can have all the workmen they need ... carpenters and masons, millwrights. they have only to tell you. you have to be at their service, and then you tell monsieur benoist what they require." she translated these instructions to the men, who appeared satisfied when she told them that she was to stay and interpret for them. "you will stay here," continued m. vulfran. "your food will be given to you and also a lodging at the inn. you will have nothing to pay there. and if we are pleased with you, you will receive something extra when monsieur fabry returns." chapter xvi grandfather's interpreter she was an interpreter; that was far better than pushing trucks. when the day's work was over, acting in the capacity of interpreter, she escorted the two englishmen to the village inn and engaged a room for them and one for herself, not a miserable garret where she would have to sleep with several others, but a real bedroom all to herself. as they could not speak one word of french, the two englishmen asked her if she would not take her dinner with them. they ordered a dinner that would have been enough for ten men. that night she slept in a real bed and between real sheets, yet it was a very long time before she could get to sleep. even when her eyelids grew too heavy to keep open her excitement was so great that every now and then she would start up in bed. she tried to force herself to be calm. she told herself that things would have to take their course, without her wondering all the time if she were going to be happy or not. that was the only sensible thing to do. things seemed to be taking such a favorable turn she must wait. but the best arguments when addressed to oneself have never made anyone go to sleep, and the better the argument the more likely one is to keep awake. the next morning, when the factory whistle blew, she went to the door of the room occupied by the two machinists and knocked, and told them it was time to get up. they paid no heed to the whistle, however, and it was not until they had taken a bath and made an elaborate _toilette_, something unknown to the villagers in those parts, and partaken of a hearty breakfast, consisting of a thick, juicy steak, plenty of buttered toast and several cups of tea, that they showed any readiness to get to their work. perrine, who had discreetly waited for them outside, wondered if they would ever be ready. when at last they came out, and she tripped behind them to the factory, her one thought was that her grandfather would surely be there ahead of them. however, it was not until the afternoon that m. vulfran arrived. he was accompanied by his youngest nephew, casimir. the youth looked disdainfully at the work the machinists had done, which in truth was merely in preparation. "these fellows won't do much before fabry returns," he said. "that's not surprising considering the supervision you have given them, uncle." he said this jeeringly, but instead of taking his words lightly, his uncle reprimanded him severely: "if you had been able to attend to this matter, i should not have been forced to have called in this little girl, who until now has only pushed trucks." perrine saw casimir bite his lip in anger, but he controlled himself and said lightly: "if i had foreseen that i should have to give up a government position for a commercial one, i should certainly have learned english in preference to german." "it is never too late to learn," replied his uncle in a tone that brooked no further parley. the quick words on both sides had been spoken in evident displeasure. perrine had made herself as small as possible. she had not dared move, but casimir did not even turn his eyes in her direction, and almost at once he went out, giving his arm to his uncle. then she was able to give free rein to her thoughts. how severe m. vulfran was with his nephew, but what a disagreeable, horrid youth was that nephew! if they had any affection for one another it certainly was not apparent. why was it? why wasn't this nephew kind to his old uncle, who was blind and broken down with sorrow? and why was the old man so hard with a nephew who was taking the place of his own son? while she was pondering these questions m. vulfran returned, this time being led in by the manager, who, having placed him in a seat, began to explain to him the work that the machinists were now engaged upon. some minutes later she heard m. benoist calling: "aurelie! aurelie!" she did not move, for she had forgotten that aurelie was the name that she had given to herself. the third time he called: "aurelie!" she jumped up with a start as she realized that that was the name by which they knew her. she hurried over to them. "are you deaf?" demanded monsieur benoist. "no, sir; i was listening to the machinists." "you can leave me now," said m. vulfran to his manager. when the manager had gone he turned to perrine, who had remained standing before him. "can you read, my child?" "yes, sir." "english as well as french?" "yes, both the same." "but while reading english can you turn it into french?" "when the phrases are not too difficult; yes, sir." "the daily news from the papers, do you think you could do that?" "i have never tried that, because if i read an english paper there is no need for me to translate it for myself, because i understand what it says." "well, we will try. tell the machinists that when they want you they can call you, and then come and read from an english paper some articles that i wish to have read to me in french. go and tell the men and then come back and sit down here beside me." when she had done what she was told, she sat down beside m. vulfran and took the newspaper that he handed her, "the dundee news." "what shall i read?" she asked as she unfolded it. "look for the commercial column." the long black and white columns bewildered poor little perrine. she was so nervous and her hands trembled so she wondered if she would ever be able to accomplish what she was asked to do. she gazed from the top of one page to the bottom of another, and still could not find what she was seeking. she began to fear that her employer would get impatient with her for being so slow and awkward. but instead of getting impatient he told her to take her time. with that keen hearing so subtle with the blind, he had divined what a state of emotion she was in. he could tell that from the rustling of the newspaper she held in her hand. "we have plenty of time," he said, encouragingly; "besides i don't suppose you have ever read a trade journal before." "no, sir; i have not," she replied. she continued to scan the sheets, then suddenly she gave a little cry of pleasure. "have you found it?" "yes, i think so." "now look for these words," he said in english: "linen, hemp, jute, sacks, twine." "but, sir, you know english," she cried, involuntarily. "five or six words of the trade; that is all, unfortunately," he replied. when she had found what he required she commenced her translation, but she was so hopelessly slow, hesitating and confused, that in a few moments the beads of perspiration stood out on her forehead and hands from sheer agony, despite the fact that from time to time he encouraged her. "that will do. i understand that ... go on," he said. and she continued, raising her voice when the hammering blows from the workmen became too loud. at last she came to the end of the column. "now see if there is any news from calcutta," said her employer. she scanned the sheets again. "yes, here it is," she said, after a moment; "from our special correspondent." "that's it. read!" "the news that we are receiving from dacca...." her voice shook so as she said this name that monsieur vulfran's attention was attracted. "what's the matter?" he said. "why are you trembling?" "i don't know," she said, timidly; "perhaps i am nervous." "i told you not to mind," he chided. "you are doing very much better than i thought." she read the cables from dacca which mentioned a gathering of jute along the shores of the brahmaputra. then he told her to look and see if there was a cable from saint helena. her eyes ran up and down the columns until the words "saint helena" caught her eye. "on the rd, the english steamer 'alma' sailed from calcutta for dundee; on the th, the norwegian steamer 'grundloven' sailed from naraingaudj for boulogne." he appeared satisfied. "that is very good," he said. "i am quite pleased with you." she wanted to reply, but afraid that her voice would betray her joy, she kept silent. "i can see that until poor bendit is better i can make good use of you," he continued. after receiving an account of the work that the men had done, and telling them to be as quick as possible, he told perrine to lead him to the manager's office. "have i to give you my hand?" she asked, timidly. "why, yes, my child," he replied. "how do you think you can guide me otherwise? and warn me when there is anything in the way, and above all don't be absent-minded." "oh, i assure you, sir, you can place every confidence in me," she said with emotion. "you see that i already have confidence," he replied. she took him gently by the left hand, whilst with his right he held his cane, feeling ahead of him cautiously as he went forward. they had scarcely left the workshops before they came to the railway tracks, and she thought that she ought to warn him. "here are the rails, just here," she said. "please...." but he interrupted her. "that you need not tell me," he said. "i know every bit of the ground round about the works; my head knows it and my feet know it, but it's the unexpected obstacles that we might find on the road that you must tell me about, something that's in the path that should not be. all the ground i know, thoroughly." it was not only his grounds that he knew, but he knew his people also. when he went through the yards his men greeted him. they not only took their hats off as though he saw them, but they said his name. "good morning, sir!... good morning, monsieur vulfran!" and to a great number he was able to reply by their names: "good morning, jacque!" ... "good morning, pascal!" he knew the voices of all those who had long been in his employ. when he hesitated, which was rarely, for he knew almost all, he would stop and say: "it's you, is it not?" mentioning the speaker's name. if he made a mistake he explained why he had done so. walking thus, it was a slow walk from the factories to the offices. she led him to his armchair; then he dismissed her. "until tomorrow," he said; "i shall want you then." chapter xvii hard questions the next morning, at the same hour as on the previous day, monsieur paindavoine entered the workshops, guided by the manager. perrine wanted to go and meet him, but she could not at this moment as she was busy transmitting orders from the chief machinist to the men who were working for him--masons, carpenters, smiths, mechanics. clearly and without repetition, she explained to each one what orders were given to him; then she interpreted for the chief machinist the questions or objections which the french workmen desired to address to him. perrine's grandfather had drawn near. the voices stopped as the tap of his cane announced his approach, but he made a sign for them to continue the same as though he were not there. and while perrine, obeying him, went on talking with the men, he said quietly to the manager, though not low enough but that perrine heard: "do you know, that little girl would make a fine engineer!" "yes," said the manager; "it's astonishing how decided and confident she is with the men." "yes, and she can do something else. yesterday she translated the 'dundee news' more intelligently than bendit. and it was the first time that she had read trade journal stuff." "does anyone know who her parents were?" asked the manager. "perhaps talouel does; i do not," said vulfran. "she is in a very miserable and pitiful condition," said the manager. "i gave her five francs for her food and lodging." "i am speaking of her clothes. her waist is worn to threads; i have never seen such a skirt on anybody but a beggar, and she certainly must have made the shoes she is wearing herself." "and her face, what is she like, benoist?" "very intelligent and very pretty." "hard looking or any signs of vice?" "no; quite the contrary. she has a very frank, honest look. she has great eyes that look as though they could pierce a wall, and yet at the same time they have a soft, trusting look." "where in the world does she come from?" "not from these parts, that's a sure thing." "she told me that her mother was english." "and yet she does not look english. she seems to belong to quite another race, but she is very pretty; even with the old rags that she is wearing the girl seems to have a strange sort of beauty. she must have a strong character or some power, or why is it that these workmen pay such attention to such a poor little ragged thing?" and as benoist never missed a chance to flatter his employer, he added: "undoubtedly without having even seen her you have guessed all that i have told you." "her accent struck me as being very cultured," replied monsieur vulfran. although perrine had not heard all that the two men had said, she had caught a few words, which had thrown her into a state of great agitation. she tried to recover her self-control, for it would never do to listen to what was being said behind her when the machinists and workmen were talking to her at the same time. what would her employer think if in giving her explanations in french he saw that she had not been paying attention to her task. however, everything was explained to them in a manner satisfactory to both sides. when she had finished, monsieur vulfran called to her: "aurelie!" this time she took care to reply quickly to the name which in the future was to be hers. as on the previous day, he made her sit down beside him and gave her a paper to translate for him into french. this time it was not the "dundee news," but the "dundee trade report association," which is an official bulletin published on the commerce of jute. so without having to search for any particular article, she read it to him from beginning to end. then, when the reading was over, as before, he asked her to lead him through the grounds, but this time he began to question her about herself. "you told me that you had lost your mother. how long ago was that?" he asked. "five weeks," she replied. "in paris?" "yes, in paris." "and your father?" "father died six months before mother," she said in a low voice. as he held her hand in his he could feel it tremble, and he knew what anguish she felt as he evoked the memory of her dead parents, but he did not change the subject; he gently continued to question her. "what did your parents do?" "we sold things," she replied. "in paris? round about paris?" "we traveled; we had a wagon and we were sometimes in one part of the country, sometimes in another." "and when your mother died you left paris?" "yes, sir." "why?" "because mother made me promise not to stay in paris after she had gone, but to go north where my father's people live." "then why did you come here?" "when my mother died we had to sell our wagon and our donkey and the few things we had, and all this money was spent during her illness. when i left the cemetery after she was buried all the money i had was five francs thirty-five centimes, which was not enough for me to take the train. so i decided to make the journey on foot." monsieur vulfran's fingers tightened over hers. she did not understand this movement. "oh, forgive me; i am boring you," she said. "i am telling you things perhaps that are of no interest." "you are not boring me, aurelie," said the blind man. "on the contrary, i am pleased to know, what an honest little girl you are. i like people who have courage, will, and determination, and who do not easily give up. if i like finding such qualities in men, how much more pleasure does it give me to find them in a girl of your age! so ... you started with five francs thirty-five centimes in your pocket?..." "a knife, a piece of soap," continued little perrine, "a thimble, two needles, some thread and a map of the roads, that was all." "could you understand the map?" "yes, i had to know, because we used to travel all over the country. that was the only thing that i kept of our belongings." the blind man stopped his little guide. "isn't there a big tree here on the left?" he asked. "yes, with a seat all around it," she replied. "come along then; we'll be better sitting down." when they were seated she went on with her story. she had no occasion to shorten it, for she saw that her employer was greatly interested. "you never thought of begging?" he asked, when she came to the time when she had left the woods after being overtaken by the terrible storm. "no, sir; never." "but what did you count upon when you saw that you could not get any work?" "i didn't count on anything. i thought that if i kept on as long as i had the strength i might find something. it was only when i was so hungry and so tired that i had to give up. if i had dropped one hour sooner all would have been over." then she told him how her donkey, licking her face, had brought her back to consciousness, and how the ragpicker had saved her from starvation. then passing quickly over the days she had spent with la rouquerie, she came to the day when she had made rosalie's acquaintance. "and rosalie told me," she said, "that anyone who wants work can get it in your factories. i came and they employed me at once." "when are you going on to your relations?" perrine was embarrassed. she did not expect this question. "i am not going any further," she replied, after a moment's hesitation. "i don't know if they want me, for they were angry with father. i was going to try and be near them because i have no one else, but i don't know if i shall be welcomed. now that i have found work, it seems to me that it would be better for me to stay here. what will become of me if they turn me away? i know i shall not starve here, and i am too afraid to go on the road again. i shall not let them know that i am here unless some piece of luck comes my way." "didn't your relatives ever try to find out about you?" asked m. vulfran. "no, never," replied perrine. "well, then, perhaps you are right," he said. "yet if you don't like to take a chance and go and see them, why don't you write them a letter? they may not be able to give you a home, so then you could stay here where you'd be sure of earning your living. on the other hand, they may be very glad to have you, and you would have love and protection, which you would not have here. you've learned already that life is very hard for a young girl of your age, and in your position ... and very sad." "yes, sir; i know it is very sad," said little perrine, lifting her beautiful eyes to the sightless eyes of her grandfather. "every day i think how sad it is, and i know if they would hold out their arms to welcome me i would run into them so quickly! but suppose they were just as cold and hard to me as they were with my father...." "had these relations any serious cause to be angry with your father? did he do anything very bad?" "i cannot think," said little perrine, "that my father, who was always so good and kind, and who loved me and mother so much, could have ever been bad. he could not have done anything very wrong, and yet his people must have had, in their opinion, serious reasons for being angry with him, it seems to me." "yes, evidently," said the blind man. "but what they have against him they could not hold against you. the sins of the father should not fall upon the children." "if that could be true!" she said these words in a voice that trembled so with emotion that the blind man was surprised at the depths of this little girl's feelings. "you see," he said, "how in the depths of your heart how much you want their love and affection." "yes, but how i dread being turned away," she replied. "but why should you be?" he asked. "have your grandparents any other children beside your father?" "no." "why shouldn't they be glad that you should come and take the place of the son they have lost? you don't know what it is to be alone in the world." "yes, i do ... i know only too well what it is," replied perrine. "youth who has a future ahead is not like old age, which has nothing before it but death." she looked at him. she did not take her eyes from his face, for he could not see her. what did his words mean? from the expression of his face little perrine tried to read the inmost thoughts that stirred this old man's heart. "well," he said, after waiting a moment, "what do you think you will do?" "i hesitate because i feel so bad about it," she said. "if i could only believe that they would be glad to have me and would not turn me away...." "you know nothing of life, poor little girl," said the old gentleman. "age should not be alone any more than youth." "do you think all old people feel like that?" asked perrine. "they may not think that it is so, but they feel it." "you think so?" she said, trembling, her eyes still fixed on his face. he did not reply directly, but speaking softly as though to himself, he said: "yes, yes; they feel it...." then getting up from his seat abruptly, as though to drive away thoughts that made him feel sad, he said in a tone of authority: "come across to the offices. i wish to go there." chapter xviii secretary to m. vulfran when would fabry, the engineer, return? that was the question that perrine anxiously asked herself, for on that day her role of interpreter to the english machinists would terminate. that of translator of newspaper articles to m. vulfran, would that continue until m. bendit had recovered from his illness? here was another question that made her even still more anxious. it was on thursday, when she reached the factories with the two machinists, that she found monsieur fabry in the workshop busy inspecting the work that had already been done. discreetly she waited at a distance, not taking part in any of the explanations that were being made, but all the same the chief machinist drew her into the conversation. "without this little girl's help," he said, "we should have stood here waiting with our arms folded." monsieur fabry then looked at her, but he said nothing, and she on her side did not dare ask him what she had to do now, whether she was to stay at saint-pipoy or return to maraucourt. she stood there undecided, thinking that as it was m. vulfran who had sent for her, it would be he who would send her away or keep her. he came at his usual hour, led by the manager, who gave him an account of the orders that the engineer had given and the observations that he had made. but it appeared that he was not completely satisfied. "it is a pity that the little girl is not here," he said in annoyance. "but she is here," replied the manager, making a sign to perrine to approach. "why was it you did not go back to maraucourt, girl?" he asked. "i thought that i ought not to leave here until you told me to go back," she replied. "that was quite right," he said. "you must be here waiting for me when i come...." he stopped for a second, then went on: "and i shall also need you at maraucourt. you can go back this evening, and tomorrow be at the office. i will tell you what you will have to do." when she had interpreted the orders which he wished to give to the machinists, he left, and that day she was not required to read the newspapers. but what did that matter? hadn't her grandfather said that on the morrow he would need her at maraucourt? "i shall need you at maraucourt!" she kept repeating these words over and over again as she tramped along the roads over which william had driven her in the trap. how was she going to be employed? she imagined all sorts of ways, but she could not feel certain of anything, except that she was not to be sent back to push trucks. that was a sure thing; for the rest she would have to wait. but she need not wait in a state of feverish anxiety, for from her grandfather's manner she might hope for the best. if she, a poor little girl, could only have enough wisdom to follow the course that her mother had mapped out for her before dying, slowly and carefully, without trying to hasten events, her life, which she held in her own hands, would be what she herself made it. she must remember this always, in everything she said, every time she had to make a resolution, every time she took a step forward, and each time she took this step she must take it without asking advice of anyone. on her way back to maraucourt she turned all this over in her little head. she walked slowly, stopping when she wanted to pick a flower that grew beneath the hedge, or when, in looking over a fence, she could see a pretty one that seemed to be beckoning to her from the meadow. now and again she got rather excited; then she would quicken her step; then she slowed up again, telling herself that there was no occasion for her to hurry. here was one thing she had to do--she must make it a rule, make it a habit, not to give way to an impulse. oh, she would have to be very wise. her pretty face was very grave as she walked along, her hands full of lovely wild flowers. she found her island the same as she had left it, each thing in its place. the birds had even shown respect for the berries beneath the willow tree which had ripened in her absence. here was something for her supper. she had not counted upon having berries. she had returned at an earlier hour than when she had left the factory, so she did not feel inclined to go to bed as soon as her supper was over. she sat by the pond in the quiet of the evening, watching the night slowly fall. although she had been away only a short time, something seemed to have occurred to disturb the quietness of her little shelter. in the fields there was no longer the solemn silence of the night which had struck her on the first days that she had installed herself on the island. previously, all she could hear in the entire valley, on the pond, in the big trees and the foliage, was the mysterious rustling of the birds as they returned to the nests for the night. now the silence was disturbed by all kinds of noises--the blow of the forge, the grind of the axle, the swish of a whip, and the murmur of voices. as she had tramped along the roads from saint-pipoy she had noticed that the harvest had commenced in the fields that were most exposed, and soon the mowers would come as far as her little nook, which was shaded by the big trees. she would certainly have to leave her tiny home; it would not be possible for her to live there longer. whether she had to leave on account of the harvesters or the bird catchers, it was the same thing, just a matter of days. although for the last few days she had got used to having sheets on her bed, and a room with a window, and closed doors, she slept that night on her bed of ferns as though she had never left it, and it was only when the sun rose in the heavens that she awoke. when she reached the factory, instead of following her companions to where the trucks stood, she made her way to the general offices, wondering what she should do--go in, or wait outside. she decided to do the latter. if they saw her standing outside the doors, someone would see her and call her in. she waited there for almost an hour. finally she saw talouel, who asked her roughly what she was doing there. "monsieur vulfran told me to come this morning to the office to see him," she said. "outside there, is not the office," he said. "i was waiting to be called in," she replied. "come up then." she went up the steps, following him in. "what did you do at saint-pipoy?" he asked, turning to look at her. she told him in what capacity m. vulfran had employed her. "monsieur fabry then had been messing up things?" "i don't know." "what do you mean--you don't know? are you a silly?" "maybe i am." "you're not, and you know it; and if you don't reply it's because you don't want to. don't forget who is talking to you; do you know what i am here?" "yes, the foreman." "that means the master. and as your master you do as i tell you. i am going to know all. those who don't obey i fire! remember that!" this was indeed the man whom she had heard the factory girls talking about when she had slept in that terrible room at mother françoise's. the tyrant who wanted to be everything in the works, not only at maraucourt, but at saint-pipoy, at bacourt, at flexelles, everywhere, and who would employ any means to uphold his authority, even disputing it with that of monsieur vulfran's. "i ask you what monsieur fabry has been doing?" he asked, lowering his voice. "i cannot tell you because i do not know myself. but i can tell you what observations monsieur vulfran had me interpret for the machinists." she repeated what she had had to tell the men without omitting a single thing. "is that all?" "that is all." "did monsieur vulfran make you translate his letters?" "no, he did not. i only read some articles from the 'dundee news' and a little paper all through; it was called the 'dundee trades report association.'" "you know if you don't tell me the truth, all the truth, i'll get it pretty quick, and then ... ouste! off you go." "why should i not speak the truth?" asked perrine. "it's up to you to do so," he retorted. "i've warned you ... remember." "i'll remember," said perrine, "i assure you." "very good. now go and sit down on that bench over there. if the boss really needs you he'll remember that he told you to come here this morning. he is busy talking to some of his men now." she sat on the bench for almost an hour, not daring to move so long as talouel was near. what a dreadful man! how afraid she was of him! but it would never do to let him see that she was afraid. he wanted her to spy on her employer, and then tell him what was in the letters that she translated for him! this indeed might well scare her, yet there was something to be pleased about. talouel evidently thought that she would have the letters to translate; that meant that her grandfather would have her with him all the time that m. bendit was ill. while she sat there waiting she caught sight of william several times. when he was not fulfilling the duties of coachman he acted as useful man to m. vulfran. each time that he appeared on the scene perrine thought that he had come to fetch her, but he passed without saying a word to her. he seemed always in a hurry. finally some workingmen came out of m. vulfran's office with a very dissatisfied expression on their faces. then william came and beckoned to her and showed her into m. vulfran's office. she found her grandfather seated at a large table covered with ledgers, at the side of which were paper weights stamped with large letters in relief. in this way the blind man was able to find what his eyes could not see. without announcing her, william had pushed perrine inside the room and closed the door after her. she waited a moment, then she thought that she had better let m. vulfran know that she was there. "monsieur," she said, "i am here ... aurelie." "yes," he said, "i recognized your step. come nearer and listen to me. i am interested in you. you have told me your troubles and i think you have been very courageous. from the translations that you have made for me, and the manner in which you have acted as interpreter for the machinists, i see that you are intelligent. now that i am blind, i need someone to see for me, to tell me about things i wish to know, and also about things that strike them also. i had hoped that william would have been able to do this for me, but unfortunately he drinks too much and i can't keep him. "now, would you like to take the position that he has been unable to hold? to commence with, you will have ninety francs a month. if i am pleased with you i may do more for you." overwhelmed with joy, perrine stood before the blind man unable to say a word. "why don't you speak?" he said at last. "i can't ... i don't know what to say ... to thank you," she said. her voice broke. "i feel so...." "yes, yes," he said. "i know how you feel. your voice tells me that. i am pleased. that is as good as a promise that you will do all you can to give me satisfaction. now let us change the subject. have you written to your grandparents?" "no," said perrine, hesitatingly; "i ... i did not have any paper." "oh, very well. you will be able to find all you need in monsieur bendit's office. when you write tell them exactly what position you occupy in my employ. if they have anything better to offer you, they will send for you; if not, they will let you remain here." "oh, certainly ... i am sure i shall stay...." "yes, i think so. i think it will be best for you. as you will be in the offices, you will be in communication with my employés; you can take my orders to them, and you will also have to go out with me, so in that case you cannot wear your factory clothes, which monsieur benoist tells me are rather shabby." "they are in rags," said perrine; "but i assure you, sir, it is not because i am lazy or that i don't care...." "i am sure of that," replied m. vulfran. "now, as all that will be changed, you go to the cashier in the counting house, and he will give you a money order. you can go then to madame lachaise in the village and get some clothes, some linen, hats and shoes; what you need...." perrine was listening as though it were not an old blind man with a grave face that was speaking, but a beautiful fairy who was holding over her her magic wand. she was silent. then his voice recalled her to the reality. "you are free to choose what you like, but bear in mind the choice you make will guide me in acquiring a knowledge of your character. now you can go and see about your things at once. i shall not need you until tomorrow." chapter xix suspicion and confidence she went to the counting house, and after the chief cashier and his clerks had eyed her from head to foot, she was handed the order which m. vulfran had said was to be given to her. she left the factory wondering where she would find madame lachaise's shop. she hoped that it was the woman who had sold her the calico, because as she knew her already, it would be less embarrassing to ask her advice as to what she should buy, than it would be to ask a perfect stranger. and so much hung on the choice she would make; her anxiety increased as she thought of her employer's last words: "the choice you make will guide me in acquiring a knowledge of your character." she did not need this warning to keep her from making extravagant purchases, but then on the other hand, what she thought would be the right things for herself, would her employer consider suitable? in her fancy she had worn beautiful clothes, and when she was quite a little girl she had been very proud to display her pretty things, but of course dresses on this order would not be fitting for her now. the simplest that she could find would be better. who would have thought that the unexpected present of new clothes could have filled her with so much anxiety and embarrassment. she knew that she ought to be filled with joy and yet here she was greatly worried and hesitating. just near the church she found mme. lachaise's shop. it was by far the best shop in maraucourt. in the window there was a fine display of materials, ribbons, lingerie, hats, jewels, perfumes, which aroused the envy and tempted the greed of all the frivolous girls throughout the surrounding villages. it was here where they spent their small earnings, the same as their fathers and husbands spent theirs at the taverns. when perrine saw this display of finery she was still more perplexed and embarrassed. she entered the shop and stood in the middle of the floor, for neither the mistress of the establishment nor the milliners who were working behind the counter seemed to think that the ragged little girl required any attention. finally perrine decided to hold out the envelope containing the order that she held in her hand. "what is it you want, little girl?" demanded madame lachaise. as she still held out the envelope the mistress of the store caught sight of the words maraucourt factories, vulfran paindavoine in one of the corners. the expression of her face changed at once, her smile was very pleasant now. "what do you wish, mademoiselle?" she asked, leaving her desk and drawing forward a chair for perrine. perrine told her that she wanted a dress, some underlinen, a pair of shoes and a hat. "we can supply you with all those," said madame lachaise, "and with goods of the very best quality. would you like to commence with the dress? yes. very well then, i will show you some materials." but it was not materials that perrine wished to see; she wanted a ready-made dress. something that she could put on at once, or at least something that would be ready for her to wear the next day when she went out with monsieur paindavoine. "ah, you are going out with monsieur vulfran?" said madame lachaise quickly; her curiosity was strung to its highest pitch at this statement. she wondered what the all powerful master of maraucourt could have to do with this ragged little girl and she did not hesitate to ask. but instead of replying to her question perrine continued to explain that she wanted to see some black dresses as she was in mourning. "you want a dress so as to be able to attend a funeral then?" "no, it is not for a funeral," said perrine. "well, you understand, mademoiselle, if i know what you require the dress for i shall be able to know what style, material, and price it should be. "i want the plainest style," said little perrine timidly, "and the lightest but best wearing material, and the lowest price." "very good, very good," replied madame lachaise, "they will show you something. virginie, attend to mademoiselle." how her tone had changed! her manner also. with great dignity madame lachaise went back to her seat at the desk, disdaining to busy herself with a customer who had such small desires. she was probably one of the servant's daughters, for whom monsieur vulfran was going to buy a mourning outfit; but which servant? however as virginie brought forward a cashmere dress trimmed with passementerie and jet, she thought fit to interfere. "no, no, not that," she said. "that would be beyond the price. show her that black challis dress with the little dots. the skirt will be a trifle too long and the waist too large, but it can easily be made to fit her, besides we have nothing else in black." here was a reason that dispensed with all others, but even though it was too large, perrine found the skirt and waist that went with it very pretty, and the saleslady assured her that with a little alteration is would suit her beautifully, and of course she had to believe her. the choice for the stockings and undergarments was easier because she wanted the least expensive, but when she stated that she only wanted to purchase two pairs of stockings and two chemises, mlle. virginie became just as disdainful as her employer, and it was as though she was conferring a favor that she condescended to try some shoes on perrine, and the black straw hat which completed the wardrobe of this little simpleton. could anyone believe that a girl would be such an idiot! she had been given an order to buy what she wanted and she asked for two pairs of stockings and two chemises. and when perrine asked for some handkerchiefs, which for a long time had been the object of her desires, this new purchase, which was limited to three handkerchiefs, did not help to change the shopkeeper's or the saleslady's contempt for her. "she's nothing at all," they murmured. "and now shall we send you these things?" asked mme. lachaise. "no, thank you," said perrine, "i will call this evening and fetch them when the alterations are made." "well, then, don't come before eight o'clock or after nine," she was told. perrine had a very good reason for not wishing to have the things sent to her. she was not sure where she was going to sleep that night. her little island was not to be thought of. those who possess nothing can dispense with doors and locks, but when one has riches ... for despite the condescension of the shopkeeper and her assistant, these were riches to perrine and needed to be guarded. so that night she would have to take a lodging and quite naturally she thought of going to rosalie's grandmother. when she left madame lachaise's shop, she went on her way to mother françoise's to see if she could accommodate her and give her what she desired; that was a tiny little room that would not cost much. as she reached the gate she met rosalie coming out, walking quickly. "you're going out?" cried perrine. "yes, and you ... so you are free then?" in a few hurried words they explained. rosalie, who was going on an important errand to picquigny, could not return to her grandmother's at once, as she would have liked, so as to make the best arrangements that she could for perrine; but as perrine had nothing to do for that day, why shouldn't she go with her to picquigny; and they would come back together; it would be a pleasure trip then. they went off gaily, and rosalie accomplished her errand quickly, then their pleasure trip commenced. they walked through the fields, chatting and laughing, picked flowers, then rested in the heat of the day under the shadows of the great trees. it was not until night that they arrived back in maraucourt. not until rosalie reached her grandmother's gate did she realize what time it was. "what will aunt zenobie say?" she said half afraid. "oh well...." began perrine. "oh well, i don't care," said rosalie defiantly, "i've enjoyed myself ... and you?" "well, if you who have people to talk to every day have enjoyed yourself, how much more have i who never have anybody to talk to," said perrine ruefully. "i've had a lovely time," she sighed. "well, then we don't care what anybody says," said rosalie bravely. fortunately, aunt zenobie was busy waiting on the boarders, so the arrangements for the room was made with mother françoise, who did not drive too hard a bargain and that was done quickly and promptly. fifty francs a month for two meals a day; twelve francs for a little room decorated with a little mirror, a window, and a dressing table. at eight o'clock perrine dined alone in the general dining room, a table napkin on her lap. at eight-thirty she went to madame lachaise's establishment to fetch her dress and other things which were quite ready for her. at nine o'clock, in her tiny room, the door of which she locked, she went to bed, a little worried, a little excited, a little hesitating, but, in her heart of hearts full of hope. now we should see. what she did see the next morning when she was called into m. vulfran's office after he had given his orders to his principal employés, was such a severe expression on his face that she was thoroughly disconcerted; although the eyes that turned towards her as she entered his room were devoid of look, she could not mistake the expression on this face that she had studied so much. certainly it was not the kind look of a benefactor, but quite the reverse: it was an expression of displeasure and anger that she saw. what had she done wrong that he should be angry; with her? she put this question to herself but she could find no reply to it; perhaps she had spent too much at madame lachaise's and her employer had judged her character from these purchases. and in her selection she had tried to be so modest and economical. what should she have bought then? or rather what should she not have bought? but she had no more time to wonder, for her employer was speaking to her in a severe tone: "why did you not tell me the truth?" he said. "in what have i not told the truth?" she asked in a frightened voice. "in regard to your conduct since you came to this village." "but i assure you, monsieur, i have told you the truth." "you told me that you lodged at mother françoise's house. and when you left there where did you go? i may as well tell you that yesterday zenobie, that is françoise's daughter, was asked to give some information, some references of you, and she said that you only spent one night in her mother's house, then you disappeared, and no one knew what you did from that night until now." perrine had listened to the commencement of this cross examination in afright, but as monsieur vulfran went on she grew braver. "there is someone who knows what i did after i left the room i used at mother françoise's," she said quietly. "who?" "rosalie, her granddaughter, knows. she will tell you that what i am now going to tell you, sir, is the truth. that is, if you think my doings are worth knowing about." "the position that you are to hold in my service demands that i know what you are," said monsieur vulfran. "well, monsieur, i will tell you," said little perrine. "when you know you can send for rosalie and question her without me seeing her, and then you will have the proof that i have not deceived you." "yes, that can be done," he said in a softened voice, "now go on...." she told her story, dwelling on the horror of that night in that miserable room, her disgust, how she was almost suffocated, and how she crept outside at the break of dawn too sick to stay in that terrible garret one moment longer. "cannot you bear what the other girls could?" asked her employer. "the others perhaps have not lived in the open air as i have," said perrine, her beautiful eyes fixed on her grandfather's face. "i assure you i am not hard to please. we were so poor that we endured great misery. but i could not stay in that room. i should have died, and i don't think it was wrong of me to try to escape death. i could not live if i had to sleep there." "why! can that room be so unhealthy, so unwholesome as that?" mused monsieur vulfran. "oh, sir," cried perrine, "if you could see it you would never permit your work girls to live there, never, never." "go on with your story," he said abruptly. she told him how she had discovered the tiny island and how the idea had come to her to take possession of the cabin. "you were not afraid?" he asked. "i am not accustomed to being afraid," she said, with a wan little smile flitting across her beautiful face. "you are speaking of that cabin in the valley there a little to the side of the road to saint-pipoy, on the left, are you not?" asked monsieur vulfran. "yes, monsieur." "that belongs to me and my nephews use it. was it there that you slept?" "i not only slept there, but i worked there and i ate there, and i even gave a dinner to rosalie, and she can tell you about it," said little perrine eagerly, for now that she had told him her story she wanted him to know everything. "i did not leave the cabin until you sent for me to go to saint-pipoy, and then you told me to stay there so as to be on hand to interpret for the machinists. and now tonight i have taken a lodging again at mother françoise's, but now i can pay for a room all to myself." "were you rich then, that you were able to invite a friend to dinner?" asked the blind man. "if i only dare tell you," said perrine timidly. "you can tell me everything," said the blind man. "i may take up your time just to tell you a story about two little girls?" asked little perrine. "now that i cannot use my time as i should like," said the blind man sadly, "it is often very long, very long ... and empty." a shade passed over her grandfather's face. he had so much; there were men who envied him--and yet how sad and barren was his life. when he said that his days were "empty" perrine's heart went out to him. she also, since the death of her father and mother, knew what it was for the days to be long and empty, nothing to fill them but the anxiety, the fatigue, and the misery of the moment. no one to share them with you, none to uphold you, or cheer you. he had not known bodily fatigue, privations and poverty. but they are not the only trials to be borne, there are other sorrows in this world from which one suffers. and it was those other sorrows that had made him say those few words in such a sad, sad tone; the memory of which made this old blind man bend his head while the tears sprang into his sightless eyes. but no tears fell. perrine's eyes had not left his face; if she had seen that her story did not interest him, she would have stopped at once, but she knew that he was not bored. he interrupted her several times and said: "and you did that!" then he questioned her, asking her to tell him in detail what she had omitted for fear of tiring him. he put questions to her which showed that he wished to have an exact account, not only of her work, but above all to know what means she had employed to replace all that she had been lacking. "and that's what you did?" he asked again and again. when she had finished her story, he placed his hand on her head: "you are a brave little girl," he said, "and i am pleased to see that one can do something with you. now go into your office and spend the time as you like; at three o'clock we will go out." chapter xx the schemers mr. bendit's office which perrine occupied was a tiny place whose sole furniture consisted of a table and two chairs, a bookcase in blackwood, and a map of the world. yet with its polished pine floor, and a window with its red and white shade, it appeared very bright to perrine. not only was the office assigned to her cheerful, but she found that by leaving the door open she could see and occasionally hear what was going on in the other offices. monsieur vulfran's nephews, theodore and casimir, had their rooms on the right and on the left of his; after theirs came the counting house, then lastly, there was fabry, the engineer's, office. this one was opposite hers. fabry's office was a large room where several draughtsmen were standing up before their drawings, arranged on high inclined desks. having nothing to do and not liking to take m. bendit's chair, perrine took a seat by the door. she opened one of the dictionaries which were the only kind of books the office contained. she would have preferred anything else but she had to be contented with what was there. the hours passed slowly, but at last the bell rang for luncheon. perrine was one of the first to go out. on the way she was joined by fabry and mombleux. they also were going to mother françoise's house. "so then you are a comrade of ours, mademoiselle," said mombleux, who had not forgotten his humiliation at saint-pipoy, and he wanted to make the one who was the cause of it pay for it. she felt the sarcasm of his words and for a moment she was disconcerted, but she recovered herself quickly. "no, monsieur," she said quietly, "not of yours but of william's." the tone of her reply evidently pleased the engineer, for turning to perrine he gave her an encouraging smile. "but if you are replacing mr. bendit?" said mombleux obstinately. "say that mademoiselle is keeping his job for him," retorted fabry. "it's the same thing," answered mombleux. "not at all, for in a week or two, when he'll be better, he'll come back in his old place. he certainly would not have had it if mademoiselle had not been here to keep it for him." "it seems to me that you and i also have helped to keep it for him," said mombleux. "yes, but this little girl has done her share; he'll have to be grateful to all three of us," said fabry, smiling again at perrine. if she had misunderstood the sense of mombleux's words, the way in which she was treated at mother françoise's would have enlightened her. her place was not set at the boarders' table as it would have been if she had been considered their equal, but at a little table at the side. and she was served after everyone else had taken from the dishes what they required. but that did not hurt her; what did it matter to her if she were served first or last, and if the best pieces had already been taken. what interested her was that she was placed near enough to them to hear their conversation. she hoped that what she heard might guide her as to how she should act in the midst of the difficulties which confronted her. these men knew the habits of m. vulfran, his nephews, and talouel, of whom she stood so much in fear; a word from them would enlighten her and she might be shown a danger which she did not even suspect, and if she was aware of it she could avoid it. she would not spy upon them. she would not listen at doors. when they were speaking they knew that they were not alone. so she need have no scruples but could profit by their remarks. unfortunately on that particular morning they said nothing that interested her; their talk was on insignificant matters. as soon as she had finished her meal she hurried to rosalie, for she wanted to know how m. vulfran had discovered that she had only slept one night at her grandmother's house. "it was that skinny who came here while you were at picquigny," said rosalie, "and he got aunt zenobie to talk about you; and you bet it isn't hard to make aunt zenobie talk especially when she gets something for doing so. she told him that you had spent only one night here and all sorts of other things besides." "what other things?" "i don't know because i was not there, but you can imagine the worst, but fortunately it has not turned out badly for you." "no, on the contrary it has turned out very well, because m. vulfran was amused and interested when i told him my story." "i'll tell aunt zenobie, that'll make her mad." "oh, don't put her against me." "put her against you; oh, there's no danger of that now. she knows the position that m. vulfran has given you, you won't have a better friend ... seemingly. you'll see tomorrow. only if you don't want that skinny to know your business, don't tell anything to her." "that i won't." "oh, she's sly enough." "yes, but now you've warned me...." at three o'clock as arranged, m. vulfran rang for perrine and they drove off in the phaeton to make the customary round of the factories, for he did not let a single day pass without visiting the different buildings. although he could not see he could at least be seen, and when he gave his orders it was difficult to believe that he was blind; he seemed to know everything that was going on. that day they began at the village of flexelles. they stayed some time in the building and when they came out william was not to be seen. the horse was tied to a tree and william, the coachman, had disappeared. as soon as his employer had gone into his factories, william of course, as usual, had hurried to the nearest wine shop ... meeting a boon companion there he had forgotten the hour. m. vulfran sent one of his men off to search for his recalcitrant coachman. after waiting several minutes, the blind man became very angry. finally william, with head held high, came staggering along. "i can tell by the sound of his footsteps that he is drunk, benoist," said m. vulfran, addressing his manager, who stood beside him. "i am right, am i not?" "yes, sir ... nothing can be hidden from you. he is drunk...." william began to apologize. "i've just come from...." he began, but his employer cut him short. "that is enough," said m. vulfran, sternly. "i can tell by your breath and the way you walk that you are drunk." "i was just going to say, sir," began william again, as he untied the horse, but at that moment he dropped the whip and stooping down, he tried three times to grasp it. the manager looked grave. "i think it would be better if i drove you to maraucourt," he said. "i am afraid you would not be safe with william." "why so?" demanded william insolently. "silence," commanded m. vulfran, in a tone that admitted of no reply. "from this moment you can consider yourself dismissed from my service." "but, sir, i was going to say...." with an uplifted motion of his hand m. vulfran stopped him and turned to his manager. "thank you, benoist," he said, "but i think this little girl can drive me home. coco is as quiet as a lamb, and she can well replace this drunken creature." he was assisted into the carriage, and perrine took her place beside him. she was very grave, for she felt the responsibility of her position. "not too quickly," said m. vulfran, when she touched coco with the end of her whip. "oh, please, sir, i don't want to go quickly, i assure you," she said, nervously. "that's a good thing; let her just trot." there was a great surprise in the streets of maraucourt when the villagers saw the head of the firm seated beside a little girl wearing a hat of black straw and a black dress, who was gravely driving old coco at a straight trot instead of the zigzag course that william forced the old animal to take in spite of herself. what was happening? where was this little girl going? they questioned one another as they stood at the doors, for few people in the village knew of her and of the position that m. vulfran had given her. when they arrived at mother françoise's house, aunt zenobie was leaning over the gate talking to two women. when she caught sight of perrine she stared in amazement, but her look of astonishment was quickly followed by her best smile, the smile of a real friend. "good day, monsieur vulfran! good day, mademoiselle aurelie!" she called out. as soon as the carriage had passed she told her neighbors how she had procured the fine position for the young girl who had been their boarder. she had recommended her so highly to skinny. "she's a nice girl, though," she added, "and she'll not forget what she owes us. she owes it all to us." if the villagers had been surprised to see perrine driving m. vulfran, talouel was absolutely stunned. "where is william?" he cried, hurrying down the steps of the veranda to meet his employer. "sent off for continual drunkenness," said m. vulfran, smiling. "i had supposed that you would take this step eventually," said talouel. "exactly," replied his employer briefly. talouel had established his power in the house by these two words, "i suppose." his aim was to persuade his chief that he was so devoted to his interests that he was able to foresee every wish that he might have. so he usually began with these words, "i suppose that you want...." he had the subtlety of the peasant, always on the alert, and his quality for spying made him stop at nothing to get the information he desired. m. vulfran usually made the same reply when talouel had "supposed" something. "exactly," the blind man would say. "and i suppose you find," continued talouel, as he helped his employer to get down, "that the one who has replaced him deserves your trust?" "exactly," said the blind man again. "i'm not astonished," added the crafty talouel. "the day when rosalie brought her here i thought there was something in her, and i was sure you would soon find that out." as he spoke he looked at perrine, and his look plainly said: "you see what i've done for you. don't forget it, and be ready to do me a service." a demand of payment on this order was not long in coming. a little later, stopping before the door of the office in which perrine sat, he said in a low voice from the doorway: "tell me what happened with william." perrine thought that if she frankly replied to his question she would not be revealing any serious matter, so she related exactly what had occurred. "ah, good," he said, more at ease. "now, if he should come to me and ask to be taken back i'll settle with him." later on fabry and mombleux put the same question to her, for everyone now knew that little perrine had had to drive the chief home because his coachman had been too drunk to hold the reins. "it's a miracle that he hasn't upset the boss a dozen times," said fabry, "for he drives like a crazy creature when he's drunk. he should have been sent off long ago." "yes, and he would have been," said mombleux, smiling, "if certain ones who wanted his help had not done all they could to keep him." perrine became all attention. "they'll make a face when they see that he's gone, but i'll give william his due: he didn't know that he was spying." they were silent while zenobie came in to change the plates. they had not thought that the pretty little girl in the corner was listening to their conversation. after zenobie had left the room they went on with their talk. "but what if the son returns?" asked mombleux. "well, most of us want him back, for the old man's getting old," said fabry; "but perhaps he's dead." "that might be," agreed mombleux. "talouel's so ambitious he'd stop at nothing. he wants to own the place, and he'll get it if he can." "yes, and who knows? maybe he had a hand in keeping m. edmond away. neither of us were here at the time, but you might be sure that talouel would work out things to his own interests." "i hadn't thought of that." "yes, and at that time he didn't know that there'd be others to take the place of m. edmond. i'm not sure what he's scheming to get, but it's something big." "yes, and he's doing some dirty work for sure, and only think, when he was twenty years old he couldn't write his own name." rosalie came into the room at this moment and asked perrine if she would like to go on an errand with her. perrine could not refuse. she had finished her dinner some time ago, and if she remained in her corner she would soon awaken their suspicions. it was a quiet evening. the people sat at their street doors chatting. after rosalie had finished her errand she wanted to go from one door to another to gossip, but perrine had no desire for this, and she excused herself on the plea of being tired. she did not want to go to bed. she just wanted to be alone, to think, in her little room, with the door closed. she wanted to take a clear account of the situation in which she now found herself. when she heard fabry and mombleux speaking of the manager she realized how much she had to fear this man. he had given her to understand that he was the master, and as such it was his right to be informed of all that happened. but all that was nothing compared with what had been revealed to her in the conversation that she had just heard. she knew that he wished to exercise his authority over everyone. but she had not known that his ambition was to take her grandfather's place some day. this man was scheming to replace the all-powerful master of the maraucourt factories; for years he had plotted with this object in view. all this she had just learned. the two men whose conversation she had overheard were in a position to know the facts. and this terrible man, now that she had replaced william, intended that she should spy upon his employer. what should she do? she was only a little girl, almost a child, and there was no one to protect her. what should she do? she had asked herself this question before, but under different circumstances. it was impossible for her to lie down, so nervous and excited was she at what she had heard. perhaps this dreadful man had schemed to keep her dear dead father away from his home, and he was still working in an underhanded way for what? was he trying to get out of the way the two nephews who would replace his master? if he had the power to do this, what might he not do to her if she refused to spy for him? she spent the greater part of the night turning these questions over in her little head. at last, tired out with the difficulties which confronted her, she dropped her curly head on the pillow and slept. chapter xxi letters from dacca the first thing that m. vulfran did upon reaching his office in the morning was to open his mail. domestic letters were arranged in one pile and foreign letters in another. since he had gone blind his nephews or talouel read the french mail aloud to him; the english letters were given to fabry and the german to mombleux. the day following the conversation between fabry and mombleux which had caused perrine so much anxiety, m. vulfran, his nephews and the manager were occupied with the morning's mail. suddenly theodore exclaimed: "a letter from dacca, dated may ." "in french?" demanded m. vulfran. "no, in english." "what signature?" "it's not very clear ... looks like field. fildes ... preceded by a word that i can't make out. there are four pages. your name occurs in several places, uncle. shall i give it to fabry?" simultaneously, theodore and talouel cast a quick look at m. vulfran, but catching each other in this act, which betrayed that each was intensely curious, they both assumed an indifferent air. "i'm putting the letter on your table, uncle," said theodore. "give it to me," replied m. vulfran. when the stenographer had gone off with the replies to the various letters, m. vulfran dismissed his manager and his two nephews and rang for perrine. she appeared immediately. "what's in the letter?" he asked. she took the letter that he handed to her and glanced at it. if he could have seen her he would have noticed that she had turned very pale and that her hands trembled. "it is an english letter, dated may , from dacca," she replied. "from whom?" "from father fields." "what does it say?" "may i read a few lines first, please ... before i tell you?" "yes, but do it quickly." she tried to do as she was told, but her emotion increased as she read ... the words dancing before her eyes. "well?" demanded m. vulfran, impatiently. "it is difficult to read," she murmured, "and difficult to understand; the sentences are very long." "don't translate literally; just tell me what it is about." [illustration: she tried to do as she was told, but her emotion increased as she read.] there was another long pause; at last she said: "father fields says that father leclerc, to whom you wrote, is dead, and that before dying he asked him to send this reply to you. he was unable to communicate with you before, as he had some difficulty in getting together the facts that you desired. he excuses himself for writing in english, as his knowledge of french is very slight." "what information does he send?" asked the blind man. "i have not come to that yet, sir," replied perrine. although little perrine gave this reply in a very gentle voice, the blind man knew that he would gain nothing by hurrying her. "you are right," he said; "not being in french, you must understand it thoroughly before you can explain it to me. you'd better take the letter and go into bendit's office; translate it as accurately as you can, writing it out so that you can read it to me. don't lose a minute. i'm anxious to know what it contains." he called her back as she was leaving. "this letter relates to a personal matter," he said, "and i do not wish anyone to know about it ... understand ... no one. if anyone dares question you about it, you must say nothing, nor give them any inkling of what it is about. you see what confidence i place in you. i hope that you will prove yourself worthy of my trust. if you serve me faithfully, you may be sure that you will be taken care of." "i promise you, sir, that i'll deserve your trust," said perrine, earnestly. "very well; now hurry." but hurry she could not. she read the letter from beginning to end, then re-read it. finally she took a large sheet of paper and commenced to write: "dacca, may . "honored sir: "it is with great grief that i inform you that we have lost our reverend father leclerc, to whom you wrote for certain important information. when dying he asked me to send a reply to your letter, and i regret that it could not have been sent earlier, but after a lapse of twelve years i have had some difficulty in getting the facts that you desire, and i must ask pardon for sending the information i now have in english, as my knowledge of french is very slight...." perrine, who had only read this far to m. vulfran, now stopped to read and correct what she had done. she was giving all her attention to her translation when the office door was opened by theodore paindavoine. he came into the room, closing the door after him, and asked for a french and english dictionary. this dictionary was opened before her. she closed it and handed it to him. "are you not using it?" he asked, coming close to her. "yes, but i can manage without it," she replied. "how's that?" "i really only need it to spell the french words correctly," she said, "and a french dictionary will do as well." she knew that he was standing just at the back of her, and although she could not see his eyes, being afraid to turn round, she felt that he was reading over her shoulder. "ah, you're translating that letter from dacca?" he said. she was surprised that he knew about this letter which was to be kept a secret. then she realized that he was questioning her, and that his request for a dictionary was only a pretext. why did he need an english dictionary if he could not understand a word of english? "yes, monsieur," she said. "is the translation coming along all right?" he asked. she felt that he was bending over her, that his eyes were fixed on what she had translated. quickly she moved her paper, turning it so that he could only see it sideways. "oh, please, sir," she exclaimed; "don't read it. it is not correct ... it is all confused. i was just trying." "oh, never mind that." "oh, but i do mind. i should be ashamed to let you see this." he wanted to take the sheet of paper, but she put both her small hands over it. she determined to hold her own even with one of the heads of the house. until then he had spoken pleasantly to her. "now give it to me," he said briefly. "i'm not playing schoolmaster with a pretty little girl like you." "but, sir, it is impossible; i can't let you see it," she said obstinately. laughingly he tried to take it from her, but she resisted him. "no, i will not let you have it," she said with determination. "oh, this is a joke!" replied theodore. "it is not a joke; i am very serious," said little perrine. "monsieur vulfran forbade me to let anyone see this letter. i am obeying him." "it was i who opened it." "the letter in english is not the translation." "oh, my uncle will show me this wonderful translation presently," he replied. "if your uncle shows it, very well; but that won't be me showing it. he gave me his orders and i must obey him." he saw by her resolute attitude that if he wanted the paper he would have to take it from her by force. but then, if he did so, she would probably call out. he did not dare go as far as that. "i am delighted to see how faithfully you carry out my uncle's orders, even in trivial things," he said, sarcastically, leaving the room. when he had gone and closed the door perrine tried to go on with her work, but she was so upset she found it impossible to do so. she knew that theodore was not delighted, as he had said, but furious. if he intended to make her pay for thwarting his will, how could she defend herself against such a powerful enemy? he could crush her with the first blow and she would have to leave. the door was again opened and talouel, with gliding step, came into the room. his eyes fell at once on the letter. "well, how is the translation of that letter from dacca coming along?" he asked. "i have only just commenced it," replied perrine timidly. "m. theodore interrupted you just now. what did he want?" "a french and english dictionary." "what for? he doesn't know english." "he did not tell me why he wanted it." "did he want to know what was in the letter?" asked talouel. "i had only commenced the first phrase," said perrine, evasively. "you don't ask me to believe that you have not read it?" "i have not yet translated it." "i ask you if you have read it." "i cannot reply to that." "why not?" "because m. vulfran has forbidden me to speak of this letter." "you know very well that m. vulfran and i are as one. all of his orders pass by me; all favors that he bestows are also passed by me. i have to know all that concerns him." "even his personal affairs?" "does that letter relate to personal affairs then?" asked talouel. she realized that she had let herself be caught. "i did not say that," she said. "i said that in case it was a personal letter, ought i to let you know the contents?" "i certainly should know," said talouel, "if it relates to personal affairs. do you know that he is ill from worrying over matters which might kill him? if he now received some news that might cause him great sorrow or great joy, it might prove fatal to him. he must not be told anything suddenly. that is why i ought to know beforehand anything that concerns him, so as to prepare him. i could not do that if you read your translation straight off to him." he said this in a suave, insinuating voice, very different from his ordinary rough tones. she was silent, looking up at him with an emotion which made her very pale. "i hope that you are intelligent enough to understand what i am telling you," he continued. "it is important for us, for the entire town, who depend upon m. vulfran for a livelihood, to consider his health. see what a good job you have now with him; in time it will be much better. we, every one of us, must work for his good. he looks strong, but he is not so strong as he appears, so much sorrow has undermined his health; and then the loss of his sight depresses him terribly. he places every confidence in me, and i must see that nothing hurts him." if perrine had not known talouel she might have been won by his words; but after what she had heard the factory girls say about him, and the talk that she had overheard between fabry and mombleux, who were men able to judge character, she felt that she could not believe in him. he was not sincere. he wanted to make her talk, and he would attempt any deceit and hypocrisy to gain his object. m. vulfran had told her that if she were questioned she must not let anyone know the contents of the letter. evidently he had foreseen what might happen. she must obey him. talouel, leaning on her desk, fixed his eyes on her face. she needed all her courage; it seemed as though he were trying to hypnotize her. in a hoarse voice which betrayed her emotion, but which did not tremble, however, she said: "monsieur vulfran forbade me to speak of this letter to anyone." her determined attitude made him furious, but controlling himself, he leaned over her again and said gently, but firmly: "yes, of course; but then i'm not anyone. i am his other self." she did not reply. "are you a fool?" he cried at last in a stifled voice. "perhaps i am," she said. "well, then, understand," he said, roughly, "you'd better show some intelligence if you want to hold this job that m. vulfran has given you. if you haven't any intelligence you can't hold the job, and instead of protecting you, as i intended, it will be my duty to pack you off ... fire you! understand?" "yes, sir." "well, think about it; think what your position is today and think what it will be tomorrow, turned out in the streets; then let me know what you decide to do. tell me this evening." then as she showed no signs of weakening, he went out of the room with the same gliding step with which he had entered. chapter xxii a cable to dacca m. vulfran was waiting for her. she had no time to think over what talouel had threatened. she went on with her translation, hoping that her emotion would die down and leave her in a state better able to come to a decision as to what she should do. she continued to write: "so much time has elapsed since the marriage of your son, m. edmond paindavoine, that i have had some difficulty in getting together the facts. it was our own father leclerc who performed this marriage. "the lady who became your son's wife was endowed with the finest womanly qualities. she was upright, kind, charming; added to these qualities, she was gifted with remarkable personal charms. the time is past when all the knowledge the hindu woman possessed consisted in the art of being graceful and the science of etiquette of their social world. today the hindu woman's mind is cultivated to a remarkable degree. your son's wife was a highly educated girl. her father and mother were of the brahmin faith, but father leclerc had the joy of converting them to our own religion. unfortunately, when a hindu is converted to our religion he loses his caste, his rank, his standing in social life. this was the case with the family whose daughter married your son. by becoming christians, they became to a certain extent outcasts. "so you will quite understand that being cast off by the all-powerful hindu world, this charming girl, who was now a christian, should turn and take her place in european society. her father went into partnership with a well-known french exporter, and the firm was known as doressany (hindu) & bercher (french). "it was in the home of madame bercher that your son met marie doressany and fell in love with her. everybody spoke in the highest praise of this young lady. i did not know her, for i came to dacca after she left. why there should have been any obstacle to this union i cannot say. that is a matter i must not discuss. although there were, however, objections, the marriage took place and in our own chapel. the reverend father leclerc bestowed the nuptial blessing upon the marriage of your son and marie doressany. this marriage was recorded in our registers, and a copy of it can be sent to you if you wish. "for four years your son edmond lived at the home of his wife's parents. there a little girl was born to the young couple. everyone who remembers them speaks of them, as a model couple, and like all young people, they took part in the social pleasures of their world. "for some time the firm of doressany & bercher prospered, then hard times came, and after several bad seasons the firm was ruined. m. and mme. doressany died at some months' interval, and monsieur bercher with his family returned to france. your son then traveled to dalhousie as collector of plants and antiquities for various english houses. he took with him his young wife and his little girl, who was about three years old. "he did not return to dacca, but i learn from one of his friends to whom he has written several times, and from father leclerc, who wrote regularly to mme. paindavoine, that they had a villa at dehra. they selected this spot to live in as it was the center of his voyages; he traveled between the thiberian frontier and the himalayas. "i do not know dehra, but we have a mission in this town, and if you think it might help in our researches i shall be pleased to send you a letter for one of the fathers whose help might be useful in this matter...." at last the letter was finished. the moment she had translated the last word, without even waiting to write the polite ending, she gathered up her sheets and went quickly to m. vulfran's office. she found him walking back and forth the length of the room, counting his steps as much to avoid bumping against the wall as to curb his impatience. "you have been very slow," he said. "the letter was long and difficult," she replied. "and you were interrupted, were you not? i heard the door of your office open and close twice." since he put the question to her, she thought that she ought to reply truthfully. it would solve the problem that had caused her so much anxiety. "monsieur theodore and monsieur talouel came into the office," she said. "ah!..." he seemed as though he wanted to say more, but refrained. "give me the letter first," he said, "and we'll see to the other matter after. sit down beside me and read slowly. don't raise your voice." she read. her voice was somewhat weak. as she read the blind man murmured to himself from time to time: "model couple" ... "social pleasures" ... "english houses" ... "which?" ... "one of his friends" ... "which friend?" when she had finished there was a silence. finally m. vulfran spoke: "can you translate into english as well as you translate english into french?" he asked. "i can do it if the phrases are not too difficult," she replied. "a cable?" "yes, i think so." "well, sit down at that little table and write." he dictated in french: "father fields' mission, dacca: "thanks for letter. please send by cable, reply prepaid, twenty words ... name of friend who received last news, date of letter. send also name of the reverend father at dehra. inform him that i shall write him immediately. paindavoine." * * * * * "translate that into english and make it shorter rather than longer, if possible. at one franc sixty centimes a word, we must not waste words. write very clearly." the translation was quickly made. "how many words?" he asked. "in english ... thirty-seven." he made the calculation for the message and for the return answer. "now," he said to perrine, giving her the money, "take it yourself to the telegraph office, hand it in and see that no mistakes are made by the receiver." as she crossed the veranda she saw talouel, who, with his hands thrust in his pockets, was strolling about as though on the lookout for all that passed in the yards as well as in the offices. "where are you going?" he demanded. "to the cable office with a message," replied perrine. she held the paper in one hand and the money in the other. he took the paper from her, snatching it so roughly that if she had not let it go he would have torn it. he hastily opened it. his face flushed with anger when he saw that the message was written in english. "you know that you've got to talk with me later on, eh?" he said. "yes, sir." she did not see m. vulfran again before three o'clock, when he rang for her to go out. she had wondered who would replace william, and she was very surprised when m. vulfran told her to take her seat beside him, after having sent away the coachman who had brought old coco around. "as you drove him so well yesterday, there is no reason why you should not drive him well today," said m. vulfran. "besides, i want to talk to you, and it is better for us to be alone like this." it was not until they had left behind the village, where their appearance excited the same curiosity as the evening before, and were going at a gentle trot along the lanes, that m. vulfran began to talk. perrine would like to have put off this moment; she was very nervous. "you told me that m. theodore and talouel came into your office?" said the blind man. "yes, sir." "what did they want?" she hesitated. her little face wore a very worried look. "why do you hesitate?" asked the blind man. "don't you think that you ought to tell me everything?" "yes, indeed," said perrine, fervently. was this not the best way to solve her difficulties? she told what had happened when theodore had come into the office. "was that all?" asked m. vulfran, when she stopped. "yes, sir; that was all." "and talouel?" again she told exactly what had occurred, only omitting to tell him that talouel had said that a sudden announcement of news, good or bad, might prove fatal to him. she then told him what had passed regarding the cable; and also that talouel said he was going to talk with her after work that same day. as she talked she had let old coco go at her own will, and the old horse, taking advantage of her freedom, shambled along calmly from one side of the road to the other, sniffing the odor of the warm hay that the breeze wafted to his nostrils. when perrine stopped talking her grandfather remained silent for some time. knowing that he could not see her, she fixed her eyes on his face and she read in his expression as much sadness as annoyance. "no harm shall come to you," he said at last. "i shall not mention what you have told me, and if anyone wants to take revenge on you for opposing their attempts i shall be near to protect you. i thought something like this would happen, but it will not occur a second time. in the future you will sit at the little table that is in my office. i hardly think that they'll try to question you before me. but as they might try to do so after you leave off work, over at mother françoise's where you eat, i shall take you to my home to live with me. you will have a room in the chateau, and you will eat at my table. as i am expecting to have some correspondence with persons in india, and i shall receive letters in english and cables, you alone will know about them. i must take every precaution, for they will do their utmost to make you talk. i shall be able to protect you if you are by my side; besides, this will be my reply to those who try to force you to speak, as well as a warning if they still try to tempt you. then, also, it will be a reward for you." perrine, who had been trembling with anxiety when m. vulfran commenced to speak, was now so overcome with joy that she could find no words with which to reply. "i had faith in you, child," continued the old man, "from the moment i knew what struggle you had made against poverty. when one is as brave as you, one is honest. you have proved to me that i have not made a mistake, and that i can be proud of you. it is as though i have known you for years. i am a very lonely and unhappy man. what is my wealth to me? it is a heavy burden if you have not the health to enjoy it. and yet there are those who envy me. there are seven thousand men and women who depend upon me for a living. if i failed there would be misery and hunger and perhaps death for many. i must keep up for them. i must uphold the honor of this house which i have built up, little by little. it is my joy, my pride ... and yet ... i am blind!" the last words were said with such bitterness that perrine's eyes filled with tears. the blind man continued: "you ought to know from village talk and from the letter that you translated that i have a son. my son and i disagreed. we parted; there were many reasons for us doing so. he then married against my wishes and our separation was complete. but with all this my affection for him has not changed. i love him after all these years of absence as though he were still the little boy i brought up, and when i think of him, which is day and night, it is the little boy that i see with my sightless eyes. my son preferred that woman to his own father. instead of coming back to me he preferred to live with her because i would not, or could not, receive her. i hoped that he would give in, but he thought probably that i in time would give in. we have both the same characters. i have had no news from him. after my illness, of which i am sure he knew, for i have every reason to believe that he has been kept informed of all that happens here, i thought that he would come back to me, but he has not returned. that wretched woman evidently holds him back. she is not content with having taken him from me, she keeps him ... the wretch...." the blind man stopped. perrine, who had been hanging on his words, had scarcely breathed, but at the last words she spoke. "the letter from father fields said that she was a lady, honorable and upright. he does not speak of her as a wretch." "what the letter says cannot go against facts," said the blind man, obstinately. "the main fact which has made me hate her is that she keeps my son from me. a creature of her kind should efface herself and let him return and take up again the life which is his. it is through her that we are parted. i have tried to find him, but i cannot. he must come back and take his place. you may not understand all i tell you, my child, but when i die my whole fortune must go to my son. he is my heir. when i die who will take my place if he is not here? can you understand what i am saying, little girl?" said the old man, almost entreatingly. "i think so, sir," said perrine gently. "but there, i don't wish you to understand entirely. there are those around me who ought to help me. there are certain ones who do not want my boy to return; it is to their interest that he should not come back, so they try to think that he is dead. my boy dead! could he be? could god strike me such a terrible blow? they try to believe it, but i will not. no, i will not! it can't be! oh, what should i do if my boy was dead!" perrine's eyes were no longer fixed on the blind man's face; she had turned her face from him as though he could see her own. "i talk to you frankly, little girl," continued the old man, "because i need your help. they are going to try and tempt you again to spy for them. i have warned you; that is all that i can do." they could now see the factory chimneys of fercheux. still a few more rods and they came to the village. perrine, who was trembling, could only find words to say in a broken voice: "monsieur vulfran, you may trust me. i will serve you faithfully with all my heart." chapter xxiii grandfather's companion that evening, when the tour of the factories was over, instead of returning to his office as was his custom, m. vulfran told perrine to drive straight to the chateau. for the first time she passed through the magnificent iron gates, a masterpiece of skill that a king had coveted, so it was said, these wonderful iron gates which one of france's richest merchants had bought for his chateau. "follow the main driveway," said m. vulfran. for the first time also she saw close to the beautiful flowers and the velvety lawns which until then she had only seen from a distance. the beautiful blossoms, red and pink masses, seemed like great splashes on the verdure. accustomed to take this road, old coco trotted along calmly, and as there was no occasion to guide her, perrine was able to gaze right and left of her and admire the flowers, plants and shrubs in all their beauty. although their master could not see them as formerly, the same attention and skill was showered upon them. of her own accord, coco stopped before the wide steps where an old servant, warned by the lodge-keeper's bell, stood waiting. "are you there, bastien?" asked m. vulfran, without getting down. "yes, sir." "then take this young girl to the butterfly room, which is to be hers in the future. see that everything is given to her that she needs. set her plate opposite to mine at table. now send felix to me. i want him to drive me to the office." perrine thought that she was dreaming. "we dine at eight o'clock," said m. vulfran. "until then you are free to do as you like." she got out of the carriage quickly and followed the old butler. she was so dazed that it was as though she had suddenly been set down in an enchanted palace. and was not this beautiful chateau like a palace? the monumental hall, from which rose a wonderful stairway of white marble, up which ran a crimson carpet, was a delight to the eyes. on each landing exquisite flowers and plants were grouped artistically in pots and jardinieres. their perfume filled the air. bastien took her to the second floor, and without entering opened the door of a room for her. "i'll send the chambermaid to you," he said, leaving her. she passed through a somber little hall, then found herself in a very large room draped with ivory colored cretonne patterned with butterflies in vivid shades. the furniture was ivory colored wood, and the carpet gray, with clusters of wild flowers, primrose, poppies, cornflowers and buttercups. how pretty and dainty it was! she was still in a dream, pushing her feet into the soft carpet, when the maid entered. "bastien told me that i was to be at your service, mademoiselle," she said. here stood a chambermaid in a clean light dress and a muslin cap at her service ... she who only a few days before had slept in a hut on a bed of ferns with rats and frogs scampering about her. "thank you," she said at last, collecting her wits, "but i do not need anything ... at least i think not." "if you like i will show you the apartment," said the maid. what she meant by "show the apartment" was to throw open the doors of a big wardrobe with glass doors, and a closet, then to pull out the drawers of the dressing table in which were brushes, scissors, soaps and bottles, etc. that done, she showed perrine two knobs on the wall. "this one is for the lights," she said, flashing on the electric light, "and this one is the bell if you need anything. "if you need bastien," she explained, "you have to ring once, and if you need me, ring twice." how much had happened in a few hours! who would have thought when she took her stand against theodore and talouel that the wind was going to blow so favorably in her direction. how amusing it was ... their ill feeling towards her had itself brought her this good luck. "i suppose that young girl did something foolish?" said talouel, meeting his employer at the foot of the steps. "i see she has not returned with you." "oh, no; she did not," replied m. vulfran. "but if felix drove you back?..." "as i passed the chateau i dropped her there so that she would have time to get ready for dinner." "dinner? oh, i suppose...." he was gasping with amazement, and for once he could not say what he did suppose. "you do nothing but 'suppose'," said m. vulfran, tartly. "i may as well tell you that for a long time i have wanted someone intelligent to be near me, one who is discreet and whom i can trust. this young girl seems to have these qualities. i am sure that she is intelligent, and i have already had the proof that i can trust her." m. vulfran's tone was significant. talouel could not misunderstand the sense of his words. "i am taking her to live with me," continued m. vulfran, "because i know that there are those who are trying to tempt her. she is not one to yield, but i do not intend that she should run any risk at their hands." these words were said with even greater significance. "she will stay with me altogether now," continued m. vulfran. "she will work here in my office; during the day she will accompany me; she will eat at my table. i shall not be so lonesome at my meals, for her chatter will entertain me." "i suppose she will give you all the satisfaction that you expect," remarked talouel suavely. "i suppose so also," replied his employer, very drily. meanwhile perrine, leaning with her elbows on the window sill, looked out dreamily over the beautiful garden, at the factories beyond the village with its houses and church, the meadows in which the silvery water glistened in the oblique rays of the setting sun; and then her eyes turned in the opposite direction, to the woods where she had sat down the day she had come, and where in the evening breeze she had seemed to hear the soft voice of her mother murmuring, "i know you will be happy." her dear mother had foreseen the future, and the big daisies had also spoken true. yes, she was beginning to be happy. she must be patient and all would come right in time. she need not hurry matters now. there was no poverty, no hunger or thirst, in this beautiful chateau where she had entered so quickly. when the factory whistle announced the closing hour she was still standing at her window, deep in thought. the piercing whistle recalled her from the future to the present. along the white roads between the fields she saw a black swarm of workers, first a great compact mass, then gradually it grew smaller, as they dwindled off in different directions in groups towards their homes. old coco's gentle trot was soon heard on the drive, and perrine saw her blind grandfather returning to his home. she gave herself a real wash with eau de cologne as well as soap, a delicious perfume soap. it was not until the clock on the mantle shelf struck eight that she went down. she wondered how she would find the dining room. she did not have to look for it, however. a footman in a black coat, who was standing in the hall, showed her the way. almost immediately m. vulfran came in. no one guided him. he seemed to have no difficulty in finding his way to his seat. a bowl of beautiful orchids stood in the middle of the table, which was covered with massive silver and cut glass, which gleamed in the lights that fell from the crystal chandelier. for a moment she stood behind her chair, not knowing what to do. m. vulfran seemed to sense her attitude. "sit down," he said. the dinner was served at once. the servant who had shown her the way to the dining room put a plate of soup before her, while bastien brought another to his master which was full to the brim. if she had been dining there alone with m. vulfran she would have been quite at her ease, but the inquisitive glances the servants cast at her made her feel deeply embarrassed. probably they were wondering how a little tramp like her would eat. fortunately, however, she made no mistakes. the dinner was very simple--soup, roast lamb, green peas and salad--but there was abundance of dessert ... two or three raised stands of delicious fruit and cakes. "tomorrow, if you like, you may go and see the hot houses where these fruits are grown," said m. vulfran. perrine thanked him and said she would like to. she had commenced by helping herself discreetly to some cherries. m. vulfran wished her also to take some apricots, peaches and grapes. "take all you want," he said. "at your age i should have eaten all the fruit that is on the table ... if it had been offered to me." bastien selected an apricot and peach and placed them before perrine as he might have done for an intelligent monkey, just to see how the "little animal" would eat. but despite the delicious fruit, perrine was very pleased when the dinner came to an end. she hoped that the next day the servants would not stare so much. "now you are free until tomorrow," said m. vulfran, rising from his seat. "it is moonlight, and you can go for a stroll in the garden, or read in the library, or take a book up to your own room." she was embarrassed, wondering if she ought not to tell m. vulfran that she would do as he wished. while she stood hesitating she saw bastien making signs to her which at first she did not understand. he held an imaginary book in one hand and appeared to be turning the pages with the other, then glanced at m. vulfran and moved his lips as though he were reading. suddenly perrine understood. she was to ask if she might read to him. "but don't you need me, sir?" she said, timidly. "would you not like me to read to you?" bastien nodded his head in approval. he seemed delighted that she had guessed what he had tried to explain. "oh, you need some time to yourself," replied m. vulfran. "i assure you that i am not at all tired," said perrine. "very well, then," said the blind man; "follow me into the study." the library was a big somber room separated from the dining room by the hall. there was a strip of carpet laid from one room to the other, which was a guide for the blind man. he now walked direct to the room opposite. perrine had wondered how he spent his time when he was alone, as he could not read. from the appearance of the room one could not guess, for the large table was covered with papers and magazines. before the window stood a large voltaire chair, upholstered in tapestry. the chair was rather worn. this seemed to indicate that the blind man sat for long hours face to face with the sky, the clouds of which he could never see. "what could you read to me?" he asked perrine. "a newspaper," she said, "if you wish. there are some on the table." "the less time one gives to the newspapers the better," he replied. "do you like books on travels?" "yes, sir; i do," she said. "i do, too," he said. "they amuse one as well as instruct one." then, as though speaking to himself, as though unaware of her presence, he said softly: "get away from yourself. get interested in another life than your own." "we'll read from 'around the world'," he said. he led her to a bookcase which contained several volumes on travels and told her to look in the index. "what shall i look for?" she asked. "look in the i's ... for the word india." thus he was following his own thoughts. how could he live the life of another? his one thought was of his son. he now wanted to read about the country where his boy lived. "tell me what you find," he said. she read aloud the various headings concerning india. he told her which volume to take. as she was about to take it she stood as though transfixed, gazing at a portrait hanging over the fireplace which her eyes, gradually becoming accustomed to the dim light, had not seen before. "why are you silent?" he asked. "i am looking at the portrait over the mantel shelf," she said, in a trembling voice. "that was my son when he was twenty," said the old gentleman; "but you can't see it very well. i'll light up." he touched the electric knob and the room was flooded with light. perrine, who had taken a few steps nearer, uttered a cry and let the book of travels fall to the floor. "what is the matter?" he asked. she did not reply, but stood there with her eyes fixed on the picture of a fair young man dressed in a hunting suit leaning with one hand on a gun and the other stroking the head of a black spaniel. there was silence in the room, then the blind man heard a little sob. "why are you crying?" he asked. perrine did not reply for a moment. with an effort she tried to control her emotion. "it is the picture ... your son ... you are his father?" she stammered. at first he did not understand, then in a voice that was strangely sympathetic he said: "and you ... you were thinking of your father, perhaps?" "yes, yes, sir; i was." "poor little girl," he murmured. chapter xxiv getting an education the next morning, when theodore and casimir entered their uncle's office to attend to the correspondence, they were amazed to see perrine installed at her table as though she were a fixture there. talouel had taken care not to tell them, but he had contrived to be present when they entered so as to witness their discomfiture. the sight of their amazement gave him considerable enjoyment. although he was furious at the way this little beggar girl had imposed, as he thought, upon the senile weakness of an old man, it was at least some compensation to know that the two nephews felt the same astonishment and indignation that he had. evidently they did not understand her presence in this sacred office, where they themselves only remained just the time necessary to report on the business of which they were in charge. theodore and casimir looked in dismay at one another, but they did not dare ask questions. talouel left the room the same time as they. "you were surprised to see that girl in the boss' office, eh?" he said, when they got outside. they did not deign to reply. "if you had not come in late this morning, i should have let you know that she was there, and then you would not have looked so taken back. she noticed how surprised you were." he had managed to give them two little knocks: first, there was a gentle scolding for them being late; secondly, he had let them see that he, a foreman, had noticed that they had been unable to hide their discomfiture and that the girl had noticed it, too. and they were m. vulfran's nephews! ah! ha! "m. vulfran told me yesterday that he had taken that girl to live at the chateau with him, and that in the future she would work in his office." "but who is the girl?" "that's what i'd like to know. i don't think your uncle knows either. he told me he wanted someone to be with him whom he could trust." "hasn't he got us?" asked casimir. "that is just what i said to him. i mentioned you both, and do you know what he replied?" he wanted to pause to give more effect to his words, but he was afraid that they would turn their backs upon him before he had said what he wanted. "'oh, my nephews,' he said, 'and what are they?' from the tone in which he said those few words i thought it better not to reply," continued talouel. "he told me then that he intended to have that girl up at the chateau with him because there was someone trying to tempt her to tell something that she should not tell. he said he knew that she could be trusted, but he said he didn't like others that he could not trust to put the girl in such a position. he said she had already proved to him that she could be trusted. i wonder who he meant had tried to tempt her? "i thought it my duty to tell you this, because while m. edmond is away you two take his place," added talouel. he had given them several thrusts, but he wanted to give them one last sharp knock. "of course, m. edmond might return at any moment," he said. "i believe that your uncle is on the right track at last. he has been making inquiries, and from the looks of things i think we shall have him back soon." "what have you heard? anything?" asked theodore, who could not restrain his curiosity. "oh, i keep my eyes open," said talouel, "and i can tell you that that girl is doing a lot of translating in the way of letters and cables that come from india." at that moment he looked from a window and saw a telegraph boy strolling up to the office. "here is another cable coming," he said. "this is a reply to one that has been sent to dacca. it must be very annoying for you not to be able to speak english. you could be the first to announce to the boss that your cousin will be coming back. now that little tramp will be the one to do it." talouel hurried forward to meet the telegraph boy. "say, you don't hurry yourself, do you?" he cried. "do you want me to kill myself?" asked the boy, insolently. he hurried with the message to m. vulfran's office. "shall i open it, sir?" he asked eagerly. "yes, do," said m. vulfran. "oh, it is in english," replied talouel, as he looked at the missive. "then aurelie must attend to it," said m. vulfran, and with a wave of his hand dismissed the manager. as soon as the door had closed perrine translated the cable. it read: "friend leserre, a french merchant. last news from dehra five years. wrote father makerness according to your wish." "five years," cried m. vulfran. then, as he was not the sort of man to waste time in regrets, he said to perrine: "write two cables, one to m. leserre in french and one to father makerness in english." she quickly wrote the cable that she had to translate into english, but she asked if she could get a dictionary from bendit's office before she did the one in french. "are you not sure of your spelling?" asked m. vulfran. "no, i am not at all sure," she replied, "and i should not like them at the office to make fun of any message that is sent by you." "then you would not be able to write a letter without making mistakes?" "no, i know i should make a lot of mistakes. i can spell french words all right at the commencement, but the endings i find very difficult. i find it much easier to write in english, and i think i ought to tell you so now." "have you never been to school?" "no, never. i only know what my father and mother taught me. when we stopped on the roads they used to make me study, but i never studied very much." "you are a good girl to tell me so frankly. we must see to that, but for the moment let us attend to what we have on hand." it was not until the afternoon, when they were driving out, that he again referred to her spelling. "have you written to your relations yet?" he asked. "no, sir." "why not?" "because i would like nothing better than to stay here with you, who are so kind to me," she said. "then you don't want to leave me?" asked the blind man. "no, i want to help you all i can," said perrine softly. "very well, then you must study so as to be able to act as a little secretary for me. would you like to be educated?" "indeed i would! and i will work so hard," said perrine. "well, the matter can be arranged without depriving myself of your services," said m. vulfran; "there is a very good teacher here and i will ask her to give you lessons from six to eight in the evenings. she is a very nice woman; there are only two things against her; they are her height and her name; she is taller than i am, and her shoulders are much broader than mine. her name is mademoiselle belhomme. she is indeed a _bel homme_, for although she is only forty her shoulders and figure are more massive than any man's i know ... i must add that she has not a beard." perrine smiled at this description of the teacher that she was to have. after they had made a tour of the factories they stopped before a girl's school and mlle. belhomme ran out to greet m. vulfran. he expressed a wish to get down and go into the school and speak with her. perrine, who followed in their footsteps, was able to examine her. she was indeed a giant, but her manner seemed very womanly and dignified. at times her manner was almost timid and did not accord at all with her appearance. naturally she could not refuse anything the all-powerful master of maraucourt asked, but even if she had had any reasons to refuse m. vulfran's request the little girl with the beautiful eyes and hair pleased her very much. "yes," she said to m. vulfran, "we will make her an educated girl. do you know she has eyes like a gazelle. i have never seen a gazelle, but i should imagine their great brown eyes are like hers. they are wonderful...." the next day when m. vulfran returned to his home at the dinner hour he asked the governess what she thought of her new pupil. mlle. belhomme was most enthusiastic in her praise of perrine. "does she show any intelligence?" asked m. vulfran. "why she is wonderfully intelligent," replied mlle. belhomme; "it would have been such a calamity if she had remained without an education...." m. vulfran smiled at mlle. belhomme's words. "what about her spelling?" he asked. "oh, that is very poor but she'll do better. her writing is fairly good but, of course, she needs to study hard. she is so intelligent it is extraordinary. so as to know exactly what she knew in writing and spelling i asked her to write me an account of maraucourt. in twenty to a hundred lines i asked her to describe the village to me. she sat down and wrote. her pen flew over the paper; she did not hesitate for words; she wrote four long pages; she described the factories, the scenery, every thing clearly and in detail. she wrote about the birds and the fishes over near the pond, and about the morning mists that cover the fields and the water. then of the calm, quiet evenings. had i not seen her writing it i should have thought that she had copied it from some good author. unfortunately the spelling and writing is very poor but, as i said, that does not matter. that is merely a matter of a few months, whilst all the lessons in the world would not teach her how to write if she had not been gifted with the sense of feeling and seeing in such a remarkable manner; that she can convey to others what she feels and sees. if you have time to let me read it to you, you will see that i have not exaggerated." the governess read perrine's narrative to him. he was delighted. he had wondered once or twice if he had been wise in so promptly befriending this little girl and giving her a place in his home. it had appeared to him strange the sudden fancy that he had taken to her. he told mlle. belhomme how her little pupil had lived in a cabin in one of the fields, and how, with nothing except what she found on hand, she contrived to make kitchen utensils and shoes, and how she had made her meals of the fish, herbs and fruit that she found. mlle. belhomme's kind face beamed as the blind man talked. she was greatly interested in what he told her. when m. vulfran stopped the governess remained silent, thinking. "don't you think," she said at last, "that to know how to create the necessities that one needs is a master quality to be desired above all?" "i certainly do, and it was precisely because that child could do that that i first took an interest in her. ask her some time to tell you her story and you will see that it required some energy and courage for her to arrive where she is now." "well, she has received her reward since she has been able to interest you." "yes, i am interested, and already attached to her. i am glad that you like her, and i hope that you will do all that you can with her." perrine made great progress with her studies. she was interested in everything her governess had to tell her, but her beautiful eyes betrayed the greatest interest when mlle. belhomme talked of her grandfather. many times perrine had spoken of m. vulfran's illness to rosalie, but she had only received vague replies to her queries; now, from her governess, she learned all the details regarding his affliction. like everyone at maraucourt, mlle. belhomme was concerned with m. vulfran's health, and she had often spoken with dr. ruchon so she was in a position to satisfy perrine's curiosity better than rosalie could. her grandfather had a double cataract. it was not incurable; if he were operated upon he might recover his sight. the operation had not yet been attempted because his health would not allow it.... he was suffering from bronchial trouble, and if the operation was to be a success he would have to be in a perfect state of health. but m. vulfran was imprudent. he was not careful enough in following the doctor's orders. how could he remain calm, as dr. ruchon recommended, when he was always worked up to a fever of anxiety over the continued absence of his son. so long as he was not sure of his son's fate, there was no chance for the operation and it was put off. but ... would it be possible to have it later? that the oculists could not decide. they were uncertain, so long as the blind man's health continued in this precarious state. but when mlle. belhomme saw that perrine was also anxious to talk about talouel and the two nephews and their hopes regarding the business she was not so communicative. it was quite natural that the girl should show an interest in her benefactor, but that she should be interested in the village gossip was not permissible. certainly it was not a conversation for a governess and her pupil.... it was not with talks of this kind that one should mould the character of a young girl. perrine would have had to renounce all hope of getting any information from her governess if casimir's mother, madame bretoneux, had not decided to come to the chateau on a visit. this coming visit opened the lips of mlle. belhomme, which otherwise would certainly have remained closed. as soon as the governess heard that mme. bretoneux was coming she had a very serious talk with her little pupil. "my dear child," she said, lowering her voice, "i must give you some advice; i want you to be very reserved with this lady who is coming here tomorrow." "reserved, about what?" asked perrine in surprise. "monsieur vulfran did not only ask me to take charge of your education but to take a personal interest in you; that is why i give you this advice." "please, mademoiselle, explain to me what i ought to do," said perrine; "i don't understand at all what this advice means, and i am very nervous." "although you have not been very long at maraucourt," said mlle. belhomme, "you must know that m. vulfran's illness and the continued absence of his son is a cause of anxiety to all this part of the country." "yes, i have heard that," answered perrine. "what would become of all those employed in the works, seven thousand, and all those who are dependent on these seven thousand if monsieur vulfran should die and his son not return? will he leave his fortune and works to his nephews, of which he has no more confidence in one than the other, or to one who for twenty years has been his right hand and who, having managed the works with him is, perhaps more than anyone else, in a position to keep his hold on them? "when m. vulfran took his nephew theodore into the business everyone thought that he intended to make him his heir. but later, when monsieur casimir left college and his uncle sent for him, they saw that they had made a mistake and that m. vulfran had not decided to leave his business to these two boys. his only wish was to have his son back for, although they had been parted for ten years, he still loved him. now no one knew whether the son was dead or alive. but there were those who wished that he was dead so that they themselves could take m. vulfran's place when he died. "now, my dear child," said the governess, "you understand you live here in the home of m. vulfran and you must be very discreet in this matter and not talk about it to casimir's mother. she is working all she can for her son's interest and she will push anyone aside who stands in his way. now, if you were on too good terms with her you would be on bad terms with theodore's mother, and the other way about. then, on the other hand, should you gain the good graces of both of them you would perhaps have reason to fear one from another direction. that is why i give you this little advice. talk as little as possible. and if you are questioned, be careful to make replies as vague as possible. it is better sometimes to be looked upon rather as too stupid than too intelligent. this is so in your case ... the less intelligent you appear, the more intelligent you will really be." chapter xxv meddling relatives this advice, given with every kindness, did not tend to lessen perrine's anxiety. she was dreading madame bretoneux's visit on the morrow. her governess had not exaggerated the situation. the two mothers were struggling and scheming in every possible way, each to have her son alone inherit one day or another the great works of maraucourt and the fortune which it was rumored would be more than a hundred million francs. the one, mme. stanislaus paindavoine, was the wife of m. vulfran's eldest brother, a big linen merchant. her husband had not been able to give her the position in society which she believed to be hers, and now she hoped that, through her son inheriting his uncle's great fortune, she would at last be able to take the place in the parisian world which she knew she could grace. the other, madame bretoneux was m. vulfran's married sister who had married a boulogne merchant, who in turn had been a cement and coal merchant, insurance agent and maritime agent, but with all his trades had never acquired riches. she wanted her brother's wealth as much for love of the money as to get it away from her sister-in-law, whom she hated. while their brother and his only son had lived on good terms, they had had to content themselves with borrowing all they could from him in loans which they never intended to pay back; but the day when edmond had been packed off to india, ostensibly to buy jute but in reality as a punishment for being too extravagant and getting into debt, the two women had schemed to take advantage of the situation. on each side they had made every preparation so that each could have her son alone, at any moment, take the place of the exile. in spite of all their endeavors the uncle had never consented to let the boys live with him at the chateau. there was room enough for them all and he was sad and lonely, but he had made a firm stand against having them with him in his home. "i don't want any quarrels or jealousy around me," he had always replied to the suggestions made. he had then given theodore the house he had lived in before he built the chateau and another to casimir that had belonged to the late head of the counting house whom mombleux had replaced. so their surprise and indignation had been intense when a stranger, a poor girl, almost a child, had been installed in the chateau where they themselves had only been admitted as guests. what did it mean? who was this little girl? what had they to fear from her? madame bretoneux had put these questions to her son but his replies had not satisfied her. she decided to find out for herself, hence her visit. very uneasy when she arrived, it was not long before she felt quite at ease again so well did perrine play the part that mademoiselle had advised her. although m. vulfran had no wish to have his nephews living with him he was very hospitable and cordial to their parents when they came to visit him. on these occasions the beautiful mansion put on its most festive appearance; fires were lighted everywhere; the servants put on their best liveries; the best carriages and horses were brought from the stables, and in the evening the villagers could see the great chateau lighted up from ground floor to roof. the victoria, with the coachman and footman, had met mme. bretoneux at the railway station. upon her getting out of the carriage bastien had been on hand to show her to the apartment which was also reserved for her on the first floor. m. vulfran never made any change in his habits when his relations came to maraucourt. he saw them at meal times, spent the evenings with them, but no more of his time did he give them. with him business came before everything; his nephew, the son of whichever one happened to be visiting there, came to luncheon and dinner and remained the evening as late as he wished, but that was all. m. vulfran spent his hours at the office just the same and perrine was always with him, so madame bretoneux was not able to follow up her investigations on the "little tramp" as she had wished. she had questioned bastien and the maids; she had made a call on mother françoise and had questioned her carefully, also aunt zenobie and rosalie, and she had obtained all the information that they could give her; that is, all they knew from the moment of her arrival in the village until she went to live in the great house as a companion to the millionaire. all this, it seemed, was due exclusively to her knowledge of english. she found it a difficult matter, however, to talk to perrine alone, who never left m. vulfran's side unless it was to go to her own room. madame bretoneux was in a fever of anxiety to see what was in the girl and discover some reason for her sudden success. at table perrine said absolutely nothing. in the morning she went off with m. vulfran; after she had finished luncheon she went at once to her own room. when they returned from the tour of the factories she went at once to her lessons with her governess; in the evening, upon leaving the table, she went up again to her own room. madame bretoneux could not get the girl alone to talk with her. finally, on the eve of her departure, she decided to go to perrine's own room. perrine, who thought that she had got rid of her, was sleeping peacefully. a few knocks on the door awoke her. she sat up in bed and listened. another knock. she got up and went to the door. "who is there?" she asked, without opening it. "open the door, it is i ... madame bretoneux," said a voice. perrine turned the lock. madame bretoneux slipped into the room while perrine turned on the light. "get into bed again," said madame bretoneux, "we can talk just as well." she took a chair and sat at the foot of the bed so that she was full face with perrine. "i want to talk with you about my brother," she began. "you have taken william's place and i want to tell you a few things that you should do; for william, in spite of his faults, was very careful of his master's health. you seem a nice little girl and very willing, and i am sure if you wish you could do as much as william. i assure you that we shall appreciate it." at the first words perrine was reassured; if it was only of m. vulfran's health that she wanted to speak she had nothing to fear. "i think you are a very intelligent girl," said mme. bretoneux with a flattering, ingratiating smile. at these words and the look which accompanied them perrine's suspicions were aroused at once. "thank you," she said, exaggerating her simple child-like smile, "all i ask is to give as good service as william." "ah, i was sure we could count on you," said mme. bretoneux. "you have only to say what you wish, madame," said little perrine, looking up at the intruder with her big innocent eyes. "first of all you must be very attentive about his health; you must watch him carefully and see that he does not take cold. a cold might be fateful; he would have pulmonary congestion and that would aggravate his bronchitis. do you know if they could cure him of his bronchial trouble they could operate upon him and give him back his sight? think what happiness that would be for all of us." "i also would be happy," replied perrine. "those words prove that you are grateful for what he has done for you, but, then, you are not of the family." perrine assumed her most innocent air. "yes, but that does not prevent me from being attached to m. vulfran," she said, "believe me, i am." "of course," answered mme. bretoneux, "and you can prove your devotion by giving him the care which i am telling you to give him. my brother must not only be protected from catching cold, but he must be guarded against sudden emotions which might, in his state of health, kill him. he is trying to find our dear edmond, his only son. he is making inquiries in india...." she paused, but perrine made no reply. "i am told," she went on, "that my brother gets you to translate the letters and cables that he receives from india. well, it is most important that if there be bad news that my son should be informed first. then he will send me a telegram, and as it is not far from here to boulogne i will come at once to comfort my poor brother. the sympathy of a sister is deeper than that of a sister-in-law, you understand." "certainly, madame, i understand; at least i think so," said perrine. "then we can count on you?" perrine hesitated for a moment, but as she was forced to give a reply she said: "i shall do all that i can for m. vulfran." "yes, and what you do for him will be for us," continued mme. bretoneux, "the same as what you do for us will be for him. and i am going to show you that i am not ungrateful. what would you say if i gave you a very nice dress?" perrine did not want to say anything, but as she had to make some reply to the question she put it into a smile. "a very beautiful dress to wear in the evening," said mme. bretoneux. "but i am in mourning," answered perrine. "but being in black does not prevent you from wearing a lovely dress. you are not dressed well enough to dine at my brother's table. you are very badly dressed--dressed up like a clever little dog." perrine replied that she knew she was not well dressed but she was somewhat humiliated to be compared with a clever little dog, and the way the comparison was made was an evident intention to lower her. "i took what i could find at mme. lachaise's shop," she said in self-defense. "it was all right for mme. lachaise to dress you when you were a little factory girl, but now, that it pleases my brother to have you sit at the table with him, we do not wish to blush for you. you must not mind us making fun of you, but you have no idea how you amused us in that dreadful waist you have been wearing...." mme. bretoneux smiled as though she could still see perrine in the hideous waist. "but there," she said brightly, "all that can be remedied; you are a beautiful girl, there is no denying that, and i shall see that you have a dinner dress to set off your beauty and a smart little tailored costume to wear in the carriage, and when you see yourself in it you will remember who gave it you. i expect your underwear is no better than your waist. let me see it...." thereupon, with an air of authority, she opened first one drawer, then another, then shut them again disdainfully with a shrug of her shoulders. "i thought so," she said, "it is dreadful; not good enough for you." perrine felt suffocated; she could not speak. "it's lucky," continued mme. bretoneux, "that i came here, for i intend to look after you." perrine wanted to refuse everything and tell this woman that she did not wish her to take care of her, but remembered the part she had to play. after all, mme. bretoneux's intentions were most generous; it was her words, her manner, that seemed so hard. "i'll tell my brother," she continued, "that he must order from a dressmaker at amiens, whose address i will give him, the dinner dress and the tailor suit which is absolutely necessary, and in addition some good underwear. in fact, a whole outfit. trust in me and you shall have some pretty things, and i hope that they'll remind you of me all the time. now don't forget what i have told you." chapter xxvi painful arguments after the talk his mother had had with perrine, casimir, by his looks and manner, gave her every opportunity to confide in him. but she had no intention of telling him about the researches that his uncle was having made both in india and in england. true, they had no positive news of the exile; it was all vague and contradictory, but the blind man still hoped on. he left no stone unturned to find his beloved son. mme. bretoneux's advice had some good effect. until then perrine had not taken the liberty of having the hood of the phaeton pulled up, if she thought the day was chilly, nor had she dared advise m. vulfran to put on an overcoat nor suggest that he have a scarf around his neck; neither did she dare close the window in the study if the evening was too cool, but from the moment that mme. bretoneux had warned her that the damp mists and rain would be bad for him she put aside all timidity. now, no matter what the weather was like, she never got into the carriage without looking to see that his overcoat was in its place and a silk scarf in the pocket; if a slight breeze came up she put the scarf around his neck or helped him into his coat. if a drop of rain began to fall she stopped at once and put up the hood. when she first walked out with him, she had gone her usual pace and he had followed without a word of complaint. but now that she realized that a brisk walk hurt him and usually made him cough or breathe with difficulty, she walked slowly; in every way she devised means of going about their usual day's routine so that he should feel the least fatigue possible. day by day the blind man's affection for little perrine grew. he was never effusive, but one day while she was carefully attending to his wants he told her that she was like a little daughter to him. she was touched. she took his hand and kissed it. "yes," he said, "you are a good girl." putting his hand on her head, he added: "even when my son returns you shall not leave us; he will be grateful to you for what you are to me." "i am so little, and i want to be so much," she said. "i will tell him what you have been," said the blind man, "and besides he will see for himself; for my son has a good kind heart." [illustration: he told her that she was like a little daughter to him.] often he would speak in these terms, and perrine always wanted to ask him how, if these were his sentiments, he could have been so unforgiving and severe with him, but every time she tried to speak the words would not come, for her throat was closed with emotion. it was a serious matter for her to broach such a subject, but on that particular evening she felt encouraged by what had happened. there could not have been a more opportune moment; she was alone with him in his study where no one came unless summoned. she was seated near him under the lamplight. ought she to hesitate longer? she thought not. "do you mind," she said, in a little trembling voice, "if i ask you something that i do not understand? i think of it all the time, and yet i have been afraid to speak." "speak out," he said. "what i cannot understand," she said timidly, "is that loving your son as you do, you could be parted from him." "it is because you are so young you do not understand," he said, "that there is duty as well as love. as a father, it was my duty to send him away; that was to teach him a lesson. i had to show him that my will was stronger than his. that is why i sent him to india where i intended to keep him but a short while. i gave him a position befitting my son and heir. he was the representative of my house. did i know that he would marry that miserable creature? he was mad!" "but father fields said that she was not a miserable creature," insisted perrine. "she was or she would not have contracted a marriage that was not valid in france," retorted the blind man, "and i will not recognize her as my daughter." he said this in a tone that made perrine feel suddenly cold. then he continued abruptly: "you wonder why i am trying to get my son back now, if i did not want him back after he had married. things have changed. conditions are not the same now as then. after fourteen years of this so-called marriage my son ought to be tired of this woman and of the miserable life that he has been forced to live on account of her. besides conditions for me have also changed. my health is not what it was, and i am blind. i cannot recover my sight unless i am operated upon and i must be in a calm state favorable to the success of this operation. when my son learns this do you think he will hesitate to leave this woman? i am willing to support her and her daughter also. i am sure many times he has thought of maraucourt and wanted to return. if i love him i know that he also loves me. when he learns the truth he will come back at once, you will see." "then he would have to leave his wife and daughter?" "he has no wife nor has he a daughter," said the old man sternly. "father fields says that he was married at the mission house by father leclerc," said perrine. "this marriage was contracted contrary to the french law," said m. vulfran. "but was it not lawful in india?" asked perrine. "i will have it annulled in rome," said the blind man. "but the daughter?" "the law would not recognize that child." "is the law everything?" "what do you mean?" "i mean that it is not the law that makes one love or not love one's parents or children. it was not the law that made me love my poor father. i loved him because he was good and kind and he loved me. i was happy when he kissed me, and smiled at me. i loved him and there was nothing that i liked better than to be with him. he loved me because i was his little girl and needed his affection; he loved me because he knew that i loved him with all my heart. the law had nothing to do with that. i did not ask if it was the law that made him my father. it was our love that made us so much to each other." "what are you driving at?" asked m. vulfran. "i beg your pardon if i have said anything i should not say, but i speak as i think and as i feel." "and that is why i am listening to you," said the blind man; "what you say is not quite reasonable, but you speak as a good girl would." "well, sir, what i am trying to say is this," said perrine boldly; "if you love your son and want to have him back with you, he also loves his daughter and wants to have her with him." "he should not hesitate between his father and his daughter," said the old man; "besides, if the marriage is annulled, she will be nothing to him. he could soon marry that woman off again with the dowry that i would give her. everything is changed since he went away. my fortune is much larger.... he will have riches, honor and position. surely it isn't a little half-caste that can keep him back." "perhaps she is not so dreadful as you imagine," said perrine. "a hindu." "in the books that i read to you it says that the hindus are more beautiful than the europeans," said perrine. "travelers' exaggerations," said the old man scoffingly. "they have graceful figures, faces of pure oval, deep eyes with a proud look. they are patient, courageous, industrious; they are studious...." "you have a memory!" "one should always remember what one reads, should not one?" asked perrine. "it does not seem that the hindu is such a horrible creature as you say." "well, what does all that matter to me as i do not know her?" "but if you knew her you might perhaps get interested in her and learn to love her." "never! i can't bear to think of her and her mother!..." "but if you knew her you might not feel so angry towards her." he clenched his fist as though unable to control his fury, but he did not stop her. "i don't suppose that she is at all like you suppose," said perrine; "father fields is a good priest and he would not say what was not true, and he says that her mother was good and kind and a lady...." "he never knew her; it is hearsay." "but it seems that everyone holds this opinion. if she came to your house would you not be as kind to her as you have been to me, ... a stranger?" "don't say anything against yourself." "i do not speak for or against myself, but what i ask is for justice. i know if that daughter, your granddaughter, came here she would love you with all her heart." she clasped her hands together and looked up at him as though he could see her; her voice shook with emotion. "wouldn't you like to be loved by your granddaughter?" she asked pleadingly. the blind man rose impatiently. "i tell you she can never be anything to me," he cried. "i hate her as i hate her mother. the woman took my son from me and she keeps him from me. if she had not bewitched him he would have been back long before this. she has been everything to him while i, his father, have been nothing." he strode back and forth, carried away with his anger. she had never seen him like this. suddenly he stopped before her. "go to your room," he said almost harshly, "and never speak of those creatures to me again; besides, what right have you to mix up in this? who told you to speak to me in such a manner?" for a moment she was dumbfounded, then she said: "oh, no one, sir, i assure you. i just put myself into your little granddaughter's place, that is all." he softened somewhat, but he continued still in a severe voice: "in the future do not speak on this subject; you see it is painful for me and you must not annoy me." "i beg your pardon," she said, her voice full of tears; "certainly i ought not to have spoken so." chapter xxvii the blind man's grief monsieur vulfran advertised in the principal newspapers of calcutta, dacca, bombay and london for his son. he offered a reward of forty pounds to anyone who could furnish any information, however slight it might be, about edmond paindavoine. the information must, however, be authentic. not wishing to give his own address, which might have brought to him all sorts of correspondence more or less dishonest, he put the matter into the hands of his banker at amiens. numerous letters were received, but very few were serious; the greater number came from detectives who guaranteed to find the person they were searching for if the expenses for the first steps necessary could be sent them. other letters promised everything without any foundation whatever upon which they based their promises. others related events that had occurred five, ten, twelve years previous; no one kept to the time stated in the advertisement, that was the last three years. perrine read or translated all these letters for the blind man. he would not be discouraged at the meagre indications sent him. "it is only by continued advertising that we shall get results," he said always. then again he advertised. finally, one day a letter from bosnia gave them some information which might lead to something. it was written in bad english, and stated that if the advertiser would place the forty pounds promised with a banker at serajevo the writer would furnish authentic information concerning m. edmond paindavoine going back to the month of november of the preceding year. if this proposition was acceptable, the reply was to be sent to n. , general delivery, serajevo. this letter seemed to give m. vulfran so much relief and joy that it was a confession of what his fears had been. for the first time since he had commenced his investigations, he spoke of his son to his two nephews and talouel. "i am delighted to tell you that at last i have news of my son," he said. "he was in bosnia last november." there was great excitement as the news was spread through the various towns and villages. as usual under such circumstances, it was exaggerated. "m. edmond is coming back. he'll be home shortly," went from one to another. "it's not possible!" cried some. "if you don't believe it," they were told, "you've only to look at talouel's face and m. vulfran's nephews." yet there were some who would not believe that the exile would return. the old man had been too hard on him. he had not deserved to be sent away to india because he had made a few debts. his own family had cast him aside, so he had a little family of his own out in india. why should he come back? and then, even if he was in bosnia or turkey, that was not to say that he was on his way to maraucourt. coming from india to france, why should he have to go to bosnia? it was not on the route. this remark came from bendit, who, with his english coolheadedness, looked at things only from a practical standpoint, in which sentiment played no part. he thought that just because everyone wished for the son and heir to return, it was not enough to bring him back. the french could wish a thing and believe it, but he was english, he was, and he would not believe that he was coming back until he saw him there with his own eyes! day by day the blind man grew more impatient to see his son. perrine could not bear to hear him talk of his return as a certainty. many times she tried to tell him that he might be disappointed. one day, when she could bear it no longer, she begged him in her sweet voice not to count too much upon seeing his son for fear something might still keep him away. the blind man asked her what she meant. "it is so terrible to hear the worst when one has been expecting the best," she said brokenly. "if i say this it is because that is just what happened to me. we had thought and hoped so much when my father was ill that he would get better, but we lost him, and poor mama and i did not know how to bear it. we would not think that he might die." "ah, but my boy is alive, and he will be here soon. he will come back to me very soon," said the old man in a firm voice. the next day the banker from amiens called at the factory. he was met at the steps by talouel, who did all in his power to get the first information which he knew the banker was bringing. at first his attitude was very obsequious, but when he saw that his advances were repulsed, and that the visitor insisted upon seeing his employer at once, he pointed rudely in the direction of m. vulfran's office and said: "you will find him over there in that room," and then turned and went off with his hands in his pockets. the banker knocked on the door indicated. "come in," called out m. vulfran, in answer to his knock. "what, you ... you at maraucourt!" he exclaimed when he saw his visitor. "yes, i had some business to attend to at picquigny, and i came on here to bring you some news received from bosnia." perrine sat at her little table. she had gone very white; she seemed like one struck dumb. "well?" asked m. vulfran. "it is not what you hoped, what we all hoped," said the banker quietly. "you mean that that fellow who wrote just wanted to get hold of the forty pounds." "oh, no; he seems an honest man...." "then he knows nothing?" "he does, but unfortunately his information is only too true." "unfortunately!" gasped the blind man. this was the first word of doubt that he had uttered. "you mean," he added, "that they have no more news of him since last november?" "there is no news since then. the french consul at serajevo, bosnia, has sent me this information: "'last november your son arrived at serajevo practising the trade of a strolling photographer....'" "what do you mean?" exclaimed m. vulfran. "a strolling photographer!... my son?" "he had a wagon," continued the banker, "a sort of caravan in which he traveled with his wife and child. he used to take pictures on the market squares where they stopped...." the banker paused and glanced at some papers he held in his hand. "oh, you have something to read, haven't you?" said the blind man as he heard the paper rustle. "read, it will be quicker." "he plied the trade of a photographer," continued the banker, consulting his notes, "and at the beginning of november he left serajevo for travnik, where he fell ill. he became very ill...." "my god!" cried the blind man. "oh, god...." m. vulfran had clasped his hands; he was trembling from head to foot, as though a vision of his son was standing before him. "you must have courage," said the banker, gently. "you need all your courage. your son...." "he is dead!" said the blind man. "that is only too true," replied the banker. "all the papers are authentic. i did not want to have any doubt upon the matter, and that was why i cabled to our consul at serajevo. here is his reply; it leaves no doubt." but the old man did not appear to be listening. he sat huddled up in his big chair, his head drooped forward on his chest. he gave no sign of life. perrine, terrified, wondered if he were dead. then suddenly he pulled himself together and the tears began to run down his wrinkled cheeks. he brushed them aside quickly and touched the electric bell which communicated with talouel's and his nephew's offices. the call was so imperative that they all ran to the office together. "you are there?" asked the blind man; "talouel, theodore and casimir?" all three replied together. "i have just learned of the death of my son," said their employer. "stop work in all the factories immediately. tomorrow the funeral services will be held in the churches at maraucourt, saint-pipoy and all the other villages." "oh, uncle!" cried both the nephews. he stopped them with uplifted hand. "i wish to be alone ... leave me," was all he said. everyone left the room but perrine. she alone remained. "aurelie, are you there?" asked the blind man. she replied with a sob. "let us go home," he said. as was his habit, he placed his hand on her shoulder, and it was like this that they passed through the crowd of workers who streamed from the factory. as they stood aside for him to pass, all who saw him wondered if he would survive this blow. he, who usually walked so upright, was bent like a tree that the storm has broken. could he survive this shock? perrine asked herself this question with even greater agony, for it was she and she alone who knew how his great frame was trembling. his shaking hands grasped her shoulder convulsively, and without him uttering one word little perrine knew how deeply her grandfather was smitten. after she had guided him into his study he sent her away. "explain why i wish to be left alone. no one is to come in here. no one is to speak to me.... "and i refused to believe you," he murmured as she was leaving him. "oh, please; if you will let me...." "leave me," he said roughly. perrine closed the door softly. chapter xxviii an unrespected funeral there was considerable bustle and excitement at the chateau all that evening. first m. and mme. stanislas paindavoine, who had received a telegram from theodore, arrived. then m. and mme. bretoneux, sent for by casimir, came. after that came mme. bretoneux's two daughters, their husbands and children. no one wished to miss the funeral service for poor dear edmond. besides, this was the decisive moment for clever manoeuvring. what a disaster if this big industry should fall into the hands of one so incapable as theodore! what a misfortune if casimir took charge! neither side thought that a partnership could be possible, and the two cousins share alike. each wanted all for himself. both mme. bretoneux and mme. paindavoine had ignored perrine since their arrival. they had given her to understand that they did not require her services any longer. she sat in her room hoping that m. vulfran would send for her so that she could help him into the church, as she had done every sunday since william had gone. but she waited in vain. when the bells, which had been tolling since the evening before, announced mass, she saw him get up into his carriage leaning on his brother's arm, while his sister and sister-in-law, with the members of their families, took their places in other carriages. she had no time to lose, for she had to walk. she hurried off. after she had left the house over which death had spread its shroud, she was surprised to notice as she hastened through the village that the taverns had taken on their sunday air. the men drank and laughed and the women chatted at their doors, while the children played in the street. perrine wondered if none of them were going to attend the service. upon entering the church, where she had been afraid that she would not find room, she saw that it was almost empty. the bereaved family sat in the choir; here and there was some village authority, a tradesman and the heads of the factories. very few of the working men and women were present; they had not thought to come and join their prayers to those of their employer. perrine took a seat beside rosalie and her grandmother, who was in deep mourning. "alas! my poor little edmond," murmured the old nurse, wiping her eyes. "what did m. vulfran say?" but perrine was too overcome to reply. the services commenced. as she left the church, mlle. belhomme came up to her, and, like françoise, wanted to question her about m. vulfran. perrine told her that he had not spoken to her since the evening before. "as i saw him kneeling there so crushed and broken for the first time, i was pleased that he was blind," said the governess sadly. "why?" asked perrine. "because he could not see how few people came to the church. what indifference his men have shown! if he could have seen that empty church it would have added to his grief." "i think he must have known how few there were there," said perrine. "his ears take the place of his eyes, and that empty silence could not deceive him." "poor man," murmured mlle. belhomme; "and yet...." she paused. then, as she was not in the habit of holding anything back, she went on: "and yet it will be a great lesson to him. you know, my child, you cannot expect others to share your sorrows if you are not willing to share theirs. "m. vulfran gives his men what he considers their due," she continued, in a lower voice. "he is just, but that is all. he has never been a father to his men. he is all for business, business only. what a lot of good he could have done, however, not only here, but everywhere, if he had wished, by setting an example. had he been more to his men you may be sure that the church would not have been as empty as it was today." perhaps that was true, but how it hurt perrine to hear this from the lips of her governess, of whom she was so fond. if anyone else had said so she might not have felt it so deeply. yes, undoubtedly it was too true. they had been walking as they talked, and had now reached the schools where mlle. belhomme lived. "come in and we'll have luncheon together," she said. she was thinking that her pupil would not be allowed to take her accustomed place at the family table. "oh, thank you," said perrine; "but m. vulfran might need me." "well, in that case you had better go back," said mlle. belhomme. when she reached the chateau she saw that m. vulfran had no need of her, that he was not even thinking of her. bastien, whom she met on the stairs, told her that when he came back from the church he had gone to his own room and locked himself in, forbidding anyone to enter. "he won't even sit down on a day like this with his family," said bastien, "and they are all going after luncheon. i don't think he even wants to say goodbye to them. lord help us! what will become of us? oh, poor master!" "what can i do?" asked perrine. "you can do a great deal. the master believes in you, and he's mighty fond of you." "mighty fond of me?" echoed perrine. "yes, and it's i as says it," said the butler. "he likes you a whole lot." as bastien had said, all the family left after luncheon. perrine stayed in her room, but m. vulfran did not send for her. just before she went to bed, bastien came to tell her that his master wished her to accompany him the next morning at the usual hour. "he wants to get back to work, but will he be able?" said the old butler. "it will be better for him if he can. work means life for him." the next day at the usual hour perrine was waiting for m. vulfran. with bent back he came forward, guided by bastien. the butler made a sign to her that his master had passed a bad night. "is aurelie there?" asked the blind man in a changed voice, a voice low and weak, like that of a sick child. perrine went forward quickly. "i am here, m. vulfran," she said. "let us get into the carriage, aurelie," he said. as soon as he had taken his place beside perrine his head drooped on his chest. he said not a word. at the foot of the office steps talouel was there ready to receive him and help him to alight. "i suppose you felt strong enough to come?" he said, in a sympathetic voice which contrasted with the flash in his eyes. "i did not feel at all strong, but i came because i thought that i ought to come," said his employer. "that is what i meant ... i...." m. vulfran stopped him and told perrine to guide him to his office. the mail, which had accumulated in two days, was read, but the blind man made no comments on the correspondence. it was as though he were deaf or asleep. the heads of the factory then came in to discuss an important question that had to be settled that day. when the immediate business was settled perrine was left alone with the blind man. he was silent. time passed; he did not move. she had often seen him sit still, but on such occasions, from the expression on his face, she had known that he was following his work as though he were watching with his eyes. he listened to the whistle of the engines, the rolling of the trucks; he was attentive to every sound and seemed to know exactly what was going on, but now he seemed as though he were turned into a statue. there was no expression in his face and he was so silent. he did not seem to be breathing. perrine was overcome by a sort of terror. she moved uneasily in her chair; she did not dare speak to him. suddenly he put his two hands over his face and, as though unaware that anyone was present, he cried: "my god! my god! you have forsaken me! oh, lord, what have i done that you should forsake me!" then the heavy silence fell again. perrine trembled when she heard his cry, although she could not grasp the depth of his despair. everything that this man had attempted had been a success; he had triumphed over his rivals; but now, with one blow, that which he wanted most had been snatched from him. he had been waiting for his son; their meeting, after so many years of absence, he had pictured to himself, and then.... then what? "my god," cried the blind man again, "why have you taken him from me?" chapter xxix the angel of reform as the days passed m. vulfran became very weak. at last he was confined to his room with a serious attack of bronchitis, and the entire management of the works was given over to talouel, who was triumphant. when he recovered he was in such a state of apathy that it was alarming. they could not rouse him; nothing seemed to interest him, not even his business. previously they had feared the effect a shock would have on his system, but now the doctors desired it, for it seemed that only a great shock could drag him out of this terrible condition. what could they do? after a time he returned to his business, but he scarcely took account of what talouel had done during his absence. his manager, however, had been too clever and shrewd to take any steps that his employer would not have taken himself. every day perrine took him to his various factories, but the drives were made in silence now. frequently he did not reply to the remarks she made from time to time, and when he reached the works he scarcely listened to what his men had to say. "do what you think best," he said always. "arrange the matter with talouel." how long would this apathy last? one afternoon, when old coco was bringing them back to maraucourt, they heard a bell ringing. "stop," he said; "i think that's the fire alarm." perrine stopped the horse. "yes, it's a fire," he said, listening. "do you see anything?" "i can see a lot of black smoke over by the poplars on the left," replied perrine. "on the left? that is the way to the factory." "yes; shall i drive that way?" asked perrine. "yes," replied m. vulfran, indifferently. it was not until they reached the village that they knew where the fire was. "don't hurry, m. vulfran," called out a peasant; "the fire ain't in your house. it's la tiburce's house that's on fire." la tiburce was a drunken creature who minded little babies who were too young to be taken to the crèche. she lived in a miserable tumble-down house near the schools. "let us go there," said m. vulfran. they had only to follow the crowd, for the people, when they saw the flames and smoke rising, were running excitedly to the spot where the fire was. before reaching the scene perrine had to stop several times for fear of running someone down. nothing in the world would have made the people get out of their way. finally m. vulfran got out of the carriage and, guided by perrine, walked through the crowd. as they neared the entrance to the house, fabry, wearing a helmet, for he was chief of the firemen, came up to them. "we've got it under control," he said, "but the house is entirely burnt, and what's worse, several children, five or six, perhaps, are lost. one is buried beneath, two have been suffocated, and we don't know where the other three are." "how did it happen?" asked m. vulfran. "la tiburce was asleep, drunk. she is still in that condition. the biggest of the children were playing with the matches. when the fire began to flare up some of the children got out, and la tiburce woke up. she is so drunk she got out herself but left the little ones in the cradle." the sound of cries and loud talking could be heard in the yard. m. vulfran wanted to go in. "don't go in there, sir," said fabry. "the mothers whose two children were suffocated are carrying on pretty badly." "who are they?" "two women who work in your factory." "i must speak to them." leaning on perrine's shoulder, he told her to guide him. preceded by fabry, who made way for them, they went into the yard where the firemen were turning the hose on the house as the flames burst forth in a crackling sound. in a far-off corner several women stood round the two mothers who were crying. fabry brushed aside the group. m. vulfran went up to the bereaved parents, who sat with their dead children on their knees. then one of the women, who thought perhaps that a supreme help had come, looked up with a gleam of hope in her eyes. when she recognized m. vulfran she raised her arm to him threateningly. "ah," she cried, "come and see for yourself what they do to our babies while we are sweating and killing ourselves for you. can you give us back their lives? oh, my little boy." she burst into sobs as she bent over her child. m. vulfran hesitated for a moment; then he turned to fabry and said: "you are right; let us go." they returned to the offices. after a time talouel came to tell his employer that out of the six children that they had thought were dead, three had been found in the homes of neighbors, where they had been carried when the fire first broke out. the burial for the other three tiny victims was to take place the next day. when talouel had gone, perrine, who had been very thoughtful, decided to speak to m. vulfran. "are you not going to the burial service of these little babies?" she asked. her trembling voice betrayed her emotion. "why should i go?" asked m. vulfran. "because that would be the most dignified answer you could give to what that poor woman said." "did my work people come to the burial service of my son?" asked m. vulfran, coldly. "they did not share your sorrow," said perrine gravely, "but if you share theirs now they will be touched." "you don't know how ungrateful the workingman is." "ungrateful! for what? the money they receive? they consider that they have a right to the money they earn. it is theirs. would they show ingratitude if an interest was taken in them, if a little friendly help was given them? perhaps it would not be the same, do you think so? friendship creates friendship. one often loves when one knows one is loved, and it seems to me that when we are friendly to others, we make friends ourselves. it means so much to lighten the burdens of the poor, but how much more is it to lighten their sorrows ... by helping to share them." it seemed to her that she had still so much to say on this subject, but m. vulfran did not reply. he did not even appear to be listening to her, and she was afraid to say more. later she might make another attempt. as they left the office m. vulfran turned to talouel, who was standing on the steps, and said: "tell the priest to arrange a suitable burial for the three children. it will be at my expense and i shall be there." talouel jumped. "and let everyone know," continued m. vulfran, "that all who wish to go to the church tomorrow, can take the time off. this fire is a great misfortune." "we are not responsible for it," said talouel. "not directly ... no," said m. vulfran. perrine had another surprise the next morning. after the mail had been opened and the replies dictated, m. vulfran detained fabry and said: "i want you to start for rouen. i think you can spare the time. i have heard that they have built a model crèche there. it is not built by the town, but someone has had it built to the memory of one whom they have lost. i want you to see how this is made. study it in all its details--the construction, heating and ventilation and the expense of keeping it up. in three months we must have a crèche at the entrance of all my factories. i don't want such a calamity as that which occurred yesterday to take place again. i rely upon you and the responsibility is upon you now." that evening perrine told the great news to her governess, who was delighted. while they were talking about it, m. vulfran came into the room. "mademoiselle," he said, "i have come to ask a favor of you in the name of all the village. it is a big favor. it may mean a great sacrifice on your part. this is it." in a few words he outlined the request he had to make. it was that mademoiselle should send in her resignation at the schools and take charge of the five crèches which he was going to build. he knew of no one who was capable of taking on their shoulders such a big burden. he would donate a crèche to each village and endow it with sufficient capital to keep up its maintenance. although mlle. belhomme loved to teach, and it would be indeed a sacrifice for her to give up her school, she felt, after she had talked with the blind man, that it was here where her duty lay. it was indeed a great work that she was called upon to do, and she would enter upon her task with all the enthusiasm of which her big heart was capable. "this is a great thing you are doing, monsieur vulfran," she said, with tears in her eyes, "and i will do all i can to make this work a success." "it is your pupil one must thank for it," said the blind man, "not i. her words and suggestions have awakened something in my heart. i have stepped out on a new road. i am only at the first steps. it is nothing compared with what i intend to do." "oh, please," said perrine, her eyes bright with delight and pride, "if you still want to do something...." "what is it?" he asked with a smile. "i want to take you somewhere ... tonight." "what do you mean? where do you want to take me?" asked the blind man, mystified. "to a place where your presence only for a few moments will bring about extraordinary results," said perrine. "well, can't you tell me where this mysterious place is?" asked m. vulfran. "but if i tell you, your visit will not have the same effect. it will be a failure. it will be a fine evening and warm, and i am sure that you will not take cold. please say you will go!" "i think one could have confidence in her," said mademoiselle belhomme, "although her request seems a little strange and childish." "well," said m. vulfran, indulgently, "i'll do as you wish, aurelie. now at what hour are we to start on this adventure?" "the later it is the better it will be," said perrine. during the evening he spoke several times of the outing they were to have, but perrine would not explain. "do you know, little girl, you have aroused my curiosity?" he said at last. "i am glad you are interested," she said gravely. "there is so much that can be done in the future. do not look back to the past any more." "the future is empty for me," said the blind man bitterly. "oh, no; it is not," said perrine, lifting her lovely face to his. her eyes were shining with a beautiful light. "it will not be empty if you think of others. when one is a child, and not very happy, one often thinks that if a wonderful fairy came to them, of what beautiful things they would ask. but if one is the fairy, or rather the magician oneself, and can do all the wonderful things alone, wouldn't it be splendid to use one's power?..." the evening passed. several times the blind man asked if it were not time to start, but perrine delayed as long as possible. at last she said that she thought they could start. the night was warm, no breeze, no mists. the atmosphere was a trifle heavy and the sky dark. when they reached the village it was all quiet. all seemed to sleep. not a light shone from the windows. the dark night made no difference to the blind man. as they walked along the road from the chateau he knew exactly where he was. "we must be nearing françoise's house," he said, after they had walked a little distance. "that is just where we are going," said perrine. "we are there now. let me take your hand and guide you, and please don't speak. we have some stairs to go up, but they are quite easy and straight. when we get to the top of these stairs i shall open a door and we shall go into a room for just one moment." "what do you want me to see ... when i can't see anything?" he said. "there will be no need for you to see," replied perrine. "then why come?" "i want you here," said perrine earnestly. "here are the stairs. now step up, please." they climbed up the stairs and perrine opened a door and gently drew m. vulfran inside a room and closed the door again. they stood in a suffocating, evil-smelling room. "who is there?" asked a weary voice. pressing his hand, perrine warned m. vulfran not to speak. the same voice spoke: "get into bed, la noyelle. how late you are." this time m. vulfran clasped perrine's hand in a sign for them to leave the place. she opened the door and they went down, while a murmur of voices accompanied them. when they reached the street m. vulfran spoke: "you wanted me to know what that room was the first night when you slept there?" "i wanted you to know what kind of a place all the women who work for you have to sleep in. they are all alike in maraucourt and the other villages. you have stood in one of these dreadful rooms; all the others are like it. think of your women and children, your factory hands, who are breathing that poisoned air. they are slowly dying. they are almost all weak and sick." m. vulfran was silent. he did not speak again, neither did perrine. when they entered the hall he bade her good night, and guided by bastien, he went to his own room. chapter xxx grandfather finds perrine one year had passed since perrine had arrived at maraucourt on that radiant sunday morning. what a miserable lonely little girl she had been then. the day was just as radiant now, but what a change in perrine, and, be it said, in the whole village also. she was now a lovely girl of fifteen. she knew she was loved and loved for herself, and this is what gave the deep look of happiness to her eyes. and the village! no one would have recognized it now. there were new buildings, pretty cottages, and a hospital commanding a view of the surrounding country. near the factories were two handsome red brick buildings. these were the crèches where the little children, whose mothers were working in the factories, were kept. all the little children had their meals there, and many of them slept there. it was a home for them. m. vulfran had bought up all the old houses, the tumble-down hovels and huts, and had built new cottages in their places. there was a large restaurant built where the men and women could get a dinner for eleven cents, the meal consisting of a soup, stew or roast, bread and cider. every little cottage, for which the tenant paid one hundred francs a year, had its own tiny garden in which to grow vegetables for the family. in the road leading to the chateau there was now a fine recreation ground, which was greatly patronized after the factories had closed. there were merry-go-rounds, swings, bowling alleys and a stand for the musicians who played every saturday and sunday, and of course on every holiday. this public park of amusement was used by the people of all five villages. monsieur vulfran had thought it better to have one place of reunion and recreation. if his people all met together to enjoy their leisure hours, it would establish good relations and a bond of friendship between them. at the end of the grounds there was a fine library with a reading and writing room. m. vulfran's relations thought that he had gone mad. did he intend to ruin himself? that is to say, ruin them? some steps ought to be taken to prevent him from spending his fortune in this manner. his fondness for that girl was a proof that he was losing his mind. that girl did not know what she was doing! all their animosity was centered on her. what did it matter to her that his fortune was being thrown away? but if perrine had all the relations against her, she knew that she had m. vulfran's friendship, and the family doctor, doctor ruchon, mlle. belhomme and fabry all adored her. since the doctor had seen that it was the "little girl" who had been the means of his patient exerting this wonderful moral and intellectual energy, his attitude to her expressed the greatest respect and affection. in the doctor's eyes, perrine was a wonderful little girl. "she can do a great deal more than i can," he said, shaking his gray head. and mlle. belhomme, how proud she was of her pupil! as to fabry, he was on the best of terms with her. he had been so closely connected with her in the good work that had been done, for fabry had superintended everything. it was half-past twelve. fabry had not yet arrived. m. vulfran, usually so calm, was getting impatient. luncheon was over and he had gone into his study with perrine; every now and again he walked to the window and listened. "the train must be late," he murmured. perrine wanted to keep him away from the window, for there were many things going on outside in the park about which she did not wish him to know. with unusual activity, the gardeners were putting great pots of flowers on the steps and in front of the house. flags were flying from the recreation grounds, which could be seen from the windows. at last the wheels of a carriage were heard on the drive. "there's fabry," said m. vulfran. his voice expressed anxiety, but pleasure at the same time. fabry came in quickly. he also appeared to be in a somewhat excited state. he gave a look at perrine which made her feel uneasy without knowing why. "i got your telegram," said m. vulfran, "but it was so vague. i want to be sure. speak out." "shall i speak before mademoiselle?" asked fabry, glancing at perrine. "yes, if it is as you say." it was the first time that fabry had asked if he could speak before perrine. in the state of mind in which she was suddenly thrown, this precaution only made her the more anxious. "the person whom we had lost trace of," said fabry, without looking at perrine, "came on to paris. there she died. here is a copy of the death certificate. it is in the name of marie doressany, widow of edmond vulfran paindavoine." with trembling hands the blind man took the paper. "shall i read it to you?" asked fabry. "no, if you have verified the names we will attend to that later. go on." "i not only got the certificate; i wanted to question the man whom they call grain-of-salt. she died in a room in his house. then i saw all those who were present at the poor woman's funeral. there was a street singer called the baroness and an old shoemaker called carp. it was the miserable existence which she had been forced to live that had finally killed her. i even saw the doctor who attended her, dr. cendrier. he wanted her to go to the hospital, but she would not be parted from her daughter. finally, to complete my investigations, they sent me to a woman who buys rags and bones. her name is la rouquerie. i could not see her until yesterday, as she had been out in the country." fabry paused. then for the first time he turned to perrine and bowed respectfully. "i saw palikare, mademoiselle," he said. "he is looking very well." perrine had risen to her feet. for some moments she stood listening, dazed. then her eyes filled with tears. "i then had to find out what had become of the little daughter," continued fabry. "this ragpicker told me that she had met her in the chantilly woods and that she was dying of hunger. it was her own donkey that she sold to the ragpicker who found her." "tell me," cried m. vulfran, turning his sightless eyes towards perrine, who was trembling from head to foot, "why this little girl did not say who she was? you understand how deeply a little girl can feel, so can you explain this?" perrine took a few steps towards him. "tell me why she does not come into my arms ... her grandfather's arms." "oh, grandpapa," cried perrine, throwing her arms about his neck. chapter xxxi the grateful people fabry had left the room, leaving the grandfather and his granddaughter together. for a long time the old man and the girl sat with their arms about each other. they only spoke now and again, just to exchange a word of affection. "my little granddaughter ... my boy's little girl," murmured the blind man, stroking her curls. "my grandpapa," murmured perrine, rubbing her soft cheek against his. "why didn't you tell me who you were?" he asked at last. "but didn't i try several times?" replied perrine. "do you remember what you said to me the last time i spoke of dear mother and myself. you said: 'understand, never speak to me again of those wretched creatures.'" "but could i guess that you were my granddaughter?" he said. "if i had come straight to you, don't you think you would have driven me away and not have listened to me?" asked perrine. "ah," said the blind man, sadly, "who knows what i would have done!" "i thought so," said perrine, "and i thought it best not to let you know me until, like mama said, 'you would get to love me.'" "and you have waited so long, and you had so many proofs of my affection." "but was it the affection of a grandfather? i did not dare think so," said perrine. "when i began to suspect that you were my son's child, i then quickly got positive proofs, and i gave you every chance to tell me that you were. finally i employed fabry, who, with his investigations, forced you to throw yourself into my arms. if you had spoken sooner, my little darling, you would have spared me many doubts." "yes," said perrine sweetly, "but we are so happy now, and doesn't that prove that what i did was all for the best?" "well, all is well. we will leave it at that. now tell me all about your father ... my boy." "i cannot speak to you of my father without speaking of my mother," said perrine gravely. "they both loved me so much, and i loved them just the same." "my little girl," said the blind man, "what fabry has just told me of her has touched me deeply. she refused to go to the hospital where she might have been cured because she would not leave you alone in paris...." "oh, yes; you would have loved her," cried perrine; "my darling mother." "talk to me about her," said the old man, "about them both." "yes," said perrine; "i will make you know her and then you will love her." perrine told about their life before they lost all their money; then about their travels through the various countries and the wanderings over the mountains; then of her father's illness and his death, and how she and her sick mother journeyed through france with the hope that they could reach maraucourt in time before the sick woman died. while they were talking they could hear vague sounds outside in the garden. "what is the matter out there?" asked m. vulfran. perrine went to the window. the lawns and drive were black with a crowd of men, women and children. they were dressed in their sunday clothes; many of them carried banners and flags. this crowd, between six and seven thousand people, reached outside the grounds to the public park, and the murmur of their voices had reached the ears of the blind man and had turned his attention from perrine's story, great though it was. "what is it?" he asked. "it is your birthday today," said perrine, smiling, "and all your men are here to celebrate it and to thank you for all you have done for them and their families." "oh!..." the blind man walked to the window as though he could see them. he was recognized and a murmur ran through the crowd. "_mon dieu_," he murmured, "how terrible they would be if they were against us." for the first time he realized the strength of the masses which he controlled. "yes," said perrine, "but they are with us because we are with them." "yes, little girl, and it is all due to you," he replied. "this is very different from the day when the service for your dear father was held in that empty church." "yes, they are all here now," said perrine, "and this is the order of the day, grandpapa dear: i am to guide you to the steps exactly at two o'clock. from there everyone will be able to see you. a man representing each village where you have your factories will come up the steps, and fatherly old gathoye in the name of all is to make a speech." at this moment the clock struck two. "now give me your hand, grandpapa, dear," said perrine. they reached the top of the steps and a great cheer broke out. then the dear old gathoye, who was the oldest employé, came forward alone. he was followed by the five delegates. ten times the old man had been made to go over his speech that morning. "monsieur vulfran, sir," he began, "it is to wish you ... it is to congratulate you ... to congratulate you on...." here he stopped short and began gesticulating with his hands, and the crowd, who saw his eloquent gestures, thought that he making an elaborate speech. after some vain efforts, during which he scratched his head several times, he said: "this is how it is: i had a fine speech all ready, but i've gone and forgot all i got to say. i had to congratulate you and thank you in the name of all from the bottom of our hearts...." he raised his hand solemnly. "i swear that's so on the faith of your oldest employé, gathoye." although the speech was very incoherent, nevertheless it touched m. vulfran deeply. with his hand on perrine's shoulder, he moved forward to the balustrade. there all could see him from below. "my friends," he called out in a loud voice, "your sincere kind wishes give me the greatest pleasure, all the more so as you bring them to me on the happiest day of my life, the day when i have found my little granddaughter, the daughter of my only son whom i have lost. you know her; you have seen her at the factory. she will go on with the work we have already begun, and i promise you that your future, and your children's future, is in good hands." thereupon he leaned down towards perrine and before she could protest he lifted her up in his arms that were still strong, and presented her to the crowd, then kissed her tenderly. then a deafening cheer rang out. it was continued for several minutes. cheers came from the mouths of seven thousand men, women and children. then, as the order of the day had been previously arranged, a line was formed and in single file they passed before their old chief and his granddaughter. with a bow and a hearty wish each man passed by. "ah, grandpapa, if you could only see their kind faces!" cried perrine. but there were some faces that were not exactly radiant. the two nephews certainly looked very glum when, after the ceremony, they came up to their cousin to offer their congratulations. "as for me," said talouel, who did not mean to lose any time in paying court to the young heiress, "i had always supposed...." the excitement of the day proved too much for m. vulfran. the doctor was called in. "you can understand, doctor," said the blind man anxiously, "how much i want to see my little granddaughter. you must get me into a state so that i can have this operation." "that is just it," said the doctor cheerily, "you must not have all this excitement. you must be perfectly calm. now that this beautiful weather has come, you must go out, but you must keep quiet, and i guarantee that as soon as your cough has gone we shall be able to have a successful operation." and the doctor's words came true. a month after m. vulfran's birthday two specialists came down from paris to perform the operation. when they wished to put him under an anesthetic he refused. "if my granddaughter will have the courage to hold my hand," he said, "you will see that i will be brave. is it very painful?" they would use cocaine to alleviate the pain. the operation was over. then came five or six days of waiting. the patient was kept in a dark room. then at last the grandfather was allowed to see his little granddaughter. "ah, if i had only had my eyes," he cried as he gazed at perrine's beautiful little face, "i should have recognized her at the first glance. what fools! couldn't anyone have seen the likeness to her father? this time talouel would have been right if he had said that he 'supposed'...." they did not let him use his eyes for long. again the bandage was put on and was kept on for thirty days. then one of the oculists who had remained at the chateau went up to paris to select the glasses which would enable him to read and see at a distance. what m. vulfran desired most, now that he had seen perrine's sweet face, was to go out and see his works, but this needed great precaution, and the trip had to be postponed for a time, for he did not wish to be closed up in a landau with the windows up, but to use his old phaeton and be driven by perrine and show himself with her everywhere. for that they had to wait for a warm, sunny day. at last the day they wanted came. the sky was blue, the air soft and warm. after luncheon perrine gave the order to bastien for the phaeton with old coco to be at the door. "yes, at once, mademoiselle," he said with a smile. perrine was surprised at the tone of his reply and his smile; but she paid no more attention to it, as she was busy fussing about her grandfather so that he would not take cold. presently bastien came to say that the phaeton was ready. perrine's eyes did not leave her grandfather as he walked forwards and down the steps alone. when they reached the last step a loud bray made her start. she looked up. there stood a donkey harnessed to a phaeton! a donkey, and that donkey was like palikare, a palikare shiny and glossy, with polished shoes and adorned with a beautiful yellow harness with blue tassels. the donkey, with his neck stretched out, continued to bray. in spite of the groom's hold upon him he turned and tried to get to perrine. "palikare!" she cried. she flew to him and flung her arms around his neck. "oh, grandpapa, what a lovely surprise!" she cried, dancing around her dear palikare. "you don't owe it to me," said her grandfather. "fabry bought it from that ragpicker to whom you sold it. the office staff offer it as a gift to their old comrade." "oh, hasn't monsieur fabry got a good, kind heart!" cried perrine. "yes, he thought of it, but your cousins did not," said m. vulfran. "i have ordered a pretty cart from paris for him. this phaeton is not the thing for him." they got up into the carriage and perrine took the reins delightedly. "where shall we go first, grandpapa?" she asked. "why, to the log cabin," he said. "don't you think i want to see the little nest where you once lived, my darling?" he referred to the cabin on the island where she had lived for a time the preceding year. it remained fondly in his mind. she drove on to the entrance and helped her grandfather alight at the path. the cabin seemed just the same as when perrine left it. "how strange," said m. vulfran, "that only a few steps from a great industrial center you were able to live the life of a savage here." "in india we led a real savage life," said perrine. "everything around us belonged to us there, but here, i had no right to this and i was often very afraid." after m. vulfran had inspected the little log hut he wanted to see the crèche at maraucourt. he thought that he would easily recognize it, as he had so often discussed the plans with fabry, but when he found himself at the entrance, and was able to see at a glance all the other rooms, the dormitory where the little babies were asleep in their rose and blue cribs according to the sex, the playroom where those who could walk were playing, the kitchen, the lavatory, he was surprised and delighted. using large glass doors, the architect had cleverly made his plans so that from the first room the mothers could see all that went on in the other rooms where they were not allowed to enter. in the nursery the children sprang forward and jumped upon perrine, showing her the playthings that they had in their hands. "i see that you are known here," said m. vulfran. "known!" replied mlle. belhomme, greeting them. "she is loved by all; she is a little mother to them, and no one can play like she can." m. vulfran put his arms affectionately around his granddaughter as they went on to the carriage. they returned home slowly as evening fell. then as they passed from one hill to another, they found themselves overlooking the surrounding country, where new roofs and tall chimneys could be seen everywhere. m. vulfran took perrine's hand. "all that is your work, child," he said; "i only thought of business. see what you have done. but so that this can all be continued in the years to come, we shall have to find you a husband, one who will be worthy of you, who will work for us. we will not ask anything more of him. i think one day we shall find the right man and we shall all be happy ... en famille...." the end the berry patch josephine lawrence _ mo. illustrated. beautiful cloth binding, stamped in gold and jacket in colors._ _price, $ . net._ [illustration: line drawing of berry patch book cover] _the berry family home was called the berry patch because of the "cross-patch" dispositions of the children, but, at heart, they all wanted to be right, and so the clash of experiences at last brought good results. in the process of interesting events, the reform of the family brought about the reform of the community, with unhappy dispositions changed into lovable characters, that make good citizens and reach social success._ elspeth oliver is the girl whose energy keeps things whirling in the berry patch. judge berry was the great authority on what's what among them, and john tabor, the school teacher, was the romantic character in the community. all the human excitements of pride and self-will enter into the various ambitions. even generous impulses were taught restraint in the experiences of various kinds, showing that there is an appropriate time and place for everything. the berry patch children did not get into mischief from any desire to make trouble, but because a surplus of energy was engaged in making discoveries. however, the greatest of all discoveries was that experience is a dear teacher, and random experiences sometimes cost many tears. human nature in the "berry patch" is revealed in so many ways that it makes profitable and interesting reading for those who are troubled with household troubles. _send for our free illustrated catalogue._ cupples & leon company, publishers new york rosemary josephine lawrence _ mo. illustrated, beautiful cloth binding, stamped in gold with cover inlay and jacket in colors._ _price $ . net._ [illustration: line drawing of rosemary book cover] _this lively story of charming little girls awakens the fancy and stimulates the ambition of all little readers to be approved of their associates, and to win the admiration of their worthiest friends. the inspiration to do one's best in both work and play, with due regard for the comfort and welfare of others, is one of the fine merits of this story._ rosemary rosemary willis is twelve years old, the eldest of three sisters. she is charming, quick and radiant, with a snappy temper. as she is the responsible one, she has many hard struggles to do the right thing in the right way. sarah is two years younger. she is the peculiar one, with her love for all kinds of animals about the farm, and her unsocial, stubborn disposition. her unruly ideas lead her into numerous troubles before she changes her mind. shirley is the baby and pet of six years. as she gets her own way so often, she is badly spoiled and receives many hard knocks before she begins to appreciate the comfort and interest of others. dr. hugh is their big brother, who has the care of them in the absence of their parents, and he ranges in their estimation all the way from terrible tyrant to wonderful, necessary brother. there are others who help complicate as well as untangle troubles, and fill up the experience of the story with interesting glimpses of life. _send for our free illustrated catalogue._ cupples & leon company, publishers new york note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) a sunny little lass by evelyn raymond new york hurst & company publishers copyright, , by george w. jacobs & company published august, all rights reserved printed in u. s. a. contents chapter page i. the one room house ii. after the colonel's visit iii. in elbow lane iv. beside old trinity v. a desolate awakening vi. the beginning of the search vii. a guardian angel viii. with bonny as guide ix. in the ferry-house x. another stage of the journey xi. a haven of refuge xii. news from the lane xiii. the wonderful ending chapter i the one room house it was in "the littlest house in ne' york" that glory lived, with grandpa and bo'sn, the dog, so she, and its owner, often boasted; and whether this were actually true or not, it certainly was so small that no other sort of tenant than the blind captain could have bestowed himself, his grandchild, and their few belongings in it. a piece-of-pie shaped room, built to utilize a scant, triangular space between two big warehouses, only a few feet wide at the front and no width at all at the rear. its ceiling was also its roof and from it dangled whatever could be hung thus, while the remaining bits of furniture swung from hooks in the walls. whenever out of use, even the little gas-stove was set upon a shelf in the inner angle, thereby giving floor space sufficient for two camp-stools and a three-cornered scrap of a table at which they ate and worked, with bo'sn curled beneath. this mite of a house stood at the crook of elbow lane, down by the approaches to the big bridge over east river, in a street so narrow that the sun never could shine into it; yet held so strong an odor of salt water and a near-by fish-market, that the old sailor half fancied himself still afloat. he couldn't see the dirt and rubbish of the lane, nor the pinched faces of the other dwellers in it, for a few tenements were still left standing among the crowding warehouses, and these were filled with people. glory, who acted as eyes for the old man, never told him of unpleasant things, and, indeed, scarcely saw them herself. to her, everything was beautiful and everybody kind, and in their own tiny home, at least, everything was scrupulously clean and shipshape. when they had hung their hammocks back upon the wall, for such were the only beds they had room for, and had had their breakfast of porridge, the captain would ask: "decks scrubbed well, mate?" "aye, aye, sir!" came the cheery answer, and glory's hands, fresh from the suds, would touch the questioner's cheek. "brasses polished, hawsers coiled, rations dealt?" "aye, aye, cap'n!" again called the child. "eight bells! every man to his post!" ordered the master, and from the ceiling a bell struck out the half-hours in the only way the sailor would permit time to be told aboard his "ship." then glory whisked out her needle and thread, found grandpa his knife and bit of wood, and the pair fell to their tasks. his was the carving of picture frames, so delicately and deftly that one could hardly believe him sightless; hers the mending of old garments for her neighbors, and her labor was almost as capable as his. it had earned for her the nickname of "take-a-stitch," for, in the lane, people were better known by their employments than their surnames. grandpa was "cap'n carver" when at his morning work, but after midday, "captain singer," since then, led by his dog bo'sn, he sang upon the streets to earn his livelihood. in the later hours the little girl, also, wore another title--"goober glory"--because she was one of the children employed by antonio salvatore, the peanut man, to sell his wares on commission. but grandpa, glory, and bo'sn had the long delightful mornings at home and together; and this day, as usual, their talk turned upon the dream of their lives--"sailors' snug harbor." "now, grandpa, talk. tell how 'tis. do it fast an' picturey-like, 'less i never can guess how to make this piece do. it's such a little patch an' such a awful big hole! posy jane gets carelesser an' carelesser all the time. this very last week that ever was she tore this jacket again. an' i told her, i said: 'jane, if you don't look out you'll never wear this coat all next winter nohow.' an' she up an' laughed, just like she didn't mind a thing like that. an' she paid me ten whole centses, she did. but i love her. jane's so good to everybody, to every single body. ain't she, grandpa?" "aye, aye, deary. i cal'late she done it a purpose. she makes her money easy, jane does. just sets there on the bridge-end and sells second-hand flowers to whoever'll buy. if she had to walk the streets----" glory was so surprised by this last sentence that she snapped her thread off in the wrong place and wasted a whole needleful. until yesterday, she had never heard her grandfather speak in any but the most contented spirit about his lot in life. then he had twice lamented that he "didn't know whatever was to become o' two poor creatur's like them," and now, again, this gay morning, he was complaining--almost complaining. glory didn't feel, in the least, like a "poor creatur'." she felt as "chirpy as a sparrow bird," over in city hall park; and, if the sun didn't shine in the lane, she knew it was shining in the street beyond, so what mattered? vaguely disturbed, the child laid her hand on his arm and asked, "be you sick, grandpa?" he answered promptly and testily, "sick? no, nor never was in my life. nothin' but blind an' that's a trifle compared to sickness. what you askin' for? didn't i eat my breakfast clean up?" "ye-es, but--but afterward you--you kicked bo'sn, an' sayin' that about 'walkin' the street' just a singin'; why, i thought you liked it. i know the folks like to hear you. you do roll out that about the 'briny wave' just grand. i wish you'd sing it to bo'sn an' me right now, grandpa, dear." wholly mollified and ashamed of his own ill-temper, the captain tried the familiar tune but it died in his throat. music was far beyond him just then, yet he stroked the child's head tenderly, and said, "some other time, mate, some other time. i'm a little hoarse, maybe, or somethin'." "well, then, never mind. let's talk 'snug harbor.' you begin. you tell an' i'll put in what i'm mind to; or i'll say what i guess it's like an' you set me straight if i get crooked. 'cause you've seen it, grandpa, an' i never have. not once; not yet. bime-by---- oh, shall i begin, shall i, grandpa?" the sailor sighed fit to shake the whole small tenement and nodded in consent; so, observing nothing of his reluctance to their once favorite subject, glory launched forth: "'sailors' snug harbor' is the most beautifulest spot in the whole world! it's all flowery an' grassy an' treesy. it's got fountains an' birds an' orchestry-music forever an' ever. 'tain't never cloudy there, nor rainy, nor freezy, nor snowy, nor nothin' mean. eh, grandpa? am i straight or crooked?" the captain, roused as from a reverie, replied absently, "it's a beautiful place, mate; i know that. nobody wants for nothin' there, an' once a man casts anchor there he's in safe haven for the rest of his days. oh, i ain't denyin' none of its comforts, but i wish the whole concern'd burn to the ground or sink in the bay. i wish the man first thought of it had died before he did." in his anger, the blind man clasped his knife till its blade cut his hand and glory cried out in dismay. but he would not have her bathe the wound and resumed his carving in silence. the little girl waited awhile, once more fitting the small patch into the big hole of posy jane's jacket; then she went on as if nothing had occurred: "when we go there to live, me an' you, we'll have a room as big an' nice as this an' you won't have to do a hand's turn for yourself. you an' bo'sn'll just set round in rockin'-chairs--i've seen 'em in the stores--with welwet cushings on your laps--i mean you two a settin' on the cushings, a dressed up to beat. maybe, they'll let you order the whole crew, yourself, into white ducks for muster at six bells, or somethin'. "an'," glory continued, "there'll be me a wearin' a white frock, all new an' never mended, an' my hair growed long an' lovely, an' me just as purty as i wish i was, an' as everybody has to be that lives to the 'harbor.' an' bime-by, of a sunday, maybe, when they can spare the time, posy jane an' billy buttons, an' nick, the parson, 'll come walkin' up to the beautiful gate, an' the captain what keeps it'll write their names in a book an' say, 'walk right in, ladies an' gentlemens, walk right in. you'll find captain simon beck an' miss glorietta beck'--'cause i'm goin' to put that long tail to my plain 'glory' when i go to live there, grandpa. "lemme see. where was i?" the little girl went on. "oh, yes. the elbow folks had just come, an' was showed in. they was told, 'walk right in. you'll find your friends settin' in the front parlor on them welwet cushings readin' stories out o' books an' chewin' candy all day long.' an' then they'll scurce know us, billy an' them, an' not till i laugh an' show my teeth an' you get up an' salute will they suspicion us. an' you'll have on gold specs an' dress-uniform an' that'll make you look just like you could see same's other folks. why, grandpa, darlin', i've just thought, just this very minute that ever was, maybe, to the 'harbor' you won't be blind any more; for true, maybe not. in such a splendid place, with doctors settin' round doin' nothin', an' hospitals an' all, likely they'll put somethin' in your eyes will make you see again. o grandpa---- if!" the old man listened silently. "an' when--when do you think would be the soonest we might go? 'twon't cost much to take me an' you an' bo'sn on the boat to staten island. i know the way. onct i went clear down to the ferry where they start from just a purpose to see, an' we could 'most any time. will we go 'fore next winter, grandpa? an' yet i hate, i do hate, to leave this dear lane. we live so lovely in our hull house an' the folks'd miss us so an' we'd miss the folks. anyway, i should. you wouldn't, course, havin' so many other old sailors all around you. an'---- why, here's that same man again!" even in elbow lane, where the shadows lie all day long, other and darker shadows may fall; and such a shade now touched glory's shoulder as she pictured in words the charm of that blessed asylum to which the captain and she would one day repair. he had always fixed the time to be "when he got too old and worthless to earn his living." but that morning she had swiftly reasoned that since he had grown cross--a new thing in her experience--he must also have suddenly become aged and that the day of their departure might be near at hand. the shadow of the stranger pausing at their door cut short her rhapsody and sent her, the table, and bo'sn, promptly out of doors, because when any of the sailor's old cronies called to see him, there wasn't room in "the littlest house" for all. so, from the narrow sidewalk beyond the door, the child listened to the talk within, not much of it being loud enough for her to hear, and fancied, from grandpa's short, sharp replies to his guest's questions, that he was crosser, therefore, more ill, than ever. bo'sn, too, sat on his haunches beside her, closely attentive and, at times, uttering a low, protesting growl. both child and dog had taken a dislike to this unknown, who was so unlike the usual visitors to the lane. glory sometimes wandered as far as fifth avenue, with her peanut basket, and now confided to bo'sn: "he's just like them dressed-up folks on th' avenue, what goes by with their noses in th' air, same's if they couldn't abide the smell o' goobers, whilst all the time they're just longing to eat 'em. big shiny hat, clothes 'most as shiny, canes an' fixin's, an' gloves, doggie; gloves this hot day, when a body just wants to keep their hands under the spigot, to cool 'em. "an'," continued glory, "he ain't like the rest, cap'n gray, an' cap'n wiggins, what makes grandpa laugh till he cries, swoppin' yarns. this one 'most makes him cry without the laughin' an'---- why, bo'sn, bo'sn!" in the midst of her own chatter to the terrier, glory had overheard a sentence of the "shiny gentleman" which sent her to her feet, and the table, work, and stool into the gutter, while her rosy face paled and her wide mouth opened still more widely. the stranger was saying: "_of course, they'll never take in the child._ you can go to the 'harbor' to-day, if you will, and you ought. she--oh, there are plenty of homes and orphanages where they will give her shelter. she'd be far better off than she is here, in this slum, with only a blind old man to look after her. you come of good stock, beck, and, with a proper chance, the little girl might make a nice woman. here--whew, i really can't endure the stench of this alley any longer. we'll make it this afternoon, captain. at three o'clock i'll send a man to take you over, and i'll get my sister, who knows about such things, to find a place for your grandchild. eh? i didn't quite catch your words." grandpa was murmuring something under his breath about: "slum! i knew it was small but 'slum'--my little glory--why, why----" colonel bonnicastle interrupted without ceremony. he had put himself out to do an old employee a service and was vexed that his efforts were so ungratefully received. however, he was a man who always had his way and intended to do so now; so he remarked, as if the captain had not objected to so sudden a removal, "the man will be here at three precisely. have whatever traps you value put together ready. you'll not know yourself in your new quarters. good-morning." with that the visitor turned to depart but bo'sn darted between his feet, causing him either to step about in a peculiar fashion or crush the dog; and, with equal want of courtesy, glory pushed him aside to fling herself on grandpa's neck, and to shriek to the guest, "go 'way! go 'way! don't you come back to elbow lane! i hate you--oh, i do hate you!" the great man was glad to go, nor did he notice her rudeness. his carriage was waiting in the street outside the alley, and even his sister laura, who spent her days working to help the poor and who had sent him here, could expect no more of him than he had done. neither his visit of yesterday nor to-day seemed appreciated by that old captain who had once so faithfully commanded the colonel's own ship. miss laura had chanced to hear of the seaman's blindness and poverty, and promptly tried to help him by having him placed in "sailors' snug harbor," of which her brother was a trustee. nobody had told her about glory, nor that the "harbor" was the subject oftenest discussed within the "littlest house." but other old sailors had told the captain of it, and pictured its delights, and once a crony had even taken him to visit it. after that, to him and his grandchild, the asylum had seemed like a wonderful fairyland where life was one happy holiday. when at their work, they talked of this safe "harbor" and the little girl's imagination endowed the place with marvelous beauties. in all their dreaming they had still been together, without thought of possible separation, till colonel bonnicastle's sentence fell with a shock upon their ears, "_they will never take in the child_." chapter ii after the colonel's visit "don't you go an' leave me, grandpa. grandpa, don't you dast to go!" wailed glory, her arms clasped so tightly about the captain's neck that they choked him. when he loosened them, he drew her to his knee and laid her curly head against his cheek, answering, in a broken voice, "leave you, deary? not while i live. not while you will stay with the old blind man, who can't even see to what sort of a home he has brought his pet." "why, to the nicest home ever was. can't be a nicer nowhere, not any single where. not even on that big avenue where such shiny people as him live. why, we've got a hull house to ourselves, haven't we?" "child, stop. tell me exact, as you never told before. is elbow lane a 'slum'?" "'deed i don't know, 'cause i never heard tell of a 'slum' 'fore. it's the cutest little street ever was. why, you can 'most reach acrost from one side to the other. me an' billy has often tried. it's got the loveliest crook in it, right here where we be; an' one side runs out one way an' t'other toward the river. why, grandpa, posy jane says onct--onct, 'fore anybody here was livin', the lane was a cow-path an' the cows was drove down it to the river to drink. maybe she's lyin'. 'seems if she must be, 'cause now there ain't no cows nor nothin' but milk-carts an' cans in corner stores, an' buildin's where onct she says was grass--grass, grandpa, do you hear?" "yes, i hear, mate. but the folks, the neighbors. a slum, deary, i guess a slum is only where wicked people live. i don't know, really, for we had no such places on the broad high sea. are our folks in the lane wicked, daughter?" "grandpa!" she cried, indignantly. "when there's such a good, good woman, jane's sister meg-laundress, what washes for us just 'cause i mend her things. an' tailor-jake who showed me to do a buttonhole an' him all doubled up with coughin'; an' billy buttons who gives us a paper sometimes, only neither of us can read it; an' nick, the parson, who helps me sort my goobers; an' posy jane, that's a kind o' mother to everybody goin'. don't the hull kerboodle of 'em treat you like you was a prince in a storybook, as i've heard billy tell about? huh! nice folks? i should think they was. couldn't be any nicer in the hull city. couldn't, for sure, an' i say so, i, glory beck." "and all very poor, mate, terrible, desperate poor; an' ragged an' dirty an' swearers, an' not fit for my pet to mix with. never go to church nor sunday-school, nor----eh, little mate?" persisted the old man, determined to get at the facts of the case at last. glory was troubled. in what words could she best defend her friends and convince her strangely anxious guardian that elbow folks were wholly what they should be? since she could remember she had known no other people, and if all were not good as she had fancied them, at least all were good to her. with all her honest loyal heart she loved them, and saw virtues in them which others, maybe, would not have seen. with a gesture of perplexity, she tossed her head and clasped her hands, demanding: "an' what's poor? why, i've heard you say that we're poor, too, lots o' times. but is any of us beggars? no, siree. is any of us thievers? no, grandpa beck, not a one. an' if some is ragged or dirty, that's 'cause they don't have clothes an' spigots handy, an' some's afraid o' takin' cold, like the tailor man. some of us lives two er three families in a room, but--but that's them. me an' you don't. we have a hull house. why, me an' you is sort of rich, seems if, and----it's that big shiny-hatted man makes you talk so queer, grandpa darlin', an' i hate him. i wish he'd stayed to his house an' not come near the lane." "no, no, mate, hate nobody, nobody. he meant it kind. he didn't know how kindness might hurt us, deary. he is colonel bonnicastle, who owned the ship i mastered, an' many another that sails the sea this day. he's got a lot to do with the 'harbor' an' never dreamed how't we'd known about it long ago. a good ship it was an' many a voyage she made, with me layin' dollars away out of my wage, till the sudden blindness struck me an' i crept down here where nobody knew me to get over it. that's a long while since, deary, and the dollars have gone, i always hopin' to get sight again and believin' i'd done a fine thing for my orphan grandchild, keepin' so snug a place over her head. so far, i've paid the rent reg'lar, and we've had our rations, too. now, mate, fetch me the bag and count what's in it." the little canvas bag which glory took from the tiny wall-cupboard seemed very light and empty, and when she had untied the string and held it upside down not a coin fell from it. the old man listened for the clink of silver but there was none to hear and he sighed deeply as he asked, "empty, glory?" "empty, grandpa. never mind, we'll soon put somethin' back in it. you must get your throat cleared and go out early an' sing your loudest. i'll get toni to let me have a fifty-bagger, an' i'll sell every single one. you might make as much as a hull quarter, you might, an' me--i'll have a nickel. a nickel buys lots o' meal, an' we can do without milk on our porridge quite a spell. that way we can put by somethin' toward the rent, an' we'll be all right. "maybe," little glory went on, "that old colonel don't have all to say 'bout the 'harbor.' maybe he don't like little girls an' that's why. i'll get cap'n gray to find out an' tell. he likes 'em. he always gives me a cent to put in the bag--if he has one. he's poor, too, though, but he's got a daughter growed up 'at keeps him. when i get growed i'll earn. why, darlin' grandpa, i'll earn such a lot we can have everything we want. i will so and i'll give you all i get. if--if so be, we don't go to the 'harbor' after all." the captain stroked his darling's head and felt himself cheered by her hopefulness. though they were penniless just now, they would not be for long if both set their minds to money getting; and, as for going to "snug harbor" without glory, he would never do that, never. "well, well, mate, we're our own masters still; and, when the colonel sends his man for me, i'll tell him 'no,' so plain he'll understand. 'less i may be off on my rounds, singin' to beat a premer donner. hark! mess-time already. there goes eight bells. what's for us, cook?" as he spoke, the little bell, which hung from the ceiling, struck eight tinkling notes and glory's face clouded. there was nothing in the tiny cupboard on the wall save a remnant of porridge from breakfast, that had cooled and stiffened, and the empty money-bag. "o grandpa! so soon? why, i ought to have finished jane's jacket and took it to her. she'd have paid me an' i'd ha' got the loveliest chop from the store 'round the corner. but now, you dear, you'll just have to eat what is an' make the best of it. next time it'll be better an' here's your plate." humming a tune and making a great flourish of plate and spoon, she placed the porridge before the captain and watched his face anxiously, her heart sinking as she saw the distaste apparent at his first mouthful. he was such a hungry old dear always, and so was she hungry, though she didn't find it convenient to eat upon all such occasions. when there happened to be enough food for but one, she was almost glad of the sailor's blindness. if he smelled one chop cooking on the little stove, how should he guess there weren't two? and if she made a great clatter with knife and plate, how could he imagine she was not eating? up till now, glory could always console herself with dreams of the "snug harbor" and the feasts some day to be enjoyed there. alas! the colonel's words had changed all that. for her there would be no "harbor," ever; but for him, her beloved grandpa, it was still possible. a great fear suddenly possessed her. what if the captain should get so very, very hungry, that he would be tempted beyond resistance, and forsake her after all! she felt the suspicion unworthy, yet it had come, and as the blind man pushed his plate aside, unable to swallow the unpalatable porridge, she resolved upon her first debt. laying her hand on his she begged, "wait a minute, grandpa! i forgot--i mean i didn't get the milk. i'll run round an' be back with it in a jiffy!" "got the pay, mate?" he called after her, but, if she heard him, she, for once, withheld an answer. "o mister grocer!" she cried, darting into the dairy shop, like a stray blue and golden butterfly, "could you possibly lend me a cent's worth o' milk for grandpa's dinner? i'll pay you to-night, when i get home from peddlin', if i can. if i can't then, why the next time----" "say no more, take-a-stitch, i've a whole can turnin' sour on me an' you're welcome to a pint on't if you'll take it. my respects to the captain, and here's good luck to the queen of elbow lane!" glory swept him a curtsy, flashed a radiant smile upon him and was tempted to hug him; but she refrained from this, not knowing how such a caress might be received. then she thanked and thanked him till he bade her stop, and with her tin cup in her hand sped homeward again, crying: "here am i, grandpa! more milk 'an you can shake a stick at, with the store-man's respeckses an' all. a hull pint! think o' that! an' only just a teeny, tiny mite sour. isn't he the nicest one to give it to us just for nothin'? an' he's another sort of elbow folks, though he's off a bit around the block. oh, this is just the loveliest world there is! an' who'd want to go to that old 'snug harbor' an' leave such dear, dear people, i sh'd like to know? not me nor you, cap'n simon beck, an' you know it!" glory sat down and watched her grandsire make the best dinner he could upon cold porridge and sour milk, her face radiant with pleasure that she had been able so well to supply him, and almost forgetting that horrid, all-gone feeling in her own small stomach. never mind, a peanut or so might come her way, if toni salvatore, the little italian with the long name, should happen to be in a good humor and fling them to her, for well he knew that of the stock he trusted to her, not a single goober would be extracted for her personal enjoyment; and this was why he oftener bestowed upon her a tiny bag of the dainties than upon any other of his small sales people. the captain finished his meal and did not distress his darling by admitting that it was still distasteful, then rose, slung his basket of frames over his shoulder, took bo'sn's leading-string, and passed out to his afternoon's peddling and singing. but, though he had kissed her good-bye, glory dashed after him, begging still another and another caress, and feeling the greatest reluctance to letting him go, yet equally unwilling to have him stay. "if he stays here that man will come and maybe get him, whether or no; an' if he goes, the shiny colonel may meet him outside and take him anyhow. if only he'd sing alongside o' my peddlin' route! but he won't. he never will. he hates to hear me holler. he says 'little maids shouldn't do it'; only i have to, to buy my sewin' things with; an'----my, i clean forgot posy jane's jacket! i must hurry an' finish it, then off to peanuttin'," pondered the child, and watched the blind man making his way, so surely and safely, around the corner into the next street, with bo'sn walking proudly ahead, what tail he had pointing skyward and his one good ear pricked forward, intent and listening. the old captain in the faded uniform he still wore, and the faithful little terrier, who guided his sightless master through the dangers of the city streets with almost a human intelligence were to goober glory the two dearest objects in the world, and for them she would do anything and everything. "funny how just them few words that shiny man said has changed our hull feelin's 'bout the 'harbor.' only this mornin', 'fore he come, we was a-plannin' how lovely 'twas; an' now--now i just hate it! i'm glad they's water 'twixt us an' that old staten island, an' i'm glad we haven't ferry money nor nothin'," cried the little girl, aloud, shaking a small fist defiantly southward toward the land of her lost dreams. then, singing to make herself forget how hungry she was, she hurried into the littlest house and--shall it be told?--caught up her grandpa's plate and licked the crumbs from it, then inverted the tin cup and let the few drops still left in it trickle slowly down her throat; and such was glory's dinner. afterward she took out needle and thread and heigho! how the neat stitches fairly flew into place, although to make the small patch fill the big hole, there had to be a little pucker here and there. never mind, a pucker more or less wouldn't trouble happy-go-lucky jane, who believed little glory to be the very cleverest child in the whole world and a perfect marvel of neatness; for, in that particular, she had been well trained. the old sea captain would allow no dirt anywhere, being as well able to discover its presence by his touch as he had once been by sight; and, oddly enough, he was as deft with his needle as with his knife. so, the jacket finished, glory hurried away up the steep stairs to the great bridge-end, received from the friendly flower-seller unstinted praise and a ripe banana and felt her last anxiety vanish. "a hull banana just for myself an' not for pay, dear, dear jane? oh, how good you are! but you listen to me, 'cause i want to tell you somethin'. me an' grandpa ain't never goin' to that old 'snug harbor,' never, nohow. we wouldn't be hired to. so there." "why--why, take-a-stitch! why, be i hearin' or dreamin', i should like to know. not go there, when i thought you could scarce wait for the time to come? what's up?" "a shiny rich man from the avenue where such as him lives and what owns the ship grandpa used to master, an' a lot more like it has so much to do with the 'harbor' 'at he can get anybody in it or out of it just as he pleases. he's been twice to see grandpa an' made him all solemn an' poor-feelin', like he ain't used to bein'. why, he's even been cross, truly cross, if you'll believe it!" "can't, hardly. old cap'n's the jolliest soul ashore, i believe," said jane. "an' if grandpa maybe goes alone, 'cause they don't take little girls, nohow, then that colonel'd have me sent off to one o' them homeses or 'sylums for childern that hasn't got no real pas nor mas. huh, needn't tell me. i've seen 'em, time an' again, walkin' in processions, with sisters of charity in wide white flappin' caps all the time scoldin' them poor little girls for laughin' too loud or gettin' off the line or somethin' like that. an' them with long-tailed frocks an' choky kind of aperns an' big sunbonnets, lookin' right at my basket o' peanuts an' never tastin' a single one. oh, jest catch me! i'll be a newspaper boy, first, but--but, jane dear, do you s'pose anything--any single thing, such as bein' terrible hungry, or not gettin' paid for frames or singin'--could that make my grandpa go and leave me?" for at her own breathless vivid picture of the orphanage children, as she had seen them, the doubt concerning the captain's future actions returned to torment her afresh. "he might be sick, honey, or somethin' like that, but not o' free will. old simon beck'll never forsake the 'light o' his eyes,' as i've heard him call you, time an' again." "don't you fret, child," continued posy jane. "ain't you the 'queen of elbow lane'? ain't all of us, round about, fond of you an' proud of you, same's if you was a real queen, indeed? who'd look after mis' mcginty's seven babies, when she goes a scrubbin' the station floors, if you wasn't here? who'd help the tailor with his job when the fits of coughin' get so bad? 'twas only a spell ago he was showin' me how't you'd sewed in the linin' to a coat he was too sick to finish an' a praisin' the stitches beautiful. what'd the boys do without you to sew their rags up decent an' tend to their hurt fingers an' share your dinner with 'em when--when you have one an' they don't? "an' you so masterful like," went on the flower-seller, "a makin' everybody do as you say, whether or no. if it's a scrap in a tenement, is my glory afraid? not a mite. in she walks, walks she, as bold as bold, an' lays her hand on this one's shoulder an' that one's arm an' makes 'em quit fightin'. many's the job you've saved the police, glory beck, an' that very officer yonder was sayin' only yesterday how't he'd rather have you on his beat than another cop, no matter how smart he might be. he says, says he, 'that little girl can do more to keep the peace in the lane 'an the best man on the force,' says he. 'it's prime wonderful how she manages it.' an' i up an' tells him nothin' wonderful 'bout it at all.' it's 'cause everybody loves you, little glory, an' is ashamed not to be just as good as they know you think they be. "don't you fret, child," jane went on, "elbow folks won't let you go, nor'll the cap'n leave you, and if bad come to worst them asylums are fine. the sisters is all good an' sweet, givin' their lives to them 'at needs. don't you get notions, glory beck, an' judge folks 'fore you know 'em. if them orphans gets scolded now an' then it does 'em good. they ought to be. so'd you ought, if you don't get off to your peddlin'. it's long past your time. here's a nickel for the jacket an' you put it safe by 'fore you start out. may as well let me pin one o' these carnations on you, too. they ain't sellin' so fast an' 'twould look purty on your blue frock. blue an' white an' yeller--frock an' flower an' curly head--they compare right good." ere jane's long gossip was ended, her favorite's fears were wholly banished. with a hug for thanks and farewell, glory was off and away, and the tired eyes of the toilers in the lane brightened as she flitted past their dingy windows, waving a hand to this one and that and smiling upon all. to put her earnings away in the canvas bag and catch up her flat, well-mended basket, took but a minute, and, singing as she went, the busy child sped around to that block where antonio had his stand. that day the trade in goobers had been slack and other of his small employees had found the peanut-man a trifle cross; but, when glory's shining head and merry face came into view, his own face cleared and he gave her a friendly welcome. "a fifty-bagger this time, dear toni! i've got to get a heap of money after this for grandpa!" "alla-right, i fill him," returned the vender; and, having carefully packed the fifty small packets in the shallow basket, he helped her to poise it on her head, as he had long since taught her his own countrywomen did. this was a fine thing for the growing child and gave her a firm erectness not common to young wage-earners. she was very proud of this accomplishment, as was her teacher, antonio, and had more than once outstripped billy buttons in a race, still supporting her burden. "sell every bag, little one, and come back to me. i, antonio salvatore have secret, mystery. that will i tell when basket empty. secret bring us both to riches, indeed!" crafty antonio! well he knew that the little girl's curiosity was great, and had led her into more than one scrape, and that his promise to impart a secret would make her more eager to sell her stock than the small money payment she would earn by doing so. glory clasped her hands and opened her brown eyes more widely, entreating, "now, toni, dear tonio, tell first and sell afterward. please, please." "no, not so, little one. sell first, then i tell. if you sell not----" antonio shrugged his shoulders in a way that meant no sale, no secret. so, already much belated, goober glory--as she had now become--was forced to depart to her task, though she turned about once or twice to wave farewell to her employer and to smile upon him, but she meant to make the greatest haste, for, of all delightful things, a secret was best. chapter iii in elbow lane "pea--nuts! cent-a-b-a-a-g!" this cry shrilled, almost yelled from the sidewalk upon which she was descending from her carriage so startled miss bonnicastle that she tripped and fell. in falling, she landed plump in a basket of the nuts and scattered them broadcast. "look out there! what you doin'?" indignantly demanded glory, while a crowd of street urchins gathered to enjoy a feast. "help me up, little girl; never mind the nuts," begged the lady, extending her gloved hand. "you don't mind 'em, 'course. they ain't yours!" retorted the dismayed child, yet seizing the hand with such vigor that she split the glove and brought its owner to an upright position with more precision than grace. then, paying no further heed to the stranger, she began a boy-to-boy assault upon the purloiners of her wares; and this, in turn, started such an uproar of shrieks and gibes and laughter that poor miss laura's nerves gave way entirely. clutching glory's shoulder, she commanded, "stop it, little girl, stop it, right away! you deafen me." the effect was instant. in astonished silence, the lads ceased struggling and stared at this unknown lady who had dared lay hands on the little "queen of elbow lane." wild and rough though they were, they rarely interfered with the child, and there was more amazement than anger in glory's own gaze as it swept miss bonnicastle from head to foot. the keen scrutiny made the lady a trifle uncomfortable and, realizing that she had done an unusual thing, she hastened to apologize, saying, "beg pardon, little girl, i should not have done that, only the noise was so frightful and----" "ho, that?" interrupted the peanut vender, with fine scorn. "guess you ain't used to elbow boys. that was nothin'. they was only funnin', they was. if they'd been fightin' reg'lar--my, s'pose you'd a fell down again, s'pose." wasting no further time upon the stranger, glory picked up the basket and examined it, her expression becoming very downcast; and, seeing this, the boy who had been fiercest in the scramble stepped closer and asked, "is it clean smashed, glory?" "clean," she answered, sadly. "how much'll he dock yer?" asked another lad, taking the damaged article into his own hands. "pshaw, hadn't no handle, nohow. half the bottom was tore an' patched with a rag. one side's all lopped over, too. say, if he docks yer a cent, he's a mean old dago!" "well, ain't he a dago, billy buttons? an' i put in that patch myself. i sewed it a hour, with strings out the garbage boxes, a hull hour. hi, there! you leave them goobers be!" cried the girl, swooping down upon the few youngsters who had returned to pilfer the scattered nuts and, at once, the two larger boys came to her aid. "we'll help yer, glory. an' me an' nick'll give ye a nickel a-piece, fer new bags, won't we, nick?" comforted billy. but, receiving no reply from his partner in the news trade, he looked up to learn the reason. nick was busily picking up nuts and replacing them in such bags as remained unbroken but he wasn't eager to part with his money. nickels were not plentiful after one's food was paid for, and though lodgings cost nothing, being any odd corner of floor or pavement adjoining the press-rooms whence he obtained his papers, there were other things he craved. it would have been easy to promise but there was a code in elbow lane which enforced the keeping of promises. if one broke one's word one's head was, also, promptly broken. there was danger of this even now and there, because billy's foot came swiftly up to encourage his mate's generosity. however, the kick was dexterously intercepted by glory; master buttons was thrown upon his back, and nick escaped both hurt and promise. with a burst of laughter all three fell to work gathering up the nuts and the small peddler's face was as gay as ever, as she cried: "say, boys, 'tain't nigh so bad. ain't more'n half of 'em busted. i guess the grocer-man'll trust me to that many--he's real good-natured to-day. his jumper's tore, too, so maybe he'll let me work it out." then, perceiving a peculiar action on the part of the too helpful billy, she sternly demanded, "what you doin' there, puttin' in them shells that's been all chewed?" "huh! that's all right. i jams 'em down in the bottom. they don't show an' fills up faster'n th' others. gotter make yer losin's good, hain't yer?" "yes, billy buttons, i have, but i ain't goin' to make 'em cheatin' anybody. what'd grandpa think or say to that? now you can just empty out every single goober shell you've put in an' fill up square. i'll save them shells by theirselves, so's to have 'em ready next time you yourself want to buy off me." the beautiful justice of this promise so impressed the newsboy that he turned a somersault, whereby more peanuts were crushed and he earned a fresh reproof. miss bonnicastle had remained an amused observer of the whole scene, though the actors in it had apparently forgotten her presence. to remind them of this, she inquired, "children, will you please tell me how much your peanuts were worth?" "cent a bag!" promptly returned glory, selecting the best looking packet and holding it toward this possible customer. "all of them, i mean. i wish to pay you for all of them," explained the lady, opening her purse. too surprised to speak for herself, nick answered for the vender, "they was fifty bags, that's fifty cents, an' five fer commish. if it'd been a hunderd, 'twould ha' been a dime. glory, she's the best seller toni salvatore's got, an' he often chucks her in a bag fer herself, besides. fifty-five'd be fair, eh, take-a-stitch?" glancing at glory's sunny face, miss laura did not wonder at the child's success. almost anybody would buy from her for the sake of bringing forth one of those flashing smiles, but the girl had now found her own voice and indignantly cried: "oh, parson, if you ain't the cheat, i never! chargin' money for goobers what's smashed! think you'll get a lot for yourself, don't you? well, you won't an' you needn't look to, so there." thus having rebuked her too zealous champion glory explained to miss bonnicastle that "they couldn't be more'n twenty-five good bags left. they belongs to antonio salvatore, the peanut man. i was goin' to buy needles an' thread with part, needin' needles most, but no matter. better luck next time. do you really want a bag, lady?" again the tiny packet was extended persuasively, the small peddler being most anxious to make a sale although her honesty forbade her accepting payment for goods unsold. but miss laura scarcely saw the paper bag, for she was looking with so much interest upon the child's own face. such a gay, helpful, hopeful small face it was! beneath a tangle of yellow curls, the brown eyes looked forth so trustfully, and the wide mouth parted in almost continual laughter over white and well-kept teeth. then the white carnation pinned to the faded, but clean, blue frock, gave a touch of daintiness. altogether, this seemed a charming little person to be found in such a locality, where, commonly, the people were poor and ill-fed, and looked sad rather than glad. the lady's surprise was expressed in her question, "little girl, where do you live? how came you in this neighborhood?" "why--i belong here, 'course. me an' grandpa live in the littlest house in ne' york. me an' him we live together, all by our two selves, an' we have the nicest times there is. but--but, did you want a bag?" she finished, pleadingly. time was passing and she was too busy to waste more. she wondered, too, why anybody so rich as to ride in a carriage should tarry thus long in elbow lane, though, sometimes, people did get astray and turn into the lane on their way to cross the big bridge. "yes, little glory, as i heard them call you, i meant just what i said. i wish to buy all your stock as well as pay for a new basket. will you please invite your friends to share the feast with you? i'm sorry i caused you so much trouble and here, the little boy suggested fifty-five cents, suppose we make it a dollar? will that be wholly satisfactory?" the face of take-a-stitch was again a study in its perplexity. the temptation to take the proffered money was great, but a sense of justice was even greater. after a pause, she said with complete decision, "it must be this way; you give me the fifty cents for toni salvatore--that'll be hisn. you take the goobers an' give 'em to who you want. i won't take no pay for the basket, 'cause i can mend it again; nor for myself, 'cause i hain't earned it. i hain't hollered scarce any to sell such a lot. that's fair. will i put 'em in your carriage, lady?" "no, no! oh, dear! no, indeed. call your mates and divide among them as you choose. then--i wonder why my man doesn't come back. the coachman can't leave the horses, and the footman seems to have lost himself looking for a number it should be easy to find." the children had gathered about glory who was now beaming with delight at the chance to bestow a treat upon her mates as well as enjoy one herself. indeed, her hunger made her begin to crack the goobers with her strong white teeth and to swallow the kernels, skins and all. but again miss bonnicastle touched her shoulder, though this time most gently, asking: "if this is elbow lane, and you live in or near it, can you show me the way to the house of captain simon beck, an old blind man?" glory gasped and dropped her basket. all the rosy color forsook her face and fear usurped its gaiety. for a time, she stared at the handsome old lady in terror, then demanded, brokenly, "be--you--from--'snug harbor'?" it was now the stranger's turn to stare. wondering why the child had asked such a question and seemed so startled, she answered, "in a way, both yes and no. i am interested in 'snug harbor,' and have come to find an old, blind sea captain whom my brother employed, in order to take him, myself, to that comfortable home. why do you ask?" then glory fled, but she turned once to shake a warning fist toward nick and billy, who instantly understood her silent message and glared defiantly upon the lady who had just given them an unexpected feast. chapter iv beside old trinity "why, what is the matter? why did she run away?" asked the astonished stranger. billy giggled and punched nick who was now apportioning the peanuts among the children he had whistled to his side, but neither lad replied. this vexed miss bonnicastle who had come to the lane in small hope of influencing the old captain to do as her brother had wished him to do and to remove, at once, to the comfortable "harbor" across the bay. she had undertaken the task at her brother's request; and also at his desire, had driven thither in the carriage, in order to carry the blind man away with her, without the difficulty of getting him in and out of street cars and ferry boat. it would greatly simplify matters if he would just step into the vehicle at his own humble door and step out of it again at the entrance to his new home. but the lane had proved even narrower and dirtier than she had expected. she was afraid that having once driven into it the coachman would not be able to drive out again, and the odors of river and market, which the blind seaman found so delightful, made her ill. she had deprived herself of her accustomed afternoon nap; she had sprained her ankle in falling; her footman had been gone much longer than she expected, searching for the captain's house; and though she had been amused by the little scene among the alley children which had been abruptly ended by glory's flight, she was now extremely anxious to finish her errand and be gone. in order to rest her aching ankle, she stepped back into the carriage and from thence called to billy, at the same time holding up to view a quarter dollar. master buttons did not hesitate. he was glad that nick happened to be looking another way and did not see the shining coin which he meant to have for himself, if he could get it without disloyalty to glory. hurrying forward, he pulled off his ragged cap and inquired, "did you want me, ma'am?" "yes, little boy. what is your name?" "billy." "what else? your surname?" continued the questioner. "eh? what? oh--i guess 'buttons,' 'cause onct i was a messenger boy. that's what gimme these clo'es, but i quit." he began to fear there was no money in this job, after all, for the hand which had displayed the silver piece now rested in the lady's lap; and, watching the peanut feasters, he felt himself defrauded of his own rightful share. he stood first upon one bare foot then upon the other, and, with affectation of great haste, pulled a damaged little watch from his blouse and examined it critically. the watch had been found in a refuse heap, and even in its best days had been incapable of keeping time, yet its possession by billy buttons made him the envy of his mates. he did not see the amused smile with which the lady regarded him, and though disappointed by her next question it was, after all, the very one he had anticipated. "billy buttons, will you earn a quarter by showing me the way to where captain beck lives? that is, if you know it." "oh, i knows it all right, but i can't show it." "can't? why not? is it too far?" billy thought he had never heard anybody ask so many questions in so short a time and was on the point of saying so, impertinently, yet found it not worth while. instead, he remarked, "i ain't sayin' if it's fur er near, but i guess i better be goin' down to th' office now an' see if they's a extry out. might be a fire, er murder, er somethin' doin'." with that courtesy which even the gamins of the streets unconsciously acquire from their betters, billy pulled off his cap again and moved away. but he was not to escape so easily. miss laura's hand clasped his soiled sleeve and forth came another question, "billy, is that little girl your sister?" "hey? no such luck fer buttons. she ain't nobody's sister, she ain't. she just belongs to the hull lane, glory does. huh! take-a-stitch my sister? wished she was. she's only cap'n---- shucks!" having so nearly betrayed himself, billy broke from the restraining hand and disappeared. miss bonnicastle sighed and leaned back upon her cushions, feeling that something evil must have befallen her faithful footman to keep him so long away, and almost deciding to give up this apparently hopeless quest. then she discovered that nick had drawn near. possibly, he would act as her guide, even if his mate had refused. she again held up the quarter and beckoned the lad. he responded promptly, his eyes glittering with greed as they fixed upon the coin--not to be removed from it till it was in his own possession, no matter how many questions were asked. these began at once, in a crisp, imperative tone. "little boy, tell me your name." "nick, the parson." "indeed? nick parsons, i suppose. is it?" "no'm. i'm nicky dodd. i got a father. he's dodd. so be i, 'course. but the fellers stuck it onto me 'cause--'cause onct i went to a sunday-school." "don't you go now, nick dodd?" "no, indeedy! ketch me!" laughed the boy, watching the gleam of the money his questioner held so lightly between her gloved fingers. what if she should drop it! if some other child should see it fall and seize it before he could! "was--was you a-wantin' somethin' of me, lady?" "yes, i was. will you show me the way to captain beck's house?" now nick loved glory as well as billy did and he had as fully understood from her warning gesture that he was to give this stranger no information concerning her or her grandfather, but, alas! he also loved money, and he so rarely had it. just then, too, the "biggest show on earth" was up at madison square garden and, if nick had not remembered that enticing circus, he might not have betrayed his friend. yet those wonderful trained animals----ah! "fer that quarter? ye-es, ma'am, i--i--will," stammered the lad. so miss laura again left her carriage and walked the narrow, dirty length of the lane, past the sharp bend which gave it its name of "elbow," far down among the warehouses and wharves crowding the approach to the bridge. as she walked, she still asked questions and found that all the dwellers in the lane were better known by their employments than their real names, how that glory's deftness with a needle had made her "take-a-stitch," and anybody might guess why jane was called "posy" or captain beck had become the "singer." besides, she discovered that this ragged newsboy was as fond and proud of his "lane" as she was of her avenue, and that if she had any pity to bestow, she needn't waste it on him or his mates and that---- "there 'tis! the littlest house in ne' york," concluded nick, proudly pointing forward, seizing the coin she held so carelessly, and vanishing. "well! have i become a scarecrow that all these children desert me so suddenly!" exclaimed miss laura, looking helplessly about and lifting her skirts the higher to avoid the dirty suds which somebody was emptying into the gutter. "ma'am?" asked the woman with the tub, dropping it and with arms akimbo staring amazedly at the stranger. how had such a fine madam come there? "was you a-lookin' for somebody, ma'am?" miss laura turned her sweet old face toward the other, meg-laundress, and answered, "yes, for one, captain simon beck. a boy told me this tiny place was where he lives--though it doesn't seem possible any one could really live in so small a room--and it's empty now, anyway. do you know where he is?" "off a-singin' likely. he mostly is, this time o' day." "oh, i'm so sorry. i have come----" miss bonnicastle checked herself, unwilling to disclose to this rough stranger affairs in which she had no concern. "i was told he had a grandchild living with him. is she anywhere about?" "glory? she's off peddlin' her goobers, i s'pose. i can give 'em any word that's left," said meg, with friendly interest. "glory? is her name glory? is it she i saw with a basket of peanuts, a yellow haired, bright-faced little girl, in a blue frock?" cried the lady, eagerly, and recalling the child's inquiry about "snug harbor" felt that she should have guessed as much even then. "sure. the purtiest little creatur' goin'; or, if not so purty, so good-natured an' lovin'. why, she's all the sunlight we gets in the lane, glory is, an', havin' her, some on us don't 'pear to need no more. makes all on us do her say-so but always fer our own betterment. in an' out, up an' down, lendin' a hand or settin' a stitch or tendin' a baby, all in the day's work, an' queenin' it over the hull lot, that's our 'goober glory,' bless her! and evil to anybody would harm the child, say i! though who'd do ill to her? is't a bit of word you'd be after leavin', ma'am?" said meg, with both kindness and curiosity. "thank you. if you see either of them, will you say that miss bonnicastle, colonel bonnicastle's sister, will be here again in the morning, unless it storms, upon important business? ask them to wait here for me, please. i should not like to make a second useless trip. good-afternoon." as the gentlewoman turned and made her way back along the alley toward her distant carriage, which could come no nearer to her because the lane was so narrow, meg watched and admired her, reflecting with some pride: "she's the real stuff, that old lady is. treated me polite 's if i was the same sort she is. i wonder what's doin' 'twixt her an' the becks? well, i'll find out afore i sleep, or my name ain't meg-laundress, an' i say it. guess jane'll open her eyes when i up an' tells her how one them grand folks she sees crossin' the bridge so constant has got astray in the lane an' come a visitin', actilly a visitin', one our own folks. but then, i always knowed, we elbowers was a touch above some, an' now she'll know it, too. "i do wish the cap'n would come in," continued meg. "but 'twill be a long spell yet afore he does. an', my land! i must sure remind him to put on his other shirt in the mornin'. he don't never get no sile on him, the cap'n don't, yet when grand carriage folks comes a callin', it's a time for the best or nothin'." by a roundabout way, glory had hurried, breathlessly, to her tiny home, fearing that by some mischance grandpa might have returned to it, and that this fresh advocate of the "harbor" would find him there. she was such a pretty old lady, she had such a different manner from that of the lane women, she might persuade the gallant old captain to accompany her to the asylum, whether or no. if he were at home, glory meant to coax him elsewhere; or, if he would not go, then she would remain and use her own influence against that of this dangerous stranger. one glance showed her that all was yet safe. the tiny room was empty and neither "grandpa!" nor "bo'sn!" answered to her call. "i hain't got no goobers to sell now an' them boys won't show her a step of the way an' she couldn't get here so quick all herself without bein' showed so i may as well rest a minute," said glory to herself, and sat down on the narrow threshold to get cool and to decide upon what she should do. but she could not sit still. a terrible feeling that these strangers were determined to separate her from her grandfather made her too restless. it was natural, she thought, that they should wish to do him a kindness, such as providing him with a fine home for life. he was a grown-up man and a very clever one, while she was only a little girl, of no account whatever. they didn't care about her, 'course, but him---- "i must go find him! i must keep him away, clear, clear away from the lane till it gets as dark as dark. then we can come home an' sleep. such as them don't come here o' nights," cried glory, springing up. "an' i'm glad grandpa is blind. if he went right close by them two he couldn't see 'em, an' she, she, anyway, don't know him. i wonder where best to look first. i s'pose broadway, 'cause that's where he gets the most money. they's such a heap of folks on that wide street an' it's so nice to look at." having decided her route, glory was off and away. she dared not think about toni salvatore and his anger. she did not see how she would ever be able to repay him for his loss and she could remember nothing at all about the money miss bonnicastle had offered her. if billy or nick had taken it, they would give it to her, of course; but if not--well, that was a small matter compared to the spiriting away of her grandfather and she must find him and hold him fast. "grandpa don't go above the city hall, 'cause bo'sn don't know the way so well. up fur's there an' down to trinity; that's the 'tack he sails' an' there i'll seek him. i wish one them boys was here to help me look, though if he was a-singin' i shouldn't need nobody." so thinking and peering anxiously into the midst of every crowd and listening with keen intentness, the little girl threaded her way to the northern limit of the captain's accustomed "beat." but there was no sign nor sound of him upon the eastern side of the thoroughfare, and, crossing to the more crowded western side, she crept southward, step by step, scanning every face she passed and looking into every doorway, for in such places the blind singer sometimes took his station, to avoid the jostling of the passers-by. "maybe i'll have to go 'way down to the battery, 'cause he does, often. though 'seems he couldn't hardly got there yet." now glory was but a little girl, and, in watching the shifting scenes of the busy street, she soon forgot her first anxiety and became absorbed in what was around her. and when she had walked as far southward as old trinity, there were the lovely chimes ringing and, as always, a mighty crowd had paused to listen to them. glory loved the chimes, and so did grandpa; and it was their habit on every festival when they were to be rung to come and hear them. always the child was so moved by these exquisite peals that when they ceased she felt as if she had been in another world, and it was so now. to hear every tone better, she had clasped her hands and closed her eyes and uplifted her rapt face; and so standing upon the very curb, she was rudely roused by a commotion in the crowd about her. there was the tramping of horses' feet, the shouts of the police, the "ahs!" and "ohs!" of pity which betokened some accident. "out the way, child! you'll be crushed in this jam! keep back there, people! keep back!" glory made herself as small as she could and shrank aside. then curiosity sent her forward again to see and listen. "an old man!" "looks as if he were blind!" "back those horses! make way--the ambulance--make way!" "all over with that poor fellow! a pity, a pity!" these exclamations of the onlookers and the orders of the policemen mingled in one harsh clamor, yet leaving distinct upon glory's hearing the words, "an old blind man." "oh, how sorry grandpa will be to know that!" thought the child, and, with eagerness to learn every detail of the sad affair, stooped and wormed her way beneath elbows and between legs till she had come to the very roadbed down which an ambulance was dashing at highest speed, its clanging bell warning everything from its path. right before the curb where she stood it paused, uniformed men sprang to the pavement and, with haste that was still reverent and tender, laid the injured man upon the stretcher; then off and away again, and the little girl had caught but the faintest glimpse of a gray head and faded blue garments, yet thought: "might be another old captain, it might. won't grandpa be sorry--if i tell him. maybe i shan't, though i must hurry up an' find him, 'cause seein' that makes me feel dreadful lonesome, 'seems if. oh! i do wish nobody ever need get hurted or terrible poor, or anything not nice! and--oh, oh, there's that very lady i run away from, what come to the lane! drivin' down in her very carriage and if----she mustn't see me! she must not--'less she's got him in there with her a'ready! what if!" miss bonnicastle's laudau was, indeed, being carefully driven through the jam of wagons which had stopped to give the ambulance room and she was anxiously watching the inch-by-inch progress of her own conveyance. yet with an expression of far keener anxiety, goober glory recklessly darted into the very tangle of wheels and animals, crying aloud: "she's goin' straight down toward that 'harbor' ferry! like's not she's heard him singin' somewhere an' coaxed him to get in there with her. he might be th' other side--where i can't see--an' i must find out--i must! for----_what if!_" she reached the carriage steps, sprang upon them, by one glance satisfying herself that the lady was alone, turned to retreat, but felt herself falling. chapter v a desolate awakening "you little dunce! don't you know better than do that?" an indignant shake accompanied these words, with which the big policeman set glory down upon the sidewalk after having rescued her from imminent death. in the instant of her slipping from the carriage step, the child had realized her own peril and would most certainly have been trampled under the crowding, iron-shod hoofs, had not the officer been on the very spot, trying to prevent accidents, and to keep clear from each other the two lines of vehicles, one moving north, the other south. glory was so rejoiced to find herself free and unhurt that she minded neither the shaking nor the term "dunce," but instantly caught the rescuer's hand and kissed it rapturously, crying, "oh, thank you, thank you! grandpa would have felt so bad if i'd been hurt like that poor blind man. oh, i wish i could do somethin' for you, you dear, splendid p'liceman!" "well, you can. you can remember that a young one's place is at home, not in the middle of the street. there, that will do. be off with you and never cut up such a caper again, long's you live. it would have been 'all day' with you, if i hadn't been just where i was, and two accidents within five minutes is more'n i bargain for. be off!" releasing his hand, he returned to his task among the wagons but carried with him a pleasant memory of a smile that was so grateful and so gay; while glory, subdued by what she had gone through, slowly resumed her search for her missing grandfather. away down to the south ferry she paced, looking and listening everywhere. then back again on the other side of the long street till she had reached the point nearest to elbow lane and still no sign of a blue-coated old man or a little dog with a stub of a tail and but one good ear. "well, it's nigh night now, an' he'll be comin' home. most the folks what gives him pennies or buys his frames has left broadway so i might as well go myself. come to think, i guess i better not tell grandpa 'bout that poor hurted man. might make him 'fraid to go round himself with nobody 'cept bo'sn to take care of him an' him a dog. an' oh, dear! whatever shall i do for sewin' things, now i didn't get no goober money? well, anyway, there's that nickel o' jane's will buy a chop for his supper an' i best hurry get it ready. he's always so terrible hungry when he comes off his 'beat.' an' me--why, i b'lieve i hain't eat a thing to-day, save my breakfast porridge an' jane's banana, an' two er three goobers. never mind, likely grandpa'll bring in somethin' an' i can eat to-morrow." back to the littlest house she ran, singing to forget her appetite, and whisked out the key of the tiny door from its hiding-place beneath the worn threshold, yet wondering a little that grandpa should not already have arrived. "never mind, i'll have everything done 'fore. then when he does get here all he'll have to do'll be to eat an' go to bed," she said to herself. glory was such a little chatterbox that when she had no other listener she made one of herself. the corner-grocer was just taking his own supper of bread and herrings on the rear end of his small counter when she entered, demanding, "the very best an' biggest chop you've got for a nickel, mister grocer; or if you could make it a four-center an' leave me a cent's worth o' bread to go along it, 't would be tastier for grandpa." "sure enough, queeny, sure enough. 'pears like i brought myself fortune when i give you that pint o' milk. i've had a reg'lar string o' customers sence, i have. an' here, what you lookin' so sharp at that one chop for? didn't you know i was goin' to make it two, an' loaf accordin'?" glory swallowed fast. this was almost too tempting for resistance, but she had been trained to a horror of debt and had resolved upon that slight one, earlier in the day, only because she could not see her grandfather distressed. her own distress----huh! that was an indifferent matter. the corner groceries of the poor are also their meat markets, bakeries, and dairies, and there was so much in the crowded little shop that was alluring that the child forced herself to look diligently out of the door into the alley lest she should be untrue to her training. in a brief time the shopman called, "all ready, take-a-stitch! here's your parcel." glory faced about and gasped. that was such a very big parcel toward which he pointed that she felt he had made a mistake and so reminded him, "guess that ain't mine, that ain't. one chop an' a small roll 'twas. that must be mis' dodd's, 'cause she's got nine mouths to feed, savin' nick's 'at he feeds himself." "not so, neighbor. it's yourn. the hull o' it. they's only a loaf, a trifle stale--one them three-centers, kind of mouldy on the corners where't can be cut off--an' two the finest chops you ever set your little white teeth into. they're all yourn." the grocer enjoyed doing this kindness as heartily as she enjoyed receiving it, although he was so thrifty that he made his own meal from equally stale bread and some unsalable dried fish. but, after a momentary rapture at the prospect of such delicious food, glory's too active conscience interfered, making her say, with a regret almost beyond expression, "i mustn't, i mustn't. grandpa wouldn't like it, 'cause he says 'always pay's you go or else don't go,' an' that nickel's all i've got." "no, 'tisn't. not by a reckonin'. you've got the nimblest pair o' hands i know an' i've got the shabbiest coat. i'm fair ashamed to wear it to market, yet i ain't a man 'shamed of trifles. if you'll put them hands of yourn and that coat o' mine together, i'd be like to credit you a quarter, an' you find the patches." "a quarter! a hull, endurin' quarter of a dollar! you darlin' old grocer-man. 'course i will, only i--i'm nigh out o' thread, but i've got a power o' patches. i've picked 'em out the ash-boxes an' washed 'em beautiful. an' they're hung right on our own ceiling in the cutest little bundle ever was--an'--i love you, i love you; give me the coat, quick, right now, so's i can run an' patch it, an' you see if i don't do the best job ever!" "out of thread, be you? well, here, take this fine spool o' black linen an' a needle to fit. a workman has to have his tools, don't he? i couldn't keep store if i didn't have things to sell, could i? now, be off with you, an' my good word to the cap'n." there wasn't a happier child in all the great city than little take-a-stitch as she fairly flew homeward to prepare the most delicious supper there had been in the littlest house for many a day. down came the tiny gas stove from its shelf, out popped a small frying pan from some hidden cubby and into it went a dash of salt and the two big chops. oh, how delightful was their odor, and how glory's mouth did water at thought of tasting! but that was not to be till grandpa came. she hoped that would be at once, before they cooled; for the burning of gas, their only fuel, was managed with strictest economy. it would seem a wasteful sin to light the stove again to reheat the chops, as she would have to do if the captain was not on hand soon. alas! they were cooked to the utmost limit of that brown crispness which the seaman liked, and poor glory had turned faint at the delayed enjoyment of her own supper, when she felt she must turn out the blaze or ruin all. covering the pan to keep its contents hot as long as might be, she sat down on the threshold to wait; and, presently, was asleep. it had grown quite dark before the touch of a cold wet nose upon the palm of her hand aroused her, and there was bo'sn, rubbing his side against her knee and uttering a dismal sort of sound that was neither bark nor howl, but a cross between both and full of painful meaning. "bo'sn! you? then grandpa--oh, grandpa, darlin', darlin', why didn't you wake me? i've got the nicest supper----smell?" with that she sprang up and darted within, over the few feet of space there was, but nobody was in sight; then out again, to call the captain from some spot where he had doubtless paused to exchange a bit of neighborly gossip. to him the night was the same as the day, the child remembered, and though it wasn't often he overstayed his regular hour, or forgot his meal-time, he might have done so now. oh, yes, he might easily have done so, she assured herself. but why should bo'sn forsake his master and come home alone? he had never done that before, never. and why, oh, why, did he make that strange wailing noise? he frightened her and must stop it. "quiet, boy, quiet!" she ordered, clasping the animal's head so that he was forced to look up into her face. "quiet, and tell me--where is grandpa? where did you leave grandpa?" of course, he could not answer, save by ceasing to whine and by gazing at her with his loving brown eyes as if they must tell for him that which he had seen. then, seized by an overwhelming anxiety, which she would not permit herself to put into a definite fear, she shook the dog impatiently and started down the lane. it was full of shadows now, which the one gas street lamp deepened rather than dispersed, and she did not see a woman approaching until she had run against her. then she looked up and exclaimed, "oh, posy jane! you just gettin' home? have you seen my grandpa?" "the cap'n? bless you, child, how should i, seein' he don't sing on the bridge. ain't he come in yet?" "no, and oh, jane, dear jane, i'm afraid somethin' 's happened to him. he never, never stayed away so late before an' bo'sn came alone. what s'pose?" the flower-seller had slipped an arm about the child's shoulders and felt them trembling, and though an instant alarm had filled her own heart, she made light of the matter to give her favorite comfort. "what do i s'pose? well, then, i s'pose he's stayin' away lest them rich folks what runs the 'harbor' comes again an' catches him unbeknownst. don't you go fret, honey. had your supper?" "no, jane, an' it's such a splendid one. that lovely grocer man----" "ugh!" interrupted the woman, with a derisive shrug of her shoulders. "you're the beatin'est child for seein' handsomeness where 'tain't." "oh, i 'member you don't like him much, 'cause onct he give short measure o' flour, or somethin', but he is good an' i didn't mean purty, an' just listen!" jane did listen intently to the story of the grocer's unusual generosity, and she hearkened, also, for the sound of a familiar, hesitating footstep and the thump of a heavy cane, such as would reveal the captain's approach long before he might be seen, but the lane was very silent. it was later than glory suspected and almost all the toilers were in their beds. it was late, even for the flower-seller, who had been up-town to visit an ailing friend and had tarried there for supper. jane had always felt it dangerous for a blind man, like the old seaman, to go about the city, attended only by a dog, but she knew, too, that necessity has no choice. the becks must live and only by their united industry had they been able to keep even their tiny roof over their heads thus far. if harm had come to him--what would become of glory? well, time enough to think of that when the harm had really happened. the present fact was that the little girl was famishing with hunger yet had a fine supper awaiting her. she must be made to eat it without further delay. "come, deary, we'll step along an' you eat your own chop, savin' hisn till he sees fit to come get it. a man 'at has sailed the ocean hitherty-yender, like cap'n simon beck has, ain't likely to get lost in the town where he was born an' raised. reckon some them other old crony cap'ns o' hisn has met an' invited him to eat along o' them. that cap'n gray, maybe, or somebody. first you know, we'll hear him stumpin' down the lane, singin' 'a life on the ocean wa-a-ave,' fit to rouse the entire neighborhood. you eat your supper an' go to bed, where children ought to be long 'fore this time." posy jane's tone was so confident and cheerful that glory forgot her anxiety and remembered only that chop which was awaiting her. the pair hurried back to the littlest house which the flower-seller seemed entirely to fill with her big person, but she managed to get about sufficiently to relight the little stove, place glory in her own farthest corner, and afterward watch the child enjoy her greatly needed food. when glory had finished, she grew still more happy, for physical comfort was added to that of her friend's words; nor did jane's kindness stop there. she herself carefully covered the pan with the captain's portion in it, and bade glory undress and climb into her little hammock that swung from the side of the room opposite the seaman's. this she also let down and put into it the pillow and blanket. "so he can go right straight to sleep himself without botherin' you, honey. come, bo'sn, you've polished that bone till it shines an' you quit. lie right down on the door-sill, doggie, an' watch 'at nobody takes a thing out the place, though i don't know who would, that belongs to the lane, sure enough. but a stranger might happen by an' see somethin' temptin' 'mongst the cap'n's belongings. an' so good-night to you, little take-a-stitch, an' pleasant dreams." then posy jane, having done all she could for the child she loved betook herself to her room in meg-laundress's small tenement, though she would gladly have watched in the littlest house for the return of its master, a return which she continually felt was more and more doubtful. and glory slept peacefully the whole night through. nor did bo'sn's own uneasy slumbers disturb her once. not till it was broad daylight and much later than her accustomed hour for waking, did she open her eyes and glance across to that other hammock where should have rested a dear gray head. it was still empty, and the fact banished all her drowsiness. with a bound she was on her feet and at the door, looking out, all up and down the lane. alas! he was nowhere in sight and, turning back into the tiny room, she saw his supper still untasted in the pan where jane had left it. then with a terrible conviction, which turned her faint, she dropped down on the floor beside bo'sn, who was dolefully whining again, and hugged him to her breast, crying bitterly, "they have got him! they have got him! he'll never come again!" chapter vi the beginning of the search "o bo'sn, bo'sn! where did you leave him? you never left him before--never, not once! oh, if you could only talk!" cried poor glory, at last lifting her head and releasing the dog whom she had hugged till he choked. his brown eyes looked back into her own pleading ones as if he, too, longed for the gift of speech and he licked her cheek as if he would comfort her. then he threw back his own head, howled dismally, and dejectedly curled himself down beneath the captain's hammock. little take-a-stitch pondered a moment what she had best do in order to find her grandfather and, having decided, made haste to dress. the cold water from the spigot in the corner refreshed her and seemed to clear her thoughts, but she did not stop to eat anything, though she offered a crust of the dry loaf to the dog. he, also, refused the food and the little girl understood why. patting him on the head she exclaimed: "we both of us can't eat till he comes, can we, bo'sn dear? well, smart doggie, put on your sharpest smeller an' help to track him whichever way he went. you smell an' i'll look, an' 'twixt us we'll hunt him quick's-a-wink. goin' to find grandpa, bo'sn beck! come along an' find grandpa!" up sprang the terrier, all his dejection gone, and leaped and barked as joyfully as if he fully understood what she had said. then, waiting just long enough to lock the tiny door and hide the key in its accustomed place, so that if the captain came home before she did he could let himself in, she started down the lane, running at highest speed with bo'sn keeping pace. so running, she passed the basement window where meg-laundress was rubbing away at her tub full of clothes and tossed that good woman a merry kiss. "guess the old cap'n's back, 'less glory never 'd look that gay," thought meg, and promptly reported her thought to posy jane who was just setting out for her day's business. she was already over-late and was glad to accept meg's statement as fact and thus save the time it would have taken to visit the littlest house and learn there how matters really stood. it thus happened that neither of glory's best friends knew the truth of the case nor that the child had set off on a hopeless quest, without food or money or anything save her own strong love and will to help her. "but we're goin' to find grandpa, bo'sn, an' we don't mind a thing else. don't take so very long to get to that old 'harbor,' an' maybe he might have a bite o' somethin' saved up 'at he could give us, though we don't neither of us want to eat 'fore we get him back, do we, doggie?" cried the child as they sped along and trying not to notice that empty feeling in her stomach. but they had gone no further than the end of the lane before they collided with nick, the parson, just entering it. he had finished his morning's sale of papers and was feeling hungry for his own breakfast and, as take-a-stitch ran against him, demanded rather angrily, "what you mean, goober glory, knockin' a feller down that way?" "o nick! have you seen grandpa?" "seen the cap'n? how should i? ain't this his time o' workin' on his frames?" glory swiftly told her trouble and nick's face clouded in sympathy. finally he suggested, "they was a old blind feller got run over on broadway yest'day. likely 'twas him an' that's why. 'twas in the paper all right, 'cause i heard a man say how't somethin' must be done to stop such accidentses. didn't hear no name but, 'course, 'twas the cap'n. posy jane always thought he'd get killed, runnin' round loose, like he did, without nobody but a dog takin' care." glory had clutched nick's shoulder and was now shaking him with what little strength seemed left to her after hearing his dreadful words. as soon as she could recover from that queer feeling in her throat, and was able to speak, she indignantly denied the possibility of this terrible thing being true. "'tis no such thing, nick dodd, an' you know it! wasn't i there, right alongside, when't happened? wasn't i a-listenin' to them very chimes a-ringin' what he listens to every time he gets a chanst? don't you s'pose i'd know my own grandpa when i saw him? huh!" "_did_--you see him, glory beck? how'd come them amberlance fellers let a kid like you get nigh enough to see a thing? hey?" glory gasped as the remembrance came that she had not really seen the injured man but that the slight glimpse of his clothing and his white hair had been, indeed, very like her grandfather's. still, this awful thing could not, should not be true! better far that dreaded place, snug harbor, where, at least, he would be alive and well cared for. "oh, i got nigh. i got nigh enough to get knocked down my own self, an' be picked up by one them 'finest' p'licemens, what marches on broadway. he shook me fit to beat an' set me on the sidewalk an' scolded me hard, but i didn't care, 'cause i was so glad to keep alive an' not be tooken off to a hospital, like that old man was. huh! you needn't go thinkin' nor sayin' that was grandpa simon beck, 'cause i know better. i shan't have it that 'twas, so there." glory's argument but half-convinced herself and only strengthened nick's opinion. however, his own mind was troubled. he felt very guilty for having guided miss bonnicastle to the littlest house, and the quarter-dollar earned by that treacherous deed seemed to burn through his pocket into his very flesh. besides that coin, he had others in store, having had a successful morning, and the feeling of his affluence added to another feeling slowly awakening within him. this struggling emotion may have been generosity and it may have been remorse. whatever it was, it prompted him to say, "look-a-here, glory, i'll help ye. i've got to go get somethin' t'eat, first off. then, listen, you hain't got no money, have ye?" "what o' that? i've got eyes, an' i've got bo'sn. i'm goin' to the ferry an' i'm goin' tell the ferry man just how 'tis. that i must--i must be let go over to that staten island on that boat, whether or no. me an' a dog won't take up much room, an', if he won't let me, i'll wait round till i get some sort o' job an' earn the money to pay. you needn't think, nick parson, that a teeny thing like a few centses will keep me from grandpa. i'd go to toni an' ask him only--only--i don't know a thing what come o' that fifty-five cents the lady paid for the goobers, an' so i s'pose he'd be mad an' wouldn't trust me. besides, grandpa always said to 'pay as you go,' an' now i seem--i seem--to want to do what he told more'n ever. o nick dodd! what if--what if--he shouldn't never--never come--no--more!" poor glory's courage gave way at last and, without ado, she flung herself upon nick as she had done upon bo'sn and clung to him as chokingly. "now, this is a purty fix, now ain't it?" thought the victim of her embrace, casting a wary eye up and down the lane, lest any mate should see and gibe at him, and call him a "softy." besides, for glory to become sentimental--if this was sentiment--was as novel as for him to be generous. so, to relieve the situation, the newsboy put these two new things together and wrenched himself free, saying, "quit it, glory beck! i got to breathe same's another, ain't i? you look a-here. see that cash? well, i'll tell ye, i'll go fetch my grub----had any yerself, glory beck?" the question was spoken like an accusation and glory resented it, answering quickly, "i don't know as that's anythin' to you, nick parson!" "'course. but i'll fetch enough fer two an' i'll tell ye, i'll go to that 'snug harbor' my own self, a payin' my own way, i will. i can afford it an' you can't. if so be the cap'n 's there, i'll fetch him out lickety-cut. if he ain't, why then, 'twas him was killed. see?" "no, i don't see. maybe they wouldn't let a boy in, anyhow." "pooh! they're sure to. ain't i on the papers? don't newsboys go anywhere they want, same's other press folks? hey?" glory admitted that they did. she had often seen them jumping on and off of street cars at the risk of their lives and without hindrance from the officials. also, the lad's offer to share his breakfast with her was too tempting to be declined. as he hurried away toward his poor home, she sat down on the threshold of the warehouse before which they had talked to wait, calling after him, "don't forget a bite for bo'sn, nick!" "all right!" he returned, and disappeared within his own cellar doorway. already glory's heart was happier. she would not allow herself to think it possible that her grandfather was hurt, and nick's willingness to help was a comfort. maybe he would even take her with him, though she doubted it. however, she put the question to him as he reappeared with some old scraps in a torn newspaper, but while they were enjoying these as best they could and sharing the food with bo'sn, nick unfolded a better plan. "ye see, take-a-stitch, it's this way--no use wastin' eight cents on a old ferry when four'll do. you look all over broadway again. then, if he ain't anywheres 'round there, go straight to them other crony captains o' hisn an' see. bein's he can't tell difference 'twixt night an' day, how'd he know when to come back to the lane, anyway?" "he always come 'fore," answered glory, sorrowfully. it was a new thing for nick to take the lead in anything which concerned the little girl, who was the recognized leader of all the lane children, and it made him both proud and more generous. yielding to a wild impulse that now seized him, with a gesture of patronage, he drew from his pocket miss bonnicastle's quarter and dropped it in glory's lap. she stared at it, then almost gasped the question, "what--what's it for, nick dodd?" "fer--you!" cried the boy. he might have added that it was "conscience money," and that the unpleasant burning in his pocket had entirely ceased the instant he had rid himself of the ill-gotten coin, because at the time he had guided miss laura to the littlest house he had not tarried to learn how fruitless her visit was; else he might have felt less like a traitor. as it was, he tossed his head and answered loftily, "don't do fer girls to go trav'lin' round 'ithout cash. you ain't workin' to-day an'--an' ye may need it. newspaper men--well, we can scrape along 'most anyhow. hello, here's buttons!" a cheery whistle announced the arrival of the third member of this intimate trio, and presently billy came in sight around the elbow, his freckled face as gay as the morning despite the facts that he still carried some unsold papers under his arm and that he had just emerged from a street fight, rather the worse for that event. glory's fastidiousness was shocked, and, forgetting her own trouble in disgust at his carelessness, she exclaimed, "you bad billy buttons! there you've gone lost two more your buttons what i sewed with my strongest thread this very last day ever was! an' your jacket----what you been doin' with yourself, billy buttons?" the newcomer seated himself between his friends, though in so doing he crowded nick from the door-sill to the sidewalk, and composedly helped himself to what was left of their scanty breakfast. better than nothing he found it and answered, as he ate, glory's repeated inquiry, "what doin'? why, scrappin', 'course. say, parson, you hear me? they's a new feller come on our beat an' you chuck him, soon's ye see him. i jest punched him to beat, but owe him 'nother, 'long o' this tear. sew it, take-a-stitch?" "can't, billy. i've got to hunt grandpa. oh, billy, billy, he hain't never come home!" the newsboy paused in the munching of a crust and whistled, but this time in dismay rather than good cheer. then he demanded, "what ye givin' us?" the others explained, both talking at once, though master buttons soon silenced his partner in trade that he might better hear the girl's own story. when she had finished, and now with a fresh burst of tears, he whistled again; then ordered: "quit snivelin', glory beck! a man ain't dead till he dies, is he? more'n likely 'twas the old cap'n got hurt but that ain't nothin'. why, them hospitals is all chuck full o' smash-up folks, an' it's jest meat fer them doctor-fellers to mend 'em again. he ain't dead, an' don't you believe it; but dead or alive we'll find him 'fore dark. "fer onct," continued billy, "the parson's showed some sense. he might's well do the 'harbor,' 'cause that's only one place an' he can't blunder much--seems if. you take the streets, same's he said; and i--if you'll put a needle an' thread through me, bime-by, after he's found, i'll go find him an' call it square. i'll begin to the lowest down end the city hospitals they is an' i'll interview 'em, one by one, clean up to the bronx. if cap'n beck is in any one, i'll fetch him out, judge, an' don't you forget it." this division of the search pleased glory and, springing up, the trio separated at once, nor did they meet again till nightfall. alas! when reassembled then in the littlest house none had good news to tell. "they ain't been no new old cap'ns tooken in to that 'harbor' this hull week. th' sailor what keeps the gate said so an' was real decent. said he'd heard o' cap'n beck, he had, an' if he'd a-come he'd a-knowed. told me better call ag'in, might get there yet, an' i'll go," reported nick, putting a cheerful tone into his words for pity of glory's downcast face. "didn't do a quarter th' hospitals they is, but he ain't in none them i have," said billy. "but i'll tell ye. they's a man on our force reports all the accidentses an' i'll see him to-night, when i go for my papers, an' get him to hunt, too. he's worth while an' me an' him's sort o' pardners. i give him p'ints an' he 'lows i'll be a reporter myself, when i'm bigger. an' say, i sold a pape' to a man couldn't stop fer change an' i've got three cream-puffs in this bag. that's fer our suppers, an' me an' nick's goin' to stay right here all night an' take care of ye, take-a-stitch, an' leave the door open, so cap'n can come straight in if he happens 'long 'fore mornin'." "an' i've been to every single place he ever sung at, every single. an' to all the captains, an'--an'--every, everywhere! an' he ain't! but i will find him. i will!" cried glory, resolutely. "an' you're dear, dear darlin' boys to help me so, an' i love you, i love you!" "all right, but needn't bother to hug me!" protested buttons. "ner me!" cried nick, retreating as far from the grateful child as the limited space would permit. "an' now choose corners. this is mine." down he dropped in the inner point of the triangular floor and almost before his head had made itself a pillow of his arm he was sound asleep. billy flung himself beside his mate and, also, slept; and though glory intended to keep her eyes wide open "till grandpa comes," she placed herself near them and rested her own tired head on billy's shoulder, and, presently, followed their example. half an hour later, the lane policeman sauntered by, glanced into the dim interior, and saw the group of indistinct forms huddled together in dreamless slumber on their bed of bare boards. then he softly closed the door upon them, murmuring in pity, "poor little chummies! life's goin' to be as hard for 'em as the floor they lie on. but the lane'd seem darker 'n 'tis if they wasn't in it." chapter vii a guardian angel city newsboys are early astir, and the shadows had but begun to lift themselves from elbow lane when billy punched nick in the ribs to rouse him and, with finger on lip, pointed to glory still asleep. the very poor pity the poor, and with a chivalric kindness which would have done credit to better reared lads, these two waifs of the streets stole softly from the littlest house without waking its small mistress. when they were out upon the sidewalk, billy shook his head and whispered, as if even there he might disturb her, "poor little kid! he ain't never comin' back, sure! an' me an' you 's got the job o' lookin' after her, same 's he'd a liked. he was good to me, the cap'n was. an' i'm thinkin' meg-laundress's 'll be the best place to stow her. hey?" "meg can't. she's chuck full. they ain't a corner o' her room but what's slep' in, an' you know it," responded nick, hitching his buttonless knickers a trifle higher beneath the string-waistband which kept them in place. "where then, pard?" nick hesitated. on the day before he had developed a generosity which had surprised himself quite as much as it had glory; but, if allowed room, generosity is a plant of rapid growth, so that now the once niggardly boy was ready with a plan that was even more astonishing. his thin face flushed and he pretended to pick a sliver from his foot as he answered: "let's me an' you hire the littles' house an' pay the rent ourselves an' goober glory do our cookin' an' sewin' an'--an'--quit yer foolin', billy buttons! this ain't no make-b'lieve, this ain't. i plumb mean it." for, the instant of its suggestion, this wild scheme had sent the partner of nick dodd's fortunes to turning somersaults which would have befitted an acrobat. to put his head where his feet should be was billy's only way of relieving his emotion and he brought his gymnastics to an end, some distance down the lane, by assuming a military uprightness and bowing profoundly to nick, who joined him. "that's the ticket, pard! we'll do it! we'll do it! wish to goodness i'd been the one to hatch it out, but does ye proud, parson. an' how 'bout it? s'pose we two could sleep in his hammick?" asked billy, his eagerness already outstripping nick's, as his liberality had always been greater. nick shook his head. launched upon a course of reckless extravagance, he now hesitated at nothing. "nope. nothin'. what's the matter buyin' 'nother? an', say, we can sling 'em one top th' other, like them berths in a sleepin' car, an' take turns which 'd be upper, which lower. 'fore winter we'd get in a blanket an' piller, though wouldn't care much for 'em, in such a snug place, an'----" "an'," interrupted billy, "we'd go snooks on the grub. glory'd do her part chuckin' in, 'sides the housekeep. my! 'twould be a home, a reg'lar home, 'at i hain't never had! cracky! i--i 'most hope he never does come now, though fer take-a-stitch--maybe----" "he won't never. don't ye scare on it, never. say! let's hurry through our sellin' an' get it fixed. an' we're late, a'ready." "all right!" and with visions of a delightful importance, that made them feel as if they were grown men, the little fellows scampered away through the morning twilight to obtain their day's supply of newspapers, still damp from the press, for they had long ago learned that 'tis the early newsboy who catches the nickels and of these they must now have many. neither realized that a property owner, even of a "littlest house," would not be apt to trust it to a pair of youngsters like themselves, though to their credit it was that had their dream become reality, they would have done their utmost to follow the example of the former tenant to "pay as you go." they had long been shrilling themselves hoarse with their cries of "sun' 'eral'jour'wor--rul'! pape's!" before glory woke and found herself alone. by the light in the room and the hunger she felt, she knew that it must again be very late; and a feeling that her grandfather would be displeased with her indolence sent her to her feet with such speed that she awoke bo'sn, till then slumbering soundly. bo'sn was no longer young and, stiff from an all day's tramp--for he had faithfully followed the little girl's tireless search of yesterday--he rose slowly and stretched himself painfully, with a growl at his own aching joints. then he sniffed suspiciously at the floor where the newsboys had slept and, nosing his master's hammock, howled dismally. having slept without undressing, glory's toilet was soon made and though a dash of cold water banished drowsiness from her eyes it made them see more clearly how empty and desolate the "littlest house" had now become, so desolate that she could not stay in it and running to meg-laundress's crowded apartment, she burst in, demanding, "has he come? has anybody in the lane seen my grandpa?" meg desisted from spanking the "baddest o' them twins" and set the small miscreant upon the sudsy floor before she answered, cheerfully, "not yet, honey. 'tain't scurce time to be lookin' fer him, i reckon. when them old sailors gets swappin' yarns needn't----" "but, meg dear, he ain't at any one of their houses. i've been to the hull lot--two er three times to each one, a-yest'day--an' he wasn't. an' they think--i dastn't think what they think! an' i thought maybe--he always liked you, meg-laundress, an' said you done his shirts to beat. oh, meg, meg, what shall i do? whatever shall i do?" the warm-hearted washerwoman thrilled with pity for the forsaken child yet she put on her most brilliant surface-smile and answered promptly: "do? why, do jest what jane an' me laid out to have ye do. an' that is, eat a grand breakfast. we ain't such old friends o' the cap'n's an' yet go let his folks starve. me an' jane, we done it together, an' the grocer-man threw in the rolls. there's a cunnin' little piece o' porterhouse's ever ye see, an' 'taties--biled to the queen's taste with their brown jackets on. two of 'em, an' no scantin', nuther. no, you small rapscallions, ye clear out! 'tain't none your breakfasts, ye hear? it's goober glory's an'--you all, the half-dozen on ye, best clear out way beyant th' elbow an' watch out fer the banan' man! if he comes to the lane, ma's got a good wash on hand, an'--_who knows?_" away scampered meg's brood of children, assorted sizes, yet one and all with a longing for "banan' cheap!" and sure that no amount of coaxing would give them a share in the savory breakfast which the two toiling women had provided for glory. left comfortably free from crowding, meg bustled about, removing from the small oven the belated "steak an' 'taties" which had long been drying there. in this removal, she clumsily tilted the boiler in which her "wash" was bubbling and flavored the meal with a dash of soapsuds, but glory was more hungry than critical, and far more grateful than either. smiles and tears both came as she caught meg's wet hand and kissed it ecstatically, which action brought a suspicious moisture to meg's own eyes and caused her to exclaim, with playful reproof: "if you ain't the beatin'est one fer huggin' an' kissin'! well, then, set to; an' hear me tell: this is what me an' jane has settled, how the very minute the cap'n heaves in sight down the lane, on i claps the very pattron o' that same stuff ye're eatin' for him, an' calls it breakfast, dinner, er supper, as the case is. when folks have been off visitin', like he has, they can't 'spect to find things ready to hand to their own houses, same's if they'd been round all the time. now, eat, an' 'let your victuals stop yer mouth'!" this was luxurious food for one accustomed to an oatmeal diet and glory heartily enjoyed it, although she wished she could have given it to her grandfather instead, but she wasn't one to borrow trouble and relied upon meg's word that a similar repast should be forthcoming when the seaman required it. she did not know that the very odor of the food set the washerwoman's own mouth to watering and that she had to swallow fast and often, to convince herself that her own breakfast of warmed-over coffee and second-hand rolls was wholly sufficient. in any case, both she and posy jane had delighted in their self-sacrifice for the little "queen of the lane," in their hearts believing that the child was now orphaned, indeed. it is amazing how, when one is extremely hungry, even two whole potatoes will disappear, and very speedily glory found that the cracked plate from which she had eaten was entirely empty, but, also, that the uncomfortable hunger had disappeared with its vanished contents. she sprang up, ran to the spigot, washed and wiped the plate, and restored it to its place on meg's scanty cupboard, then announced: "i shall tell my grandpa how good all you dear, dear folks has been to me while he--he was off a-visitin'. an' he'll do somethin' nice for you, too, he will. my grandfather says 'giff-gaff makes good friends,' an' 'one kind turn 'serves another.' he knows a lot, grandpa does; an' me an' him both thanks you, meg-laundress--you darlin'!" away around the big neck of the woman at the tub went glory's slender arms, and when the patient toiler released herself from this inconvenient embrace, there was something besides soapsuds glistening on her hot cheek. "bless ye an' save ye, honey sweetness, an' may yer guardian angel keep ye in close sight, the hull endurin' time!" cried the laundress, wiping her eyes with a wet towel to disguise that other moisture which had gathered in them. "an' now, be off with ye to the little eyetalian with the high-soundin' name. sure, 'twas nick, the parson, hisself, what seen them fifty-five centses was in the right hands, an' not scattered by that power o' young ones as was hangin' round when the lady give 'em." "did he take them? oh, i'm so glad an' it's queer he should ha' forgot to tell me last night. never mind, though. i ain't goin' to peddle to-day. i shan't peddle no more till i find grandpa. i couldn't. i couldn't holler even, worth listenin'. an' who'd buy off a girl what can't holler?" "hmm. i don' know. hollerin's the life o' your trade, same's rub-a-dub-dubbin' 's the life o' mine, er puttin' the freshest flower to the front the bunch is o' jane's. but, land, 'queenie,' you best not wait fer the cap'n. best keep a doin', an' onct you're at it again, the holler'll come all right. like myself--jest let me stan' up afore this here tub an' the wash begins to do itself, unbeknownst like. don't you idle. keep peddlin' er patchin', though peddlin's the least lonesome, an' the time'll fly like lightnin'. it's them 'at don't do nothin' 'at don't know what to do. ain't many them sort in the lane, though, thank the dear lord. hey? what?" for glory still lingered in the doorway and her face showed that she had no intention of following the laundress's most sensible advice. so when that loquacious woman paused so long that the little girl "could get a word in edgewise," she firmly stated: "no meg, dear meg, i shan't peddle a single goober till i've found my grandpa. every minute of every hour i'm awake i shall keep a-lookin'. he hain't got nobody but me left an' i hain't got nobody but him. what belongs, i mean. 'course, they's all you dear lane folks an' i love you, every one. but me an' him--i--i must, _must_ find him. i'm goin' to start right away now, an'--thank you, thank you an' dear posy jane--an'--good-bye!" this time it was meg who caught the other in her arms and under pretense of smoothing tumbled curls, hugged the child in motherly yearning over her; then she gave her a very clean-smelling, sudsy kiss and pushed her toward the door, crying rather huskily: "well, run away now, any gate. if to peddlin' 'twould be best; if to s'archin' fer one old blind man in this big ne' york what's full of 'em as haymows o' needles, so be it, an' good luck to ye. but what am i to be preachin' work an' practicin' play? off with ye an' hender me no more!" so to the tune of a vigorous rub-a-dub-dub, glory vanished from her good friend's sight, though the hearts of both would have ached could they have foreseen how long delayed would be their next meeting. comforted and now wholly hopeful that her determined search would have a speedy, happy ending, take-a-stitch hurried back to the littlest house whose narrow door stood open to its widest, yet she paused on the threshold, amazed, incredulous, not daring to enter and scarcely daring to breathe, lest she disturb the wonderful vision which confronted her. for the desolate home was no longer desolate. there was one within who seemed to fill its dim interior with a radiance and beauty beyond anything the child of the lane had ever dreamed. meg's words and wish returned to her and, clasping her hands, she cried in rapture, "oh! it's come! my guardian angel!" chapter viii with bonny as guide glory was truthful and loving, and her grandfather had taught her to be clean, honest, and industrious, but, beyond this, she had had little training. she knew that meg-laundress and posy jane both firmly believed in "guardian angels" who hovered about human beings to protect and prosper them. she had inferred that these "angels" were very beautiful but had never asked if they were ever visible or, if so, what form they took. glory felt now that she would never need to ask about the "angels" for the small creature before her answered all these unspoken inquiries; a mite of a thing, in silken white, with glistening golden curls and the roundest, loveliest of big blue eyes, who sat on the floor smiling and gurgling in an unknown language, yet gravely regarding bo'sn who, firm upon his haunches, as gravely regarded this astonishing intruder. the tiny visitor was so unlike any crony captain or ragged newsboy that the dog was perplexed, yet as evidently pleased, for his eyes were shining, his mouth "laughing" and his stump of a tail doing its utmost to wag. as glory appeared in the doorway, he cast one welcoming glance over his shoulder, then with the same intensity, returned to his contemplation of the child. after all, it was not an "angel" from a spiritual world, but a wonderfully fair and winning little human being. from whence she had come and why, she was too young to explain and glory was too delighted to care. here she was, gay, shining, and wholly undisturbed, and, as the little goober girl appeared, the baby lifted her face, laughing, and lisping: "bonny come!" "angels" could use human speech then; and now her awe of the visitant vanished and down went take-a-stitch beside bo'sn and clasped the little one close and kissed and caressed it to her heart's content, which meant much to glory, because even grandpa had objected to overmuch caressing, though this newcomer appeared to take kissing as a matter of course and to like it. "oh! you darlin', darlin', sweetest 'angel'! have you truly come to live with me?" "bonny come!" answered the other, thrusting her tiny hands into glory's own curls and pressing her dewy lips to glory's cheek. "oh, you precious, precious, sweetest, darlin'est one. oh, won't grandpa be pleased! an' you'll help--that's what you come for, ain't it?--you'll help to find him. why, if you're a truly 'angel,' you know this minute 't ever is just where to search, an' so 'twon't be more'n a bit of a while 'fore me an' you an' him is all back here together in this splendid littlest house, a 'livin' in peace an' dyin' in grease an' bein' buried under a pot o' taller,' like nick's stories end; only i guess we'll do without the grease an' taller, 'cause i hate dirt an' 'angels' do, 'course. oh, let's start right away! why--why--we might be home again, lickety-cut, if we did. shall we go to find grandpa, 'angel'?" the stranger toddled to her feet, bo'sn watching the operation with keenest interest, but once upon them, there ensued delay, for, whoever this unknown might be, glory herself was a very human little girl. she could not keep her fingers from feeling and examining the exquisite garments which clothed her visitor's form, and at each fresh discovery of daintiness, from the silken coat to the snowy shoes, her exclamations of wonder and admiration grew more intense. before she had finished, she felt a reflex grandeur from her richly attired guest and unconsciously gave her own scanty skirt an airy flirt, as if it had suddenly become of proper length and color. giving the "angel" a fresh embrace, she clasped its pink fingers and started to follow wherever it might lead, with bo'sn close behind. so intent was she upon her small "guardian," that she did not observe a man entering the lane from the further end, else she would have recognized him for the owner of the littlest house, come in person to inspect his property and to learn if his rent would be forthcoming when due; also, to prepare the captain for possible removal, in case a certain deal, then in progress, should transfer the three-cornered building to other hands and purposes. but the gentleman saw glory and wondered how she had come to have in charge, in such a neighborhood, a little child so unsuited to it. by just the one minute's time which would have brought him to the littlest house ere glory left it, she missed some further enlightenment on the subject of "guardian angels," and the sad news that she had not only lost grandparent but home as well; for, seeing the place open, at the mercy of any elbow tramp who might enter and despoil it, the landlord at once decided that, sale or no sale, he would get rid of so careless a tenant. crossing to the basement of meg-laundress, he made some inquiries concerning the becks and was told all which that talkative woman knew or suspected. "an' none of us in the lane ever looks to see him back, sir, an' that's the fact. but whatever's to become o' his little girl, when she finds out, land knows," she concluded. "oh, plenty of institutions to take in just such as she and she'd be a deal better off than living from hand to mouth as she has always done. the captain must have been a fine man once and so far--so far--has had his rent money ready when it was due; but i made it too small, a great deal too small. i was a fool for sympathy and let my heart run away with my head. "know anybody would take in the old man's few traps and take care of them till something develops?" continued the landlord. "he is dead, of course. must have been him was run over that time; but they might sell for a trifle for the child's benefit. i wouldn't mind having that time-keeping arrangement of bells myself. was really quite ingenious. i might as well take it, i reckon, on account of loss of occupancy. yes, i _will_ take it. and if he should return--but he won't--you tell him, my good woman, how it was and he can look to me to settle. know anybody has room for his things?" "no, i don't. an' if i did, i wouldn't tell ye," answered meg, testily, and as a relief to her indignation cuffed her youngest born in lieu of him upon whom she wished she dared bestow the correction. but the corner grocery-man was more obliging and better supplied with accommodations for captain beck's belongings. in truth, seeing that the landlord was determined, whether or no, to remove them from the littlest house, he felt that he must take them in and preserve them from harm against their owner's claiming them. he thought, with meg, that harm had certainly befallen the blind seaman and that they would see him no more, but he also felt that glory's rights should be protected to the utmost. with this idea in mind, he stoutly objected to parting with the bell-timepiece, and even offered to make up any arrears of rent which the other could rightly claim. "oh! that's all right," said the landlord, huffishly. "that can rest, but i wish you'd call a cart and get the traps out now, while i'm here to superintend." "i'm with you!" cried the grocer, with equal spirit; and so fully fell in with the other's wishes that, before glory had been an hour absent from the only home she could remember, it had been emptied of its few, but well loved, furnishings and the key had been turned upon its solitude. thus ended, too, nick's brief brilliant dream of household proprietorship. however, all this fresh trouble was unknown. whither her "angel" led, she was to follow; and this proved to be in wholly a different direction from that dark end of the lane toward the bridge. for a time the small, unconscious guide toddled along, making slow progress toward the sound of a hand-organ which her ear had caught yet which was still out of sight. arrived, they joined the group of children gathered about the grinder and his monkey, and created a profound sensation among the gutter audience. "where'd you get her? whose she belongs?" demanded one big girl who knew glory and found this white-clad stranger more interesting than even a monkey. "belongs to me. she's mine; she was sent," returned take-a-stitch, with an inimitable gesture of pride. "huh! talk's cheap. nobody sent silk-dressed young ones to the lane to be took care of, glory beck. i don't care, though. keep her, if ye want to," returned the offended questioner. "sure i shall," laughed glory, gaily. "but needn't get mad, nancy smith. maybe you can get one, too. she's my 'guardian angel' an' her name's 'bonny'; she said so. she don't talk much, only that 'bonny come.' did you know 'angels' was so perfeckly lovely, nancy?" clasping her hands, this proud proprietor of an "angel" smiled beatifically on all around. even the organ-grinder came in for a portion of that smile, though hitherto, glory had rather disliked him because she fancied him unkind to jocko. this organ-grinder was luigi salvatore, brother to tonio, and as well known in that locality. his amazement at seeing the child in the goober seller's care caused him to stop grinding; whereupon the music also stopped and the monkey left off holding his cap to the children, begging their pennies, to hop upon his master's shoulder. from thence he grinned so maliciously that the "angel" was frightened and hid her face in glory's skirt, whereupon that proud girl realized that "angels," if young, were exactly like human young things and needed comforting. many an elbow baby had learned to flee for help to glory's arms, and now this stranger was lifted in them and clasped closer than any other had ever been. "oh, you sweetest, dearest bonny angel! don't you be afraid. glory'll take care of ye. don't they have monkeys where you lived, honey? s'pose not, less you'd ha' knowed they wouldn't hurt. well, now, on we go. which way is to grandpa, bonny angel?" the tiny face burrowing under glory's chin was partially turned and the babyish hand pointed outward in a very imperative way. glory construed that she must travel in the direction indicated and, also, that even "angels" liked their commands to be immediately obeyed. for when she lingered a moment to exchange compliments with nancy, on the subject of "stuck-up-ness" and general "top-loftiness," miss bonny brought these amenities to a sudden close by a smart slap on glory's lips and a lusty kick in the direction she wished to be carried. fortunately, take-a-stitch had never thought how "angels" should behave, else she might have been disappointed. as it was, the child at once became dearer and more her girlish proprietor's "very own" because in just this manner might meg's youngest have kicked and slapped. "huh! call that a 'angel' do ye, glory beck? 'tis no such thing. it's only somebody's baby what's got lost. angels are folks what live in heaven, an' they never kick ner scratch ner ask to be carried. they don't need. all they have to do is to set still an' sing an' flap their wings. huh! i know." nancy spoke with the conviction of an eyewitness, and for a time her playmate was silenced. then, as bonny had now grown quiet and gave her an opportunity, glory demanded: "how _can_ you know? you hain't never been there. nobody hasn't. an' you go ask meg-laundress. good-bye. don't be mad. i'll be home bime-by, an' bonny angel with me. she's come to stay. she belongs, same's all of us. she's a reg'lar elbower, 'now an' forevermore,' like we say in the ring-game; an' some time, maybe, if she wants, i'll let her 'guardian' you somewhere. now we're off to grandpa, but we'll be back after a while. good-bye. maybe toni'll let you peddle goobers in my place the rest the day. good-bye." bonny angel, as she was from that time to be called by her new friend, was again gurgling and smiling and gaily radiant; and for some distance glory sped along, equally radiant and wholly engrossed in watching the little face so near her own. it was, indeed, perfect in its infantile beauty and more than one passer-by paused to take a second glance at this odd pair, so unlike, and yet so well content. after a short while, the aching of her arms made glory realize that even infant "angels" may become intolerably heavy, when clothed in healthy human form and carried indefinitely, so she set the little one down on its own small feet, though they seemed too dainty to rest upon the smirched stones of the pavement which just there was even more begrimed than that of the lane itself. then she saw that they had halted beside a coal-yard in an unfamiliar part of the city, but there were throngs of people hurrying past them toward some point beyond, and though many observed, none paused to address the children. bonny was now rested and active and merrily started in the same direction, across the gangplank to the floor of a crowded ferry-boat. the ferry-men supposed them to belong to some older passengers and let them pass unchallenged; nor did bonny angel cease her resolute urging forward till they had come to the very edge of the further deck and stood looking down into the river. almost at once, the boat began to move and glory was as delighted as bonny by the rush of the wind on her face and by the novel sights of the water. after all, this search for grandpa was proving the pleasantest of outings, for, though the goober-seller had often peddled her nuts at the landings of other ferries, she had never before crossed any. she gave the baby a fresh deluge of kisses, exclaiming, "oh, you dear knowin' darlin'! he has gone this way an' you're leadin' me!" "bonny come!" cried the "angel," with a seraphic smile. glory smiled back, all anxiety at rest. she was going to grandpa, with this tiny "guardian" an unerring guide. why should one fear aught while the sun shone so brightly, and over on the further shore she could see trees waving and green terraces rising one above the other? surely, grandpa had done well to leave the dingy lane for such a beautiful place, and she was glad, yes, certainly she was glad that she had come. but the boat trip came to an end all too soon, and, because they were so near the landing side, they were crowded off the broad deck before glory was quite ready and, in the onrush of hurrying passengers, bonny angel's hand was wrested from her grasp. "oh, take care there, my angel! i mustn't lose her!" cried take-a-stitch, distraught at seeing her treasure swept off her tiny feet in the crush. "in course you mustn't, sissy!" cried a hearty, kindly voice, as a timely deck-hand caught up the child and restored her to glory's arms. "'course not; though there's many a one would snap at such a beauty, if you give 'em a chance. tight-hold her, sissy, for such posies as her don't grow on every bush!" with that, the man in blue shirt and overalls not only gave bonny a besmirching pat on her snowy shoulder, but safely handed glory herself across the swaying plank to the quay beyond. there bonny angel composedly seated herself upon a pile of dirty ropes and, rather than cross her desires, glory also sat down. both were much interested in the scene about them, though "angel" soon forgot all else save bo'sn who had followed, and who lay at her feet to rest his nose on his tired paws while he steadfastly gazed at this new charge. already he seemed to have decided in his canine mind that she was to be guided and guarded as he had guided and guarded his lost master, and with an equal faithfulness. soon the rush and bustle of the boat's return trip gave way to a corresponding quiet, and goober glory dreamily watched the wide deck, where she had stood, slip back and back between the water-worn piles out upon the murky river. the space between them widened and widened, continually, till the boat lessened in size to a mere point and, finally, became lost in the crowding craft of the hudson's mouth. as she saw it disappear, a sudden homesickness seized her and, springing to her feet, she stretched her arms longingly toward that further side which held all that she had ever known and loved, and cried aloud: "oh, i want to go back! it's there i belong, and he isn't here--i know he isn't here!" then she felt a small hand clutch her skirt and turned about to see bonny angel's face clouding with grief and her dainty under lip beginning to quiver piteously. a world of reproach seemed to dwell in her pleading, "bonny come!" and glory's own cheerfulness instantly returned. lifting the child again, she poised her on her own shoulder and started valiantly forward across the ferry-slip and past the various stands of the small merchants which lined the waiting-room walls. thus elevated, bonny angel was just upon a level with one tempting display of cakes and candies, and the sight of them reminded her that it was time to eat. she took her arm from glory's neck, to which she had clung, made an unexpected dash for a heap of red confections, lost her balance, and fell head long in the midst. chapter ix in the ferry-house then up rose the old woman behind the stand, ready with tongue and fist to punish this destroyer of her stock; for the truth was that miss bonny was not an "angel" at all, but what nancy smith had so common-sensibly judged her to be--a lost child. such a plump and substantial child, as well, that her downfall crushed to a crimson flood the red "drops" she would have seized and utterly demolished another pile of perishable cakes. "save us and help us! you clumsy girl! what you mean, hurlin' that young one onto my stand, that way? well, you've spoiled a power of stuff an' i only hope you can pay for it on the spot!" with that, the irate vendor snatched bonny from the stand and dropped her upon the floor beyond it; where, terrified both by her fall and this rough treatment, she set up such a wail that further scolding was prevented. more than that, instead of being properly abashed by her own carelessness, glory was far more concerned that bonny's beautiful coat was stained and ruined and its owner's heart so grieved. down she dropped beside her "guardian," showering kisses upon her, and comforting her so tenderly that the baby forgot her fear and began to lick the sticky fluid, which had filled the "drops," from her sleeve that it had smeared. this restored quiet so that the vender could demand payment for the damage she had swiftly estimated, and she thrust her hand toward the pair on the floor, saying, "hand me over a dollar, and be quick about it! ought to be more, seein's it'll take me half a day to straighten up and----" "a dollar! why--why, i never had so much in my hull life! an' not a single cent now. yes--they's a quarter to home, 't i forgot an' left in the bag, that nick dodd give me--but--a dollar!" gasped poor glory, as frightened as surprised. just then, too, a wharf policeman drew near and stopped to learn what was amiss. he did not look like the jolly officer of elbow lane and the stand-woman seemed sure of his sympathy as she rapidly related her side of the story. he listened in silence, and visions of patrol wagons, and the police stations where arrested persons were confined, rose before poor glory's fancy, while with frantic tenderness she hugged bonny angel so close that the little one protested and wriggled herself free. but no sooner was she upon her feet than the child became her own best plea for pardon. reaching her arms upward to be lifted, she began a delighted examination of the brass buttons on the man's blue coat; and, because he had babies of his own, it seemed the natural thing for him to do to take her up as she desired. "oh, but you mustn't, you dastn't carry her away! she hain't done a thing, only tumbled off my shoulder! 'twas _me_ done it, not holdin' her tight enough! an' she can't be 'rested, she can't! how can she, when she's a 'guardian angel'? give her back--give her back!" in her distress, take-a-stitch herself laid violent hands upon the blue sleeves which so strongly enfolded her darling and would have wrested them apart had strength sufficed. as it was, the helmeted officer looked calmly down upon her anguished face and quietly whistled. "keep cool, sissy, keep cool. wait till i hear your side the business before you talk of arrests. besides, this baby! why, she's the prettiest little innocent i've seen in a week's beat," said the rough voice, and now regarding the lips through which it issued, the young "elbower" perceived that they were no longer stern but actually smiling. then she did talk; not only of this last adventure but, encouraged by his close attention, of all the events of her past life. out it came, the whole story; glory's love of the lane and its people, her grandfather's disappearance, the coming of bonny angel, "sent to take his place an' help to find him," her present search and her honest regret for the injury to this old woman's wares. "'cause i know how 'tis myself. onct a lady fell into my goober basket an' smashed 'em so 't i was heart-broke. an' if ever--ever in this world i can earn a hull dollar i'll come right straight back here an' pay it. sure, sure, sure." now, during all this relation, though the policeman's face seemed to soften and grow more like that of his brother-officer of elbow lane, it did not grow less grave. indeed, a great perplexity came into his eyes and he appeared to be far more interested in the fate of bonny angel than in the voluble interruptions of apple kate. when glory paused, out of breath and with no more to tell, he set the little one down and took out his note-book. having made some entries there, he exchanged a few low-spoken words with the vender and these appeared to quiet her wrath and silence her demands. indeed, their influence was so powerful that she selected a pile of the broken cakes, put them into a paper bag, and offered them to take-a-stitch, saying: "there, girl, it's all right, or will be, soon's officer finds that young one's folks. it's past noon, nigh on toward night, an' likely she was hungry, too little to know any better, and you can have part yourself. you just do what he tells ye, an' you'll soon see that baby back in its mother's arms. laws, how heart-broke she must be a-losin' it so." goober glory heard and felt that her own heart was surely breaking. bonny angel's "folks"! she had some, then, since this policeman said so--policemen knew everything--and she wasn't a heaven-sent "guardian," at all. and, furthermore, if this was a "lost child," she knew exactly what would be done. it would be the station house, after all, though not by way of arrest. meg-laundress's assorted children had been "lost" on the city streets more than once and meg hadn't fretted a bit. she knew well, that when her day's toil was over, she had but to visit the nearest station to reclaim her missing offspring; or if not at the nearest, why then at some other similar place in the great town, whence a telephone message would promptly summon the child. but bonny angel? station house matrons were kind enough, and their temporary care of her brood had been a relief to overworked meg-laundress; but for this beautiful "guardian," they were all unfit. only tenderest love should ever come near so angelic a little creature and of such love glory's own heart was full. she reasoned swiftly. the baby was hers, by right, till that sad day of which she had not dreamed when she must restore it to its "folks," whoever and wherever they were. she would so restore it, though it break her heart; yet better her own heart breaking than that mother-heart of which the vender spoke. to her search for grandpa, in which bonny angel was guide, was now added a search for these unknown "folks" to whom she must give the little one up. that was all. it was very simple and very hard to do, till one thought came to cheer her courage. by the time she found these unknown people she would, also, have found captain simon beck! she had been supremely happy with him, always, and she would be happy again; yet how dear, how dear this little comrade of a day had become! glory's decisions never wavered. once made, she acted upon them without hesitation. she now turned to the policeman, who had written some further items in his book and was now putting it into his pocket, and said, "you needn't bother, mister p'liceman, to find 'em. i'll take bonny angel home my own self." "hey? what? do know where she belongs, after all? you been fooling me with your talk?" he asked quickly, and now with face becoming very stern indeed. he was sadly used to dealing with deceit but hated to find it in one so young as goober glory. "no, sir. i never. but i will. i'd rather an' i must--i must! oh, i can't let her go to that terr'ble station house where thievers an' bad folks go, an' she so white an' pure an' little an' sweet! i can't. she mustn't. she shan't! so there." at her own enumeration of bonny angel's charms, the girl's heart thrilled afresh with love and admiration, and, catching her again into her close embrace, she fell to rapturously kissing the small face that was now "sweet" in truth, from the sticky drops the child had licked. "nonsense! if you don't know where she belongs, nor have any money to spend in finding out, the station's the only place. it's the first place, too, she'll be looked for, and she'll be well cared for till claimed. you can go along with her, maybe, since you appear to be lost, too," remarked the officer. "but i'm wasting time. you stop right here by apple kate's stand, while i step yonder and telephone headquarters. a man'll come over next boat and take you both back." the chance of going "back" to the city whose very paving stones now seemed dear to her did, for an instant, stagger glory's decision. but only for an instant. bonny angel was still the guide. it was bonny angel who had brought them to this further shore where, beyond this great, noisy ferry-house were those green terraces and waving trees. it was here, separated by the wide river from all familiar scenes, that her search must go on. a customer came to the stand and occupied apple kate's attention, at the same time the wharf policeman walked away to send his message concerning little bonny. that moment was glory's opportunity, and she improved it, thinking with good reason: "if onct he gets a-hold on us he won't leave us go. he'd think it wouldn't be right, for a p'liceman. well, then, he shan't get a-hold!" a few minutes later, when her patron had passed on, apple kate looked around and missed the children, but supposed they had followed the officer. yet when he came back to the stand, he denied that they had done so and angrily inquired "why she couldn't keep an eye on them and oblige a man, while he just rung up headquarters?" to which she as crisply replied, "huh! my eyes has had all sight o' them they want, and they'll trouble you nor me no more. they've skipped, so you might 's well trot back and ring down whatever you've rung up. they've skipped." chapter x another stage of the journey the ferry-house where the policeman had found glory and her "angel" was also the terminus of a great railway. beyond the waiting-room were iron gates, always swinging to and fro, for the passage of countless travelers; and from the gates stretched rows of shining tracks. puffing engines moved in and out upon these, drawing mighty carriages that rumbled after with a deafening noise. gatemen shouted the names of the outgoing trains, whistles blew, trunk-vans rattled, and on every side excited people called to one another some confusing direction. glory, with bonny angel in her arms, had hurried up to one of these iron gates, feeling that if she could but dash through and place that barrier between herself and the too-faithful policeman, she would be free at last. but the chance of so doing was long delayed. that particular gateman appeared to prevent anybody passing him who did not show a bit of printed cardboard, as he called, "tickets! have your tickets ready!" and, oh, in what a glorious voice he so directed them! "my heart! if i could holler goobers like he does them car-trains, folks'd jest have to buy, whether er no!" thought the little peddler, so rapt in listening that she forgot everything else; till, at one louder yell than all, the child in her arms shrieked in terror. at which the gateman whirled round, leaving a space behind him, and glory darted through. neither the official nor she knew that she was doing a prohibited thing; for he supposed she was hurrying to overtake some older party of travelers and she knew nothing of station rules. once past this gate, she found herself in dangerous nearness to the many trains and could walk neither this way nor that without some guard shouting after her, "take care, there!" she dared not put bonny angel down even if the child would have consented, and, continually, the rumblings and whistlings grew more confusing. in comparison with this great shed, elbow lane, that miss bonnicastle had found so noisy, seemed a haven of quietude and glory heartily wished herself back in it. there must be a way out of this dreadful place, and the bewildered little girl tried to find it. yet there behind her rose a high brick wall in which there was no doorway, on the left were the waiting or moving trains and their shouting guards, and on the right that iron fence with its rolling gates and opposing gatemen, and, also, that policeman who would have taken bonny angel from her. before her rose the north-side wall of the building, that, at first glance, seemed as unbroken a barrier as its counterpart on the south; but closer inspection discovered a low, open archway through which men occasionally passed. "whatever's beyond here can't be no worse," thought take-a-stitch, and hurried through the opening. but once beyond it, she could only exclaim, "why, bonny angel, it's just the same, all tracks an' cars, though 'tain't got no roof over! my, i don't know how to go--an' i wish they would keep still a minute an' let a body think!" even older people would have been confused in such a place, with detached engines here and there, snorting and puffing back and forth in a seemingly senseless way, its many tracks, and its wider outdoor resemblance to the great shed she had left. "guess this is what posy jane 'd call 'hoppin' out the fryin'-pan inter the fire,' bonny angel. it's worse an' more of it, an' i want to get quit of it soon's i can. 'tain't no ways likely grandpa's hereabouts, an'----my, but you're a hefty little darlin'! if i wasn't afraid to let you, i'd have ye walk a spell. but you might get runned over by some them ingines what won't stay still no place an' i dastn't, you dear, precious sweetness, you! i shan't put you down till i drop, 'less we get out o' this sudden." but even as she clasped her beloved burden the closer, bonny angel set this decision at naught by kicking herself free from the girl too small and weary to prevent; and once upon the ground, off she set along a particularly shining track, cooing and shrieking her delight at her own mischievousness. "oh! oh! oh!" screamed glory, and started in pursuit. of course, she could run much faster than her "guardian," but that tiny person had a way of darting sidewise, here and there, and thus eluding capture just as it seemed certain. fortunately, the direction she had chosen led outward and away from the maze of steel lines, and, finding no harm come of it and the child so happy, glory gave up trying to catch and simply followed her. just then, too, there came into view the sight of green tree-tops and a glimpse of the river, and these encouraged her to proceed. indeed, she was now more afraid to go back than to go forward, and bonny angel's strange contentment in the care of a stranger, like herself, renewed a belief that she was other than mere mortal, and so above the common needs of babies. reasoned this "little mother" of elbow lane, "if she was just plain baby an' not no 'angel,' she'd a-cried fer her ma, an' she hain't never, not onct. she hain't cried fer crusts, neither, like meg-laundress's twins is always doin'. 'course, them cakes what th' apple kate give her was sweet an' a lot of 'em. the crumbs i et when bonny angel fired the bag away was jest like sugar. my, prime! some day, when i get rich, an' they ain't nobody else a-wantin' 'em, i'll buy myself some cakes ezackly like them was. i will so--if they ain't nobody else. but, there, glory beck, you quit thinkin' 'bout eatin' 'less first you know, you'll be hungry an' your stummick'll get that horrid feel again. hi, i b'lieve it's comin' a'ready an' yet i had that splendid breakfast!" somehow, the idea of food occurred to this trio of travelers at one and the same time. bo'sn crept up to his mistress and rubbed his sides against her legs, dumbly pleading for rest and refreshment. he was very tired, for a dog, and as confused as take-a-stitch by these strange surroundings, and acted as if unwilling to go further afield. at every possible chance now, he would lie down on the ground and remain there until his companions were so far in advance that he feared to be lost himself. surely he felt that this long road was the wrong road, where he would listen in vain for the tap-tap of his master's cane and the scent of his master's footsteps. as for bonny angel, she suddenly paused in the midst of her mischievous gaiety, put up her lip and began to howl as loudly and dismally as any common lane baby could have done. then when her new nurse hurried to her, distressed and self-reproachful for not having carried her all the way, down the little one flung herself prone in the dirt and rolled and kicked most lustily. glory did her utmost, but she could neither quiet nor lift the struggling "angel," and finally she ceased her efforts and, with arms akimbo and the wisdom of experience coolly addressed her charge: "see here, bonny angel! you're the sweetest thing in the world, but that's jest spunk, that is. you're homesick, i s'pose, an' tired an' hungry, an' want your ma, an' all them bad things together makes you feel ye don't know how! i feel that-a-way myself, a-times, but i don't go rollin' in mud puddles an' sp'ilin' my nice silk coats, i don't. i wouldn't besmutch myself so not fer nothin'. my, but you be a sight! an' only this mornin' 't ever was you was that lovely!" when take-a-stitch treated bonny angel as she would have treated any other infant, the result proved her wisdom. as soon as comforting ceased, the child's rebellion to it also ceased; and when, shocked by its condition, the girl stooped to examine the once dainty coat, its small wearer scrambled to her feet, lifted her tear-stained face to be kissed, smiled dazzlingly, and cried merrily, "bonny come!" "oh, you surely are an 'angel,' you beautifullest thing!" said glory, again raising the child in her arms and starting onward once more. she had no idea whither they were going and bonny angel had ceased to point the way with her tiny forefinger, but she cuddled her curly head on her nurse's shoulder and presently fell asleep. the tracks diminished in number as they proceeded till they came to a point where but few remained. some ran straight on along the river bank, though this was hidden by outlying small buildings; and some branched westward around the bluff whereon grew those green trees and sloped the terraces seen from the boat. here, after a halt of admiration, glory found it growing exceedingly dark, and wondered if it had already become nightfall. "it seems forever an' ever since we started, but i didn't think 'twas nigh bedtime. an', oh, my! where will we sleep, an' shall i ever, ever find my grandpa!" it was, indeed, nearing the end of the day but it was a mass of heavy clouds which had so suddenly darkened the world, clouds so black and threatening that the workmen scattered along the tracks, busy with pick and shovel, began to throw down their tools and make for the nearest shelter. one man, with a coat over his head to protect him from the already falling drops hurried past glory, where she stood holding bonny angel, and advised: "best not tarry, children, but scud for home. there's a terrible storm coming." but he did not stop to see that they followed his advice nor inquire if any home they had. poor glory's heart sank. she was not afraid of any storm for herself though she had never heard wind roar and wail as this did now, but how could she bear to have her "guardian" suffer. even meg's healthy youngsters sometimes had croup and frightened their mother "outen her seventy senses," and the croup usually followed a prolonged playing in flooded gutters during a rain storm. "i must find a place! oh, there must be a place somewhere! she mustn't get the croup an' die on me--she mustn't. ain't i got to take her to her ma, an' how could i tell her i let the baby die? oh, where?" with an agonized glance in every direction and a closer enfolding of the sleeping child--over whose head she promptly threw her own abbreviated skirt--she discovered, at last, a haven of refuge. "my heart! that's littler 'an the littlest house, but it's big enough fer us, you sweetest honey darlin', an' it must ha' growed a-purpose, all in a minute, just fer us, like them fairy-lamp-an'-aladdin yarns what grandpa used to tell me! an' now i know fer true she is a surely 'guardian angel,' an' is tooken care of every time, 'cause a minute ago that littler than the littlest wasn't there at all, for i never saw it an' i should. an' now 'tis, an' we're in it an'----oh, how glad i am!" while these thoughts were passing through her mind glory had been staggering forward as swiftly as the wind and the burden she carried would allow and she reached the shelter none too soon. the very instant she passed within, the rain came down in torrents and the tiny structure swayed dizzily in the gale. "littler than the littlest" it was, indeed; only a railway switchman's "box," erected to shelter him in just such emergencies and from the cold of winter nights. it had tiny windows and a narrow door; and, placing bonny angel on the corner bench--its only furnishing--take-a-stitch hastened to make all secure. the lightning flashed and the thunder rolled, but still and happily the worn-out "guardian" slept; so that, herself overcome by fatigue and the closeness of the atmosphere the now vagrant "queen of elbow lane" dropped in a heap on the floor and also slept. this switch-box was one but seldom used and nobody came near it till morning. then a passing road-hand, on his way to work, fancied it a good place wherein to eat his breakfast and opened the door. his cry of surprise at sight of its strange occupants roused them both, and sent glory to her feet with an answering cry; while bonny angel merely opened her eyes, stared sleepily around, and smilingly announced: "bonny come!" "bless us, me honey, so you did! but it's meself'd like to be knowin' where from an' how long sence the pair of ye got your job on the railroad?" there was nothing to fear about this man, as goober glory saw at once. his homely face was gay with good health and good nature and the sunshiny morning after the storm seemed not more sunshiny than he. but his curiosity was great and he did not rest till it was satisfied by a full recital of all that had happened to the straying children and their plans for the future were explained. the man's face grew grave and he shook his head with misgiving: "lookin' for a lot of lost people, is it, then? hmm. an', that may be more'n of a job than straightenin' crooked rails what the storm washed away, as i must be doin' to onct. too big a job to be tacklin' on empty stummicks, betoken; so here, the two of yez, fall in an' taste this bread an' meat an' couple o' cold spuds, an' let me get on to me own affairs." opening his tin pail, he made a cup of its inverted top, into which he poured a lot of cold tea and offered it to glory, who in turn, promptly presented it to the now clamorous bonny, and had the pleasure of seeing the little one drink deeply before she discovered for herself that it was not her accustomed milk, and rejected the remainder. both the workman and take-a-stitch laughed at the little one's wry face, while having divided the bread and meat into three fair portions, all fell to with a will, so that soon not a crumb was left. "ah, that was prime!" cried glory, smacking her lips; "and you're the primest sort of man to give it to us. i hope i'll have something to give you some time," she finished a little wistfully, and keenly regarding various rents in his clothes. "if i had my needle an' thread i might work it out, maybe. you need mendin' dreadful." "betoken! so i do. an' be ye a colleen 'at's handy with them sort o' tools?" "indeed, i can sew!" cried glory, triumphantly. "it's 'cause of that the elbowers call me 'mend-a-hole,' or 'take-a-stitch,' whichever happens. why--why--i earn money--real money--sewin' the lane folks up!" "an' yet bein' that mite of a thing ye are!" returned this new friend, admiringly. "well then, 'tis out to me sister's husband's cousin's house i'm wishin' ye was this instant. for of all the folks needs the mendin' an' patchin', 'tis she, with her seven own childer, an' her ten boardin' 'hands,' an' her own man, that was gardener to some great folks beyant, laid up with the chills an' not able to do a hand's turn for himself, barrin' eatin' an' drinkin' fair, when the victuals is ready. he can play a good knife an' fork, still, thanks be, an' it's hopin' he'll soon be playin' his shovel an' spade just as lively, but that's no more here nor yet there. there's miles betwixt this an' yon, an'----hello! aye, hello-a-oa!" the sudden break in timothy dowd's chatter was caused by the hailing of some fellow workmen who had rumbled up to them a hand-car over a near-by track and had signaled him to join them. "for it's not down track but up you're to go, tim, the washouts bein' worst beyond. step aboard, we've to hustle." timothy picked up his tools and started to comply, when his glance fell once more upon the eager face of goober glory and pity for her made him hesitate. then a bright idea flashed through his brain and he demanded of the man who had accosted him, "how fur be ye goin'?" "to the trestle beyond simpson's. hurry up. step on." for only answer, timothy immediately swung glory up to the little platform car, depositing bonny angel beside her with equal speed, then made room for himself among the surprised trackmen already grouped there. yet beyond another astonished "hello!" no comment was made and the hand-car bumped forward again toward its destination. however, it wasn't timothy dowd's habit to be silent when he could find anything to say, so he was presently explaining in his loud-voiced, jolly way that here was a "pair o' angels that he'd found floating round in the mud and was goin' to bestow 'em where they'd do the most good. an' that's to mary fogarty's, indeed. her of the sharp tongue an' warm heart an' houseful of creatures, every blessed one of that same rippin' off buttons that constant, an' her livin' the very pattern of handiness to simpson's trestle an' couldn't have been planned no better not if----hi, baby, how goes it?" this to bonny angel, whose eyes had shone with delight when first the car had rolled forward, but who now grew frightened and began to whimper dismally, which set glory's own heart beating sorrowfully and spoiled her pleasure in this novel ride. springing up she would have taken bonny angel from timothy's arms into her own had he not rudely pushed her down again, commanding sternly: "try that no more, colleen, lest ye'd be after murderin' the pair of us! sit flat, sit flat, girl, an' cut no monkey-shines with nobody, a-ridin' on a hand-car." glory had not thought of danger, though her new friend had not over-rated it. in obedience to this unexpected sternness, she crouched motionless beside him, though she firmly clutched at bonny's skirts and began to think this her hardest experience yet, till after a time, at sight of a gamboling squirrel, the little one forgot her fear and laughed out gleefully. then glory laughed, too, for already her tiny "guardian" could influence every mood, so dearly had she grown to love the child thus thrown upon her care. how the fences and the fields raced by! how the birds sang and the flowers bloomed! and how very, very soon the queer little car stopped short at a skeleton bridge over a noisy creek! there all the workmen leaped to the ground and hastily prepared for labor. even timothy had no further time to talk but coolly setting the children upon a bank pointed to a house across the fields and ordered glory, "go there an' tell your story, an' tell mary fogarty i sent ye." then he fell to his own tasks and take-a-stitch had no choice save obedience. for a little distance, there was fascination in the meadow for both small wanderers; but soon bonny angel's feet lagged and she put up her arms with that mute pleading to be carried which glory could not resist, yet the little creature soon grew intolerably heavy, and her face buried beneath her nurse's chin seemed to burn into the flesh, the blue eyes closed, the whole plump little body settled limp and inert, and a swift alarm shot through the other's heart. "oh, oh, i believe she's sick! do 'angels' ever get sick? but she isn't a truly 'angel,' i know now. she's just somebody's lost baby. queer! grandpa so old an' she so young should both of 'em get lost to onct, an' only me to look out for 'em! yet, maybe, that mary fogarty woman'll help us out. i hope she'll be like meg-laundress, or darlin' posy jane. strange, how long these fields are. longer'n the longest avenue there is an' not one single house the hull length. why ain't there houses, i wonder. wake up, bonny precious! we're almost there." but when they reached the door of the queen anne cottage, which was intended to be picturesque and had succeeded in being merely extremely dirty, and out of which swarmed a horde of youngsters each more soiled than the other, glory's heart sank. for the big woman who followed the horde was not in the least like either old friend of elbow lane. her voice was harsh and forbidding as she demanded, "well, an' who are you; an' what are you wantin' here?" "timothy sent us," answered glory, meekly. "huh! he did, did he? well, he never had sense. now, into the house with ye, every born child of ye!" she rejoined, indifferently, and "shooed" her own brood, like a flock of chickens, back into the cottage, then slammed its door in the visitor's face. chapter xi a haven of refuge glory's walk and heavy burden had exhausted her and, almost unconsciously, she let bonny angel slip from her arms to the door-step where she stood. there the child lay, flushed and motionless, in a sleep which nothing disturbed, though hitherto she had wakened at any call. now, though in remorse at her own carelessness, take-a-stitch bent over the little one and begged her pardon most earnestly, the baby gave no sign of hearing and slumbered on with her face growing a deeper red and her breath beginning to come in a way that recalled the old captain's snores. "what shall i do now?" cried poor glory, aloud, looking around over the wide country, so unlike the crowded lane, and seeing no shelter anywhere at which she dared again apply. some buildings there were, behind and removed from the cottage; but they were so like that inhospitable structure in color and design that she felt their indwellers would also be the same. "oh, i wish i hadn't come all that way over the grass," said poor glory. "if we'd stayed by them car-rails, likely we'd have come somewhere that there was houses--different. and, bonny angel, sweetest, preciousest, darlingest one, do please, please, wake up and walk yourself just a little, teeny, tiny bit. then, when i get rested a mite, i'll carry you again, 'cause we've got to go, you see. that timothy was mistook an' his sister's husband's cousin won't let us in." yet even while her back was toward it, as she contemplated the landscape pondering which way lay her road, the door again suddenly opened and mary fogarty announced, shrilly, but not unkindly: "there's the wagon-house. you can rest there a spell, seein' you was simple enough to lug that hefty young one clear across the meadder. it's that third one, where the big door stands open an' the stone-boat is." glory faced about, her face at once radiant with gratitude, and its effect upon the cottage mistress was to further soften her asperity, so that though she again ejaculated that contemptuous "huh!" it was in a milder tone; and, with something like interest she demanded, "how long 's that baby been that feverish she is now? she looks 's if she was comin' down with somethin' catchin'. best get her home, soon 's you can, sissy. she ain't fit to be runnin' round loose." poor little bonny angel didn't look much like "running loose" at present, and as for "home," the word brought an intolerable feeling to glory's heart, making the sunny fields before her to seem like prison walls that yet had a curious sort of wobble to them, as if they were dancing up and down in a wild way. but that was because she regarded them now through a mist of tears she could not repress, while visions of a shadowy lane, whose very gloom would have been precious to her on that hot day, obtruded themselves upon the scene. with a desperate desire for guidance, glory burst out her whole story and mary fogarty was forced to listen, whether or no. to that good woman's credit it was that as she listened her really warm heart, upon which timothy dowd had counted, got the better of her impatience and, once more closing the door upon her peeping children, she said, "why, you poor, brave little creatur'! come this way. i'll show you where, though you must carry the baby yourself, if so be she won't carry herself. i've got seven o' my own an' i wouldn't have nothin' catchin' get amongst them, not for a fortune. i wouldn't dare. i've had 'em down, four er five to a time, with whooping-cough an' measles an' scarletina an' what not; an' now sence the twinses come, i don't want no more of it i can tell you. don't lag." mary strode along, "like a horse," as her husband frequently complimented her, walking as fast as she was talking and, with bonny angel in her arms, goober glory did her best to keep a similar pace. but this was impossible. not only were her feet heavy beneath the burden she bore, but her heart ached with foreboding. with bonny angel ill, how was the search for grandpa to go on? how to look for the little one's own people? yet how terrible that they must be left in their grief while she could do nothing to comfort them. "oh, if they only knew! she's so safe with me, i love her so. if i could only tell them! i wonder--i wonder who they are and where they are and shall i ever, ever find them!" she exclaimed in her anxiety as, coming to the wagon-house door, she found mistress fogarty awaiting her. that lady answered with her own cheerful exclamation, "'course you will. everything comes right, everywhere, give it time enough. now step right up into this loft. there's a bed here that the extry man sleeps on when there is an extry. none now. real gardenin' comes to a standstill when dennis has the chills. you can put the baby down there an' let her sleep her sleep out. you might 's well lie down yourself and take a snooze, bein' you're that petered out a luggin'. "i must get back an' start up dinner," continued mary. "it's a big job, even with dennis round to peel and watch the fryin'. seven youngsters of my own, with him an' me, and ten boarders----my, it takes a pile of bread to keep all them mouths full, let alone pies an' fixin's. it's vegetable soup to-day, and as the gang's working right nigh, they'll all be in prompt. i won't forget ye, an' i'll send something out to ye by somebody--but don't you pay me back by giving one of my children anything catchin'!" before glory could assure the anxious mother that she would do her utmost for their safety, mary had run down the rude stairs, shaking the shed-like building as she ran, and was within the red cottage ere the visitor realized it. glory exclaimed, as she gazed about, "here we are, at last, in a regular house! and my, isn't it big? why, ever an' ever so much bigger than the 'littlest house in ne' york!' that bed's wide enough for all meg's children to onct, and--my, how bonny angel does sleep. i'm sleepy, too, now i see such a prime place. the woman told me to sleep and i guess i'd better mind." so, presently, having removed bonny's draggled coat from the still drowsy child, glory placed her charge at the extreme back of the bed and lay down herself. "wake up, sissy! come down an' get your basin of soup. enough in it for the pair of ye, with strawberry shortcake to match!" it was this summons which aroused glory from a delightful slumber and she sprang to her feet, not comprehending, at first, what she heard or where she was. then she returned, laughing as she spoke, "'course i'll come, you splendid mary fogarty! and i'm more obliged 'an i can say, but i'll work it out, i truly will try to work it out, if you'll hunt up your jobs. that dear timothy said you needed mendin', dreadful!" but she was unaware that this same timothy was also close at hand. "oh! he did, did he? well, he said the true word for once, but bad manners in him all the same," answered mrs. fogarty; and, as glory joined them at the foot of the stairs, there were the two engaged in a sort of scuffle which had more mirth than malice in it. when take-a-stitch appeared, they regarded her with a look of compassion which she did not understand; because at the dinner, now comfortably over, the child and her hopeless search had been discussed and the ten boarders, the seven children, with their parents, had all reached one and the same conclusion, namely, that the only safe place for such innocent and ignorant vagrants was in some "asylum." who was to announce this decision and convey the little ones to their place of refuge had not, as yet, been settled. nobody was inclined to take up that piece of work and the ten boarders sauntered back to their more congenial labor on the railroad, leaving the matter in mary fogarty's hands. however, it was a matter destined for nobody to settle, because when glory had carefully conveyed the basin of soup, the pitcher of milk and the generous slices of shortcake back to the loft, she was frightened out of all hunger by the appearance of bonny angel. it was almost the first time in her life that the little "queen of elbow lane" had had a dinner set before her of such proper quantity and quality, yet she was not to taste it. bonny was tossing to and fro, sometimes moaning with pain, sometimes shrieking in terror, but always in such a state as to banish every thought save of herself from glory's mind. and then began a week of the greatest anxiety and distress which even the little caretaker of elbow lane, with her self-imposed charge of its many children, had ever known. "if she should die before i find her folks! if it's 'cause i haven't done the best i could for her----oh, what shall i do!" wailed take-a-stitch, herself grown haggard with watching and grief, so that she looked like any other than the winsome child who had flashed upon miss bonnicastle's vision at that memorable visit of hers to that crooked little alley where they had met. and timothy dowd, the only one of the big household near, whom mary fogarty permitted to enter the wagon-house-hospital, sighed as he answered with an affected cheerfulness: "sure, it's nobody dies around these parts; not a body since i was put to work on this section the road. so, why more her nor another an' she the youngest o' the lot? younger, betoken, nor the twinses theirselves. "an' it's naught but that crotchetty woman, yon," continued tim, "that's cousin to me own sister's husband, 'd have took such fool notions into her head. forbiddin' me, even me, her own relation by marriage, to set foot inside her door till she says the word, an' somebody tellin' her we should be smoked out with sulphur an' brimstone, like rats in a hole, ere ever we can mix with decent folks again. an' some of the boys, even, takin' that nonsense from herself, an' not likin' to dig in the same ditch along with the contagious tim. sure, it's contagious an' cantankerous and all them other big things we'll be, when we get out o' this an' find the old captain, your grandpa, an' the biggest kind of a celebration 'twill be, or never saw i the blue skies of old ireland! bless the sod!" but in his heart, faithful timothy did not look for bonny angel's recovery. nobody knew what ailed her, since physician had not been called. against such professional advice, mary fogarty had set her big foot with an unmovable firmness. doctors had never interfered in her household save once, when dennis, misguided man, had consulted one. and witness, everybody, hadn't he been sick and useless ever since? so, from a safe distance, she assumed charge of the case; sending glory a pair of shears with which to shave bonny's sunny head, directing that all windows should be closed, lest the little patient "take cold," and preparing food suitable for the hardest working "boarder," rather than the delicate stomach of a sick child. however, had they known it, there was nothing whatever infectious about little bonny's illness, which was simply the result of unaccustomed exposure and unwholesome food; nor did good mary's unwise directions cause any great harm, because, though a delicate child, the baby was a healthy one. she had no desire for the coarse food that was offered her but drank frequently of the milk that accompanied it; and as for the matter of fresh air, although glory had to keep the windows closed, there was plenty of ventilation from the wide apertures under the eaves of the shed. at the end of the week, the devoted young nurse had the delight of hearing her "angel" laugh outright, for the first time in so many days, and to feel her darling's arms about her own neck while the pale little lips cried out once more the familiar, "bonny come! bonny come!" to catch her tiny "guardian" up and run with her to the cottage-door took but a minute, but there glory's enthusiasm was promptly dashed by mary's appearance. shaking her arms vigorously, she "shooed" the pair away, as she "shooed" everything objectionable out of her path. "stand back! stand back, the two of ye! don't dast to come anigh, sence the time of gettin' over things is the very worst time to give 'em. hurry back to the wagon-house, quick, quick! and once you're safe inside, i'll fetch you some other clothes that you must both put on. every stitch you've wore, ary one, and the bedclothes, has got to be burnt. tim's to burn 'em this noonin'. i've got no girl your size, but that don't matter. i've cut off an old skirt o' my own, for your outside, an' little joe's your very pattern for shape, so his shirt an' blouse 'll do amazin' well. as for the baby, she can put on a suit of the twinses' till so be we can do better. now hurry up!" glory could not help lingering for a moment to ask, "must it be burned? do you really, truly, mean to burn bonny angel's lovely white silk coat, an' her pretty dress all lace an' trimmin'? an' my blue frock--why, i haven't wore it but two years, that an' the other one to home. it's as good as good, only lettin' out tucks now and then an'----" "huh! s'pose you, a little girl, know more about what's right than i do, a big growed up woman? i've took you in an' done for ye all this time an' the least you can do is to do as you're told," replied mrs. fogarty, in her sharpest manner. thus reprimanded, glory retreated to the wagon-house, whence, after a time, she reappeared so altered by her new attire that she scarcely knew herself. much less, did she think, that any old friend of elbow lane would recognize her. she was next directed to carry all the discarded clothing and bedding to a certain spot in the barnyard, where timothy would make a bonfire of it as soon as he appeared; and her heart ached to part with the silken coat which had enwrapped her precious "guardian," even though it were now soiled and most disreputable. however, these were minor troubles. the joyful fact remained that bonny angel had not died but was already recovered and seemed more like her own gay little self with every passing moment. clothes didn't matter, even if they were those of a boy. they needed considerable hitching up and pinning, for they were as minus of buttons as all the garments seemed to be which had to pass through mary fogarty's hands and washtub; but a few strings would help and maybe timothy dowd could supply those; and if once take-a-stitch could get her fingers upon a needle and thread--my, how she would alter everything! summoned back to the cottage, after she had fulfilled her hostess's last demand, glory's spirits rose to the highest. it was the first time she had entered the ranks of the seven other children which filled it to overflowing, and who were "shooed" into or out of it, according to their mother's whim. it happened to be out, just then, and with the throng glory, fast holding bonny in her arms, chanced to pass close beside the shivering dennis in his seat by the stove. he looked at her curiously but kindly, and his gaze moved from her now happy face to that of the child in her clasp, where it rested with such a fixed yet startled expression that glory exclaimed, "oh, sir, what is it? do you see anything wrong with my precious?" now it was the fact that dennis fogarty spoke as seldom as his wife did often; and that when he was most profoundly moved he spoke not at all. so then, though his eyes kept their astonished, perplexed expression, his lips closed firmly and to glory's anxious inquiry, he made no reply. therefore, waiting but a moment longer, she hurried after the other children and in five minutes was leading them at their games just as she had always led the elbow children in theirs. but bonny was still too weak and too small to keep up very long with the boisterous play of these new mates, and seeing this, take-a-stitch presently made the seven group themselves around her on the grass while she told them tales. glory thought of all the fairy stories with which the old blind captain had beguiled their darkened evenings in that "littlest house" where gas or lamplight could not be afforded; then she went on to real stories of the elbow children themselves; of meg-laundress and posy jane; and most of all of nick and billy, her chosen comrades and almost brothers. one and all the young fogartys listened open-mouthed and delighted; but, when pressed to talk more about that "grandpa you're lookin' for," poor glory grew silent. it was one of the loveliest spots in the world where glory sat that morning, with its view of field and mountain and the wonderful river winding placidly between; but the outcast child would have exchanged it all for just one glimpse of a squalid alley, and a tiny familiar doorway, wherein an old seaman should be sitting carving a bit of wood. thinking of him, though not talking, she became less interesting company to the fogartys, who withdrew one by one, attracted by the odor of dinner preparing, and hungry for the scraps which would be tossed among them by their indulgent mother. bonny angel went to sleep; and, holding her snugly, glory herself leaned back against the tree trunk where she was sitting and closed her own eyes. she did this the better to mature her plans for the search she meant to resume that very day, if possible, and certainly by the morrow at the latest. now that bonny was so nearly well, she must go on; and as her head whirled with the thoughts which swarmed it, it seemed to her that she had "grown as old as old since grandpa went away." glory at last decided that she had best stop thinking and planning altogether, just for a moment, and go to sleep as bonny angel had done. she remembered that grandpa had often said that a nap of "forty winks" would clear his own head and set him up lively for the rest of the day. whatever captain simon beck, in his great wisdom said was right, must be so; and though it seemed very lazy for a big girl such as she to take "forty winks" on her own account and in the daytime, she did take them and with so many repetitions of the "forty" that the boarders had all come home across the fields before she roused again to know what was going on about her. there was a hum of voices on the other side of the tree; and though they were low, as if not intended for her ear, they were also very earnest and in evident dispute over some subject which she gradually learned was none other than herself. she had been going to call out to them, cheerily, but what she heard made her sit up and listen closely. not very honorable, it may be, yet wholly natural, since mistress mary was insisting: "there's no use talkin', timothy dowd, them two must pack to the first 'asylum' will take 'em in. the sooner the better and this very day the best of all. 'twas yourself brought 'em or sent 'em, and 'tis yourself must do the job. you can knock off work this half-day and get it settled." "oh, but mary, me cousin, by marriage that is. i hate it. i hate it worse nor ever was. sure, it was bad enough touchin' a match to them neat little clothes o' theirs but forcin' themselves away----ah! mary, mother o' seven, think! what if 'twas one o' your own, now?" wheedled tim. but mary was not to be moved. indeed, she dared not be. as glory had already learned, dennis fogarty was the now useless gardener of the rich family which lived in the great house on the hill beyond, and to whom the abused queen anne cottage and all the other red outbuildings visible belonged. the rich people were very particular to have all things on their estate kept in perfect order; and though they had no fault to find with dennis himself, whenever he was well enough to work, they did find much fault with his shiftless or careless wife, while the brood of noisy children was a constant annoyance to them, whenever they occupied broadacres. it was for this reason that during the family's stay at the great house, mary so seldom allowed her children out of the house; nor had dennis ever permitted her to visit the place in person when there was any chance of her being seen by his employers. he felt that he held his own position merely by their generosity; nor did he approve of her boarding the workmen of the near-by railway. still, he knew that his children must be fed, and, without the money she earned, how could they be? mary's argument, then, against taking into her home two more children, to make bad matters worse, was a good one, and timothy could find no real word to say against it. yet he was all in sympathy with glory's search for the missing seaman, and how could he be the instrument of shutting her up in any institution, no matter how good, where she could not continue that search? having heard thus much, and recalling even then posy jane's saying about "listeners hearin' no good o' theirselves," take-a-stitch quietly rose and went around the tree till she stood before her troubled friends. "why, i thought you was asleep!" cried poor timothy, rather awkwardly and very red in the face. "so i was, part of the time. part i wasn't and i listened. i shouldn't ought, i know, an' grandpa would say so, but i'm glad i did, 'cause you needn't worry no more 'bout bonny angel an' me. i will start right off. i was going to, to-morrow, anyway, if she didn't get sick again; an' mis' fogarty will have to leave us these clothes till--till--i can some time--some day--maybe earn some for myself. then i'll get 'em sent back, somehow, an'----" by this time, mary was also upon her feet, tearful and compassionate and fain to turn her eyes away from the sad, brave little face that confronted her. yet not even her pity could fathom the longing of this vagrant "queen" for her dirty lane and her loyal subjects; nor how she shrank in terror from the lonely search she knew she must yet continue, thinking, "'cause grandpa would never have give me up if i was lost and i never will him, never, never, never! but if only billy, er nick, er----" mrs. fogarty interrupted the little girl's thoughts with the remark, "now them 'asylums' is just beautiful, honey darlin'--an' you'll be as happy as the day is long. you'll----" it was glory's turn to interrupt the cooing voice, which, indeed, she had scarcely heard, because of another sound which had come to her ear; and it was now a countenance glorified in truth by unlooked-for happiness that they saw, as with uplifted hand and parted lips, she strove to catch the distant strains of music which seemed sent to check her grief. "hark! hark! listen! sh-h-h!" cried the girl. "bless us, colleen! have ye lost your seventy senses, laughin' an' cryin' to onct, like a daft creatur'?" demanded timothy, amazed. she did not stop to answer him but gently placing bonny angel in his arms, sped away down the road, crying ecstatically, "luigi! luigi!" chapter xii news from the lane "hmm, hmm, indeed! an' what is 'loo-ee-gy' anyhow? an' what is the noise i hear save one them wore-out hurdy-gurdies, that do be roamin' the country over, soon's ever the town gets too hot to hold 'em? wouldn't 'pear that a nice spoken little girl as yon would be takin' up with no eyetalian organ-grinder," grumbled timothy, a trifle jealously. already he felt a sort of proprietorship in glory and the "angel" and had revolved in his mind for several nights--that is when he could keep awake--what he could do to help her. he was as reluctant to place her in any institution against her will as she was to have him, but he had not known what else to propose to mary's common sense suggestion. both timothy and mrs. fogarty watched the open gateway, through which take-a-stitch had vanished, for her to reappear, since the brick wall at the foot of the slope fully hid the road beyond. the music had soon ceased, but not until all the seven had swarmed out of the house, excited over even so trifling a "show" to break the monotony of their lives. all seven now began to exercise themselves in the wildest antics, leaping over one another's shoulders, turning somersaults, each fisticuffing his neighbor, and finally emitting a series of deafening whoops as glory actually turned back into the grounds, her hands clinging to the arm of a swarthy little man, who carried a hand-organ on his back and a monkey on his shoulder. the hand-organ was of the poorest type and the monkey looked as though he had been "upon the road" for many, many years--so ancient and wrinkled was his visage. his jaunty red coat had faded from its original tint to a dirty brown; and the funny little cap which he pulled from his head was full of holes, so that it was a wonder he did not lose from it the few cents he was able to collect in it for his master. but the vagrant pair might have been some wonderful grandees, so proudly did goober glory convey them up the slope to the very tree where mary and her brood awaited them, crying joyfully: "'tis luigi! luigi salvatore, antonio's brother! he knows me, he knows us all and he's come straight from elbow lane. i mean, quite straight, 'cause he was there after i was. wasn't you, luigi?" luigi stood bareheaded now, resting his organ-pole upon the ground and glancing from glory's eager face to the curious faces of these others. he understood but little of "united states language," having come to that country but a short time before, and having hitherto relied upon his brother toni to interpret for him when necessary. he was waiting permission to grind out his next tune, and not as surprised as timothy was that the little girl should have recognized his organ from a multitude of others, which to the railroader sounded exactly the same. take-a-stitch nodded her head, also freshly cropped like bonny's, and he began. for a time all went well. the seven young fogartys were in ecstasies, and even their elders beamed with delight, forgetting that the one would be "docked" for his wasted time and the other that the cat and her kittens were at that moment helping to "clear the table" she had left standing. even bonny angel gravely nodded approval from her perch in timothy's arms, save when the too solicitous monkey held his cap to her. then she frowned and buried her pretty face on timothy's shoulder and raised it only when jocko had hopped another way. but suddenly out of his selections, luigi began that ancient tune, "a life on the ocean wave, a home on the rolling deep"--and then disaster! almost as distinctly as if he stood there before her in the flesh, forsaken glory saw her grandfather's beloved form; clad in his well-kept old uniform, buttons shining, head thrown back, gilt-trimmed cap held easily in his wrinkled hand, with bos'n sitting gravely upright beside him. there he stood, in her fancy; and the vision well-nigh broke her heart. then down upon the grass she flung herself and all her brave self-repression gave way before the flood of homesick longing which besieged her. nobody quite understood what ailed her, though from having heard the captain sing that melody he had just ground out, luigi dimly guessed. but the effect upon all was that there had been quite music enough for the time being, and mary showed her wisdom by drawing the company away, counseling: "let her have her cry out. she's kep' in brave an' 'twill do her good. more good'n a lickin'!" she finished, with a lunge at her eldest son, who was fast changing his playful cuffs of a twin into blows which were not playful; and all because between jocko and that twin was already developing considerable interest, which the bigger boy wished to fix upon himself. "well now, ma! what for? 'tain't every day a monkey comes a visitin' here an' he's had him long enough. my turn next, an' that's fair," protested dennis, junior, namesake of the gardener. "no more it isn't, an' me forgettin' my manners after the fine music he's give us. look up, glory, an' ask the gentleman, looeegy yon, would he like a bite to eat." the girl raised her face, already ashamed of crying before other people, and instantly eager to do something for this visitor from "home"; and when she had repeated mary's invitation to luigi the smiles came back to her own face at the smiles which lightened his. alas! it wasn't very much of the good dinner was left, after the cat and her kittens had done with it, but such as remained was most welcome to the poor italian. accustomed to a dry loaf of bread washed down with water from the roadside, even the remnants of mary fogarty's food seemed a feast to him; and he enjoyed it upon the door-step with glory at his feet and jocko coming in for whatever portion his master thought best to spare. afterward, comforted and rested, he would have repaid his hostess by another round of his melodies; but this, much to the disgust of seven small lads, take-a-stitch prevented. leading the organ-grinder from the threshold of the cottage to the tree beyond it, glory made luigi sit down again and answer every question she put to him; and though he did not always comprehend her words, he did her gestures, so that, soon, she had learned all he knew of the lane since she had left it until the previous day when he had done so. first, because to him it seemed of the greater importance, luigi dwelt upon toni's disappointment, and divulged the great "secret" which had matured in the peanut-merchant's brain, and was to have been made known to goober glory, had she not "runned the way." the secret was a scheme for the betterment of everybody concerned and of antonio salvatore in especial; and to the effect that the blind captain and goober glory should form a partnership. she was to be given charge of antonio's own big stand; while comfortable upon a high stool, beside it, the captain was to sit and sing. this would have attracted many customers, toni thought, by its novelty; and, incidentally, the seaman might sell some of his own frames. as for the proprietor himself, he was to have taken and greatly enlarged the "outside business"; luigi assisting him whenever the organ failed to pay. "money, little one! oh, mucha money for all! but you stole the baby and runned away," ended this part of the stroller's tale, as she interpreted it. "i never! never, never, never! she was sent! she belongs. hear me!" cried glory, indignantly, and forthwith poured into luigi's puzzled ear all her own story. then she demanded that he should answer over again her first question when she had met him; hoping a different reply. "has my grandpa come back?" but luigi only shook his head. even through his dim understanding, there had filtered the knowledge that the fine old captain never would so come. he had been killed, crushed, put out of this sunny world by a cruel accident. so antonio had told him; but so, in pity, for her he would not repeat. rather he would make light of the matter, and did so, shrugging his shoulders in his foreign fashion and elevating his eyebrows indifferently; then conveyed to her in his broken english that the seaman must have "moved," because the landlord had come and sent all the furnishings of the "littlest house" to the grocer's for safe keeping; and there she would find them when she wished. as for billy buttons and nick, his chum, they were as bad as ever; and posy jane had never a penny for his music, never; though meg-laundress would sometimes toss him one if he would play for a long, long time and so keep her children amused and out of mischief. she, too, had even gone so far as to bid him look out all along the road he should travel for goober glory herself; and if he found her and brought her back, why she would make him a fine present. goober glory had been the most inexpensive and faithful of nurses to meg's children and she could afford to do the handsome thing by any one who would restore her services. "and here i find you, already," said luigi, accepting the wonderful fact as if it were the simplest thing in the world, whereas, out of the many roads by which he might have journeyed from the city, this was the one least likely to attract his wandering footsteps. and this strange thing was, afterward, to confirm good meg-laundress in her faith in "guardian angels." but when he proposed that they return at once to the lane lest meg's promise should be forgotten and he defrauded of his present, glory firmly objected: "no, no, luigi. i must find grandpa. i must find this baby's folks. then we will go back, you and me and all of us but her; 'cause then i'll have to give her up, i reckon--the darlin', preciousest thing!" luigi glanced at the sun, at the landscape, at the group of watchful fogartys, and reflected that there was no money to be made there. the hand-organ belonged to tonio, his brother, and the monkey likewise. tonio loved money better than anything; and luigi, the organ, and the monkey had been sent forth to collect it, not to loiter by the way; and if he was not to return at once and secure meg's present, that would have been appropriated by antonio, as a matter of course, he must be about his business. when he had slowly arrived at this decision, he rose, shouldered the hurdy-gurdy, signaled jocko to his wrist, pulled his cap in respect to his hostess, and set off. "wait, wait, luigi! just one little minute! i must bid them good-bye, 'cause they've been so good to me, and i'm going with you! just one little bit or minute!" cried glory, clasping his arm, imploringly. the organ-grinder would be glad of her company, of any company, in fact; so he waited unquestioningly, while glory explained, insisted, and finally overcame the expostulations of timothy and mary. "yes, she must go. not until she had looked forever and ever could she be shut up in a ''sylum' where she could look no further. when she found him, they would come back, he and she, and show them how right she was to keep on and how splendid he was. she thanked them--my, how she did thank them for their kindness, and, besides, there was bonny angel. if she'd dared to give up lookin' for grandpa, as he wouldn't have give up lookin' for her, she must, she must, find the angel's folks. she couldn't rest--nohow, never. think o' all them broken hearts, who'd lost such a beau-tiful darlin' as her!" then she added, with many a loving look over the whole group, "but i mustn't keep poor luigi. he belongs to toni, seems if, an' toni salvatore can make it lively for them 'at don't please him. so, good-bye, good-bye--everybody. every single dear good body!" turning, with bonny angel once more in her own arms, walking backward to have the very last glimpse possible of these new friends, with eyes fast filling again, and stumbling over her long skirt that had lost its last hook, glory beck resumed her seemingly hopeless search. however, she was not to depart just yet nor thus. to the surprise of all, dennis himself now appeared in the doorway and held up his hand to detain her. until then, he had showed but slight interest in her, and his strange staring at bonny had been unnoticed by his wife. now his face wore a puzzled expression and he passed his hand across his eyes as if he wished to clear his sight. he gazed with intensity upon glory's "guardian" once more, and at last remarked: "pease in a pod. 'tother had yellow curls. awful trouble for them, plenty as kids are the country over. pease in a pod. might try it;" and turning sidewise he pointed toward the distant great house on the hill. then he retreated to his fireside again, and mary was left to interpret. she did so, saying: "he's sayin' the 'family' 's in some sort o' trouble, though i hadn't heard it. though, 'course, they've been home only a few days an' whatever any the other hands what's been down to see him sence has told him he hain't told me. but i make out 't he thinks looeegy's playin' up there on the terrace might do noh arm an'll likely cheer 'em up a mite. that's what i make out dennis means. you an' the organ-man'd best make your first stop along the road up to the big house. if they won't pay anything to hear him play, likely they will to have him go away, bein's they're dreadful scared of tramps an' such. good-bye. come an' see us when you can!" chapter xiii the wonderful ending "sure, and it's not meself can tackle the road, the day. as well be 'docked' for the end as the beginnin', an' i'm minded to keep that lot company a piece," remarked timothy dowd, to his sister's husband's cousin. "that monkey is most interestin', most interestin' an' improvin'; an' 'tisn't often a lad from old ireland has the chance to get acquaintance of the sort, leave alone that glory girl, what's took up quarters in me heart an' won't be boosted thence, whatever. the poor little colleen! a-lookin' for one lost old man out of a world full! bless her innocent soul! yes. i've a mind to company them a bit. what say, mary, woman?" "what need to say a word, sence when a man's bent to do a thing he does it? but keep an open ear, timothy, boy. i'm curious to know what sort o' trouble 'tis, dennis hints at, as comin' to them old people yon. and he'd never say, considerin' as he does, that what goes on in the big house is no consarn o' the cottage, an' fearin' to remind 'em even't we're alive, lest they pack us off an' fetch in folks with no childer to bless an' bother 'em. yes, go, timothy; and wait; here's one them handy catch-pins, that glory might tighten her skirt a bit." timothy's usually merry face had been sadly overclouded as he watched the departure of glory and her companions, but it lightened instantly when mary favored his suggestion to follow and learn their fortune. with his hat on the back of his head, his stick over his shoulder, and his unlighted pipe in his mouth--which still managed to whistle a gay tune despite this impediment--he sauntered along the road in the direction the others had taken, though at some distance behind them. but when they passed boldly through the great iron gates and followed the driveway winding over the beautiful lawn, his bashfulness overcame him, and he sat down on the bank-wall to await their return, which must be, he fancied, by that same route; soliloquizing thus: "sure, tim, me boy, if it's tramps they object to, what for 's the use o' turnin' your honest self into such? them on ahead has business to tend to; the business o' makin' sweet music where music there is none; an' may the pennies roll out thick an' plenteous an' may the eyetalian have the good sense in him to share them same with my sweet colleen. it's thinkin' i am that all is spent on such as her is money well invested. so i'll enjoy the soft side this well-cut top-stone, till so be me friends comes along all in a surprise to see me here." his own whistling had ceased, and though he listened closely he could not hear luigi's organ or any sound whatever. the truth was that the way seemed endless from the entrance to the house upon the terrace; and that having reached it at last, both luigi and glory were dismayed by the magnitude of the mansion and confused by its apparently countless doorways. before which they should take their stand, required time to decide; but unobserved, they finally settled this point. luigi rested his instrument upon its pole, loosed jocko to his gambols, and tuned up. the strains which most ears would have found harsh and discordant sounded pleasantly enough to the listening timothy, who nodded his head complacently, wishing and thinking: "now he's off! may he keep at it till he wheedles not only the pence but the dollars out the pockets o' them that hears! 'twill take dollars more'n one to keep glory on her long road, safe and fed, and----bless us! what's that?" what, indeed, but the wildest sort of uproar, in which angry voices, the barking of dogs, the screams of frightened women drowning the feeble tones of "oft in the stilly night," sent timothy to his feet and his feet to speeding, not over the graveled driveway, but straight across the shaven lawn, where passage was forbidden. but no "keep off the grass" signs deterred him, as he remembered now, too late, all that he had heard of the ferocity of the broadacre dogs which its master kept for just such occasions as this. "bloodhounds! and they've loosed them! oh, me darlin' colleen! ill to me that i let ye go wanderin' thus with that miserable eyetalian! but i'm comin'! tim's comin'!" he yelled, adding his own part to the wild chorus above. he reached the broad paved space before the great door none too soon, and though, ordinarily, he would have given the yelping hounds a very wide berth, he did not hesitate now. huddled together in a group, with the frantic animals bounding and barking all around them, though as yet not touching them, stood the terrified luigi and his friends; realizing what vagrancy means in this "land of the free," and how even to earn an honest living one should never dare to "trespass." but even as timothy forced his stalwart frame between the children and the dogs, the great door opened and a white-haired gentleman came hurrying out. thrusting a silver whistle to his lips he blew upon it shrilly, and almost instantly the uproar ceased, and the three hounds sprang to his side, fawning upon him, eager for his commendation. instead of praise, however, they were given the word of command and crouched beside him, licking their jaws and expectant, seemingly, of a further order to pounce upon the intruders. "who loosed the dogs?" demanded the gentleman, in a clear-ringing, indignant tone. now that he seemed displeased by their too solicitous obedience, none of the gathering servants laid claim to it; and while all stood waiting, arrested in their attitudes of fear or defense, a curious thing happened. glory beck threw off the protecting arms of timothy dowd and, with bonny angel clasped close in her own, swiftly advanced to the granite step where the white-haired gentleman stood. her face that had paled in fear now flushed in excitement as with a voice unlike her own she cried: "you, sir! you, sir! what have you done with my grandfather?" the gentleman stared at her, thinking her fright had turned her brain; but saying kindly, as soon as he could command his voice: "there, child. it's all right. the dogs won't touch you now." "the dogs!" retorted the child, in infinite scorn. "what do i care for the dogs? it's you i want. you, that 'snug-harbor'-bonnicastle-man who coaxed my grandpa simon beck away from his own home an' never let him come back any more!" then her anger subsiding into an intensity of longing, she threw herself at his feet, clasping his knees and imploring, piteously: "oh! take me to him. tell me, tell me where he is. i've looked so long and i don't know where and--please, please, please." for a moment nobody spoke; not even colonel bonnicastle, for it was he, indeed, though he silently motioned to a trustworthy man who had drawn near to take the dogs away; and who, in obedience, whistling imperatively, gathered their chains in his hands and led them back to their kennel. when the dogs had disappeared, the master of broadacres sank into a near-by chair, wiping his brow and pityingly regarded the little girl who still knelt, imploringly. he was trying to comprehend what had happened, what she meant, and if he had ever seen her before. captain simon beck! that was a familiar name, surely, but of that ungrateful seaman, who wouldn't be given a "snug harbor" whether or no, of him he had never heard nor even thought since his one memorable uncomfortable visit to elbow lane. "simon beck--simon beck," he began, musingly. "yes, i know a simon beck, worthy seaman, and would befriend him if i could. is he your grandfather, child, and what has happened to him that you speak to me so--so--well, let us say--rudely?" then he added, in that commanding tone which few who knew him ever disobeyed: "get up at once, child. your kneeling to me is absurd, nor do i know in what way i can help you, though you think i can do so--apparently. why! how strange--how like--" he had stooped and raised glory, gently forcing her to her feet, and as he did so, bonny angel turned her own face around from the girl's breast where she had buried it in her terror of the dogs. wasted and shorn of her beautiful hair, clothed in the discarded rags of a fogarty twin, it would have taken keen eyes indeed to recognize in the little outcast the radiant "guardian angel" who had flashed upon glory's amazed sight that day in elbow lane; yet something about it there was which made the near-sighted colonel grope hastily for his eyeglasses and in his haste overlook them, so that he muttered angrily at his own awkwardness. into the blue eyes of the little one herself crept a puzzled wondering look, that fixed itself upon the perplexed gentleman with a slowly growing comprehension. just then, too, when forgetting her own anxiety, glory looked from the baby to the man and back again, startled and wondering, a lady came to the doorway and exclaimed: "why, brother, whatever is the matter! such an uproar----" but her sentence was never finished. bonny's gaze, distracted from the colonel to his sister, glued itself to the lady's face, while the perplexity in the blue eyes changed to delight. with a seraphic smile upon her dainty lips, a smile that would have made her recognizable anywhere, under any disguise, the little creature propelled herself from glory's arms to the outstretched arms of miss laura, shrilling her familiar announcement: "bonny come! bonny come!" how can the scene be best explained, how best described? maybe in words of honest timothy dowd himself; who, somewhat later, returning to the queen anne cottage, called the entire fogarty family about him and announced to the assembled household: "well, sirs! ye could knock me down with a feather!" after which he sank into profound silence. "huh! and is that what ye're wantin' of us, is it? well, you never had sense," remarked mary, turning away indignantly. thus roused, the railroader repeated: "sure, an' ye could. a feather'd do it, an' easy. but sit down, woman. sit down as i bid ye, an' hear the most wonderful, marvelous tale a body ever heard this side old ireland. faith, i wish my tongue was twicet as long, an' i knew better how to choose the beginnin' from the end of me story, or the middle from any one. but sit down, sit down, lass, an' bid your seven onruly gossoons to keep the peace for onct, while i tell ye a story beats all the fairy ones ever dreamed. but--where to begin!" "huh! i'll give you a start," answered mrs. fogarty, impatiently. "you went from here: now go on with your tale." "i went from here," began timothy, obediently, and glad of even this small aid in his task. "i went from here an' i follyed the three of 'em, monkey an' man an' girl----" "and the baby. that's four," corrected dennis, junior, winking at a brother. "hist, boy! childer should speak when they're spoke to," returned timothy, severely, then continued, at length: "i went from here. and i follyed----" here he became so lost in retrospection that mary tapped him on the shoulder, when he resumed as if no break had occurred: "them four to the gate. but havin' no business of me own on the place, i stayed behind, a listenin'. an', purty soon up pipes the beautiful music; an' right atop o' that comes--bedlam! all the dogs a barkin', the women servants screeching, the old gentleman commandin', and me colleen huggin' the angel tight an' saying never a say, though the poor dago eyetalian was trembling himself into his grave, till all a sudden like, up flies glory, heedin' dogs nor no dogs, an' flings herself at broadacres' feet, demanding her grandpa! fact, 'twas the same old gentleman she'd been blamin' for spiritin' away the blind man; and now comes true he knows no more the sailor's whereabouts than them two twinses yon. but i've me cart afore me horse, as usual. for all along o' this, out comes from that elegant mansion another old person, the lady, miss laura bonnicastle, by your leave. an' she looks at the angel in me colleen's arms an' the angel looks at her; an', whisht! afore you could wink, out flies the knowin' baby from the one to the other! an' then, bless us! the time there was! an' you could hear a pin drop, an' in a minute you couldn't, along of them questions an' answers, firing around, from one person to another, hit-or-miss-like, an' all talkin' to onct, or sayin' never a word, any one. an' so this is the trouble, mary fogarty, that dennis wouldn't mention. the angel is their own child, and dennis fogarty's the clever chap suspicioned it himself." "huh! now you're fairy-talein', indeed. 'tis old bachelor and old maid the pair of them is. i know that much if i don't know more," returned the house-mistress, reprovingly. timothy was undisturbed and ignored her reproof, as he went on with his story: "their child was left for them to care for. the only child of their nevvy an' niece, who's over seas at the minute, a takin' a vacation, with hearts broke because of word comin' the baby was lost. lost she was the very day them bonnicastles set for leaving the city house an' comin' to broadacres; an' intrustin' the little creatur' by the care of a nursemaid--bad luck to her--to be took across the big bridge, over to that brooklyn where did reside a friend of the whole family with whom the baby would be safe till called for; meanin' such time as them bonnicastles had done with the movin' business an' could take care of it theirselves, proper. little dreamin' they, poor souls, how that that same nursemaid would stop to chatter with a friend of her own, right at the bridge-end and leave the child out of her arms just for the minute, who, set on the ground by herself, runs off in high glee an' no more to that story, till she finds herself in the 'littlest house,' where me colleen lived; an' what come after ye know. but ye don't know how the nursemaid went near daft with the fear, and wasted good days a searchin' an' searchin' on her own account; the bonnicastles' friend-lady over in brooklyn not expecting no such visit an' not knowin' aught; 'cause the maid carried the note sayin' so in her own pocket. all them rich folks bein' so intimate-like, preparin' 'em wasn't needful. and then, when the truth out, all the police in the city set to the hunt, and word sent across the ocean to the ravin'-distracted young parents, an'--now, all's right! such joy, such thanksgivin', such cryin' an' laughin'--bless us! i couldn't mention it." "but that poor little glory! hard on her to find the angel's folks an' not her own!" said mary, gently. "not hard a bit! she's that onselfish like, 'twould have done you proud to see her clappin' her hands an' smilin', though the tears yet in her eyes, 'cause she an' bonny must part. and 'how's that?' asks miss laura, catching the girl to her heart and kissin' her ill-cropped head, 'do you think we will not stand by you in your search and help you with money and time and every service, you who have been so faithful to our darlin'?' and then the pair o' them huggin' each other, like they'd loved each other sence the day they was born." here, for sheer want of breath, timothy's narrative ended, but mary having a vivid imagination, allowed it full play then and prophesied, sagely and happily: "well, then, all of ye listen, till i tell ye how 'twill be. that old man was run over in the street was captain simon beck; and though he was hurted bad, he wasn't killed; and though them clever little newsboys couldn't find him, the folks colonel bonnicastle sets searchin' will. an' when he's found, he'll be nigh well; an' he'll be brought out here an' kep' in a little cottage somewhere on broadacres property, with glory to tend him an' to live happy ever afterward. an' that'll be the only 'snug harbor' any one'll ever need. an' we shan't have lost our glory but got her for good." "but them billy button and nick parson boys, what of them?" demanded dennis, junior, his own sympathy running toward the clever gamins. "they'll come too, if they want to. they'll come, all the same, now and again, just for vari'ty like," comfortably assented his mother. "an' your father'll get well, an' we'll move into that other house down yon, further from the big one; an' them bonnicastles'll fix this up prime an' glory'll live here." "so it ought to be, an' that we all should live happy forever an' a day!" cried timothy, enjoying her finish of his tale more than he had his own part in it. and so, in truth it all happened, and mary's cheerful prophecy was fulfilled in due time. * * * * * * motor cycle series splendid motor cycle stories by lieut. howard payson. author of "boy scout series." cloth bound. illustrated. price, c. per vol., postpaid the motor cycle chums around the world. could jules verne have dreamed of encircling the globe with a motor cycle for emergencies he would have deemed it an achievement greater than any he describes in his account of the amusing travels of philias fogg. this, however, is the purpose successfully carried out by the motor cycle chums, and the tale of their mishaps, hindrances and delays is one of intense interest, secret amusement, and incidental information to the reader. the motor cycle chums of the northwest patrol. the great northwest is a section of vast possibilities and in it the motor cycle chums meet adventures even more unusual and exciting than many of their experiences on their tour around the world. there is not a dull page in this lively narrative of clever boys and their attendant "chinee." the motor cycle chums in the gold fields. the gold fever which ran its rapid course through the veins of the historic "forty-niners" recurs at certain intervals, and seizes its victims with almost irresistible power. the search for gold is so fascinating to the seekers that hardship, danger and failure are obstacles that scarcely dampen their ardour. how the motor cycle chums were caught by the lure of the gold and into what difficulties and novel experiences they were led, makes a tale of thrilling interest. any volume sent postpaid upon receipt of price. hurst & company--publishers--new york girl aviators series clean aviation stories by margaret burnham. cloth bound. illustrated. price, c. per vol., postpaid the girl aviators and the phantom airship. roy prescott was fortunate in having a sister so clever and devoted to him and his interests that they could share work and play with mutual pleasure and to mutual advantage. this proved especially true in relation to the manufacture and manipulation of their aeroplane, and peggy won well deserved fame for her skill and good sense as an aviator. there were many stumbling-blocks in their terrestrial path, but they soared above them all to ultimate success. the girl aviators on golden wings. that there is a peculiar fascination about aviation that wins and holds girl enthusiasts as well as boys is proved by this tale. on golden wings the girl aviators rose for many an exciting flight, and met strange and unexpected experiences. the girl aviators' sky cruise. to most girls a coaching or yachting trip is an adventure. how much more perilous an adventure a "sky cruise" might be is suggested by the title and proved by the story itself. the girl aviators' motor butterfly. the delicacy of flight suggested by the word "butterfly," the mechanical power implied by "motor," the ability to control assured in the title "aviator," all combined with the personality and enthusiasm of girls themselves, make this story one for any girl or other reader "to go crazy over." any volume sent postpaid upon receipt of price. hurst & company--publishers--new york motor maids series wholesome stories of adventure by katherine stokes. cloth bound. illustrated. price, c. per vol., postpaid the motor maids' school days. billie campbell was just the type of a straightforward, athletic girl to be successful as a practical motor maid. she took her car, as she did her class-mates, to her heart, and many a grand good time did they have all together. the road over which she ran her red machine had many an unexpected turning,--now it led her into peculiar danger; now into contact with strange travelers; and again into experiences by fire and water. but, best of all, "the comet" never failed its brave girl owner. the motor maids by palm and pine. wherever the motor maids went there were lively times, for these were companionable girls who looked upon the world as a vastly interesting place full of unique adventures--and so, of course, they found them. the motor maids across the continent. it is always interesting to travel, and it is wonderfully entertaining to see old scenes through fresh eyes. it is that privilege, therefore, that makes it worth while to join the motor maids in their first 'cross-country run. the motor maids by rose, shamrock and heather. south and west had the motor maids motored, nor could their education by travel have been more wisely begun. but now a speaking acquaintance with their own country enriched their anticipation of an introduction to the british isles. how they made their polite american bow and how they were received on the other side is a tale of interest and inspiration. any volume sent postpaid upon receipt of price. hurst & company--publishers--new york boy inventors series stories of skill and ingenuity by richard bonner cloth bound, illustrated. price, c. per vol., postpaid the boy inventors' wireless telegraph. blest with natural curiosity,--sometimes called the instinct of investigation,--favored with golden opportunity, and gifted with creative ability, the boy inventors meet emergencies and contrive mechanical wonders that interest and convince the reader because they always "work" when put to the test. the boy inventors' vanishing gun. a thought, a belief, an experiment; discouragement, hope, effort and final success--this is the history of many an invention; a history in which excitement, competition, danger, despair and persistence figure. this merely suggests the circumstances which draw the daring boy inventors into strange experiences and startling adventures, and which demonstrate the practical use of their vanishing gun. the boy inventors' diving torpedo boat. as in the previous stories of the boy inventors, new and interesting triumphs of mechanism are produced which become immediately valuable, and the stage for their proving and testing is again the water. on the surface and below it, the boys have jolly, contagious fun, and the story of their serious, purposeful inventions challenge the reader's deepest attention. any volume sent postpaid upon receipt of price. hurst & company--publishers--new york border boys series mexican and canadian frontier series by fremont b. deering. cloth bound. illustrated. price, c. per vol., postpaid the border boys on the trail. what it meant to make an enemy of black ramon de barios--that is the problem that jack merrill and his friends, including coyote pete, face in this exciting tale. the border boys across the frontier. read of the haunted mesa and its mysteries, of the subterranean river and its strange uses, of the value of gasolene and steam "in running the gauntlet," and you will feel that not even the ancient splendors of the old world can furnish a better setting for romantic action than the border of the new. the border boys with the mexican rangers. as every day is making history--faster, it is said, than ever before--so books that keep pace with the changes are full of rapid action and accurate facts. this book deals with lively times on the mexican border. the border boys with the texas rangers. the border boys have already had much excitement and adventure in their lives, but all this has served to prepare them for the experiences related in this volume. they are stronger, braver and more resourceful than ever, and the exigencies of their life in connection with the texas rangers demand all their trained ability. any volume sent postpaid upon receipt of price. hurst & company--publishers--new york dreadnought boys series tales of the new navy by capt. wilbur lawton author of "boy aviators series." cloth bound. illustrated. price, c. per vol., postpaid the dreadnought boys on battle practice. especially interesting and timely is this book which introduces the reader with its heroes, ned and herc, to the great ships of modern warfare and to the intimate life and surprising adventures of uncle sam's sailors. the dreadnought boys aboard a destroyer. in this story real dangers threaten and the boys' patriotism is tested in a peculiar international tangle. the scene is laid on the south american coast. the dreadnought boys on a submarine. to the inventive genius--trade-school boy or mechanic--this story has special charm, perhaps, but to every reader its mystery and clever action are fascinating. the dreadnought boys on aero service. among the volunteers accepted for aero service are ned and herc. their perilous adventures are not confined to the air, however, although they make daring and notable flights in the name of the government; nor are they always able to fly beyond the reach of their old "enemies," who are also airmen. any volume sent postpaid upon receipt of price. hurst & company--publishers--new york motor rangers series high speed motor stories by marvin west. cloth bound. illustrated. price, c. per vol., postpaid the motor rangers' lost mine. this is an absorbing story of the continuous adventures of a motor car in the hands of nat trevor and his friends. it does seemingly impossible "stunts," and yet everything happens "in the nick of time." the motor rangers through the sierras. enemies in ambush, the peril of fire, and the guarding of treasure make exciting times for the motor rangers--yet there is a strong flavor of fun and freedom, with a typical western mountaineer for spice. the motor rangers on blue water; or, the secret of the derelict. the strange adventures of the sturdy craft "nomad" and the stranger experiences of the rangers themselves with morello's schooner and a mysterious derelict form the basis of this well-spun yarn of the sea. the motor rangers' cloud cruiser. from the "nomad" to the "discoverer," from the sea to the sky, the scene changes in which the motor rangers figure. they have experiences "that never were on land or sea," in heat and cold and storm, over mountain peak and lost city, with savages and reptiles; their ship of the air is attacked by huge birds of the air; they survive explosion and earthquake; they even live to tell the tale! any volume sent postpaid upon receipt of price. hurst & company--publishers--new york bungalow boys series live stories of outdoor life by dexter j. forrester. cloth bound. illustrated. price, c. per vol., postpaid the bungalow boys. how the bungalow boys received their title and how they retained the right to it in spite of much opposition makes a lively narrative for lively boys. the bungalow boys marooned in the tropics. a real treasure hunt of the most thrilling kind, with a sunken spanish galleon as its object, makes a subject of intense interest at any time, but add to that a band of desperate men, a dark plot and a devil fish, and you have the combination that brings strange adventures into the lives of the bungalow boys. the bungalow boys in the great north west. the clever assistance of a young detective saves the boys from the clutches of chinese smugglers, of whose nefarious trade they know too much. how the professor's invention relieves a critical situation is also an exciting incident of this book. the bungalow boys on the great lakes. the bungalow boys start out for a quiet cruise on the great lakes and a visit to an island. a storm and a band of wreckers interfere with the serenity of their trip, and a submarine adds zest and adventure to it. any volume sent postpaid upon receipt of price. hurst & company--publishers--new york none none findelkind by louise de la ramee (aka ouida) works of louisa de la ramee ("ouida") findelkind muriella a dog of flanders the nurnberg stove a provence rose two little wooden shoes findelkind there was a little boy, a year or two ago, who lived under the shadow of martinswand. most people know, i should suppose, that the martinswand is that mountain in the oberinnthal, where, several centuries past, brave kaiser max lost his footing as he stalked the chamois, and fell upon a ledge of rock, and stayed there, in mortal peril, for thirty hours, till he was rescued by the strength and agility of a tyrol hunter,--an angel in the guise of a hunter, as the chronicles of the time prefer to say. the martinswand is a grand mountain, being one of the spurs of the greater sonnstein, and rises precipitously, looming, massive and lofty, like a very fortress for giants, where it stands right across that road which, if you follow it long enough, takes you through zell to landeck,--old, picturesque, poetic landeck, where frederick of the empty pockets rhymed his sorrows in ballads to his people,--and so on by bludenz into switzerland itself, by as noble a highway as any traveller can ever desire to traverse on a summer's day. it is within a mile of the little burg of zell, where the people, in the time of their emperor's peril, came out with torches and bells, and the host lifted up by their priest, and all prayed on their knees underneath the steep, gaunt pile of limestone, that is the same today as it was then, whilst kaiser max is dust; it soars up on one side of this road, very steep and very majestic, having bare stone at its base, and being all along its summit crowned with pine woods; and on the other side of the road are a little stone church, quaint and low, and gray with age, and a stone farmhouse, and cattle-sheds, and timber-sheds, all of wood that is darkly brown from time; and beyond these are some of the most beautiful meadows in the world, full of tall grass and countless flowers, with pools and little estuaries made by the brimming inn river that flows by them; and beyond the river are the glaciers of the sonnstein and the selrain and the wild arlberg region, and the golden glow of sunset in the west, most often seen from here through the veil of falling rain. at this farmhouse, with martinswand towering above it, and zell a mile beyond, there lived, and lives still, a little boy who bears the old historical name of findelkind, whose father, otto korner, is the last of a sturdy race of yeomen, who had fought with hofer and haspinger, and had been free men always. findelkind came in the middle of seven other children, and was a pretty boy of nine years, with slenderer limbs and paler cheeks than his rosy brethren, and tender dreamy eyes that had the look, his mother told him, of seeking stars in midday: de chercher midi a quatorze heures, as the french have it. he was a good little lad, and seldom gave any trouble from disobedience, though he often gave it from forgetfulness. his father angrily complained that he was always in the clouds,--that is, he was always dreaming, and so very often would spill the milk out of the pails, chop his own fingers instead of the wood, and stay watching the swallows when he was sent to draw water. his brothers and sisters were always making fun of him; they were sturdier, ruddier, and merrier children than he was, loved romping and climbing, and nutting, thrashing the walnut-trees and sliding down snow-drifts, and got into mischief of a more common and childish sort than findelkind's freaks of fancy. for, indeed, he was a very fanciful little boy: everything around had tongues for him; and he would sit for hours among the long rushes on the river's edge, trying to imagine what the wild green-gray water had found in its wanderings, and asking the water-rats and the ducks to tell him about it; but both rats and ducks were too busy to attend to an idle little boy, and never spoke, which vexed him. findelkind, however, was very fond of his books: he would study day and night, in his little ignorant, primitive fashion. he loved his missal and his primer, and could spell them both out very fairly, and was learning to write of a good priest in zirl, where he trotted three times a week with his two little brothers. when not at school, he was chiefly set to guard the sheep and the cows, which occupation left him very much to himself, so that he had many hours in the summer-time to stare up to the skies and wonder--wonder--wonder about all sorts of things; while in the winter--the long, white, silent winter, when the post-wagons ceased to run, and the road into switzerland was blocked, and the whole world seemed asleep, except for the roaring of the winds--findelkind, who still trotted over the snow to school in zirl, would dream still, sitting on the wooden settle by the fire, when he came home again under martinswand. for the worst--or the best--of it all was that he was findelkind. this is what was always haunting him. he was findelkind; and to bear this name seemed to him to mark him out from all other children, and to dedicate him to heaven. one day, three years before, when he had been only six years old, the priest in zirl, who was a very kindly and cheerful man, and amused the children as much as he taught them, had not allowed findelkind to leave school to go home, because the storm of snow and wind was so violent, but had kept him until the worst should pass, with one or two other little lads who lived some way off, and had let the boys roast a meal of apples and chestnuts by the stove in his little room, and, while the wind howled and the blinding snow fell without, had told the children the story of another findelkind,--an earlier findelkind, who had lived in the flesh on arlberg as far back as , and had been a little shepherd lad, "just like you," said the good man, looking at the little boys munching their roast crabs, and whose country had been over there, above stuben, where danube and rhine meet and part. the pass of arlberg is even still so bleak and bitter that few care to climb there; the mountains around are drear and barren, and snow lies till midsummer, and even longer sometimes. "but in the early ages," said the priest (and this is quite a true tale that the children heard with open eyes, and mouths only not open because they were full of crabs and chestnuts), "in the early ages," said the priest to them, "the arlberg was far more dreary than it is now. there was only a mule-track over it, and no refuge for man or beast; so that wanderers and peddlers, and those whose need for work or desire for battle brought them over that frightful pass, perished in great numbers, and were eaten by the bears and the wolves. the little shepherd boy findelkind--who was a little boy five hundred years ago, remember," the priest repeated--"was sorely disturbed and distressed to see these poor dead souls in the snow winter after winter, and seeing the blanched bones lie on the bare earth, unburied, when summer melted the snow. it made him unhappy, very unhappy; and what could he do, he a little boy keeping sheep? he had as his wages two florins a year; that was all; but his heart rose high, and he had faith in god. little as he was, he said to himself he would try and do something, so that year after year those poor lost travellers and beasts should not perish so. he said nothing to anybody, but he took the few florins he had saved up, bade his master farewell, and went on his way begging,--a little fourteenth century boy, with long, straight hair, and a girdled tunic, as you see them," continued the priest, "in the miniatures in the black-letter missal that lies upon my desk. no doubt heaven favoured him very strongly, and the saints watched over him; still, without the boldness of his own courage, and the faith in his own heart, they would not have done so. i suppose, too, that when knights in their armour, and soldiers in their camps, saw such a little fellow all alone, they helped him, and perhaps struck some blows for him, and so sped him on his way, and protected him from robbers and from wild beasts. still, be sure that the real shield and the real reward that served findelkind of arlberg was the pure and noble purpose that armed him night and day. now, history does not tell us where findelkind went, nor how he fared, nor how long he was about it; but history does tell us that the little barefooted, long-haired boy, knocking so loudly at castle gates and city walls in the name of christ and christ's poor brethren, did so well succeed in his quest that before long he had returned to his mountain home with means to have a church and a rude dwelling built, where he lived with six other brave and charitable souls, dedicating themselves to st. christopher, and going out night and day to the sound of the angelus, seeking the lost and weary. this is really what findelkind of arlberg did five centuries ago, and did so quickly that his fraternity of st. christopher, twenty years after, numbered among its members archdukes, and prelates, and knights without number, and lasted as a great order down to the days of joseph ii. this is what findelkind in the fourteenth century did, i tell you. bear like faith in your hearts, my children; and though your generation is a harder one than this, because it is without faith, yet you shall move mountains, because christ and st. christopher will be with you." then the good man, having said that, blessed them, and left them alone to their chestnuts and crabs, and went into his own oratory to prayer. the other boys laughed and chattered; but findelkind sat very quietly, thinking of his namesake, all the day after, and for many days and weeks and months this story haunted him. a little boy had done all that; and this little boy had been called findelkind: findelkind, just like himself. it was beautiful, and yet it tortured him. if the good man had known how the history would root itself in the child's mind, perhaps he would never have told it; for night and day it vexed findelkind, and yet seemed beckoning to him and crying, "go thou and do likewise!" but what could he do? there was the snow, indeed, and there were the mountains, as in the fourteenth century, but there were no travellers lost. the diligence did not go into switzerland after autumn, and the country people who went by on their mules and in their sledges to innspruck knew their way very well, and were never likely to be adrift on a winter's night, or eaten by a wolf or a bear. when spring came, findelkind sat by the edge of the bright pure water among the flowering grasses, and felt his heart heavy. findelkind of arlberg who was in heaven now must look down, he fancied, and think him so stupid and so selfish, sitting there. the first findelkind, a few centuries before, had trotted down on his bare feet from his mountain pass, and taken his little crook, and gone out boldly over all the land on his pilgrimage, and knocked at castle gates and city walls in christ's name, and for love of the poor! that was to do something indeed! this poor little living findelkind would look at the miniatures in the priest's missal, in one of which there was the little fourteenth-century boy, with long hanging hair and a wallet and bare feet, and he never doubted that it was the portrait of the blessed findelkind who was in heaven; and he wondered if he looked like a little boy there, or if he were changed to the likeness of an angel. "he was a boy just like me," thought the poor little fellow, and he felt so ashamed of himself,--so very ashamed; and the priest had told him to try and do the same. he brooded over it so much, and it made him so anxious and so vexed, that his brothers ate his porridge and he did not notice it, his sisters pulled his curls and he did not feel it, his father brought a stick down on his back, and he only started and stared, and his mother cried because he was losing his mind, and would grow daft, and even his mother's tears he scarcely saw. he was always thinking of findelkind in heaven. when he went for water, he spilt one-half; when he did his lessons, he forgot the chief part; when he drove out the cow, he let her munch the cabbages; and when he was set to watch the oven he let the loaves burn, like great alfred. he was always busied thinking, "little findelkind that is in heaven did so great a thing: why may not i? i ought! i ought!" what was the use of being named after findelkind that was in heaven, unless one did something great, too? next to the church there is a little stone lodge, or shed, with two arched openings, and from it you look into the tiny church, with its crucifixes and relics, or out to great, bold, sombre martinswand, as you like best; and in this spot findelkind would sit hour after hour while his brothers and sisters were playing, and look up at the mountains or on to the altar, and wish and pray and vex his little soul most wofully; and his ewes and his lambs would crop the grass about the entrance, and bleat to make him notice them and lead them farther afield, but all in vain. even his dear sheep he hardly heeded, and his pet ewes, katte and greta, and the big ram zips, rubbed their soft noses in his hand unnoticed. so the summer droned away,--the summer that is so short in the mountains, and yet so green and so radiant, with the torrents tumbling through the flowers, and the hay tossing in the meadows, and the lads and lasses climbing to cut the rich, sweet grass of the alps. the short summer passed as fast as a dragon-fly flashes by, all green and gold, in the sun; and it was near winter once more, and still findelkind was always dreaming and wondering what he could do for the good of st. christopher; and the longing to do it all came more and more into his little heart, and he puzzled his brain till his head ached. one autumn morning, whilst yet it was dark, findelkind made his mind up, and rose before his brothers, and stole down-stairs and out into the air, as it was easy to do, because the house-door never was bolted. he had nothing with him; he was barefooted, and his school-satchel was slung behind him, as findelkind of arlberg's wallet had been five centuries before. he took a little staff from the piles of wood lying about, and went out on to the highroad, on his way to do heaven's will. he was not very sure what that divine will wished, but that was because he was only nine years old, and not very wise; but findelkind that was in heaven had begged for the poor; so would he. his parents were very poor, but he did not think of them as in any want at any time, because he always had his bowlful of porridge and as much bread as he wanted to eat. this morning he had nothing to eat; he wished to be away before any one could question him. it was quite dusk in the fresh autumn morning. the sun had not risen behind the glaciers of the stubaithal, and the road was scarcely seen; but he knew it very well, and he set out bravely, saying his prayers to christ, and to st. christopher, and to findelkind that was in heaven. he was not in any way clear as to what he would do, but he thought he would find some great thing to do somewhere, lying like a jewel in the dust; and he went on his way in faith, as findelkind of arlberg had done before him. his heart beat high, and his head lost its aching pains, and his feet felt light; so light as if there were wings to his ankles. he would not go to zirl, because zirl he knew so well, and there could be nothing very wonderful waiting there; and he ran fast the other way. when he was fairly out from under the shadow of martinswand, he slackened his pace, and saw the sun come on his path, and the red day redden the gray-green water, and the early stellwagen from landeck, that had been lumbering along all the night, overtook him. he would have run after it, and called out to the travellers for alms, but he felt ashamed. his father had never let him beg, and he did not know how to begin. the stellwagen rolled on through the autumn mud, and that was one chance lost. he was sure that the first findelkind had not felt ashamed when he had knocked at the first castle gates. by and by, when he could not see martinswand by turning his head back ever so, he came to an inn that used to be a post-house in the old days when men travelled only by road. a woman was feeding chickens in the bright clear red of the cold daybreak. findelkind timidly held out his hand. "for the poor!" he murmured, and doffed his cap. the old woman looked at him sharply. "oh, is it you, little findelkind? have you run off from school? be off with you home! i haves mouths enough to feed here." findelkind went away, and began to learn that it is not easy to be a prophet or a hero in one's own country. he trotted a mile farther, and met nothing. at last he came to some cows by the wayside, and a man tending them. "would you give me something to help make a monastery?" he said, timidly, and once more took off his cap. the man gave a great laugh. "a fine monk, you! and who wants more of these lazy drones? not i." findelkind never answered: he remembered the priest had said that the years he lived in were very hard ones, and men in them had no faith. ere long he came to a big walled house, with turrets and grated casements,--very big it looked to him,--like one of the first findelkind's own castles. his heart beat loud against his side, but he plucked up his courage, and knocked as loud as his heart was beating. he knocked and knocked, but no answer came. the house was empty. but he did not know that; he thought it was that the people within were cruel, and he went sadly onward with the road winding before him, and on his right the beautiful impetuous gray river, and on his left the green mittelgebirge and the mountains that rose behind it. by this time the day was up; the sun was glowing on the red of the cranberry shrubs, and the blue of the bilberry-boughs: he was hungry and thirsty and tired. but he did not give in for that; he held on steadily; he knew that there was near, somewhere near, a great city that the people called sprugg, and thither he had resolved to go. by noontide he had walked eight miles, and came to a green place where men were shooting at targets, the tall, thick grass all around them; and a little way farther off was a train of people chanting and bearing crosses, and dressed in long flowing robes. the place was the hottinger au, and the day was saturday, and the village was making ready to perform a miracle-play on the morrow. findelkind ran to the robed singing-folk, quite sure that he saw the people of god. "oh, take me, take me!" he cried to them; "do take me with you to do heaven's work." but they pushed him aside for a crazy little boy that spoiled their rehearsing. "it is only for hotting folk," said a lad older than himself. "get out of the way with you, liebchen." and the man who carried the cross knocked him with force on the head, by mere accident; but findelkind thought he had meant it. were people so much kinder five centuries before, he wondered, and felt sad as the many-coloured robes swept on through the grass, and the crack of the rifles sounded sharply through the music of the chanting voices. he went on, footsore and sorrowful, thinking of the castle doors that had opened, and the city gates that had unclosed, at the summons of the little long-haired boy whose figure was painted on the missal. he had come now to where the houses were much more numerous, though under the shade of great trees,--lovely old gray houses, some of wood, some of stone, some with frescoes on them and gold and colour and mottoes, some with deep barred casements, and carved portals, and sculptured figures; houses of the poorer people now, but still memorials of a grand and gracious time. for he had wandered into the quarter of st. nicholas in this fair mountain city, which he, like his country-folk, called sprugg, though the government calls it innspruck. he got out upon a long, gray, wooden bridge, and looked up and down the reaches of the river, and thought to himself, maybe this was not sprugg but jerusalem, so beautiful it looked with its domes shining golden in the sun, and the snow of the soldstein and branjoch behind them. for little findelkind had never come so far as this before. as he stood on the bridge so dreaming, a hand clutched him, and a voice said: "a whole kreutzer, or you do not pass!" findelkind started and trembled. a kreutzer! he had never owned such a treasure in all his life. "i have no money!" he murmured, timidly, "i came to see if i could get money for the poor." the keeper of the bridge laughed. "you are a little beggar, you mean? oh, very well! then over my bridge you do not go. "but it is the city on the other side?" "to be sure it is the city; but over nobody goes without a kreutzer." "i never have such a thing of my own! never! never!" said findelkind, ready to cry. "then you were a little fool to come away from your home, wherever that may be," said the man at the bridge-head. "well, i will let you go, for you look a baby. but do not beg; that is bad." "findelkind did it!" "then findelkind was a rogue and a vagabond," said the taker of tolls. "oh, no--no--no!" "oh, yes--yes--yes, little sauce-box; and take that," said the man, giving him a box on the ear, being angry at contradiction. findelkind's head drooped, and he went slowly over the bridge, forgetting that he ought to have thanked the toll-taker for a free passage. the world seemed to him very difficult. how had findelkind done when he had come to bridges?--and, oh, how had findelkind done when he had been hungry? for this poor little findelkind was getting very hungry, and his stomach was as empty as was his wallet. a few steps brought him to the goldenes dachl. he forgot his hunger and his pain, seeing the sun shine on all that gold, and the curious painted galleries under it. he thought it was real solid gold. real gold laid out on a house-roof,--and the people all so poor! findelkind began to muse, and wonder why everybody did not climb up there and take a tile off and be rich? but perhaps it would be wicked. perhaps god put the roof there with all that gold to prove people. findelkind got bewildered. if god did such a thing, was it kind? his head seemed to swim, and the sunshine went round and round with him. there went by him, just then, a very venerable-looking old man with silver hair; he was wrapped in a long cloak. findelkind pulled at the coat gently, and the old man looked down. "what is it, my boy?" he asked. findelkind answered, "i came out to get gold: may i take it off that roof?" "it is not gold, child, it is gilding." "what is gilding?" "it is a thing made to look like gold; that is all." "it is a lie, then!" the old man smiled. "well, nobody thinks so. if you like to put it so, perhaps it is. what do you want gold for, you wee thing?" "to build a monastery, and house the poor." the old man's face scowled and grew dark, for he was a lutheran pastor from bavaria. "who taught you such trash?" he said, crossly. "it is not trash. it is faith." and findelkind's face began to burn, and his blue eyes to darken and moisten. there was a little crowd beginning to gather, and the crowd was beginning to laugh. there were many soldiers and rifle-shooters in the throng, and they jeered and joked, and made fun of the old man in the long cloak, who grew angry then with the child. "you are a little idolater and a little impudent sinner!" he said, wrathfully, and shook the boy by the shoulder, and went away, and the throng that had gathered around had only poor findelkind left to tease. he was a very poor little boy indeed to look at, with his sheepskin tunic, and his bare feet and legs, and his wallet that never was to get filled. "where do you come from, and what do you want?" they asked; and he answered, with a sob in his voice: "i want to do like findelkind of arlberg." and then the crowd laughed, not knowing at all what he meant, but laughing just because they did not know, as crowds always will do. and only the big dogs that are so very big in this country, and are all loose, and free, and good-natured citizens, came up to him kindly, and rubbed against him, and made friends; and at that tears came into his eyes, and his courage rose, and he lifted his head. "you are cruel people to laugh," he said, indignantly; "the dogs are kinder. people did not laugh at findelkind. he was a little boy just like me, no better and no bigger, and as poor, and yet he had so much faith, and the world then was so good, that he left his sheep, and got money enough to build a church and a hospice to christ and st. christopher. and i want to do the same for the poor. not for myself, no; for the poor! i am findelkind too, and findelkind of arlberg that is in heaven speaks to me." then he stopped, and a sob rose again in his throat. "he is crazy!" said the people, laughing, yet a little scared; for the priest at zirl had said rightly, this is not an age of faith. at that moment there sounded, coming from the barracks, that used to be the schloss in the old days of kaiser max and mary of burgundy, the sound of drums and trumpets and the tramp of marching feet. it was one of the corps of jagers of tyrol, going down from the avenue to the rudolfplatz, with their band before them and their pennons streaming. it was a familiar sight, but it drew the street-throngs to it like magic: the age is not fond of dreamers, but it is very fond of drums. in almost a moment the old dark arcades and the river-side and the passages near were all empty, except for the women sitting at their stalls of fruit or cakes, or toys. they are wonderful old arched arcades, like the cloisters of a cathedral more than anything else, and the shops under them are all homely and simple,--shops of leather, of furs, of clothes, of wooden playthings, of sweet and wholesome bread. they are very quaint, and kept by poor folks for poor folks; but to the dazed eyes of findelkind they looked like a forbidden paradise, for he was so hungry and so heart-broken, and he had never seen any bigger place than little zirl. he stood and looked wistfully, but no one offered him anything. close by was a stall of splendid purple grapes, but the old woman that kept it was busy knitting. she only called to him to stand out of her light. "you look a poor brat; have you a home?" said another woman, who sold bridles and whips and horses' bells, and the like. "oh, yes, i have a home,--by martinswand," said findelkind, with a sigh. the woman looked at him sharply. "your parents have sent you on an errand here?" "no; i have run away." "run away? oh, you bad boy!--unless, indeed,--are they cruel to you?" "no; very good." "are you a little rogue, then, or a thief?" "you are a bad woman to think such things," said findelkind, hotly, knowing himself on how innocent and sacred a quest he was. "bad? i? oh, ho!" said the old dame, cracking one of her new whips in the air, "i should like to make you jump about with this, you thankless little vagabond. be off!" findelkind sighed again, his momentary anger passing; for he had been born with a gentle temper, and thought himself to blame much more readily than he thought other people were,--as, indeed, every wise child does, only there are so few children--or men--that are wise. he turned his head away from the temptation of the bread and fruit stalls, for in truth hunger gnawed him terribly, and wandered a little to the left. from where he stood he could see the long, beautiful street of teresa, with its oriels and arches, painted windows and gilded signs, and the steep, gray, dark mountains closing it in at the distance; but the street frightened him, it looked so grand, and he knew it would tempt him; so he went where he saw the green tops of some high elms and beeches. the trees, like the dogs, seemed like friends. it was the human creatures that were cruel. at that moment there came out of the barrack gates, with great noise of trumpets and trampling of horses, a group of riders in gorgeous uniforms, with sabres and chains glancing and plumes tossing. it looked to findelkind like a group of knights,--those knights who had helped and defended his namesake with their steel and their gold in the old days of the arlberg quest. his heart gave a great leap, and he jumped on the dust for joy, and he ran forward and fell on his knees and waved his cap like a little mad thing, and cried out: "oh, dear knights! oh, great soldiers! help me! fight for me, for the love of the saints! i have come all the way from martinswand, and i am findelkind, and i am trying to serve st. christopher like findelkind of arlberg." but his little swaying body and pleading hands and shouting voice and blowing curls frightened the horses; one of them swerved and very nearly settled the woes of findelkind for ever and aye by a kick. the soldier who rode the horse reined him in with difficulty. he was at the head of the little staff, being indeed no less or more than the general commanding the garrison, which in this city is some fifteen thousand strong. an orderly sprang from his saddle and seized the child, and shook him, and swore at him. findelkind was frightened; but he shut his eyes and set his teeth, and said to himself that the martyrs must have had very much worse than these things to suffer in their pilgrimage. he had fancied these riders were knights, such knights as the priest had shown him the likeness of in old picture-books, whose mission it had been to ride through the world succouring the weak and weary, and always defending the right. "what are your swords for, if you are not knights?" he cried, desperately struggling in his captor's grip, and seeing through his half-closed lids the sunshine shining on steel scabbards. "what does he want?" asked the officer in command of the garrison, whose staff all this bright and martial array was. he was riding out from the barracks to an inspection on the rudolfplatz. he was a young man, and had little children himself, and was half amused, half touched, to see the tiny figure of the little dusty boy. "i want to build a monastery, like findelkind of arlberg, and to help the poor," said our findelkind, valorously, though his heart was beating like that of a little mouse caught in a trap; for the horses were trampling up the dust around him, and the orderly's grip was hard. the officers laughed aloud; and indeed he looked a poor little scrap of a figure, very ill able to help even himself. "why do you laugh?" cried findelkind, losing his terror in his indignation, and inspired with the courage which a great earnestness always gives. "you should not laugh. if you were true knights, you would not laugh; you would fight for me. i am little, i know,--i am very little,--but he was no bigger than i; and see what great things he did. but the soldiers were good in those days; they did not laugh and use bad words--" and findelkind, on whose shoulder the orderly's hold was still fast, faced the horses, which looked to him as huge as martinswand, and the swords, which he little doubted were to be sheathed in his heart. the officers stared, laughed again, then whispered together, and findelkind heard them say the word "crazed." findelkind, whose quick little ears were both strained like a mountain leveret's, understood that the great men were saying among themselves that it was not safe for him to be about alone, and that it would be kinder to him to catch and cage him,--the general view with which the world regards enthusiasts. he heard, he understood; he knew that they did not mean to help him, these men with the steel weapons and the huge steeds, but that they meant to shut him up in a prison--he, little free-born, forest-fed findelkind. he wrenched himself out of the soldier's grip, as the rabbit wrenches itself out of the jaws of the trap even at the cost of leaving a limb behind, shot between the horses' legs, doubled like a hunted thing, and spied a refuge. opposite the avenue of gigantic poplars and pleasant stretches of grass shaded by other bigger trees, there stands a very famous church, famous alike in the annals of history and of art,--the church of the franciscans, that holds the tomb of kaiser max, though, alas! it holds not his ashes, as his dying desire was that it should. the church stands here, a noble, sombre place, with the silver chapel of philippina wessler adjoining it, and in front the fresh cool avenues that lead to the river and broad water-meadows and the grand hall road bordered with the painted stations of the cross. there were some peasants coming in from the country driving cows, and some burghers in their carts, with fat, slow horses; some little children were at play under the poplars and the elms; great dogs were lying about on the grass; everything was happy and at peace, except the poor throbbing heart of little findelkind, who thought the soldiers were coming after him to lock him up as mad, and ran and ran as fast as his trembling legs would carry him, making for sanctuary, as, in the old bygone days that he loved, many a soul less innocent than his had done. the wide doors of the hofkirche stood open, and on the steps lay a black-and-tan hound, watching no doubt for its master or mistress, who had gone within to pray. findelkind, in his terror, vaulted over the dog, and into the church tumbled headlong. it seemed quite dark, after the brilliant sunshine on the river and the grass; his forehead touched the stone floor as he fell, and as he raised himself and stumbled forward, reverent and bareheaded, looking for the altar to cling to when the soldiers should enter to seize him, his uplifted eyes fell on the great tomb. the tomb seems entirely to fill the church, as, with its twenty-four guardian figures around it, it towers up in the twilight that reigns here even at midday. there are a stern majesty and grandeur in it which dwarf every other monument and mausoleum. it is grim, it is rude, it is savage, with the spirit of the rough ages that created it; but it is great with their greatness, it is heroic with their heroism, it is simple with their simplicity. as the awestricken eyes of the terrified child fell on the mass of stone and bronze, the sight smote him breathless. the mailed warriors standing around it, so motionless, so solemn, filled him with a frozen, nameless fear. he had never a doubt that they were the dead arisen. the foremost that met his eyes were theodoric and arthur; the next, grim rudolf, father of a dynasty of emperors. there, leaning on their swords, the three gazed down on him, armoured, armed, majestic, serious, guarding the empty grave, which to the child, who knew nothing of its history, seemed a bier; and at the feet of theodoric, who alone of them all looked young and merciful, poor little desperate findelkind fell with a piteous sob, and cried, "i am not mad! indeed, indeed, i am not mad!" he did not know that these grand figures were but statues of bronze. he was quite sure they were the dead, arisen, and meeting there, around that tomb on which the solitary kneeling knight watched and prayed, encircled, as by a wall of steel, by these his comrades. he was not frightened, he was rather comforted and stilled, as with a sudden sense of some deep calm and certain help. findelkind, without knowing that he was like so many dissatisfied poets and artists much bigger than himself, dimly felt in his little tired mind how beautiful and how gorgeous and how grand the world must have been when heroes and knights like these had gone by in its daily sunshine and its twilight storms. no wonder findelkind of arlberg had found his pilgrimage so fair, when if he had needed any help he had only had to kneel and clasp these firm, mailed limbs, these strong cross-hilted swords, in the name of christ and of the poor. theodoric seemed to look down on him with benignant eyes from under the raised visor; and our poor findelkind, weeping, threw his small arms closer and closer around the bronze knees of the heroic figure, and sobbed aloud, "help me, help me! oh, turn the hearts of the people to me, and help me to do good!" but theodoric answered nothing. there was no sound in the dark, hushed church; the gloom grew darker over findelkind's eyes; the mighty forms of monarchs and of heroes grew dim before his sight. he lost consciousness, and fell prone upon the stones at theodoric's feet; for he had fainted from hunger and emotion. when he awoke it was quite evening; there was a lantern held over his head; voices were muttering curiously and angrily; bending over him were two priests, a sacristan of the church, and his own father. his little wallet lay by him on the stones, always empty. "boy of mine! were you mad?" cried his father, half in rage, half in tenderness. "the chase you have led me!--and your mother thinking you were drowned!--and all the working day lost, running after old women's tales of where they had seen you! oh, little fool, little fool! what was amiss with martinswand, that you must leave it?" findelkind slowly and feebly rose, and sat up on the pavement, and looked up, not at his father, but at the knight theodoric. "i thought they would help me to keep the poor," he muttered, feebly, as he glanced at his own wallet. "and it is empty,--empty." "and are we not poor enough?" cried his father, with natural impatience, ready to tear his hair with vexation at having such a little idiot for a son. "must you rove afield to find poverty to help, when it sits cold enough, the lord knows, at our own hearth? oh, little ass, little dolt, little maniac, fit only for a madhouse, talking to iron figures and taking them for real men! what have i done, o heaven, that i should be afflicted thus?" and the poor man wept, being a good affectionate soul, but not very wise, and believing that his boy was mad. then, seized with sudden rage once more, at thought of his day all wasted, and its hours harassed and miserable through searching for the lost child, he plucked up the light, slight figure of findelkind in his own arms, and, with muttered thanks and excuses to the sacristan of the church, bore the boy out with him into the evening air, and lifted him into a cart, which stood there with a horse harnessed to one side of the pole, as the country-people love to do, to the risk of their own lives and their neighbours'. findelkind said never a word; he was as dumb as theodoric had been to him; he felt stupid, heavy, half blind; his father pushed him some bread, and he ate it by sheer instinct, as a lost animal will do; the cart jogged on, the stars shone, the great church vanished in the gloom of night. as they went through the city toward the riverside along the homeward way, never a word did his father, who was a silent man at all times, address to him. only once, as they jogged over the bridge, he spoke. "son," he asked, "did you run away truly thinking to please god and help the poor?" "truly i did!" answered findelkind, with a sob in his throat. "then thou wert an ass!" said his father. "didst never think of thy mother's love and of my toil? look at home." findelkind was mute. the drive was very long, backward by the same way, with the river shining in the moonlight, and the mountains half covered with the clouds. it was ten by the bells of zirl when they came once more under the solemn shadow of grave martinswand. there were lights moving about his house, his brothers and sisters were still up, his mother ran out into the road, weeping and laughing with fear and joy. findelkind himself said nothing. he hung his head. they were too fond of him to scold him or to jeer at him; they made him go quickly to his bed, and his mother made him a warm milk posset, and kissed him. "we will punish thee tomorrow, naughty and cruel one," said his parent. "but thou art punished enough already, for in thy place little stefan had the sheep, and he has lost katte's lambs,--the beautiful twin lambs! i dare not tell thy father tonight. dost hear the poor thing mourn? do not go afield for thy duty again." a pang went through the heart of findelkind, as if a knife had pierced it. he loved katte better than almost any other living thing, and she was bleating under his window childless and alone. they were such beautiful lambs, too!--lambs that his father had promised should never be killed, but be reared to swell the flock. findelkind cowered down in his bed, and felt wretched beyond all wretchedness. he had been brought back; his wallet was empty; and katte's lambs were lost. he could not sleep. his pulses were beating like so many steam-hammers; he felt as if his body were all one great throbbing heart. his brothers, who lay in the same chamber with him, were sound asleep; very soon his father and mother snored also, on the other side of the wall. findelkind was alone wide awake, watching the big white moon sail past his little casement, and hearing katte bleat. where were her poor twin lambs? the night was bitterly cold, for it was already far on in autumn; the rivers had swollen and flooded many fields, the snow for the last week had fallen quite low down on the mountainsides. even if still living, the little lambs would die, out on such a night without the mother or food and shelter of any sort. findelkind, whose vivid brain always saw everything that he imagined as if it were being acted before his eyes, in fancy saw his two dear lambs floating dead down the swollen tide, entangled in rushes on the flooded shore, or fallen with broken limbs upon a crest of rocks. he saw them so plainly that scarcely could he hold back his breath from screaming aloud in the still night and answering the mourning wail of the desolate mother. at last he could bear it no longer: his head burned, and his brain seemed whirling round; at a bound he leaped out of bed quite noiselessly, slid into his sheepskins, and stole out as he had done the night before, hardly knowing what he did. poor katte was mourning in the wooden shed with the other sheep, and the wail of her sorrow sounded sadly across the loud roar of the rushing river. the moon was still high. above, against the sky, black and awful with clouds floating over its summit, was the great martinswand. findelkind this time called the big dog waldmar to him, and, with the dog beside him, went once more out into the cold and the gloom, whilst his father and mother, his brothers and sisters, wore sleeping, and poor childless katte alone was awake. he looked up at the mountain and then across the water-swept meadows to the river. he was in doubt which way to take. then he thought that in all likelihood the lambs would have been seen if they had wandered the river way, and even little stefan would have had too much sense to let them go there. so he crossed the road and began to climb martinswand. with the instinct of the born mountaineer, he had brought out his crampons with him, and had now fastened them on his feet; he knew every part and ridge of the mountains, and had more than once climbed over to that very spot where kaiser max had hung in peril of his life. on second thoughts he bade waldmar go back to the house. the dog was a clever mountaineer, too, but findelkind did not wish to lead him into danger. "i have done the wrong, and i will bear the brunt," he said to himself; for he felt as if he had killed katte's children, and the weight of the sin was like lead on his heart, and he would not kill good waldmar, too. his little lantern did not show much light, and as he went higher upwards he lost sight of the moon. the cold was nothing to him, because the clear still air was that in which he had been reared; and the darkness he did not mind, because he was used to that also; but the weight of sorrow upon him he scarcely knew how to bear, and how to find two tiny lambs in this vast waste of silence and shadow would have puzzled and wearied older minds than his. garibaldi and all his household, old soldiers tried and true, sought all night once upon caprera in such a quest, in vain. if he could only have awakened his brother stefan to ask him which way they had gone! but then, to be sure, he remembered, stefan must have told that to all those who had been looking for the lambs from sunset to nightfall. all alone he began the ascent. time and again, in the glad spring-time and the fresh summer weather, he had driven his flock upwards to eat the grass that grew, in the clefts of the rocks and on the broad green alps. the sheep could not climb to the highest points; but the goats did, and he with them. time and again he had lain on his back in these uppermost heights, with the lower clouds behind him and the black wings of the birds and the crows almost touching his forehead, as he lay gazing up into the blue depth of the sky, and dreaming, dreaming, dreaming. he would never dream any more now, he thought to himself. his dreams had cost katte her lambs, and the world of the dead findelkind was gone for ever: gone were all the heroes and knights; gone all the faith and the force; gone every one who cared for the dear christ and the poor in pain. the bells of zirl were ringing midnight. findelkind heard, and wondered that only two hours had gone by since his mother had kissed him in his bed. it seemed to him as if long, long nights had rolled away, and he had lived a hundred years. he did not feel any fear of the dark calm night, lit now and then by silvery gleams of moon and stars. the mountain was his old familiar friend, and the ways of it had no more terror for him than these hills here used to have for the bold heart of kaiser max. indeed, all he thought of was katte,--katte and the lambs. he knew the way that the sheep-tracks ran; the sheep could not climb so high as the goats; and he knew, too, that little stefan could not climb so high as he. so he began his search low down upon martinswand. after midnight the cold increased; there were snow-clouds hanging near, and they opened over his head, and the soft snow came flying along. for himself he did not mind it, but alas for the lambs!--if it covered them, how would he find them? and if they slept in it, they were dead. it was bleak and bare on the mountain-side, though there were still patches of grass such as the flocks liked, that had grown since the hay was cut. the frost of the night made the stone slippery, and even the irons gripped it with difficulty; and there was a strong wind rising like a giant's breath, and blowing his small horn lantern to and fro. now and then he quaked a little with fear,--not fear of the night or the mountains, but of strange spirits and dwarfs and goblins of ill repute, said to haunt martinswand after nightfall. old women had told him of such things, though the priest always said that they were only foolish tales, there being nothing on god's earth wicked save men and women who had not clean hearts and hands. findelkind believed the priest; still, all alone on the side of the mountain with the snowflakes flying around him, he felt a nervous thrill that made him tremble and almost turn backward. almost, but not quite; for he thought of katte and the poor little lambs lost--and perhaps dead--through his fault. the path went zigzag and was very steep; the arolla pines swayed their boughs in his face; stones that lay in his path unseen in the gloom made him stumble. now and then a large bird of the night flew by with a rushing sound; the air grew so cold that all martinswand might have been turning to one huge glacier. all at once he heard through the stillness--for there is nothing so still as a mountainside in snow--a little pitiful bleat. all his terrors vanished; all his memories of ghost-tales passed away; his heart gave a leap of joy; he was sure it was the cry of the lambs. he stopped to listen more surely. he was now many score of feet above the level of his home and of zirl; he was, as nearly as he could judge, half-way as high as where the cross in the cavern marks the spot of the kaiser's peril. the little bleat sounded above him, very feeble and faint. findelkind set his lantern down, braced himself up by drawing tighter his old leathern girdle, set his sheepskin cap firm on his forehead, and went toward the sound as far as he could judge that it might be. he was out of the woods now; there were only a few straggling pines rooted here and there in a mass of loose-lying rock and slate; so much he could tell by the light of the lantern, and the lambs by the bleating, seemed still above him. it does not, perhaps, seem very hard labour to hunt about by a dusky light upon a desolate mountainside; but when the snow is falling fast,--when the light is only a small circle, wavering, yellowish on the white,--when around is a wilderness of loose stones and yawning clefts,--when the air is ice and the hour is past midnight,--the task is not a light one for a man; and findelkind was a child, like that findelkind that was in heaven. long, very long was his search; he grew hot and forgot all fear except a spasm of terror lest his light should burn low and die out. the bleating had quite ceased now, and there was not even a sigh to guide him; but he knew that near him the lambs must be, and he did not waver or despair. he did not pray; praying in the morning had been no use; but he trusted in god, and he laboured hard, toiling to and fro, seeking in every nook and behind each stone, and straining every muscle and nerve, till the sweat rolled in a briny dew off his forehead, and his curls dripped with wet. at last, with a scream of joy, he touched some soft close wool that gleamed white as the white snow. he knelt down on the ground, and peered behind the stone by the full light of his lantern; there lay the little lambs,--two little brothers, twin brothers, huddled close together, asleep. asleep? he was sure they were asleep, for they were so silent and still. he bowed over them, and kissed them, and laughed, and cried, and kissed them again. then a sudden horror smote him; they were so very still. there they lay, cuddled close, one on another, one little white head on each little white body,--drawn closer than ever together, to try and get warm. he called to them, he touched them, then he caught them up in his arms, and kissed them again, and again, and again. alas! they were frozen and dead. never again would they leap in the long green grass, and frisk with each other, and lie happy by katte's side; they had died calling for their mother, and in the long, cold, cruel night, only death had answered. findelkind did not weep, or scream, or tremble; his heart seemed frozen, like the dead lambs. it was he who had killed them. he rose up and gathered them in his arms, and cuddled them in the skirts of his sheepskin tunic, and cast his staff away that he might carry them, and so, with their weight, set his face to the snow and the wind once more, and began his downward way. once a great sob shook him; that was all. now he had no fear. the night might have been noonday, the snow-storm might have been summer, for aught that he knew or cared. long and weary was the way, and often he stumbled and had to rest; often the terrible sleep of the snow lay heavy on his eyelids, and he longed to lie down and be at rest, as the little brothers were; often it seemed to him that he would never reach home again. but he shook the lethargy off him, and resisted the longing, and held on his way; he knew that his mother would mourn for him as katte mourned for the lambs. at length, through all difficulty and danger, when his light had spent itself, and his strength had well-nigh spent itself too, his feet touched the old highroad. there were flickering torches and many people, and loud cries around the church, as there had been four hundred years before, when the last sacrament had been said in the valley for the hunter-king in peril above. his mother, being sleepless and anxious, had risen long before it was dawn, and had gone to the children's chamber, and had found the bed of findelkind empty once more. he came into the midst of the people with the two little lambs in his arms, and he heeded neither the outcries of neighbours nor the frenzied joy of his mother; his eyes looked straight before him, and his face was white like the snow. "i killed them," he said, and then two great tears rolled down his cheeks and fell on the little cold bodies of the two little dead brothers. findelkind was very ill for many nights and many days after that. whenever he spoke in his fever he always said, "i killed them!" never anything else. so the dreary winter months went by, while the deep snow filled up lands and meadows, and covered the great mountains from summit to base, and all around martinswand was quite still, and now and then the post went by to zirl, and on the holy-days the bells tolled; that was all. his mother sat between the stove and his bed with a sore heart; and his father, as he went to and fro between the walls of beaten snow from the wood-shed to the cattle-byre, was sorrowful, thinking to himself the child would die, and join that earlier findelkind whose home was with the saints. but the child did not die. he lay weak and wasted and almost motionless a long time; but slowly, as the springtime drew near, and the snows on the lower hills loosened, and the abounding waters coursed green and crystal clear down all the sides of the hills, findelkind revived as the earth did, and by the time the new grass was springing, and the first blue of the gentian gleamed on the alps, he was well. but to this day he seldom plays and scarcely ever laughs. his face is sad, and his eyes have a look of trouble. sometimes the priest of zirl says of him to others, "he will be a great poet or a great hero some day." who knows? meanwhile, in the heart of the child there remains always a weary pain, that lies on his childish life as a stone may lie on a flower. "i killed them!" he says often to himself, thinking of the two little white brothers frozen to death on martinswand that cruel night; and he does the things that are told him, and is obedient, and tries to be content with the humble daily duties that are his lot, and when he says his prayers at bedtime always ends them so: "dear god, do let the little lambs play with the other findelkind that is in heaven." alone in london by hesba stretton author of "jessica's first prayer," "little meg's children," etc. contents. chapter i. not alone ii. waifs and strays iii. a little peacemaker iv. old oliver's master v. forsaken again vi. the grasshopper a burden vii. the prince of life viii. no pipe for old oliver ix. a new broom and a crossing x. highly respectable xi. among thieves xii. tony's welcome xiii. new boots xiv. in hospital xv. tony's future prospects xvi. a bud fading xvii. a very dark shadow xviii. no room for dolly xix. the golden city xx. a fresh day dawns xxi. polly chapter i. not alone. it had been a close and sultry day--one of the hottest of the dog-days--even out in the open country, where the dusky green leaves had never stirred upon their stems since the sunrise, and where the birds had found themselves too languid for any songs beyond a faint chirp now and then. all day long the sun had shone down steadily upon the streets of london, with a fierce glare and glowing heat, until the barefooted children had felt the dusty pavement burn under their tread almost as painfully as the icy pavement had frozen their naked feet in the winter. in the parks, and in every open space, especially about the cool splash of the fountains at charing cross, the people, who had escaped from the crowded and unventilated back streets, basked in the sunshine, or sought every corner where a shadow could be found. but in the alleys and slums the air was heavy with heat and dust, and thick vapours floated up and down, charged with sickening smells from the refuse of fish and vegetables decaying in the gutters. overhead the small, straight strip of sky was almost white, and the light, as it fell, seemed to quiver with the burden of its own burning heat. out of one of the smaller thoroughfares lying between holborn and the strand, there opens a narrow alley, not more than six or seven feet across, with high buildings on each side. in the most part the ground floors consist of small shops; for the alley is not a blind one, but leads from the thoroughfare to another street, and forms, indeed, a short cut to it, pretty often used. these shops are not of any size or importance--a greengrocer's, with a somewhat scanty choice of vegetables and fruit, a broker's, displaying queer odds and ends of household goods, two or three others, and at the end farthest from the chief thoroughfare, but nearest to the quiet and respectable street beyond, a very modest-looking little shop-window, containing a few newspapers, some rather yellow packets of stationery, and two or three books of ballads. above the door was painted, in very small, dingy letters, the words, "james oliver, news agent." the shop was even smaller, in proportion, than its window. after two customers had entered--if such an event could ever come to pass--it would have been almost impossible to find room for a third. along the end ran a little counter, with a falling flap by which admission could be gained to the living-room lying behind the shop. this evening the flap was down--a certain sign that james oliver, the news agent, had some guest within, for otherwise there would have been no occasion to lessen the scanty size of the counter. the room beyond was dark, very dark indeed, for the time of day; for, though the evening was coming on, and the sun was hastening to go down at last, it had not yet ceased to shine brilliantly upon the great city. but inside james oliver's house the gas was already lighted in a little steady flame, which never flickered in the still, hot air, though both door and window were wide open. for there was a window, though it was easy to overlook it, opening into a passage four feet wide, which led darkly up into a still closer and hotter court, lying in the very core of the maze of streets. as the houses were four stories high, it is easy to understand that very little sunlight could penetrate to oliver's room behind his shop, and that even at noonday it was twilight there. this room was of a better size altogether than a stranger might have supposed, having two or three queer little nooks and recesses borrowed from the space belonging to the adjoining house; for the buildings were old, and had probably been one large dwelling in former times. it was plainly the only apartment the owner had; and all its arrangements were those of a man living alone, for there was something almost desolate about the look of the scanty furniture, though it was clean and whole. there had been a fire, but it had died out, and the coals were black in the grate, while the kettle still sat upon the top bar with a melancholy expression of neglect about it. james oliver himself had placed his chair near to the open door, where he could keep his eye upon the shop--a needless precaution, as at this hour no customers ever turned into it. he was an old man, and seemed very old and infirm by the dim light. he was thin and spare, with that peculiar spareness which results from the habit of always eating less than one can. his teeth, which had never had too much to do, had gone some years ago, and his cheeks fell in rather deeply. a fine network of wrinkles puckered about the corners of his eyes and mouth. he stooped a good deal, and moved about with the slowness and deliberation of age. yet his face was very pleasant--a cheery, gentle, placid face, lighted up with a smile now and then, but with sufficient rareness to make it the more welcome and the more noticed when it came. old oliver had a visitor this hot evening, a neat, small, dapper woman, with a little likeness to himself, who had been putting his room to rights, and looking to the repairs needed by his linen. she was just replacing her needle, cotton, and buttons in an old-fashioned housewife, which she always carried in her pocket, and was then going to put on her black silk bonnet and coloured shawl, before bidding him goodbye. "eh, charlotte," said oliver, after drawing a long and toilsome breath, "what would i give to be a-top of the wrekin, seeing the sun set this evening! many and many's the summer afternoon we've spent there when we were young, and all of us alive. dost remember how many a mile of country we could see all round us, and how fresh the air blew across the thousands of green fields? why, i saw snowdon once, more than sixty miles off, when my eyes were young and it was a clear sunset. i always think of the top of the wrekin when i read of moses going up mount pisgah and seeing all the land about him, north and south, east and west. eh, lass! there's a change in us all now!" "ah! it's like another world!" said the old woman, shaking her head slowly. "all the folks i used to sew for at aston, and uppington, and overlehill, they'd mostly be gone or dead by now. it wouldn't seem like the same place at all. and now there's none but you and me left, brother james. well, well! its lonesome, growing old." "yes, lonesome, yet not exactly lonesome," replied old oliver, in a dreamy voice. "i'm growing dark a little, and just a trifle deaf, and i don't feel quite myself like i used to do; but i've got something i didn't use to have. sometimes of an evening, before i've lit the gas, i've a sort of a feeling as if i could almost see the lord jesus, and hear him talking to me. he looks to me something like our eldest brother, him that died when we were little. charlotte, thee remembers him? a white, quiet, patient face, with a smile like the sun shining behind clouds. well, whether it's only a dream or no i cannot tell, but there's a face looks at me, or seems to look at me out of the dusk; and i think to myself, maybe the lord jesus says, 'old oliver's lonesome down there in the dark, and his eyes growing dim. i'll make myself half-plain to him.' then he comes and sits here with me for a little while." "oh, that's all fancy as comes with you living quite alone," said charlotte, sharply. "perhaps so! perhaps so!" answered the old man, with a meek sigh; "but i should be very lonesome without that." they did not speak again until charlotte had given a final shake to the bed in the corner, upon which her bonnet and shawl had been lying. she put them on neatly and primly; and when she was ready to go she spoke again in a constrained and mysterious manner. "heard nothing of susan, i suppose?" she said. "not a word," answered old oliver, sadly. "it's the only trouble i've got. that were the last passion i ever went into, and i was hot and hasty, i know." "so you always used to be at times," said his sister. "ah! but that passion was the worst of all," he went on, speaking slowly. "i told her if she married young raleigh, she should never darken my doors again--never again. and she took me at my word though she might have known it was nothing but father's hot temper. darken my doors! why, the brightest sunshine i could have 'ud be to see her come smiling into my shop, like she used to do at home." "well, i think susan ought to have humbled herself," said charlotte. "it's going on for six years now, and she's had time enough to see her folly. do you know where she is?" "i know nothing about her," he answered, shaking his head sorrowfully. "young raleigh was wild, very wild, and that was my objection to him; but i didn't mean susan to take me at my word. i shouldn't speak so hasty and hot now." "and to think. i'd helped to bring her up so genteel, and with such pretty manners!" cried the old woman, indignantly. "she might have done so much better with her cleverness too. such a milliner as she might have turned out! well good-bye, brother james, and don't go having any more of those visions; they're not wholesome for you." "i should be very lonesome without them," answered oliver. "good-bye, charlotte, good-bye, and god bless you. come again as soon as you can." he went with her to the door, and stayed to watch her along the quiet alley, till she turned into the street. then, with a last nod to the back of her bonnet, as she passed out of his sight, he returned slowly into his dark shop, put up the flap of the counter, and retreated to the darker room within. hot as it was, he fancied it was growing a little chilly with the coming of the night, and he drew on his old coat, and threw a handkerchief over his white head, and then sat down in the dusk, looking out into his shop and the alley beyond it. he must have fallen into a doze after a while, being overcome with the heat, and lulled by the constant hum of the streets, which reached his dull ear in a softened murmur; for at length he started up almost in a fright, and found that complete darkness had fallen upon him suddenly, as it seemed to him. a church clock was striking nine, and his shop was not closed yet. he went out hurriedly to put the shutters up. chapter ii. waifs and strays. in the shop it was not yet so dark but that old oliver could see his way out with the shutters, which during the day occupied a place behind the door. he lifted the flap of the counter, and was about to go on with his usual business, when a small voice, trembling a little, and speaking from the floor at his very feet, caused him to pause suddenly. "please, rere's a little girl here," said the voice. oliver stooped down to bring his eyes nearer to the ground, until he could make out the indistinct outline of the figure of a child, seated on his shop floor, and closely hugging a dog in her arms. her face looked small to him; it was pale, as if she had been crying quietly, and though he could not see them, a large tear stood on each of her cheeks. "what little girl are you?" he asked, almost timidly. "rey called me dolly," answered the child. "haven't you any other name?" inquired old oliver "nosing else but poppet," she said; "rey call me dolly sometimes, and poppet sometimes. ris is my little dog, beppo." she introduced the dog by pushing its nose into his hand, and beppo complacently wagged his tail and licked the old man's withered fingers. "what brings you here in my shop, my little woman?" asked oliver. "mammy brought me," she said, with a stifled sob; "she told me run in rere, dolly, and stay till mammy comes back, and be a good girl always. am i a good girl?" "yes, yes," he answered, soothingly; "you're a very good little girl, i'm sure; and mother 'ill come back soon, very soon. let us go to the door, and look for her." he took her little hand in his own; such a little hand it felt, that he could not help tightening his fingers fondly over it; and then they stood for a few minutes on the door-sill, while old oliver looked anxiously up and down the alley. at the greengrocer's next door there flared a bright jet of gas, and the light shone well into the deepening darkness. but there was no woman in sight, and the only person about was a ragged boy, barefoot and bareheaded with no clothing but a torn pair of trousers, very jagged about the ankles, and a jacket through which his thin shoulders displayed themselves. he was lolling in the lowest window-sill of the house opposite, and watched oliver and the little girl looking about them with sundry signs of interest and amusement. "she ain't nowhere in sight," he called across to them after a while, "nor won't be, neither, i'll bet you. you're looking out for the little un's mother, ain't you, old master?" "yes," answered oliver; "do you know anything about her, my boy?" "nothink," he said, with a laugh; "only she looked as if she were up to some move, and as i'd nothink particular on hand, i just followed her. she was somethink like my mother, as is dead, not fat or rosy, you know, with a bit of a bruise about her eye, as if somebody had been fighting with her. i thought there'd be a lark when she left the little 'un in your shop, so i just stopped to see. she bolted as if the bobbies were after her." "how long ago?" asked oliver, anxiously. "the clocks had just gone eight," he answered; "i've been watching for you ever since." "why! that's a full hour ago," said the old man, looking wistfully down the alley; "it's time she was come back again for her little girl." [illustration: the little stranger.] but there was no symptom of anybody coming to claim the little girl, who stood very quietly at his side, one hand holding the dog fast by his ear, and the other still lying in oliver's grasp. the boy hopped on one foot across the narrow alley, and looked up with bright, eager eyes into the old man's face. "i say," he said, earnestly, "don't you go to give her up to the p'lice. they'd take her to the house, and that's worse than the jail. bless yer! they'd never take up a little thing like that to jail for a wagrant. you just give her to me, and i'll take care of her. it 'ud be easy enough to find victuals for such a pretty little thing as her. you give her up to me, i say." "what's your name?" asked oliver, clasping the little hand tighter, "and where do you come from?" "from nowhere particular," answered the boy; "and my name's antony; tony, for short. i used to have another name; mother told it me afore she died, but it's gone clean out o' my head. tony i am, anyhow, and you can call me by it, if you choose." "how old are you, tony?" inquired oliver, still lingering on the threshold, and looking up and down with his dim eyes. "bless yer! i don't know," replied tony; "i weren't much bigger nor her when mother died, and i've found myself ever since. i never had any father." "found yourself!" repeated the old man, absently. "ah, it's not bad in the summer," said tony, more earnestly than before: "and i could find for the little 'un easy enough. i sleep anywhere, in covent garden sometimes, and the parks--anywhere as the p'lice 'ill let me alone. you won't go to give her up to them p'lice, will you now, and she so pretty?" he spoke in a beseeching tone, and old oliver looked down upon him through his spectacles, with a closer survey than he had given to him before. the boy's face was pale and meagre, with an unboyish sharpness about it, though he did not seem more than nine or ten years old. his glittering eyes were filled with tears, and his colourless lips quivered. he wiped away the tears roughly upon the ragged sleeve of his jacket. "i never were such a baby before," said tony, "only she is such a nice little thing, and such a tiny little 'un. you'll keep her, master, won't you? or give her up to me?" "ay, ay! i'll take care of her," answered oliver, "till her mother comes back for her. she'll come pretty soon, i know. but she wants her supper now, doesn't she?" he stooped down to bring his face nearer to the child's, and she raised her hand to it, and stroked his cheek with her warm, soft fingers. "beppo wants his supper, too," she said, in a clear, shrill, little voice, which penetrated easily through old oliver's deafened hearing. "and beppo shall have some supper as well as the little woman," he answered. "i'll put the shutters up now, and leave the door ajar, and the gas lit for mother to see when she comes back; and if mother shouldn't come back to night, the little woman will sleep in my bed, won't she?" "dolly's to be a good girl till mammy comes back," said the child, plaintively, and holding harder by beppo's ear. "let me put the shutters up, master," cried tony, eagerly; "i won't charge you nothink, and i'll just look round in the morning to see how you're getting along. she is such a very little thing." the shutters were put up briskly, and then tony took a long, farewell gaze of the old man and the little child, but he could not offer to touch either of them. he glanced at his hands, and oliver did the same; but they both shook their heads. "i'll have a wash in the morning afore i come," he said, nodding resolutely; "good-bye, guv'ner; goodbye, little 'un." old oliver went in, leaving his door ajar, and his gas lit, as he had said. he fed the hungry child with bread and butter, and used up his half-pennyworth of milk, which he bought for himself every evening. then he lifted her on to his knee, with beppo in her arms, and sat for a long while waiting. the little head nodded, and dolly sat up, unsteadily striving hard to keep awake; but at last she let beppo drop to the floor, while she herself fell upon the old man's breast, and lay there without moving. it chimed eleven o'clock at last, and oliver knew it was of no use to watch any longer. he managed to undress his little charge with gentle, though trembling hands, and then he laid her down on his bed, putting his only pillow against the wall to make a soft nest for the tender and sleepy child. she roused herself for a minute, and stared about her, gazing steadily, with large, tearful eyes, into his face. then as he sat down on the bedstead beside her, to comfort her as well as he could, she lifted herself up, and knelt down, with her folded hands laid against his shoulder. "dolly vewy seepy," she lisped, "but must say her prayers always." "what are your prayers, my dear?" he asked. "on'y god bless gan-pa, and father, and mammy, and poor beppo, and make me a good girl," murmured the drowsy voice, as dolly closed her eyes again, and fell off into a deep sleep the next moment. chapter iii. a little peacemaker. it was a very strange event which had befallen old oliver. he went back to his own chair, where he smoked his broseley pipe every night, and sank down in it, rubbing his legs softly; for it was a long time since he had nursed any child, and even dolly's small weight was a burden to him. her tiny clothes were scattered up and down, and there was no one beside himself to gather them together, and fold them straight. in shaking out her frock a letter fell from it, and oliver picked it up wondering whoever it could be for. it was directed to himself, "mr. james oliver, news-agent," and he broke the seal with eager expectation. the contents were these, written in a handwriting which he knew at first sight to be his daughter's:-- "dear father, "i am very very sorry i ever did anything to make you angry with me. this is your poor susan's little girl, as is come to be a little peacemaker betwixt you and me. i'm certain sure you'll never turn her away from your door. i'm going down to portsmouth for three days, because he listed five months ago, and his regiment's ordered out to india, and he sails on friday. so i thought i wouldn't take my little girl to be in the way, and i said i'll leave her with father till i come back, and her pretty little ways will soften him towards me, and we'll live all together in peace and plenty till his regiment comes home again, poor fellow. for he's very good to me when he's not in liquor, which is seldom for a man. please do forgive me for pity's sake, and for christ's sake, if i'm worthy to use his name, and do take care of my little girl till i come home to you both on friday, from your now dutiful daughter, "poor susan." the tears rolled fast down old oliver's cheeks as he read this letter through twice, speaking the words half aloud to himself. why! this was his own little grandchild, then--his very own! and no doubt susan had christened her dorothy, after her own mother, his dear wife, who had died so many years ago. dolly was the short for dorothy, and in early times he had often called his wife by that name. he had turned his gas off and lighted a candle, and now he took it up and went to the bedside to look at his new treasure. the tiny face lying upon his pillow was rosy with sleep, and the fair curly hair was tossed about in pretty disorder. his spectacles grew very dim indeed, and he was obliged to polish them carefully on his cotton handkerchief before he could see his grand-daughter plainly enough. then he touched her dimpled cheek tremblingly with the end of his finger, and sobbed out, "bless her! bless her!" he returned to his chair, his head shaking a good deal before he could regain his composure; and it was not until he had kindled his pipe, and was smoking it, with his face turned towards the sleeping child, that he felt at all like himself again. "dear lord!" he said, half aloud, between the whiffs of his pipe, "dear lord! how very good thou art to me! didst thee not say, 'i'll not leave thee comfortless, i'll come to thee?' i know what that means, bless thy name; and the good spirit has many a time brought me comfort, and cheered my heart. i know thou didst not leave me alone before. no, no! that was far from thee, lord. alone!--why, thou'rt always here; and now there's the little lass as well. lonesome!--they don't know thee, lord, and they don't know me. thou'rt here, with the little lass and me. yes, yes,--yes." he murmured the word "yes" in a tone of contentment over and over again, until, the pipe being finished, he prepared for sleep also. but no sleep came to the old man. he was too full of thought, and too fearful of the child waking in the night and wanting something. the air was close and hot, and now and then a peal of thunder broke overhead; but a profound peace and tranquillity, slightly troubled by his new joy, held possession of him. his grandchild was there, and his daughter was coming back to him in three days. oh, how he would welcome her! he would not let her speak one word of her wilfulness and disobedience, and the long, cruel neglect which had left him in ignorance of where she lived, and what had become of her. it was partly his fault, for having been too hard upon her, and too hasty and hot-tempered. he had learnt better since then. chapter iv. old oliver's master. very early in the morning, before the tardy daylight could creep into the darkened room, old oliver was up and busy. he had been in the habit of doing for himself, as he called it, ever since his daughter had forsaken him, and he was by nature fastidiously clean and neat. but now there would be additional duties for him during the next three days; for there would be dolly to wash, and dress, and provide breakfast for. every few minutes he stole a look at her lying still asleep; and as soon as he discovered symptoms of awaking, he hastily lifted beppo on to the bed, that her opening eyes should be greeted by some familiar sight. she stretched out her wonderful little hands, and caught hold of the dog's rough head before venturing to lift her eyelids, while oliver looked on in speechless delight. at length she ventured to peep slyly at him, and then addressed herself to beppo. "what am i to call ris funny old man, beppo?" she asked. "i am your grandpa, my darling," said oliver, in his softest voice. "are you god-bless-gan-pa?" inquired dolly, sitting up on her pillow, and staring very hard with her blue eyes into his wrinkled face. "yes, i am," he answered, looking at her anxiously. "dolly knows," she said, counting upon her little fingers; "rere's father, and mammy, and beppo; and now rere's gan-pa. dolly'll get up now." she flung her arms suddenly about his neck and kissed him, while old oliver trembled with intense joy. it was quite a marvel to him how she helped him to dress her, laughing merrily at the strange mistakes he made in putting on her clothes the wrong side before; and when he assured her that her mother would come back very soon, she seemed satisfied to put up with any passing inconvenience. the shop, with its duties, and the necessity of getting in his daily stock of newspapers, entirely slipped his memory; and he was only recalled to it by a very loud rapping at the door as he was pouring out dolly's breakfast. to his great surprise he discovered that he had forgotten to take down his shutters, though it was past the hour when his best customers passed by. the person knocking proved to be none other than tony, who greeted the old man's appearance with a prolonged whistle, and a grave and reproachful stare. "come," he said, in a tone of remonstrance, "this'll never do, you know. business is business, and must be minded. you pretty nearly frightened me into fits; anybody could have knocked me down with a straw when i see the shutters up. how is she?" "she's very well, thank you, my boy," answered oliver, meekly. "mother not turned up, i guess?" said tony. "no; she comes on friday," he replied. tony winked, and put his tongue into his cheek; but he gave utterance to no remark until after the shutters were in their place. then he surveyed himself as well as he could, with an air of satisfaction. his face and hands were clean, and his skin looked very white through the holes in his tattered clothes; even his feet, except for an unavoidable under surface of dust, were unsoiled. his jacket and trousers appeared somewhat more torn than the evening before; but they bore every mark of having been washed also. "washed myself early in the morning, afore the bobbies were much about," remarked tony, "in the fountains at charing cross; but i hadn't time to get my rags done, so i did 'em down under the bridge, when the tide were going down; but i could only give 'em a bit of a swill and a ring out. anyhow, i'm a bit cleaner this morning than last night, master." "to be sure, to be sure," answered oliver. "come in, my boy, and i'll give you a bit of breakfast with her and me." "you haven't got sich a thing as a daily paper, have you?" asked tony, in a patronizing tone. "not to-day's paper, i'm afraid," he said. "i'm afraid not," continued tony; "overslept yourself, eh? not as i can read myself; but there are folks going by as can, and might p'raps buy one here as well as anywhere else. shall i run and get 'em for you, now i'm on my legs?" oliver looked questioningly at the boy, who returned a frank, honest gaze, and said, "honour bright!" as he held out his hand for the money. there was some doubt in the old man's mind after tony had disappeared as to whether he had not done a very foolish thing; but he soon forgot it when he returned to the breakfast-table; and long before he himself could have reached the place and returned, tony was back again with his right number of papers. before many minutes tony was sitting upon an old box at a little distance from the table, where oliver sat with his grandchild. a basin of coffee and a large hunch of bread rested upon his knees, and beppo was sniffing round him with a doubtful air. dolly was shy in this strange company, and ate her breakfast with a sedate gravity which filled both her companions with astonishment and admiration. when the meal was finished, old oliver took his daughter's letter from his waistcoat pocket and read it aloud to tony, who listened with undivided interest. "then she's your own little 'un," he said, with a sigh of disappointment. "you'll never give her up to me, if you get tired of her,--nor to the p'lice neither," he added, with a brightening face. "no, no, no!" answered oliver, emphatically. "besides, her mother's coming on friday. i wouldn't give her up for all the world, bless her!" "and he's 'listed!" said tony, in a tone of envy. "they wouldn't take me yet a while, if i offered to go. but who's that she speaks of?--'for christ's sake, if i am worthy to use his name.' who is he?" "don't you know?" asked oliver. "no, never heard tell of him before," he answered. "is he any friend o' yours?" [a] [footnote a: it may be necessary to assure some readers that this ignorance is not exaggerated. the city mission reports, and similar records, show that such cases are too frequent.] "ay!" said oliver; "he's my only friend, my best friend. and he's my master, besides." "and she thinks he'd be angry if you turned the little girl away?" pursued tony. "yes, yes; he'd be very angry," said old oliver, thoughtfully; "it 'ud grieve him to his heart. why, he's always loved little children, and never had them turned away from himself, whatever he was doing. if she hadn't been my own little girl, i daren't have turned her out of my doors. no, no, dear lord, thee knows as i'd have taken care of her, for thy sake." he spoke absently, in a low voice, as though talking to some person whom tony could not see, and the boy was silent a minute or two, thinking busily. "how long have you worked for that master o' yours?" he asked, at last. "not very long," replied oliver, regretfully. "i used to fancy i was working for him years and years ago; but, dear me! it was poor sort o'work; and now i can't do very much. only he knows how old i am, and he doesn't care so that i love him, which i do, tony." "i should think so!" said the boy, falling again into busy thought, from which he aroused himself by getting up from his box, and rubbing his fingers through his wet and tangled hair. "he takes to children and little 'uns?" he said, in a questioning tone. "ay, dearly!" answered old oliver. "i reckon he'd scarcely take me for a man yet," said tony, at the same time drawing himself up to his full height; "though i don't know as i should care to work for him. i'd rather have a crossing, and be my own master. but if i get hard up, do you think he'd take to me, if you spoke a word for me?" "are you sure you don't know anything about him?" asked oliver. "not i; how should i?" answered tony. "why, you don't s'pose as i know all the great folks in london, though i've seen sights and sights of 'em riding about in their carriages. i told you i weren't much bigger nor her there when mother died, and i've picked up my living up and down the streets anyhow, and other lads have helped me on, till i can help 'em on now. it don't cost much to keep a boy on the streets. there's nothink to pay for coals, or rent, or beds, or furniture, or anythink; only your victuals, and a rag now and then. all i want's a broom and a crossing, and then shouldn't i get along just? but i don't know how to get 'em." "perhaps the lord jesus would give them to you, if you'd ask him," said oliver, earnestly. "who's he?" inquired tony, with an eager face. "him--christ. it's his other name," answered the old man. "ah! i see," he said, nodding. "well, if i can't get 'em myself, i'll think about it. he'll want me to work for him, you know. where does he live?" "i'll tell you all about him, if you'll come to see me," replied oliver. "well," said the boy, "i'll just look in after friday, and see if the little 'un's mother's come back. goodbye,--good-bye, little miss." he could take dolly's hand into his own this morning, and he looked down curiously at it,--a small, rosy, dimpled hand, such as he had never seen before so closely. a lump rose in his throat, and his eyelids smarted with tears again. it was such a little thing, such a pretty little thing, he said to himself, covering it fondly with his other hand. there was no fear that tony would forget to come back to old oliver's house. "thank you for my breakfast," he said, with a choking voice; "only if i do come to see you, it'll be to see her again--not for anythink as i can get." chapter v. forsaken again. the next three days were a season of unmixed happiness to old oliver. the little child was so merry, yet withal so gentle and sweet-tempered, that she kept him in a state of unwearied delight, without any alloy of anxiety or trouble. she trotted at his side with short, running footsteps, when he went out early in the morning to fetch his daily stock of newspapers. she watched him set his room tidy, and made believe to help him by dusting the legs and seats of his two chairs. she stood with folded hands and serious face, looking on as he was busy with his cooking. when she was not thus engaged she played contentedly with beppo, prattling to him in such a manner, that oliver often forgot what he was about while listening to her. she played with him, too, frolicsome little games of hide-and-seek, in which he grew as eager as herself; and sometimes she stole his spectacles, or handkerchief, or anything she could lay her mischievous fingers upon to hide away in some unthought-of spot; while her shrewd, cunning little face put on an expression of profound gravity as old oliver sought everywhere for them. as friday evening drew near, the old man's gladness took a shade of anxiety. his daughter was coming home to him, and his heart was full of unutterable joy and gratitude; but he did not know exactly how they should go on in the future. he was averse to change; yet this little house, with its single room, to which he had moved when she forsook him, was too scanty in its accommodation. he had made up a rude sort of bed for himself under the counter in the shop, and was quite ready to give up his own to susan and his little love, as he called dolly; but would susan let him have his own way in this, and many other things? he provided a sumptuous tea, and added a fresh salad to it from the greengrocer's next door; but though he and dolly waited and watched till long after the child's bed-time, taking occasional snatches of bread and butter, still susan did not arrive. at length a postman entered the little shop with a noise which made oliver's heart beat violently, and tossed a letter down upon the counter. he carried it to the door, where there was still light enough to read it, and saw that it was in susan's handwriting. "my dear and dearest father, "my heart is almost broke, betwixt one thing and another. his regiment is to set sail immediate, and the colonel's lady has offered me very handsome wages to go out with her as lady's maid, her own having disappointed her at the last moment; which i could do very well, knowing the dressmaking. he said, 'do come, susan, and i'll never get drunk again, so help me god; and if you don't, i shall go to the bad altogether; for i do love you, susan.' i said, 'oh my child!' and the colonel's lady said, 'she's safe with her grandfather; and if he's a good man, as you say he is, he'll take the best of care of her. i'll give you three pounds to send him from here, and we'll send more from calcutta.' so they overpersuaded me, and there isn't even time to come back to london, for we are going in a few hours. you'll take care of my little dear, i know, you and aunt charlotte. i've sent a little box of clothes for her by the railway, and what more she wants aunt charlotte will see to, i'm sure, and do her mending, and see to her manners till i come home. oh! if i could only hear you say 'susan, my dear, i forgive you, and love you almost as much as ever,' i'd go with a lighter heart, and be almost glad to leave dolly to be a comfort to you. she will be a comfort to you, though she is so little, i'm sure. tell her mammy says she must be a good girl always till mammy comes back. a hundred thousand kisses for my dear father and my little girl. we shall come home as soon as ever we can; but i don't rightly know where india is. i think it's my bounden duty to go with him, as things have turned out. pray god take care of us all. "your loving, sorrowful daughter, "susan raleigh." chapter vi. the grasshopper a burden. it was some time before the full meaning of susan's letter penetrated to her father's brain; but when it did, he was not at first altogether pained by it. true, it was both a grief and disappointment to think that his daughter, instead of returning to him, was already on her way across the sea to a very distant land. but as this came slowly to his mind, there came also the thought that there would now be no one to divide with him the treasure committed to his charge. the little child would belong to him alone. they might go on still, living as they had done these last three days, and being all in all to one another. if he could have chosen, his will would certainly have been for susan to return to them; but, since he could not have his choice, he felt that there were some things which would be all the happier for him because of her absence. he put dolly to bed, and then went out to shut up the shop for the night. as he carried in his feeble arms a single shutter at a time, he heard himself hailed by a boy's voice, which was lowered to a low and mysterious whisper, and which belonged to tony, who took the shutter out of his hands. "s'pose the mother turned up all right?" he said, pointing with his thumb through the half open door. "no," answered oliver. "i've had another letter from her, and she's gone out to india with her husband, and left the little love to live alone with me." "but whatever'll the master say to that?" inquired tony. "what master?" asked old oliver. "him--lord jesus christ. what'll he say to her leaving you and the little 'un again?" said tony, with an eager face. "oh! he says a woman ought to leave her father, and keep to her husband," he answered, somewhat sadly. "it's all right, that is." "i s'pose he'll help you to take care of the little girl," said tony. "ay will he; him and me," replied old oliver; "there's no fear of that. you never read the testament, of course, my boy?" "can't read, i told you," he answered. "but what's that?" "a book all about him, the lord jesus," said oliver, "what he's done, and what he's willing to do for people. if you'll come of an evening, i'll read it aloud to you and my little love. she'll listen as quiet and good as any angel." "i'll come to-morrow," answered tony, readily; and he lingered about the doorway until he heard the old man inside fasten the bolts and locks, and saw the light go out in the pane of glass over the door. then he scampered noiselessly with his naked feet along the alley in the direction of covent garden, where he purposed to spend the night, if left undisturbed. old oliver went back into his room, where the tea-table was still set out for his susan's welcome; but he had no heart to clear the things away. a chill came over his spirit as his eye fell upon the preparations he had made to give her such a cordial greeting, that she would know at once he had forgiven her fully. he lit his pipe, and sat pondering sorrowfully over all the changes that had happened to him since those old, far-away days when he was a boy, in the pleasant, fresh, healthy homestead at the foot of the wrekin. he felt all of a sudden how very old he was; a poor, infirm, hoary old man. his sight was growing dim even, and his hearing duller every day; he was sure of it. his limbs ached oftener, and he was earlier wearied in the evening; yet he could not sleep soundly at nights, as he had been used to do. but, worst of all, his memory was not half as good as it had been. sometimes, of late, he had caught himself reading a newspaper quite a fortnight old, and he had not found it out till he happened to see the date at the top. he could not recollect the names of people as he did once; for many of his customers to whom he supplied the monthly magazines were obliged to tell him their names and the book they wanted every time, before he could remember them. and now there was this young child cast upon him to be thought of, and cared and worked for. it was very thoughtless and reckless of susan! suppose he should forget or neglect any of her tender wants! suppose his dull ear should grow too deaf to catch the pretty words she said when she asked for something! suppose he should not see when the tears were rolling down her cheeks, and nobody would comfort her! it might very easily be so. he was not the hale man he was when susan was just such another little darling, and he could toss her up to the ceiling in his strong hands. it was as much as he could do to lift dolly on to his feeble knee, and nurse her quietly, not even giving her a ride to market upon it; and how stiff he felt if she sat there long! old oliver laid aside his pipe, and rested his worn face upon his hands, while the heavy tears came slowly and painfully to his eyes, and trickled down his withered cheeks. his joy had fled, and his unmingled gladness had faded quite away. he was a very poor, very old man; and the little child was very, very young. what would become of them both, alone in london? he did not know whether it was a voice speaking within himself in his own heart, or words whispered very softly into his ear; but he heard a low, quiet, still, small voice, which said, "even to your old age i am he, and even to hoar hairs i will carry you: i have made, and i will bear; even i will carry, and will deliver you." and old oliver answered, with a sob, "yes, lord, yes!" chapter vii. the prince of life. in the new life which had now fairly begun for oliver, it was partly as he had foreseen; he was apt to forget many things, and he had a fretting consciousness of this forgetfulness. when he was in the house playing with dolly, or reading to her, the shop altogether slipped away from his memory, and he was only recalled to it by the loud knocking or shouting of some customer in it. on the other hand, when he was sitting behind the counter looking for news from india in the papers, news in which he was already profoundly concerned, though it was impossible that susan could yet have reached it, he grew so absorbed, that he did not know how the time was passing by, and both he and his little grand-daughter were hungry before he had thought of getting ready any meal. he tried all kinds of devices for strengthening his failing memory; but in vain. he even forgot that he did forget; and when dolly was laughing and frolicking about him he grew a child again, and felt himself the happiest man in london. the person who took upon himself the heaviest weight of anxiety and responsibility about dolly was tony, who began to make it his daily custom to pass by the house at the hour when old oliver ought to be going for his morning papers; and if he found no symptom of life about the place, he did not leave off kicking and butting at the shop-door until the owner appeared. it was very much the same thing at night, when the time for shutting up came; though it generally happened now that the boy was paying his friends an evening visit, and was therefore at hand to put up the shutters for oliver. tony could not keep away from the place. though he felt a boy's contemptuous pity for the poor old man's declining faculties as regarded business, he had a very high veneration for his learning. nothing pleased him better than to sit upon the old box near the door, his elbows on his knees, and his chin upon his hands, while oliver read aloud, with dolly upon his knee, her curly hair and small pretty features making a strange contrast to his white head and withered, hollow face. tony, who had never had anything to love except a stray cur or two, which he had always lost after a few days' friendship, felt as if he could have suffered himself to be put to death for either of these two; while beppo came in for a large share of his unclaimed affections. the chief subject of their reading was the life of the master, who was so intimately dear to the heart of old oliver. tony was very eager to learn all he could of this great friend who did so much for the old man, and who might perhaps be persuaded some day or other to take a little notice of him, if he should fail to get a crossing for himself. oliver, in his long, unbroken solitude of six years, had fallen into a notion, amounting to a firm belief, that his lord was not dead and far off, as most of the world believed, but was a very present, living friend, always ready to listen to the meanest of his words. he had a vague suspicion that his faith had got into a different course from that of most other people; and he bore meekly the rebukes of his sister charlotte for the unwholesomeness of his visions. but none the less, when he was alone, he talked and prayed to, and spoke to tony of this master, as one who was always very near at hand. "i s'pose he takes a bit o' notice o' the little un," said tony, "when he comes in now and then of an evening." "ay, does he!" answered oliver, earnestly. "my boy, he loves every child as if it was his very own, and it is his own in one sense. didn't i read you last night how he said, 'suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not.' why, he'd love all the young children in the world, if they weren't hindered from coming to him." "i should very much like to see him some day," pursued tony, reflectively, "and the rest of them,--peter, and john, and them. i s'pose they are getting pretty old by now, aren't they?" "they are dead," said oliver. "all of 'em?" asked tony. "all of them," he repeated. "dear, dear!" cried tony, his eyes glistening. "whatever did the master do when they all died? i'm very sorry for him now. he's had a many troubles, hasn't he?" "yes, yes," replied old oliver, with a faltering voice. "he was called a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief. nobody ever bore so many troubles as him." "how long is it ago since they all died?" asked tony. "i can't rightly say," he answered. "i heard once, but it is gone out of my head. i only know it was the same when i was a boy. it must have been a long, long time ago." "the same when you was a boy!" repeated tony, in a tone of disappointment. "it must ha' been a long while ago. i thought all along as the master was alive now." "so he is, so he is!" exclaimed old oliver, eagerly. "i'll read to you all about it. they put him to death on the cross, and buried him in a rocky grave; but he is the prince of life, and he came to life again three days after, and now he can die no more. his own words to john were, 'i am he that liveth, and was dead; and behold, i am alive forevermore.' what else can it mean but that he is living now, and will never die again?" tony made no answer. he sat with his sharp, unboyish face gazing intently into the fire; for by this time autumn had set in, and the old man was chilly of an evening. a very uncertain, dim idea was dawning upon him that this master and friend of old oliver's was a being very different from an ordinary man, however great and rich he might be. he had grown to love the thought of him, and to listen attentively to the book which told the manner of life he led; but it was a chill to find out that he could not look into his face, and hear his voice, as he could oliver's. his heart was heavy, and very sad. "i s'pose i can't see him, then," he murmured to himself, at last. "not exactly like other folks," said oliver. "i think sometimes that perhaps there's a little darkness of the grave where he was buried about him still. but he sees us, and hears us. he himself says, 'behold, i am with you always.' i don't know whatever i should do, even with my little love here, if i wasn't sure jesus was with me as well." "i'll tell you what i'll do," said tony, after another pause. "i'm going to ask him to give me somethink, and then if he does, i shall know he hears me--i should very much like to have a broom and a crossing, and get my living a bit more easy, if you please." he had turned his face away from oliver, and looked across into the darkest corner of the room, where he could see nothing but shadow. the old man felt puzzled, and somewhat troubled, but he only sighed softly to himself; and opening the testament, he read aloud in it till he was calmed again, and tony was listening in rapt attention. "my boy," he said, as the hour came for tony to go, "where are you sleeping now?" "anywhere as i can get out o' the wind," he answered. "it's cold now, nights--wery cold, master. but i must get along a bit farder on. lodgings is wery dear." "i've been thinking," said oliver, "that you'd find it better to have some sort of a shake-down under my counter. i've heard say that newspapers stitched together make a coverlid pretty near as warm as a blanket; and we could do no harm by trying them, tony. look here, and see how you'd like it." it looked very much like a long box, and was not much larger. two or three beetles crawled sluggishly away as the light fell upon them, and dusty cobwebs festooned all the corners; but to tony it seemed so magnificent an accommodation for sleeping, that he could scarcely believe he heard old oliver aright. he looked up into his face with a sharp, incredulous gaze, ready to wink and thrust his tongue into his cheek, if there was the least sign of making game of him. but the old man was simply in earnest, and without a word tony slipped down upon a heap of paper shavings strewed within, drew his ragged jacket up about his ears, and turned his face away, lest his tears should be seen. he felt, a minute or two after, that a piece of an old rug was laid over him, but he could say nothing; and old oliver could not hear the sob which broke from his lips. chapter viii. no pipe for old oliver. as some weeks went by, and no crossing and broom had been given to tony, he began to suspect that oliver was imposing upon him. now that he slept under the counter, he could often hear the old man talking aloud to his invisible friend as he smoked his pipe; and once or twice tony crept noiselessly to the door and watched him, after he had finished smoking, kneel down and hide his face in his hands for some minutes together. but the boy could see nothing, and his wish had not been granted; even though, as he grew more instructed, he followed oliver's example, and, kneeling down behind the counter, whispered out a prayer for it. to be sure his life was easier, especially the nights of it; for he never now went hungry and starved to bed upon some cold, hard door-step. but it was old oliver who did that for him, not old oliver's master. so far as he knew, the lord jesus had taken no notice whatever of him; and the feeling, at first angry, softened down into a kind of patient grief, which was quickly dying away into indifference. oliver had done himself no bad turn by offering a shelter to the solitary lad. tony always woke early in the morning, and if it rained he would run for the papers, before turning out to "find for himself" in the streets. he generally took care to be out of the way at meal-times; for it was as much as the old man could do to provide for himself and dolly. sometimes tony saw him at the till, counting over his pence with rather a troubled face. once, after receiving a silver fourpenny piece, an extraordinary and undreamed of event, tony dropped it, almost with a feeling of guilt, through the slit in the counter which communicated with the till. but oliver was so bewildered by its presence among the coppers, that he was compelled to confess what he had done, saying it would have cost him more than that for lodgings these cold nights. "no, no, tony," said oliver; "you're very useful, fetching my papers, and taking my little love out a-walking when the weather's fine. i ought to pay you something, instead of taking it of you." "keep it for dolly," said tony, bashfully, and pushing the coin into her little hand. "sank 'oo," answered dolly, accepting it promptly; "me'll give 'oo twenty kisses for it." it seemed ample payment to tony, who went down on his knees to have the kisses pressed upon his face, which had never felt a kiss since his mother died. but oliver was not satisfied with the bargain, though he drew dolly to him fondly, and left the money in her hand. "it 'ud buy you a broom, tony," he said. "oh, i've give up asking for a crossing," he answered, dejectedly; "for he never heard, or if he heard, he never cared; so it were no use going on teazing either him or me." "but this money 'ud buy the broom," said oliver; "and if you looked about you, you'd find the crossing. you never got such a bit of money before, did you?" "no, never," replied tony. "a tall, thin gentleman, with a dark face and very sharp eyes, gave it me for holding his horse, near temple bar. he says, 'mind you spend that well, my lad.' i'd know him again anywhere." "you ought to have bought a broom," said oliver, looking down at dolly's tightly-closed hand. "don't you go to take it of her," cried tony. "bless you! i'll get another some way. i never thought that were the way he'd give me a broom and a crossing. i thought it 'ud be sure to come direct." "well," said oliver, after a little pause, "i'll save the fourpence for you. it'll only be going without my pipe for a few nights, that's all. that's nothing, tony." it did not seem much to tony, who had no idea as yet of the pleasures of smoking; yet he roused up just before falling into his deep sleep at night to step softly to the door, and look in upon oliver. he was sitting in his arm-chair, with his pipe between his lips, but there was no tobacco in it; and he was holding more eager converse than ever with his unseen companion. "dear lord!" he said, "i'd do ten times more than this for thee. thou hast said, 'inasmuch as ye did it to one of the least of these, ye did it unto me.' tony's one of thy little ones. dear lord, do thee give him a crossing, if it be thy blessed will. do thee now, lord." tony could hear no more, and he stole back to bed, his mind full of new and vague hopes. he dreamed of the fourpenny piece, and the gentleman who had given it, and of dolly, who bought a wondrous broom with it, in his dream, which swept a beautiful crossing of itself. but old oliver sat still a long time, talking half aloud; for his usual drowsiness did not come to him. it was nearly five months now since dolly was left to him, and he felt his deafness and blindness growing upon him slowly. his infirmities were not yet so burdensome as to make him dependent upon others; but he felt himself gradually drawing near to such a state. dolly's clothes were getting sadly in want of mending; there was scarcely a fastening left upon them, and neither he nor tony could sew on a button or tape. it was a long time--a very long time--since his sister had been to see him; and, with the reluctancy of old age to any active exertion, he had put off from week to week the task of writing to her to tell her of susan's departure, and the charge he had in his little grandchild. he made up his mind that he would do it tomorrow. chapter ix. a new broom and a crossing. the morning was a fine soft, sunny december day, such as comes sometimes after a long season of rain and fog, and tony proposed taking dolly out for a walk through the streets, to which oliver gladly consented, as it would give to him exactly the undisturbed leisure he needed for writing his letter to charlotte. but dolly was not in her usual spirits; on the contrary, she was grave and sober, and at length tony, thinking she was tired, sat down on a door-step, and took her upon his knee, to tell her his dream of the wonderful broom which swept beautifully all by itself. dolly grew more and more pensive after hearing this, and sat silent for a long time, with her small head resting thoughtfully upon her hand, as she looked up and down the street. "dolly 'ud like to buy a boom," she said, at last, "a great, big boom; and gan-pa 'ill smoke his pipe again to-night. dolly's growing a big girl; and me must be a good girl till mammy comes back. let us go and buy a big boom, tony." for a few minutes tony tried to shake her resolution, and persuade her to change her mind. he even tempted her with the sight of a doll in a shop-window; but she remained steadfast, and he was not sorry to give in at last. since the idea had entered his head that the money had been given to him for the purpose of buying a broom, he had rather regretted parting with it, and he felt some anxiety lest he should not be allowed a second chance. dolly's light-heartedness had returned, and she trotted cheerfully by his side as they walked on in search of a shop where they could make their purchase. it was some time before they found one, and they had already left behind them the busier thoroughfares, and had reached a knot of quieter streets where there were more foot-passengers, for the fine morning had tempted many people out for pleasure as well as business. tony was particular in his choice of a broom, but once bought, he carried it over his shoulder, and went on his way with dolly in triumph. they were passing along chattering busily, when tony's eyes fell upon a child about as old as dolly, standing on the kerb-stone with a lady, who looked anxiously across to the other side of the broad and very dirty road, for the day before had been rainy. they were both finely dressed, and the little girl had on new boots of shining leather, which it was evident she was very much afraid of soiling. for a minute tony only looked on at their perplexity, but then he went up to them, holding dolly by the hand. [illustration: a new broom and a crossing] "if you'll take care of my little girl," he said, "i'll carry your little girl across the road. i'm wery clean for a street-boy, all but my feet, 'cos i've got this little girl to take care of; and i'll do it wery gentle." both the lady and the child looked very searchingly into tony's face. it was pale and meagre; but there was a pleasant smile upon it, and his eyes shone down upon the two children with a very loving light in them. the lady took dolly's hand in hers, nodding permission for him to carry her little child over to the other side, and she waited for him to come back to his own charge. then she took out her purse, and put twopence into his hand. "thank ye, my lady," said tony; "but i didn't do it for that. i'm only looking out for a crossing. me and dolly have bought this broom, and i'm looking out for a place to make a good crossing in." "why not make one here?" asked the lady. it seemed a good place to try one in; there were four roads meeting, and a cab-stand close by. plenty of people were passing to and fro, and the middle of the road was very muddy. tony begged a wisp of straw from a cabman, to make a seat for dolly in the sunshine under a blank bit of wall, while he set to work with a will, feeling rather pleased than not that the broom would not sweep of itself. a crossing was speedily made, and for two or three hours tony kept it well swept. by that time it was twelve o'clock, and dolly's dinner would be ready for her before they could reach home, if old oliver had not forgotten it. it seemed a great pity to leave his new post so early. most passers-by, certainly, had appeared not to see him at all; but he had already received fivepence halfpenny, chiefly in halfpence, from ladies who were out for their morning's walk; and dolly was enjoying herself very much in the sunshine, receiving all the attention which he could spare from his crossing. however a beginning was made. the broom and the crossing were his property; and tony's heart, beat fast with pride and gladness as he carried the weary little dolly all the way home again. he resolved to put by half of his morning's earnings towards replacing the fourpenny-piece she had given back to him; or perhaps he would buy her a beautiful doll, dressed like a real lady. chapter x. highly respectable. as old oliver was stooping over his desk on the counter, and bringing his dim eyes as close as he could to the letter he was writing, his shop-door was darkened by the unexpected entrance of his sister charlotte herself. she was dressed with her usual extreme neatness, bordering upon gentility, and she carried upon her arm a small fancy reticule, which contained some fresh eggs, and a few russet apples, brought up expressly from the country. oliver welcomed her with more than ordinary pleasure, and led her at once into his room behind. charlotte's quick eyes detected in an instant the traces of a child's dwelling there; and before oliver could utter a word, she picked up a little frock, and was holding it out at arm's length, with an air of utter surprise and misgiving. "brother james!" she exclaimed, and her questioning voice, with its tone of amazement, rang very clearly into his ears. "it's my little dolly's," he answered, in haste; "poor susan's little girl, who's gone out with her husband, young raleigh, to india, because he's 'listed, and left her little girl with me, her grandfather. she came on the very last day you were here." "well, to be sure!" cried his sister, sinking down on a chair, but still keeping the torn little frock in her hand. "i've had two letters from poor susan," he continued, in a tremulous voice, "and i'll read them to you. the child's such a precious treasure to me, charlotte--such a little love, a hundred times better than any gold; and now you're come to mend up her clothes a bit, and see what she wants for me, there's nothing else that i desire. i was writing about her to you when you came in." "i thought you'd gone and picked up a lost child out of the streets," said charlotte, with a sigh of relief. "no, no; she's my own," he answered. "you hearken while i read poor susan's letters, and then you'll understand all about it. i couldn't give her up for a hundred gold guineas--not for a deal more than that." he knew susan's letters off by heart, and did not need his spectacles, nor a good light to read them by. charlotte listened with emphatic nods, and many exclamations of astonishment. "that's very pretty of susan," she remarked, "saying as aunt charlotte'll do her sewing, and see to her manners. ay, that i will! for who should know manners better than me, who used to work for the staniers, and dine at the housekeeper's table, with the butler and all the head servants? to be sure i'll take care that she does not grow up ungenteel. where is the dear child, brother james?" "she's gone out for a walk this fine morning," he answered. "not alone?" cried charlotte. "who's gone out with her? a child under five years old could never go out all alone in london: at least i should think not. she might get run over and killed a score of times." "oh! there's a person with her i've every confidence in," replied oliver. "what sort of person; man or woman; male or female?" inquired charlotte. "a boy," he answered, in some confusion. "a boy!" repeated his sister, as if he had said a monster. "what boy?" "his name's tony," he replied. "but where does he come from? is he respectable?" she pursued, fixing him with her glittering eyes in a manner which did not tend to restore his composure. "i don't know, sister," he said in a feeble tone. "don't know, brother james!" she exclaimed. "don't you know where he lives?" "he lives here," stammered old oliver; "at least he sleeps here under the counter; but he finds his own food about the streets." charlotte's consternation was past all powers of speech. here was her brother, a respectable man, who had seen better days, and whose sister had been a dressmaker in good families, harbouring in his own house a common boy off the streets, who, no doubt, was a thief and pickpocket, with all sorts of low ways and bad language. at the same time there was poor susan's little girl dwelling under the same roof; the child whose pretty manners she was to attend to, living in constant companionship with a vulgar and vicious boy! what she might have said upon recovering her speech, neither she nor oliver ever knew; for at this crisis tony himself appeared, carrying dolly and his new broom in his arms, and looking very haggard and tattered himself, his bare feet black with mud, and his bare head in a hopeless condition of confusion, and tangle. "we've bought a geat big boom, gan-pa," shouted dolly, as she came through the shop, and before she perceived the presence of a stranger; "and tony and dolly made a great big crossing, and dot ever so much money--" she was suddenly silent as soon as her eye fell upon the stranger; but aunt charlotte had heard enough. she rose with great dignity from her chair, and was about to address herself vehemently to tony, when old oliver interrupted her. "charlotte," he said, "the boy's a good boy, and he's a help to me. i couldn't send him away. he's one of the lord's poor little ones as are scattered up and down in this great city, without father or mother, and i must do all i can for him. it isn't much; it's only a bed under the counter, and a crust now and then, and he more than pays for it. you musn't come betwixt me and tony." old oliver spoke so emphatically, that his sister was impressed and silenced for a minute. she took the little girl away from tony, and glared at him with a sternness which made him feel very uncomfortable; but her eye softened a little, and her face grew less harsh. "you can't read or write?" she said, in a sharp voice. "no," he answered. "and you've not got any manners, or boots, or a cap on your head. you are ragged and ignorant, and not fit to live with this little girl," she continued, with energy. "if this little girl's mother saw her going about with a boy in bare feet and a bare head, it 'ud break her heart i know. so if you wish to stay here with my brother, mr. oliver, and this little girl, miss dorothy raleigh, as i suppose her name is, you must get all these things. you must begin to learn to read and write, and talk properly. i shall come here again in a month's time--i shall come every month now--and if you haven't got some shoes for your feet, and a cap for your head, before i see you again, i shall just take the little girl away down into the country, where i live, and you'll never see her again. do you understand?" "yes," answered tony, nodding his head. "then you may take yourself away now," said the sharp old woman, "i don't want to be too hard upon you; but i've got this little girl to look after for her mother, and you must do as i say, or i shall carry her right off to be out of your way. take your broom and go; and never you think of such a thing as taking this little girl to sweep a crossing again. i never heard of such a thing. there, go!" tony slunk away sadly, with a sudden down-heartedness. he returned so joyous and triumphant, in spite of his weariness, that this unexpected and unpleasant greeting had been a very severe shock to him. with his broom over his shoulder, and with his listless, slouching steps, he sauntered slowly back to his crossing; but he had no heart for it now. chapter xi. among thieves. the night fell early, for a thick fog came on in the afternoon. tony cowered down upon his broom under the wall where dolly had sat in the sunshine all the morning to watch him sweep his crossing. it was all over now. she was lost to him; for he should never dare to go back to old oliver's house, and face that terrible old woman again. there was nothing for him but to return to his old life and his old haunts; and a chill ran through him, body and spirit, as he thought of it. his heap of paper shavings under the counter, where the biting winds could not reach him, came to his mind, and the tears rushed to his eyes. but to-night, at least, there would be no need to sleep out of doors, for he had some money in the safest corner of his ragged pocket, tied up in it securely with a bit of string. he could afford to pay for a night's lodging, and he knew very well where he could get one. about nine o'clock tony turned his weary feet towards a slum he knew of in westminster, where there was a cellar open to everybody who could pay two-pence for a night's shelter. his heart was very full and heavy with resentment against his enemy, and a great longing to see dolly. he loitered about the door of the cellar, reluctant and almost afraid to venture in; for it was so long since he had been driven to any of these places that he felt nearly like a stranger among them. besides, in former times he had been kicked, and beaten, and driven from the fire, and fought with by the bigger boys; and he had become unaccustomed to such treatment of late. how different this lodging-house was to the quiet peaceful home where dolly knelt down every evening at her grandfather's knee, and prayed for him; for now she always put tony's name into her childish prayers! he should never, never hear her again, nor see old oliver seated in his arm-chair, smoking his long pipe, while he talked with that strange friend and master of his. ah! he would never hear or know any more of that unseen christ, who was so willing to be his master and friend, for the lord jesus christ could never come into such a wicked place as this, which was the only home he had. he had given him the crossing and the broom, and that was the end of it. he must take care of himself now, and keep out of gaol if he could, and if not, why then he had better make a business of thieving, and become as good a pickpocket as "clever dog tom," who had once stolen a watch from a policeman himself. clever dog tom was the first to greet tony when he slipped in at last, and he seemed inclined to make much of him; but tony was too troubled for receiving any consolation from tom's friendly advances. he crept away into the darkest corner, and stretched himself on the thin straw which covered the damp and dirty floor, but he could not fall asleep. there was a good deal of quarreling among the boys, and the men who wished to sleep swore long and loudly at them. then there followed a fight, which grew so exciting at last that every person in the place, except tony, gathered about the boys in a ring, encouraging and cheering them. it was long after midnight before silence and rest came, and then he fell into a broken slumber, dreaming of dolly and old oliver, until he awoke and found his face wet with tears. he got up before any of his bed-fellows were aroused, and made his way out into the fresh keen air of a december morning. day after day went by, and night after night tony was growing more indifferent again to the swearing and fighting of his old comrades. he began to listen with delight to the tales of clever dog tom, who told him that hands like his would work well in his line, and his innocent-looking face would go a long way towards softening any judge and jury, or would bring him favour with the chaplain, and easy times in gaol. he kept his crossing still, and did tolerably well, earning enough to keep himself in food, and to pay for his night's shelter; but he was beginning to hanker after something more. if he could not be good, and be on the same side as old oliver and dolly, he thought it would be better to be altogether on the other side, like tom, who dressed well, and lived well, and was looked up to by other boys. it was a week after he had left old oliver's house, and he was about to leave his crossing for the night, when a gentleman stopped him suddenly, and looked keenly into his face. "hollo, my lad!" he said, "you're the boy i gave fourpence to a week ago for holding my horse. i told you to lay it out well. what did you do with it?" "me and dolly bought this broom," he answered, "and i've kept this crossing ever since." "well done!" said the gentleman. "and who is dolly?" "it's a little girl as i was very fond of," replied tony, with a deep sigh. it seemed so long ago that he spoke of his love for her as if it was a thing altogether passed away and dead, yet his heart still ached at the memory of it. "well, here's another fourpenny-bit for you," said his friend, "quite a new one. see how bright it is; no one has ever bought anything with it yet. dolly will like to see it." tony held it in the palm of his hand long after the gentleman was out of sight, gazing at it in the lamplight. it was very beautiful and shining; and oh! how dolly's eyes would shine and sparkle if she could only see it! and she ought to see it. by right it belonged to her; for had he not given her his first fourpenny-piece freely, and had twenty kisses for it, and then had she not given it him back to buy a broom with? she had never had a single farthing of all his earnings. how he would like to show her this beautiful piece of silver, and feel her soft little arms round his neck, when he said it was to be her very own! he felt that he dare not pass the night in the cellar with such a treasure about him, for tom, who was so clever, would be sure to find out that his pocket was worth the picking, and tony had not found that there was much honour among thieves. what was he to do? where was he to go? chapter xii. tony's welcome. almost without knowing where his feet were carrying him, tony sauntered through the streets until he found himself at the turn into the alley within a few yards of oliver's home, and his beloved dolly. at any rate he could pass down it, and, if the shop-door was not shut, he would wrap his beautiful silver coin in a rag, and throw it into the inside; they would be sure to guess who had done it, and what it was for. it was dark down the alley, only one lamp and the greengrocer's gas lighting it up, and tony stole along quietly in the shadow. it was nearly time for dolly to be going to bed, he thought, and old oliver was sure to be with her in the inner room; but just as he came into the revealing glare of the greengrocer's stall, his ears rang and his heart throbbed violently at the sound of a shrill little scream of gladness, and the next moment he felt himself caught by dolly's arms, and dragged into the house by them. "tony's come home, tony's come home, gan-pa!" she shouted with all her might. "dolly's found tony at last!" dolly's voice quivered, and broke down into quick, childish sobs, while she held tony very fast, lest he should escape from her once again; and old oliver came quickly from the room beyond, and laid his hand fondly upon the boy's shoulder. "why have you kept away from us so long, tony?" he asked. "oh, master!" he cried, "i've been a wicked boy, and a miserable boy. do forgive me, and i'll never do so no more. i s'pose you'll never let me sleep under the counter again?" "come in, come in!" answered oliver, pushing him gently before him into the house. "we've been waiting and watching for you every night, me and my little love. you ought not to have served us so, my lad; but we're too glad to be angry with you. charlotte's sharp, and she's very much afraid of low ways and manners; but she isn't a hard woman, and she didn't know anything about you. when i told her as you'd been left no bigger than my little love here to take care of yourself, alone, in london,--mother dead, and no father,--she shed tears about you, she did. and she left you the biggest of her eggs to be kept for your supper, with her kind love; and we've put it by for you. you shall have it this very night. dolly, my love, bring me the little saucepan." "i'm not so clean as i could wish," said tony, mournfully; for he had neglected himself during the last week, and looked very much like what he had done when he had first seen old oliver and his little grand-daughter. "take a bowl full of water into the shop, then," answered oliver, "and wash yourself, while i boil the egg. dolly'll find you a bit of soap and a towel; she's learning to be grand-pa's little housekeeper, she is." when tony returned to the kitchen he looked a different being; the gloom was gone as well as the grime. he felt as if he had come to himself after a long and very miserable dream. here was old oliver again, looking at him with a kindly light in his dim eyes, and dolly dancing about, with her pretty merry little ways; and beppo wagging his tail in joyous welcome, as he sniffed round and round him. even the egg was a token of forgiveness and friendliness. that terrible old woman was not his enemy, after all. he recollected what she had said he must do, and he resolved to do it for dolly's sake, and old oliver's. he would learn to read and write, and he would pinch himself hard to buy some better clothing, lest he should continue to be a disgrace to them; shoes he must have first of all, as those were what the sharp but friendly old woman had particularly mentioned. at any rate, he could never run away again from this home, where he was so loved and cared for. oliver told him how sadly dolly had fretted after him, and watched for him at the door, hour after hour, to see him come home again. he said that in the same way, only with a far greater longing and love, his master, the lord jesus christ, was waiting for tony to go to him. he could not half understand it, but a vague feeling of a love passing all understanding sank deeply into his heart. he fell asleep that night under the counter with the tranquil peacefulness of one who has been tossed about in a great storm and tempest, and has been brought safely to the desired haven. chapter xiii. new boots. it was several weeks before tony could scrape together enough money for his new boots, though he pinched and starved himself with heroic courage and endurance. he did not mean to buy them at a shop; for he knew a place in whitechapel where boots quite good enough for him were to be had for two or three shillings. he was neither ambitious nor fastidious; old boots patched up would do very well to start with, if he could only manage to get them before aunt charlotte came up to town again. she had sent word she was coming the last saturday in january; and early in the afternoon of that day, before the train could come in from stratford, tony started off to the place where he intended to make his purchase. it was a small open space in one of the streets of whitechapel, where there was an area of flags, lying off the pavement. several traders held possession of this square, sitting on low stools, or cross-legged on the ground, with their stock in trade around them. one dealer bought and sold all kinds of old and rusty pieces of iron; another, a woman, ill clad and with red eyes, displayed before her a dingy assortment of ragged clothes, which were cheapened by other spare and red-eyed women, who held almost naked children by the hand. it was cold, and a bitter, keen east wind was searching every corner of london streets. the salesman tony was come to deal with had a tolerable selection of old boots, very few of them pairs, some with pretty good upper-leathers, but with no soles worth speaking of; and others thickly cobbled and patched, but good enough to keep the feet dry, without presenting a very creditable appearance. for the first time in his life tony found out the perplexity of having a choice to make. there were none which exactly fitted him; but a good fit is a luxury for richer folks than tony, and he was not troubled about it. his chief anxiety was to look well in the eyes of dolly's aunt, who might possibly let him see her on her way back to the station, if she approved of him; and who would not now be obliged to carry dolly off with her, to be out of the way of his naked feet. he fixed upon a pair at last, urged and coaxed to them by the dealer. they were a good deal too large, and his feet slipped about in them uncomfortably; but the man assured him that was how everybody, even gentlefolks, bought them, to leave room for growing. there was an awkward, uneven patch under one of the soles, and the other heel was worn down at the side; but at least they covered his feet well. he shambled away in them slowly and toilsomely, hardly knowing how to lift one foot after another, yet full of pride in his new possessions. it was a long way home to old oliver's alley, between holborn and the strand; but he was in no hurry to arrive there before they had finished and cleared away their tea; so he travelled painfully in that direction, stopping now and then to regale himself at the attractive windows of tripe and cow-heel shops. he watched the lamplighters kindling the lamps, and the shopkeepers lighting up their gas; and then he heard the great solemn clock of st. paul's strike six. tea would be quite over now, and tony turned down a narrow back street, which would prove a nearer way home than the thronged thoroughfares, and set off to run as fast as he could in his awkward and unaccustomed boots. it was not long before he came to a sudden and sharp fall off the kerb-stone, as he trod upon a bit of orange-peel, and slipped upon it. he felt stunned for a few seconds, and sat still rubbing his forehead. these back streets were very quiet, for the buildings were mostly offices and warehouses, and most of them were already closed for the night. he lifted himself up at length, and set his foot upon the flags; but a shrill cry of pain broke from his lips, and rang loudly through the quiet street. he fell back upon the pavement, quivering and trembling, with a chilly moisture breaking out upon his skin. what hurt had been done to him? how was it that he could not bear to walk? he took off his new boots, and tried once more, but with no better success. he could not endure the agony of standing or moving. yet he must move; he must get up and walk. if he did not go home, they would think he had run away again, for fear of meeting dolly's aunt. at that thought he set off to crawl homewards upon his hands and knees, with suppressed groans, as his foot trailed uselessly along the ground. yet he knew he could not advance very far in this manner. what if he should have to lie all night upon the hard paving-stones! for he could not remember ever having seen a policeman in these back streets; and there did not seem to be anybody else likely to pass that way. it was freezing fast, now the sun was gone down, and his hands scraped up the frosty mud as he dragged himself along. if he stayed out all night, he must die of cold and pain before morning. but if that was true which old oliver said so often, that the lord jesus christ loved him, and that he was always with those whom he loved, then he was not alone and helpless even here, in the deserted street, with the ice and darkness of a winter's night about him. oh! if he could but feel the hand of christ touching him, or hear the lowest whisper of his voice, or catch the dimmest sight of his face! perhaps it was he who was helping him to crawl towards the stir and light of a more frequented street, which he could see afar off, though the pain he felt made him giddy and sick. it became too much for him at last, however, and he drew himself into the shelter of a warehouse door, and crouched down in a corner, crying, with clasped hands, and sobbing voice, "oh! lord jesus christ! lord jesus christ!" after uttering this cry tony lay there for some minutes, his eyes growing glazed and his ears dull, when a footstep came briskly up the street, and some one, whom he could not now see for the strange dimness of his sight, stopped opposite to him, and then stooped to touch him on the arm. "why," said a voice he seemed to know, "you're my young friend of the crossing,--my little fourpenny-bit, i call you. what brings you sitting here this cold night?" "i've fell down and hurt myself," answered tony, faintly. "where?" asked the stranger. "my leg," he answered. the gentleman stooped down yet lower, and passed his hand gently along tony's leg till he came to the place where his touch gave him the most acute pain. "broken!" he said to himself. "my boy, where's your home?" "i haven't got any right home," answered tony, more faintly than before. he felt a strange numbness creeping over him, and his lips were too parched and his tongue too heavy for speaking. the gentleman took off his own great-coat and wrapped it well about him, placing him at the same time in a more comfortable position. then he ran quickly to the nearest street, hailed the first cab, and drove back to where tony was lying. [illustration: tony's accident.] chapter xiv. in hospital. the pain tony was suffering kept him partially conscious of what was happening to him. he knew that he was carried gently into a large hall, and that two or three persons came to look at him, to whom his new friend spoke in eager and rapid tones. "i know you do not take in accidents," he said; "but what could i do with the little fellow? he told me he had no home, and that was all he could say. you have two or three cots empty; and i'll double my subscription if it's necessary, rather than take him away. come, doctor, you'll admit my patient?" "i don't think i could send him away, mr. ross," answered another hearty voice. "we must get him into bed as soon as possible." tony felt himself carried up stairs into a large room, where there were a number of small beds, with a pale little face lying on every pillow. there was a vacant cot at the end, and he was laid upon it, after having his tattered clothes taken off him. his new boots were gone altogether, having been left behind on the steps of the warehouse. his hands and knees, bruised with crawling along the frosty stones, were gently bathed with a soft sponge and warm water. he was surrounded by kind faces, looking pitifully down upon him, and the gentleman who had brought him there spoke to him in a very pleasant and cheering voice. "my boy," he said, "you have broken your leg in your fall; but the doctor here, who is a great friend of mine, is going to mend it for you. it will give you a good deal of pain for a few minutes; but you'll bear it like a man, i know." "yes," murmured tony; "but will you let me go as soon as it's done?" "you could not do that," answered mr. ross, smiling. "it will be some weeks before you will be well enough to go; but you will be very happy here, i promise you." "oh! but i must go!" cried tony, starting up, but falling back again with a groan. "there's dolly and mr. oliver,--they'll think i've run away again, and i were trying all i could to get back to 'em. she'll be watching for me, and she'll fret ever so. oh! dolly, dolly!" he spoke in a tone of so much grief, that the smile quite passed away from the face of mr. ross, and he laid his hand upon his, and answered him very earnestly: "if you will tell me where they live," he said, "i will go at once and let them know all about your accident; and they shall come to see you to-morrow if you are well enough to see them." tony gave him very minute and urgent directions where to find old oliver's shop; and then he resigned himself, with the patience and fortitude of most of the little sufferers in that hospital, to the necessary pain he had to bear. it was sunday afternoon when old oliver and dolly entered the hall of the children's hospital and inquired for tony. there was something about the old man's look of age and the little child's sweet face which found them favour, even in a place where everybody was received with kindness. a nurse, who met them slowly climbing the broad staircase, turned back with them, taking dolly's hand in hers, and led them up to the room where they would find tony. there were many windows in it, and the sunshine, which never shone into their own home, was lighting it up gaily. the cots were all covered with white counterpanes, and most of the little patients, who had been asleep the night before, were now awake, and sitting up in bed, with little tables before them, which they could slide up and down as they wished along the sides of their cots. there was no sign of medicine, and nothing painful to see, except the wan faces of the children themselves. but oliver and dolly had no eyes but for tony, and they hurried on to the corner where he was lying. his face was very white, and his eyelids were closed, and his lips drawn in as if he were still in pain. but at the very gentle and almost frightened touch of dolly's fingers his eyes opened quickly, and then how his face changed! it looked as if all the sunshine in the room had centred upon it, and his voice shook with gladness. "dolly hasn't had to fret for tony this time," he said. "but dolly will fret till tony gets well again," she answered, clasping both her small hands round his. "no, no!" said old oliver; "dolly's going to be a very good girl, and help grand-pa to mind shop till tony comes home again." this promise of promotion partly satisfied dolly, and she sat still upon oliver's knee beside tony's cot, where his eyes could rest with contentment and pleasure upon them both, though the nurse would not let them talk much. when they went away she took them through the girls' wards in the story below; for the girls were more sumptuously lodged than the boys. these rooms were very lofty, with windows reaching to the cornice of the ceiling, and with grand marble chimney-pieces about the fireplaces; for in former times, the nurse told them, this had been a gentleman's mansion, where gay parties and assemblies had been held; but never had there been such a party and assembly as the one now in it. old oliver walked down between the rows of cots, with his little love clinging shyly to his hand, smiling tenderly upon each poor little face turned to look at them. some of the children smiled back to him, and nodded cheerfully to dolly, lifting up their dolls for her to see, and calling to her to listen to the pretty tunes their musical boxes were playing. but others lay quietly upon their pillows half asleep, with beautiful pictures hanging over their feeble heads,--pictures of christ carrying a lamb in his arms; and again, of christ with a little child upon his knee; and again, of christ holding the hand of the young girl who seemed dead, but whose ear heard his voice saying "arise!" and she came to life again in her father's and mother's house. the tears stood in old oliver's eyes, and his white head trembled a great deal before he had seen all, and given one of his tender glances to each child. "i wonder whatever the lord 'ud have said," he exclaimed, "if there'd been such a place as this in his days! he'd have come here very often. he does come, i know, and walks to and fro here of nights when the little ones are asleep, or may be awake through pain, and he blesses every one of them. ah, bless them! bless the little children, and the good folks who keep a place like this. bless them everyone!" he felt reluctant to go away; but his time was gone, and the nurse was needed elsewhere. she kissed dolly before she went, putting a biscuit in her hand, and told oliver the house was open every sunday afternoon for the friends of the children, if he chose to come again; and then they walked home with slow, short footsteps, and all the sunday evening they talked together of the beautiful place they had seen, and how happy tony would be in the children's hospital. chapter xv. tony's future prospects. old oliver and dolly made several visits to tony while he was in the hospital. every sunday afternoon they went back to it, until its great door, and wide staircase, and sunny ward, became almost as familiar to them as their own dull little house. tony recovered quickly, yet he was there some weeks before the doctor pronounced him strong enough to turn out again to rough it in the world. as he grew better he learned a number of things which were making him a wiser, as well as a stronger boy, before the time came for him to leave. the day before he was to go out of hospital, his friend, mr. ross, who had been often to see him, called for the last time, and found him in the room where the little patients who were nearly well were at play together. some of them were making believe to have a feast, with a small dinner-service of wooden plates and dishes, and a few bits of orange-peel, and biscuits; but tony was sitting quietly and gravely on one side, looking on from a distance. he had never learned to play. "antony," said mr. ross--he was the only person who ever called him antony, and it seemed to make more of a man of him--"what are you thinking to do when you leave here to-morrow?" "i s'pose i must go back to my crossing," answered tony, looking very grave. "no, i think i can do better for you than that," said his friend, "i have a sister living out in the country, about fifty miles from london; and she wants a boy to help the gardener, and run on errands for the house. she has promised to provide you with a home, and clothing, and to send you to school for two years, till you are about twelve, for we think you must be about ten years old now; and after that you shall have settled wages." tony listened with a quick throbbing of his heart and a contraction in his throat, which hindered him from speaking all at once when mr. ross had finished. what a grand thing it would be for himself! but then there were old oliver and dolly to be remembered. "it 'ud do first-rate for me," he said at last, "and i'd try my best to help in the garden; but i couldn't never leave mr. oliver and the little girl. she'd fret ever so; and he's gone so forgetful he'd lose his own head, if he could anyhow. why! of a morning they sell him any papers as they've too many of. sometimes it's all the 'star,' and sometimes it's all the 'standard;' and them as buys one won't have the other. i don't know why, i'm sure. but you see when i go for 'em i say twenty-five this, and thirteen that, and i count 'em over pretty sharp, i can tell you; though i couldn't read at all afore i came here, but i could tell which was which easy enough. then he'd never think to open his shop some mornings; and other mornings he'd open at four or five o'clock, just when he woke of hisself. no. i must stay and take care of 'em a bit; but thank you, sir, all the same." he had spoken so gravely and thoughtfully that his reasons went directly to the heart of mr. ross; but he asked him one more question, before he could let his good plan for the boy drop. "what has he done for you, antony? is he any relation of yours?" "no, no!" cried tony, his eyes growing bright, "i haven't got any relation in all the world; but he took me in out of love, and let me sleep comfortable under the counter, instead of in the streets. i love him, and dolly, i do. i'll stay by 'em as long as ever i live, if i have to sweep a crossing till i'm an old man like him. besides, i hear him speak a good word for me often and often to his master; and i s'pose nobody else 'ud do that." "what master?" inquired mr. ross. "him," answered tony, pointing to a picture of the saviour blessing young children, "he's always talking to him as if he could see him, and he tells him everythink. no, it 'ud be better for me to stay with him and dolly, and keep hard by my crossing, than go away from 'em, and have clothes, and lodging, and schooling for nothink." "i think it would," said mr. ross, "so you must go on as you are, antony, till i can find you something better than a crossing. you are looking very well, my boy; that's a nice, warm suit of clothes you have on, better than the rags you came in by a long way." it was a sailor's suit, sent to the hospital by some mother, whose boy had perhaps outgrown it; or, it may be, whose boy had been taken away from all her tender care for him. it was of good, rough, thick blue cloth, and fitted tony well. he had grown a good deal during his illness, and his face had become whiter and more refined; his hair, too, was cut to a proper length, and parted down the side, no longer lying about his head in a tangled mass. he coloured up with pleasure as mr. ross looked approvingly at him. "they've lent it me till i go out," he said, with a tone slightly regretful in his voice, "i only wish dolly could have seen me in it, and her aunt charlotte. my own things were too ragged for me to wear 'em in a place like this." "they've given it to you, antony," replied mr. ross, "those are the clothes you will go home in to-morrow." it seemed too much for tony to believe, though a nurse who was sitting by and sewing away busily, told him it was quite true. he was intensely happy all the rest of the day, often standing up, and almost straining his neck to get a satisfactory view of his own back, and stroking the nap of his blue trousers with a fondling touch. they would all see him in it; old oliver, dolly, and aunt charlotte. there would be no question now as to his fitness for taking dolly out for a walk; he would be dressed well enough to attend upon a princess. this made famous amends for the pair of old boots he had lost the night he broke his leg; a loss he had often silently lamented over in his own mind. the nurse told him she was patching up his old clothes, and making him a cap, to wear when he was at work on his crossing, for the new ones were much too good for that; and tony felt as rich as if a large fortune had been left to him. it was a very joyful thing to go home again. dolly was a little shy at first of this new tony, so different from the poor, ragged, wild-looking old tony; but a very short time was enough to make her familiar with his nice blue suit, and the anchor-buttons upon it. he found his place under the counter all nicely papered to keep the draughts out; and a little chaff mattress, made by aunt charlotte, laid down instead of the shavings upon the floor. it was even pleasanter to be here than in the hospital. but tony found it hard work to go back to his crossing in the morning; and he could not make out what was the matter with himself, he felt so cross and idle. his old clothes seemed really such horrid rags that he could scarcely bear to feel them about him; and if any passer-by looked closely at him, he went red and hot all over. he was not so successful as he thought he had been before his accident, or as he thought he ought to be; for the roads were getting cleaner with the drier weather, and few persons considered it necessary to give him a copper for his almost needless labour. worst of all,--clever dog tom found him out, and would come often to see him; sometimes jeering him for his poor spirit in being content with such low work, and sometimes boasting of the fine things he could do, and displaying the fine clothes he could wear. it was truly very hard work for tony, after his long holiday at the hospital, where he had had as much luxury and attention as a rich man's son. but at home in the evening tony felt all right again. old oliver set him to learn to read and write, and he was making rapid progress, more rapid than dolly, who began at the same time, but who was apt to look upon it all as only another kind of game, of which she grew more quickly tired than of hide-and-seek. there was no one to check her, or to make her understand it was real, serious work: neither old oliver nor tony could find any fault with their darling. now and then there came letters from her mother, full of anxious questions about her, and loving messages to her, telling her to be a good girl till she came back, but never saying a word as to when there was any chance of her returning to england. in one of these letters she sent word that a little sister was come for her out in india, who was just like what dolly herself had been when she was a baby; but neither oliver nor tony could quite believe that. there never had been such a child as dolly; there never would be again. chapter xvi a bud fading. a second summer went by with its long, hot days, when the sun seemed to stand still in the sky, and to dart down its most sultry beams into the dustiest and closest streets. out in the parks, and in the broad thoroughfares where the fresh breeze could sweep along early in the morning, and in the evening as soon as the air grew cooler, it was very pleasant weather; and the people who could put on light summer dresses enjoyed it very much. but away among the thickly-built and crowded houses, where there were thousands of persons breathing over and over again the same hot and stagnant atmosphere, it seemed as if the most delicate and weakly among them must be suffocated by the breathless heat. old oliver suffered very greatly, but he said nothing about it; indeed he generally forgot the cause of his languor and feebleness. he never knew now the day of the week, nor the month of the year. if any one had told him in the dog-days of july that it was still april, he would only have answered gently that it was bright, warm weather for the time of year. but about old times his memory was good enough; he could tell long stories of his boyhood, and describe the hills of his native place in such a manner as to set tony full of longings after the country, with its cornfields, and meadows, and hedge-rows, which he had never seen. he remembered his bible, too, and could repeat chapter after chapter describing his master's life, as they sat together in the perpetual twilight of their room; for now that it was summer-time it did not seem right to keep the gas burning. tony's crossing had failed him altogether, for in dry weather nobody wanted it; but in this extremity mr. ross came to his aid, and procured him a place as errand-boy, where he was wanted from eight o'clock in the morning till seven at night; so that he could still open old oliver's shop, and fetch him his right papers before he went out, and put the shutters up when he came back. to become an errand-boy was a good step forwards, and tony was more than content. he never ran about bare-headed and barefooted now as he had done twelve months before; and he had made such good progress in reading and writing that he could already make out the directions upon the parcels he had to deliver, after they had been once read over to him. he did not object to the dry weather and clean streets as he had done when his living depended upon his crossing; on the contrary, he enjoyed the sunshine, and the crowds of gaily-dressed people, for he could hold up his head amongst them, and no longer went prowling about in the gutters searching after bits of orange-peel. he kicked them into the gutters instead, mindful of that accident which had befallen him, but which turned out so full of good for him. [illustration: dolly's monthly register.] but, if there had been any eye to see it, a very slow, and very sad change was creeping over dolly; so slowly indeed, that perhaps none but her mother's eye could have seen it at first. on the first of every month, which old oliver knew by the magazines coming in, he marked how much his little love had grown by placing her against the side-post of the door, and making a thick pencil line where her curly head reached to. he looked at this record often, smiling at the rate his little woman was growing taller; but it was really no wonder that his dim eyes, loving as they were, never saw how the rosy colour was dying away out of her cheeks, as gradually as the red glow fades away in the west after the sun has set, nor how the light grew fainter and fainter in her blue eyes, until they looked at him very heavily from under her drooping eyelids. the house was too dark for any sight to see very clearly; the full, strong, healthy light of the sun, could not find its way into it, and day after day dolly became more like one of those plants growing in shady places, which live and shoot up, but only put out pale and sickly leaves, and feeble buds. one by one, and by little and little, with degrees as small as her own tiny footsteps, she lost all her merry ways, dropping them, here one and there another, upon the path she was silently treading; as little children let fall the flowers they have gathered in the meadows, along their road homewards. yet all the time old oliver was loving and cherishing her as the dearest of all treasures, second only to the master whom he loved so fully; but he never discovered that there was any change in her. dolly fell into very quiet ways, and would sit still for hours together, her arm around beppo, and her sweet, patient little face, which was growing thin and hollow, turned towards the flickering light of the fire, while oliver pottered toilsomely about his house, forgetting many things, but always ready with a smile and a fond word for his grand-daughter. just as oliver was too old to feel any anxiety about dolly, so tony was too young, and knew too little of sickness and death. moreover, when he came home in the evening, full of the business of the day, with a number of stories to tell of what had happened to him, and what he had seen, dolly was always more lively, and had a feverish colour on her face, and a brilliant light in her eyes. he seemed to bring life and strength with him, and she liked him to nurse her on his knee, which did not grow tired and stiff like her grandfather's. how should tony detect anything amiss with her? she never complained of feeling any pain, and he was glad for her to be very quiet and still while he was busy with his lessons. but when the summer was ended, and after the damp warm fogs of november were over, and a keen, black frost set in sharply before christmas--a frost which had none of the beauty of white lime and clear blue skies, but which hung over the city like a pall, and penetrated to every fireside with an icy breath; when only the strong and the healthy, who were well clothed and well fed, could meet it bravely, while the delicate, and sickly, and poverty-stricken, shrank before it, and were chilled through and through, then dolly drooped and failed altogether. even old oliver's dull ears began to hear a little cough, which seemed to echo from some grave not very far away; and when he drew his little love between his knees, and put on his spectacles to gaze into her face, the dearest face in all the world to him, even his eyes saw something of its wanness, and the hollow lines which had come upon it since the summer had passed away. the old man felt troubled about her, yet he scarcely knew what to do. he bought sweetmeats to soothe her cough, and thought sometimes that he must ask somebody or other about a doctor for her; but his treacherous memory always let the thought slip out of his mind. he intended to take counsel with his sister when she came to see him; but aunt charlotte was herself very ill with an attack of rheumatism, and could not get up to old oliver's house. chapter xvii. a very dark shadow. the christmas week passed by, and the new year came in, cold and bleak, but tony was well secured against the weather, and liked the frosty air, which made it pleasant to run as fast as he could from place to place as he delivered his parcels. when boxing day came, which was half-holiday for him, he returned to the house at mid-day, carrying with him three mince-pies, which he had felt himself rich enough to buy in honour of the holiday. he had for a long time been reckoning upon shutting up shop for the whole afternoon, and upon going out for a long stroll through the streets with old oliver and dolly; and now that the hour was positively come he felt very light-hearted and full of spirits, defying the wind which wrestled with him at every turn. dolly must be wrapped up well, he said to himself, and old oliver must put on his drab great coat, with mother o' pearl buttons, which he had brought up from the country forty years ago, and which was still good for keeping out the cold. he ran down the alley, and passed through the shop whistling cheerily, and disdaining to lift the flap of the counter, he took a running vault over it, and landed at once inside the open kitchen-door. but there was old oliver sitting close to the fire, with dolly on his knee, and her little head lying upon his breast, while the tears trickled slowly down his furrowed cheeks on to her pretty curls. beppo was standing between his legs, licking dolly's small hand, which hung languidly by her side. her eyelids were closed, and her face was deadly white; but when tony uttered a great cry of trouble, and fell on his knees before her, she opened her heavy eyes, and stretched out her cold thin hand to stroke his cheeks. "dolly's so very ill, tony," she murmured, "poor dolly's very ill indeed." "i don't know whatever is the matter with my little love," said the old man, in a low and trembling voice; "she fell down all of a sudden, and i thought she was dead, tony; but she's coming round again now. isn't my little love better now?" "yes, gan-pa, yes; dolly's better," she answered faintly. "let me hold her, master," said tony, his heart beating fast; "i can hold her stronger and more comfortable, maybe, than you. you're tired ever so, and you'd better get yourself a bit of dinner. shall tony nurse you now, dolly?" the little girl raised her arms to him, and tony took her gently into his own, sitting down upon the old box in the chimney-corner, and putting her to nestle comfortably against him. dolly closed her eyes again, and by-and-bye he knew that she had fallen into a light sleep, while old oliver moved noiselessly to and fro, only now and then saying half aloud, in a tone of strange earnestness and entreaty, "lord! dear lord!" after awhile the old man came and bent over them both, taking dolly's arm softly between his withered fingers, and looking down at it with a shaking head. "she's very thin, tony; look at this little arm," he said, "wasting away! wasting away! i've watched all my little ones waste away except my poor susan. couldn't there anything be done to save her?" "ay!" answered tony, in an energetic whisper, while he clasped dolly a little tighter in his arms; "ay! they could cure her easily at the hospital. bless yer! there were little 'uns ten times worse than her as they sent home cured. let us take her there as soon as ever she wakes up, and she'll be quite well directly, i promise you. the doctor knows me, and i'll speak to mr. ross for her. do you get a bit of dinner, and hearten yourself up for it; and we'll set off as soon as she's awake." old oliver turned away comforted, and prepared his own and tony's dinner, and put a mince-pie into the oven to be ready to tempt dolly's appetite when she awoke. but she slept heavily all the afternoon till it was almost dark outside, and the lamps were being lit, when she awoke, restless and feverish. "would dolly like to go to that nice place, where the little girls had the dolls and the music?" asked tony, in a quavering voice which he could scarcely keep from sobs; "the good place where tony got well again, and they gave him his new clothes? everybody 'ud be so wery kind to poor little dolly, and she'd come home again, quite cured and strong, like tony was." "yes, yes!" cried dolly, eagerly, raising herself up in his arms; "it's a nice place, and the sun shines, and dolly 'ud like to go. only she'll be sure to come back to gan-pa." it was some time yet before they were quite ready to start, though dolly could not be coaxed to eat the hot mince-pie, or anything else. old oliver had to get himself into his drab overcoat, and the ailing child had to be protected in the best way they could against the searching wind. after they had put on all her own warmest clothing, tony wrapped his own thick blue jacket about her, and lifting her very tenderly in his arms, they turned out into the streets, closely followed by beppo. it was now quite night, but the streets were well lighted from the shop windows, and throngs of people were hurrying hither and thither; for it was boxing-night, and all the lower classes of the inhabitants were taking holiday. but old oliver saw and heard nothing of the crowd. he walked on by tony's side; with feeble and tottering steps, deaf and blind, but whispering all the while, with trembling lips, to one whom no one else could see or hear. once or twice tony saw a solemn smile flit across his face, and he nodded his head and raised his hand, as one who gives his assent to what is said to him. so they passed on through the noisy streets till they reached quieter ones, were there were neither shops nor many passers-by, and there they found the home where they were going to leave their treasure for a time. chapter xviii. no room for dolly. old oliver rang the house-bell very quietly, for dolly seemed to be asleep again, and lay quite still in tony's arms, which were growing stiff, and benumbed by the cold. the door was opened by a porter, whose face was strange to them both, for he had only come in for the day while the usual one took holiday. old oliver presented himself in front, and pointed at his little grandchild as tony held her in his arms while he spoke to the porter in a voice which trembled greatly. "we've brought you our little girl, who is very ill," he said, "but she'll soon get well in here, i know. i'd like to see the doctor, and tell him all about her." "we're quite full," answered the porter, filling up the doorway. "full?" repeated old oliver, in a tone of questioning. "ay! all our cots are full," he replied, "chockfull. there ain't no more room. we've turned two or three away this morning, when they came at the right time. this isn't the right time to bring any child here." "but my little love is very ill," continued old oliver; "this is the right place, isn't it? the place where they nurse little children who are ill?" "it's all right," said the porter, "it's the right place enough, only it's brimful, and running over, as you may say. we couldn't take in one more, if it was ever so. but you may come in and sit down in the hall for a minute or two, while i fetch one of the ladies." old oliver and tony entered, and sat down upon a bench inside. there was the broad staircase, with its shallow steps, which dolly's tiny feet had climbed so easily, and it led up to the warm, pleasant nurseries, where little children were already falling asleep, almost painlessly, in their cosy cots. tony could not believe that there was not room for their darling, who had been so willing to come to the place she knew so well, yet a sob broke from his lips, which disturbed dolly in her sleep, for she moaned once or twice, and stirred uneasily in his arms. the old man leaned his hands upon the top of his stick, and rested his white head upon them, until they heard light footsteps, and the rustling of a dress, and they saw a lady coming down stairs to them. "i think there's some mistake here, ma'am," said oliver, his eye wandering absently about the large entrance-hall; "this is the hospital for sick children, i think, and i've brought my little grandchild here, who is very ill indeed, yet the man at the door says there's no room for her. i think it must be a mistake." "no," said the lady; "i am sorry to say it is no mistake. we are quite full; there is not room for even one more. indeed, we have been obliged to send cases away before to-day. who is your recommendation from?" "i didn't know you'd want any recommendation," answered old oliver, very mournfully; "she's very ill, and you could cure her here, and take better care of her than tony and me, and i thought that was enough. i never thought of getting any recommendation, and i don't know where i could get one." "mr. ross 'ud give us one," said tony, eagerly. "yet even then," answered the lady, "we could not take her in until some of the cots are empty." "you don't know me," interrupted tony, eagerly; "but mr. ross brought me here, a year ago now, and they cured me, and set me up stronger than ever. they was so wery kind to me, that i couldn't think of anythink else save bringing our little girl to 'em. i'm sure they'd take her in, if they only knew it was her. you jest say as it's tony and dolly, as everybody took such notice of, and they'll never turn her away, i'm sure." "i wish we could take her," said the lady, with tears in her eyes; "but it is impossible. we should be obliged to turn some other child out, and that could not be done to-night. you had better bring her again in the morning, and we'll see if there is any one well enough to make room for her. let me look at the poor child for a minute." she lifted up the collar of tony's blue jacket, which covered dolly's face, and looked down at it pitifully. it was quite white now, and was pinched and hollow, with large blue eyes shining too brightly. she stretched out her arms to the lady, and made a great effort to smile. "put dolly into a pretty bed," she murmured, "where the sun shines, and she'll soon get well and go home again to gan-pa." "what can i do?" cried the lady, the tears now running down her face. "the place is quite full; we cannot take in one more, not one. bring her here again in the morning, and we will see what can be done." "how many children have you got here?" asked old oliver. "we have only seventy-five cots," she answered, sobbing; "and in a winter like this they're always full." "only seventy-five!" repeated the old man, very sorrowfully. "only seventy-five, and there are hundreds and hundreds of little children ill in london! they are ill in houses like mine, where the sun never shines. is there no other place like this we could take our little love to?" "there are two or three other hospitals," she answered, "but they are a long way off, and none of them as large as ours. they are sure to be full just now. i think there are not more than a hundred and fifty cots in all london for sick children." "then there's no room for my dolly?" he said. the lady shook her head without speaking, for she had her handkerchief up to her face. "eh!" cried old oliver in a wailing voice, "i don't know whatever the dear lord 'ill say to that." he made a sign to tony that they must be going home again; and the boy raised himself up with a strange weight and burden upon his heart. old oliver put his stick down, and took dolly into his own arms, and laid her head down on his breast. "let me carry her a little way, tony," he said. "she's as light as a feather, even to poor old grandpa. i'd like to carry my little love a bit of the way home." "i'll tell you what i can do," said the lady, wrapping dolly up and kissing her before she covered her pale face, "if you will tell me where you live i will speak to the doctor as soon as he comes in--for he is out just now--and perhaps he will come to see her. he knows a great deal about children, and is fond of them." "thank you, thank you kindly, ma'am," answered old oliver, feeling a little comforted. but when they stood outside, and the bleak wind blew about them, and he could see the soft glimmer of the light in the windows, within which other children were safely sheltered and carefully tended, his spirit sank again. he tottered now and then under his light burden; but he could not be persuaded to give up his little child to tony again. these streets were quiet, with handsome houses on each side, and from one and another there came bursts of music and laughter as they passed by; yet tony could catch most of the words which the old man was speaking. [illustration: no room for dolly] "dear lord," he said, "there's only room for seventy-five of thy little lambs that are pining and wasting away in every dark street and alley like mine. whatever can thy people be thinking about? they've got their own dear little children, who are ill sometimes, spite of all their care; and they can send for the doctor, and do all that's possible, never looking at the money it costs; but when they are well again they never think of the poor little ones who are sick and dying, with nobody to help them or care for them as i care for this little one. oh, lord, lord! let my little love live! yet thou knows what is best, and thou'lt do what is best. thou loves her more than i do; and see, lord, she is very ill indeed." they reached home at last, after a weary and heartbroken journey, and carried dolly in and laid her upon old oliver's bed. she was wide awake now, and looked very peaceful, smiling quietly into both their faces as they bent over her. tony gazed deep down into her eyes, and met a glance from them which sent a strange tremor through him. he crept silently away, and stole into his dark bed under the counter, where he stretched himself upon his face, and buried his mouth in the chaff pillow to choke his sobs. what was going to happen to dolly? what could it be that made him afraid of looking again into her patient and tranquil little face? chapter xix. the golden city. tony lay there in the dark, overwhelmed by his unusual terror and sorrow, until he heard the voice of old oliver calling his name feebly. he hurried to him, and found him still beside the bed where dolly was lying. he had taken off most of her clothes, and put her white nightgown over the rest, that she might sleep warmly in them all the night, for her little hands and feet felt very chilly to his touch. the fire had gone out while they were away, and the grate looked very black and cheerless. the room was in great disorder, just as they had left it, and the gas, which was burning high, cast a cruel glare upon it all. but tony saw nothing except the dear face of dolly, resting on one check upon the pillow, with her curly hair tossed about it in confusion, and her open eyes gathering a strange film. beppo had made his way to her side, and pushed his head under her lifeless little hand, which tried to pat it now and then. old oliver was sitting on the bedstead, his eyes fastened upon her, and his whole body trembled violently. tony sank down upon his knees, and flung his arm over dolly, as if to save her from the unseen power which threatened to take her away from them. "don't ky, gan-pa," she said, softly; "don't ky more than a minute. nor tony. are i going to die, gan-pa?" "yes, my little love," cried old oliver, moaning as he said it. "where are i going to?" asked dolly, very faintly. "you're going to see my lord and master," he said; "him as loves little children so, and carries them in his arms, and never lets them be sorrowful or ill or die again." "does he live in a bootiful place?" she asked, again. "it's a more beautiful place than i can tell," answered old oliver. "the lord jesus gives them light brighter than the sun; and the streets are all of gold, and there are many little children there, who always see the face of their father." "dolly's going rere," said the little child, solemnly. she smiled for a minute or two, holding beppo's ear between her failing fingers, and playing with it. tony's eyes were dim with tears, yet he could see her clear face clearly through them. what could he do? was there no one to help? "master, master!" he cried. "if the lord jesus is here he can save her. ask him, master." but old oliver paid no heed to him. for the child who was passing away from him he was all eye and ear, watching and listening as keenly as in his best and strongest days; but he was blind and deaf to everything else around him. tony's voice could not reach his brain. "will gan-pa come rere?" whispered the failing and faltering voice of dolly. "very soon," he answered; a radiant smile coming to his face, which made her smile as her eyes caught the glory of it. "very, very soon, my little love. you'll be there to meet me when i come." "dolly'll watch for gan-pa," she murmured, with long pauses between the words, which seemed to drop one by one upon tony's ear; "and dolly'll watch at the door for tony to come home; and she'll fret ever so if he never comes." tony felt her stir restlessly under his arm, and stretch her tiny limbs upon the bed as if she were very tired, and the languid eyelids drooped slowly till they quite hid her blue eyes, and she sighed softly as children sigh when they fall asleep, weary of their play. old oliver laid his shaking hand tenderly upon her head. "dear lord!" he said, "take my little love to thyself. i give her up to thee." it seemed to tony as if a thick mist of darkness fell all about him, and as if he were sinking down, down, very low into some horrible pit where he would never see the light of day again. but by-and-bye he came to himself, and found old oliver sobbing in short, heavy sobs, and swaying himself to and fro, while beppo was licking dolly's hand, and barking with a sharp, quiet bark, as he had been wont to do when he wanted her to play with him. the child's small features were quite still, but there was an awful smile upon them such as there had never been before, and tony could not bear to look upon it. he crossed her tiny hands lightly over one another upon her breast, and then he lifted beppo away gently, and drew the bed-clothes about her, so as to hide her smiling face. "master," he cried, "master, is she gone?" old oliver only answered by a deep moan; and tony put his arm about him, and raised him up. "come to your own chair, master," he said. he yielded to tony like a child, and seated himself in the chair, where he had so often sat and watched dolly while he smoked his pipe. the boy put his pipe between his fingers; but he only let it fall to the ground, where it broke into many pieces. tony did not know what to do, nor where to go for any help. "lord," he said, "if you really love the old master, do something for him; for i don't know whatever to do, now little dolly's gone." he sat down on his old box, staring at oliver and the motionless form on the bed, with a feeling of despair tugging at his heart. he could scarcely believe it was all true; for it was not very long since--only it seemed like long years--since he had leaped over the counter in his light-heartedness. but he had not sat there many minutes before he heard a distinct, rather loud knock at the shop-door, and he ran hastily to ask who was there. "antony," said a voice he knew very well, "i have come with the doctor, to see what we can do for your little girl." in an instant tony opened the door, and as mr. ross entered the boy flung his arms round him, and hid his face against him, sobbing bitterly. "oh! you've come too late," he cried, "you've come too late! dolly's dead, and i'm afraid the master's going away from me as well. they couldn't take her in, and she died after we had brought her home." the doctor and mr. ross went on into the inner room, and tony pointed silently to the bed where dolly lay. old oliver roused himself at the sound of strange voices, and, leaning upon tony's shoulder, he staggered to the bedside, and drew the clothes away from her dear, smiling face. "i don't murmur," he said. "my dear lord can't do anything unkind. he'll come and speak to me presently, and comfort me; but just now i'm deaf and blind, even to him. i've not forgot him, and he hasn't forgot me; but there's a many things ought to be done, and i cannot think what." "leave it all to us," said mr. ross, leading him back to his chair. "but have you no neighbour you can go and stay with for to-night? you are an old man, and you must not lose your night's sleep." "no," he answered, shaking his head; "i'd rather stay here in my own place, if i'd a hundred other places to go to. i'm not afraid of my little love,--no, no! when everything is done as ought to be done, i'll lie in my own bed and watch her. it won't be lonesome, as long as she's here." in an hour's time all was settled for that night. a little resting-place had been made for the dead child in a corner of the room, where she lay covered with a coarse white sheet, which was the last one left of those which old oliver's wife had spun in her girlhood. the old man had given his promise to go to bed when mr. ross and the doctor were gone; and he slept lightly, his face turned towards the place where his little love was sleeping. a faint light burnt all night in the room, and tony, who could not fall asleep, sat in the chimney-corner, with beppo upon his knees. there was an unutterable, quiet sorrow within him, mingled with a strange awe. that little child, who had played with him, and kissed him only a day since, was already gone into the unseen world, which was so very near to him now, though it had seemed so very far away and so empty before. it must be very near, since she had gone to it so quickly; and it was no longer empty, for dolly was there; and she had said she would watch at the door till he came home. chapter xx. a fresh day dawns. old oliver and tony saw their darling buried in a little grave in a cemetery miles away from their own home, and then they returned, desolate and bereaved, to the deserted city, which seemed empty indeed to them. the house had never looked so very dark and dreary before. yet from time to time old oliver forgot that dolly was gone altogether, and could never come back; for he would call her in his eager, quavering tones, or search for her in some of the hiding-places, where she had often played at hide-and-seek with him. when mealtimes came round he would put out dolly's plate and cup, which had been bought on purpose for her, with gay flowers painted upon them; and in the evening, over his pipe, when he had been used to talk to his lord, he now very often said nothing but repeat again and again dolly's little prayer, which he had himself taught her, "gentle jesus, meek and mild." it was quite plain to tony that it would never do to leave him alone in his house and shop. "i've give up my place as errand-boy," he said to mr. ross, "'cause the old master grows worse and worse for forgetting, and i must mind shop for him now as well as i can. he's not off his head, as you may say; he's sharp enough sometimes; but there's no trusting to him being sharp always. he talks to dolly as if she was here, and could hear him, till i can't hardly bear it. but i'm very fond of him,--fonder of him than anythink else, 'cept my little dolly; and i've made up my mind as his master shall be my master, and he's always ready to tell me all he knows about him. i'm no ways afeared of not getting along." tony found that they got along very well. mr. ross made a point of going in to visit them every week, and of seeing how the business prospered in the boy's hands; and he put as much as he could in his way. sad and sorrowful as the days were, they passed over, one after another, bringing with them at least the habit of living without dolly. every sunday afternoon, however, old oliver and tony walked slowly through the streets, for the old man could only creep along with tony's help, till they reached the children's hospital; but they never passed the door, nor entered in through it. old oliver would stand for a few minutes leaning heavily on tony's shoulder, and trembling from head to foot, as his eyes wandered over all the front of the building; and then a low, wailing cry would break from his lips, "dear lord! there was no room for my little love, but thou hast found room for her!" it was a reopening of tony's sorrow when aunt charlotte came up from the country to find that the little child had gone away altogether, leaving only her tiny frocks and clothes, which were neatly folded up in a drawer, where old oliver treasured up a keepsake or two of his wife's. she discovered, too, that old oliver had forgotten to write to susan,--indeed, his hand had become too trembling to hold a pen,--and she wrote herself; but her letter did not reach calcutta before susan and her husband had left it, being homeward bound. it was as nearly two years as it could well be since the summer evening when susan raleigh had sent her little girl into old oliver's shop, bidding her be a good girl till she came home, and thinking it would be only three days before she saw her again. it was nearly two years, and an evening something like it, when the door was darkened by the entrance of a tall, fine-looking man, dressed as a soldier, but with one empty sleeve looped up across his chest. tony was busy behind the counter wrapping up magazines, which he was going to take out the next morning, and the soldier looked very inquisitively at him. "hallo! my lad, who are you?" he asked, in a tone of surprise. "i'm antony oliver," he said; for of late he had taken to call himself by his old master's name. "antony oliver!" repeated the stranger; "i never heard of you before." "well, i'm only tony," he answered; "but i live with old mr. oliver now, and call him grandfather. he likes it, and it does me good. it's like somebody belonging to me." "why! how long have you called him grandfather?" asked the soldier again. "ever since our little dolly died," said tony, in a faltering voice. "dolly dead!" exclaimed the man, looking ready to fall down; for his face went very white, and he leaned upon the counter with his one hand. "oh! my poor susan!--my poor, dear girl!--however can i tell her this bad news?" "who are you?" cried tony. "are you dolly's father? oh, she's dead! she died last january, and we are more lonesome without her than you can think." "let me see poor susan's father," he said, after a minute or two, and with a very troubled face. "ay, come in," said tony, lifting up the flap of the counter, under which dolly had so often played at hide-and-seek. "he's more hisself again; but his memory's bad yet. i know everythink about her, though; because she was so fond of me, and me of her. come in." raleigh entered the room, and saw old oliver sitting in his arm-chair, with a pipe in his hand, and a very tranquil look upon his wrinkled face. the gas-light shone upon the glittering epaulettes and white sash of the soldier, and the old man fastened upon him a very keen, yet doubtful gaze of inquiry. "don't you know me, father?" cried raleigh, almost unable to utter a word. "it's your poor susan's husband, and dolly's father." "dolly's father!" repeated old oliver, rising from his chair, and resting his hand upon raleigh's shoulder. "do you know that the dear lord has taken her to be where he is in glory?" "yes, i know it," he said, with a sob. he put the old man back in his seat, and drew a chair close up to him. they sat thus together in sorrowful silence for some minutes, until old oliver laid his hand upon the empty sleeve on raleigh's breast. "you've lost your arm," he said, pityingly. "ay!" answered raleigh; "our colonel was set upon by a tiger in the jungle, and i saved him; but the brute tore my arm, and craunched the bone between his teeth till it had to come off. it's spoiled me for a soldier." "yes, yes, poor fellow," answered old oliver, "but the lord knew all about it." "that he did," answered raleigh; "and he's taught me a bit more about himself than i used to know. i'm not spoiled to be his soldier. but i don't know much about the service yet, and i shall want you to teach me, father. you'll let me call you father, for poor susan's sake, won't you?" "to be sure--to be sure," said old oliver, keeping his hand still upon the empty sleeve on raleigh's breast. "well, father," he continued, "as i am not fit for a soldier, and as the colonel was hurt too, we're all come home together. only susan's gone straight on with her lady and our little girl, and sent me through london to see after you and dolly." "your little girl?" said oliver questioningly. "yes, the one born in india. her name's mary, but we call her polly. susan said it made her think of our little dolly at home. dear! dear! i don't know however i shall let her know." another fit of silence fell upon them, and tony left them together, for it was time to put up the shop shutters. it seemed just like the night when he had followed susan and the little girl, and loitered outside in the doorway opposite, to see what would happen after she had left her in the shop. he fancied he was a ragged, shoeless boy again, nobody loving him, or caring for him, and that he saw old oliver and dolly standing on the step, looking out for the mother, who had gone away, never, never to see her darling again. tony's heart was very full; and when he tried to whistle, he was obliged to give it up, lest he should break out into sobs and crying. when he went back into the house raleigh was talking again. "so susan and me are to have one of the lodges of the colonel's park," he said, "and i'm to be a sort of bailiff to look after the other outdoor servants about the garden and premises. it's a house with three bedrooms, and a very pleasant sort of little parlour, as well as a kitchen and scullery place downstairs. you can see the wrekin from the parlour window, and the moon over it; and it's not so far away but what we could get a spring-cart sometimes, and drive over to your old home under the wrekin. as soon as ever the colonel's lady told susan where it was, she cried out, 'that's the very place for father!' you'd like to come and live with your own susan again, in your own country; wouldn't you now?" "yes, yes; for a little while," answered old oliver, with a smile upon his face. tony felt a strange and very painful shrinking at his heart. if the old man went away to live with his daughter in the country, his home would be lost to him, and he would have to go out into the great city again alone, with nobody to love. he could get his living now in a respectable manner, and there was no fear of his being driven to sleep in covent garden, or under the bridges. but he would be alone, and all the links which bound him to dolly and old oliver would be snapped asunder. he wondered if the lord jesus would let such a thing be. "but i couldn't leave tony," cried old oliver, suddenly; and putting on his spectacles to look for him. "come here, tony. he's like my own son to me, bless him! he calls me grandfather, and kept my heart up when i should have sunk very low without him. my master gave him to me the very same night he gave me my little love. no, no; dolly loved tony, and susan must come here to see me, but i could never leave my boy." old oliver had put his arm round tony, drawing him closer and closer to him as he spoke, until his withered cheek pressed fondly against his face. since dolly died neither of them had felt such a thrill of happiness as now. "the colonel and his lady must be told about this," said raleigh, after he had heard all that tony had been and done for old oliver; and when he was obliged to go away for the night, the soldier gave him such a cordial grasp of the hand, as set all his fingers tingling, and his heart throbbing with exultation. chapter xxi. polly. the lodge stood in a very lovely place, upon a slope of ground, which rose still higher to where the colonel's grand house was situated. there was a porch before the door, built of rough logs of pines, covered with ivy and honeysuckle, and with seats in it, where you could sit and look out over a wide, rich plain, with little hills and dales in it, stretching far away towards the sky-line, where some distant mountains lay, so like to clouds, that you could scarcely tell which were soft and misty vapours, and which were solid and everlasting hills. the severn ran through the beautiful plain with so many windings, sometimes lying in shadow under deep banks, and sometimes glistening and sparkling in the sunlight, that it looked more like many little pools scattered about the meadows than one long, continuous river. not very far away, as raleigh had said, stood the wrekin, purple in the evening haze, but by day so plain, that one could see the great rock on its summit, which in olden times served as an altar to the god of fire. susan was very busy, and had been very busy all day over two things--preparing the house for the reception of her father, whom she had not seen for so many years, and in teaching her little girl, who was now eighteen months old, to say grand-pa. the one work was quite finished; everything was ready for old oliver, and now she was waiting and watching to see the colonel's spring cart arrive from the station with her husband, who was gone to meet old oliver and tony. for tony was not on any account to be parted from the old man--so said the colonel and his lady--but was to be employed about the garden, and as general errand boy for the house, and to live at the lodge with old oliver. susan's eyes were red, for as she had been busy about her work, she had several times cried bitterly over her lost little girl; but she had resolved within herself not to shed a single tear after her father was come, lest she should spoil the gladness of his coming home to her. at last the cart came in sight, and stopped, and raleigh and tony sprang out to help oliver to get down, while susan put down polly in the porch, and ran to throw her arms round her dear old father's neck. he was very quiet, poor old oliver. he had not spoken a word since he left the station, but had gazed about him as they drove along the pleasant lane with almost a troubled look upon his tranquil face. when his dim eyes caught the first glimpse of the wrekin he lifted his hat from his white and trembling head, as if to greet it like some great and dear friend, after so many years of absence. now he stood still at the wicket, leaning upon susan's arm, and looking round him again with a gentle yet sad smile. the air was so fresh, after the close streets of london, that to him it seemed even full of scents of numberless flowers; and the sun was shining everywhere, upon the blossoms in the garden, and the fine old elm-trees in the park, and the far-off hills. he grasped tony's hand in his, and bade him look well about him. "if only my little love had had a bit of sunshine!" he said, with a mournful and tender patience in his feeble voice. but just then--scarcely had he finished speaking--there came a shrill, merry little scream behind them, so like dolly's, that both old oliver and tony turned round quickly. it could not be the same, for this little child was even smaller than dolly; but as she came pattering and tottering down the garden-walk towards them, they saw that she had the same fair curly hair, and blue eyes, and rosy cheeks that dolly had had two years before. she ran and hid her face in her mother's gown; but susan lifted her into her arms, and held her towards old oliver. "say grand-pa, and kiss him, polly," she said, coaxingly. the little child held back shyly for a minute, for old oliver's head was shaking much more than usual now; but at length she put her two soft little hands to his face, and held it between them, while she kissed him. "gan-pa!" she cried, crowing and chuckling with delight. they went indoors to the pleasant parlour, where old oliver's arm-chair was set ready for him by the side of the fire, for susan had kindled a fire, saying that he would feel the fresh air blowing from the wrekin; and polly sat first on his knee, and then upon tony's, who could not keep his eyes from following all her movements. but still it was not their own dolly who had made the old house in the close alley in london so happy and so merry for them. she was gone home to the father's house, and was watching for them there. tony might be a long time before he joined her, but for old oliver the parting would be but short. as he sat in the evening dusk, very peacefully and contentedly, while susan sang polly to sleep in the kitchen, tony heard him say half aloud, as his custom was, "yet a little, and i will come again, and receive you unto myself, that where i am ye may be also. even so, come, lord jesus!" the curlytops on star island or camping out with grandpa by howard r. garis author of "the curlytops series," "bedtime stories," "uncle wiggily series," etc. illustrations by julia greene new york the curlytops series by howard r. garis mo. cloth. illustrated. the curlytops at cherry farm or, vacation days in the country the curlytops on star island or, camping out with grandpa the curlytops snowed in or, grand fun with skates and sleds the curlytops at uncle frank's ranch or, little folks on ponyback contents chapter i the blue light ii what the farmer told iii off to star island iv overboard v the bag of salt vi ted and the bear vii jan sees something viii trouble falls in ix ted finds a cave x the grapevine swing xi trouble makes a cake xii the curlytops go swimming xiii jan's queer ride xiv digging for gold xv the big hole xvi a glad surprise xvii trouble's playhouse xviii in the cave xix the blue light again xx the happy tramp chapter i the blue light "mother, make ted stop!" "i'm not doing anything at all, mother!" "yes he is, too! please call him in. he's hurting my doll." "oh, janet martin, i am not!" "you are so, theodore baradale martin; and you've just got to stop!" janet, or jan, as she was more often called, stood in front of her brother with flashing eyes and red cheeks. "children! children! what are you doing now?" asked their mother, appearing in the doorway of the big, white farmhouse, holding in her arms a small boy. "please don't make so much noise. i've just gotten baby william to sleep, and if he wakes up--" "yes, don't wake up trouble, jan," added theodore, or ted, the shorter name being the one by which he was most often called. "if you do he'll want to come with us, and we can't make nicknack race." "i wasn't waking him up, it was you!" exclaimed jan. "he keeps pulling my doll's legs, mother and--" "i only pulled 'em a little bit, just to see if they had any springs in 'em. jan said her doll was a circus lady and could jump on the back of a horse. i wanted to see if she had any springs in her legs." "well, i'm _pretending_ she has, so there, ted martin! and if you don't stop--" "there now, please stop, both of you, and be nice," begged mrs. martin. "i thought, since you had your goat and wagon, you could play without having so much fuss. but, if you can't--" "oh, we'll be good!" exclaimed ted, running his hands through his tightly curling hair, but not taking any of the kinks out that way. "we'll be good, i won't tease jan anymore." "you'd better not!" warned his sister, and, though she was a year younger than ted, she did not seem at all afraid of him. "if you do i'll take my half of the goat away and you can't ride." "pooh! which is your half?" asked ted. "the wagon. and if you don't have the wagon to hitch nicknack to, how're you going to ride?" "huh! i could ride on his back. take your old wagon if you want to, but if you do---" "the-o-dore!" exclaimed his mother in a slow, warning voice, and when he heard his name spoken in that way, with each syllable pronounced separately, ted knew it was time to haul down his quarreling colors and behave. he did it this time. "i--i'm sorry," he faltered. "i didn't mean that, jan. i won't pull your doll's legs any more." "and i won't take the goat-wagon away. we'll both go for a ride in it." "that's the way to have a good time," said mrs. martin, with a smile. "now don't make any more noise, for william is fussy. run off and play now, but don't go too far." "we'll go for a ride," said teddy. "come on, jan. you can let your doll make-believe drive the goat if you want to." "thank you, teddy. but i guess i'd better not. i'll pretend she's a red cross nurse and i'm taking her to the hospital to work." "then we'll make-believe the goat-wagon is an ambulance!" exclaimed ted. "and i'm the driver and i don't mind the big guns. come on, that'll be fun!" filled with the new idea, the two children hurried around the side of the farmhouse out toward the barn where nicknack, their pet goat, was kept. mrs. martin smiled as she saw them go. "well, there'll be quiet for a little while," she said, "and william can have his sleep." "what's the matter, ruth!" asked an old gentleman coming up the walk just then. "have the curlytops been getting into mischief again?" "no. teddy and janet were just having one of their little quarrels. it's all over now. you look tired, father." grandpa martin was mrs. martin's husband's father, but she loved him as though he were her own. "yes, i am tired. i've been working pretty hard on the farm," said grandpa martin, "but i'm going to rest a bit now. want me to take trouble?" he asked as he saw the little boy in his mother's arms. baby william was called trouble because he got into so much of it. "no, thank you. he's asleep," said mother martin. "but i do wish you could find some way to keep ted and jan from disputing and quarreling so much." "oh, they don't act half as bad as lots of children." "no, indeed! they're very good, i think," said grandma martin, coming to the door with a patch of flour on the end of her nose, for it was baking day, as you could easily have told had you come anywhere near the big kitchen of the white house on cherry farm. "they need to be kept busy all the while," said grandpa martin. "it's been a little slow for them here this vacation since we got in the hay and gathered the cherries. i think i'll have to find some new way for them to have fun." "i didn't know there was any new way," said mother martin with a laugh, as she carried baby william into the bedroom and came back to sit on the porch with grandpa and grandma martin. "oh, yes, there are lots of new ways. i haven't begun to think of them yet," said grandpa martin. "i'm going to have a few weeks now with not very much to do until it's time to gather the fall crops, and i think i'll try to find some way of giving your curlytops a good time. yes, that's what i'll do. i'll keep the curlytops so busy they won't have a chance to think of pulling dolls' legs or taking nicknack, the goat, away from his wagon." "what are you planning to do, father?" asked grandma martin of her husband. "well, i promised to take them camping on star island you know." "what! not those two little tots--not ted and jan?" cried grandma martin, looking up in surprise. "yes, indeed, those same curlytops!" it was easy to understand why grandpa martin, as well as nearly everyone else, called the two martin children curlytops. it was because their hair was so tightly curling to their heads. once grandma martin lost her thimble in the hair of one of the children, and their locks were curled so nearly alike that she never could remember on whose head she found the needle-pusher. "do you think it will be safe to take ted and jan camping?" asked mother martin. "why, yes. there's no finer place in the country than star island. and if you go along--" "am i to go?" asked ted's mother. "of course. and trouble, too. it'll do you all good. i wish dick could come, too," went on grandpa martin, speaking of ted's father, who had gone from cherry farm for a few days to attend to some matters at a store he owned in the town of cresco. "but dick says he'll be too busy. so i guess the curlytops will have to go camping with grandpa," added the farmer, smiling. "well, i'm sure they couldn't have better fun than to go with you," replied mother martin. "but i'm not sure that baby william and i can go." "oh, yes you can," said her father-in-law. "we'll talk about it again. but here come ted and jan now in the goat-cart. they seem to have something to ask you. we'll talk about the camp later." teddy and janet martin, the two curlytops, came riding up to the farmhouse in a small wagon drawn by a fine, big goat, that they had named nicknack. "please, mother," begged ted, "may we ride over to the home and get hal?" "we promised to take him for a ride," added jan. "yes, i suppose you may go," said mother martin. "but you must be careful, and be home in time for supper." "we will," promised ted. "we'll go by the wood-road, and then we won't get run over by any automobiles. they don't come on that road." "all right. now remember--don't stay too late." "no, we won't!" chorused the two children, and down the garden path and along the lane they went to a road that led through grandpa martin's wood-lot and so on to the home for crippled children, which was about a mile from cherry farm. among others at the home was a lame boy named hal chester. that is, he had been lame when the curlytops first met him early in the summer, but he was almost cured now, and walked with only a little limp. the home had been built to cure lame children, and had helped many of them. half-way to the big red building, which was like a hospital, the curlytops met hal, the very boy whom they had started out to see. "hello, hal!" cried ted. "get in and have a ride." "thanks, i will. i was just coming over to see you, anyway. what are you two going to do?" "nothing much," ted answered, while jan moved along the seat with her doll, to make room for hal. "what're you going to do?" "same as you." the three children laughed at that. "let's ride along the river road," suggested janet. "it'll be nice and shady there, and if my red cross doll is going to the war she'll like to be cool once in a while." "is your doll a red cross nurse?" asked hal. "if she is, where's her cap and the red cross on her arm?" "oh, she just started to be a nurse a little while ago," jan explained. "i haven't had time to make the red cross yet. but i will. anyhow, let's go down by the river." "all right, we will," agreed ted. "we'll see if we can get some sticks off the willow trees and make whistles," he added to hal. "you can make better whistles in the spring, when the bark is softer, than you can now," said the lame boy, as the curlytops often called him, though hal was nearly cured. "well, _maybe_ we can make some now," suggested ted, and a little later the two boys were seated in the shade under the willow trees that grew on the bank of a small river which flowed into clover lake, not far from cherry farm. nicknack, tied to a tree, nibbled the sweet, green grass, and jan made a wreath of buttercups for her doll. after they had made some whistles, which did give out a little tooting sound, ted and hal found something else to do, and jan saw, coming along the road, a girl named mary seaton with whom she often played. jan called mary to join her, and the two little girls had a good time together while ted and hal threw stones at some wooden boats they made and floated down the stream. "oh, ted, we must go home!" suddenly cried jan. "it's getting dark!" the sun was beginning to set, but it would not really have been dark for some time, except that the western sky was filled with clouds that seemed to tell of a coming storm. so, really, it did appear as though night were at hand. "i guess we'd better go," ted said, with a look at the dark clouds. "come on, hal. there's room for you, too, mary, in the wagon." "can nicknack pull us all?" mary asked. "i guess so. it's mostly down hill. come on!" the four children got into the goat-wagon, and if nicknack minded the bigger load he did not show it, but trotted off rather fast. perhaps he knew he was going home to his stable where he would have some sweet hay and oats to eat, and that was what made him so glad to hurry along. the wagon was stopped near the home long enough to let hal get out, and a little later mary was driven up to her gate. then ted and jan, with the doll between them, drove on. "oh, ted!" exclaimed his sister, "mother'll scold. we oughtn't to have stayed so late. it's past supper time!" "we didn't mean to. anyhow, i guess they'll give us something to eat. grandma baked cookies to-day and there'll be some left." "i hope so," replied jan with a sigh. "i'm hungry!" they drove on in silence a little farther, and then, as they came to the top of a hill and could look down toward star island in the middle of clover lake, ted suddenly called: "look, jan!" "where?" she asked. "over there," and her brother pointed to the island. "do you see that blue light?" "on the island, do you mean? yes, i see it. maybe somebody's there with a lantern." "nobody lives on star island. besides, who'd have a blue lantern?" jan did not answer. it was now quite dark, and down in the lake, where there was a patch of black which was star island, could be seen a flickering blue glow, that seemed to stand still and then move about. "maybe it's lightning bugs," suggested jan. "huh! fireflies are sort of white," exclaimed ted. "i never saw a light like that before." "me, either, ted! hurry up home. giddap, nicknack!" and jan threw at the goat a pine cone, one of several she had picked up and put in the wagon when they were taking a rest in the woods that afternoon. nicknack gave a funny little wiggle to his tail, which the children could hardly see in the darkness, and then he trotted on faster. the curlytops, looking back, had a last glimpse of the flickering blue light as they hurried toward cherry farm, and they were a little frightened. "what do you s'pose it is?" asked jan. "i don't know," answered ted. "we'll ask grandpa. go on, nicknack!" chapter ii what the farmer told "well, where in the world have you children been!" "didn't you know we'd be worried about you?" "did you get lost again?" mother martin, grandpa martin and grandma martin took turns asking these three questions as ted and jan drove up to the farmhouse in the darkness a little later. "you said you wouldn't stay late," went on mother martin, as the curlytops got out of the goat-wagon. "we didn't mean to, mother," said ted. "oh, but we're so scared!" exclaimed jan, and as grandma martin put her arms about the little girl she felt jan's heart beating faster than usual. "why, what is the matter?" asked the old lady. "me wants a wide wif nicknack!" demanded baby william, as he stood beside his mother in the doorway. "no, trouble. not now," answered ted. "nicknack is tired and has to have his supper. is there any supper left for us?" he asked eagerly. "well, i guess we can find a cold potato, or something like it, for such tramps as you," laughed grandpa martin. "but where on earth have you been, and what kept you?" then ted put nicknack in the barn. but when he came back he and jan between them told of having stayed playing later than they meant to. "well, you got home only just in time," said mother martin as she took the children to the dining-room for a late supper. "it's starting to rain now." and so it was, the big drops pelting down and splashing on the windows. "but what frightened you, jan?" asked grandma martin. "it was a queer blue light on star island." "a light on star island!" exclaimed her grandfather. "nonsense! nobody stays on the island after dark unless it's a fisherman or two, and the fish aren't biting well enough now to make anyone stay late to try to catch them. you must have dreamed it--or made-believe." "no, we really saw it!" declared ted. "it was a fliskering blue light." "well, if there's any such thing there as a 'fliskering' blue light we'll soon find out what it is," said grandpa martin. "how?" asked ted, his eyes wide open in wonder. "by going there to see what it is. i'm going to take you two curlytops to camp on star island, and if there's anything queer there we'll see what it is." "oh, are we really going to live on star island?" gasped janet. "camping out with grandpa! oh, what fun!" cried ted. "do you mean it?" and he looked anxiously at the farmer, fearing there might be some joke about it. "oh, i really mean it," said grandpa martin. "though i hardly believe you saw a real light on the island. it must have been a firefly." "lightning bugs aren't that color," declared ted, "it was a blue light, almost like fourth of july. but tell us about camping, grandpa!" "yes, please do," begged jan. and while the children are eating their late supper, and grandpa martin is telling them his plans, i will stop just a little while to make my new readers better acquainted with the curlytops and their friends. you have already met theodore, or teddy or ted, martin, and his sister janet, or jan. with their mother, they were spending the long summer vacation on cherry farm, the country home of grandpa martin outside the town of elmburg, near clover lake. mr. richard martin, or dick, as grandpa martin called him, owned a store in cresco, where he lived with his family. besides ted and jan there was baby william, aged about three years. he was called trouble, for the reason i have told you, though mother martin called him "dear trouble" to make up for the fun ted and jan sometimes poked at him. then there was nora jones, the maid who helped mrs. martin with the cooking and housework. and i must not forget skyrocket, a dog, nor turnover, a cat. these did not help with the housework--though i suppose you might say they did, too, in a way, for they ate the scraps from the table and this helped to save work. in the first book of this series, called "the curlytops at cherry farm," i had the pleasure of telling you how jan and ted, with their father, mother and nora went to grandpa's place in the country to spend the happy vacation days. on the farm, which was named after the number of cherry trees on it, the curlytops found a stray goat which they were allowed to keep, and they got a wagon which nicknack (the name they gave their new pet) drew with them in it. having the goat made up for having to leave the dog and the cat at home, and nicknack made lots of good times for ted and jan. in the book you may read of the worry the children carried because grandpa martin had lost money on account of a flood at his farm, and so could not help when there was a fair and collection for the crippled children's home. but, most unexpectedly, the cherries helped when mr. sam sander, the lollypop man, bought them from grandpa martin, and found a way of making them into candy. and when ted and jan and trouble were lost in the woods once, the lollypop man-- but i think yon would rather read the story for yourself in the other book. i will just say that the curlytops were still at cherry farm, though father martin had gone away for a little while. and now, having told you about the family, i'll go back where i left off, and we'll see what is happening. "yes," said grandpa martin, "i think i will take you curlytops to camp on star island. camping will do you good. you'll learn lots in the woods there. and won't it be fun to live in a tent?" "oh, won't it though!" cried ted, and the shine in jan's eyes and the glow on her red cheeks showed how happy she was. "but i'd like to know what that blue light was," said the little girl. "oh, don't worry about that!" laughed grandpa martin. "i'll get that blue light and hang it in our tent for a lantern." i think i mentioned that jan and ted had such wonderful curling hair that even strangers, seeing them the first time, called them the "curlytops." and ted, who was aged seven years, with his sister just a year younger (their anniversaries coming on exactly the same day) did not in the least mind being called this. he and jan rather liked it. "let's don't go to bed yet," said jan to her brother, as they finished supper and went from the dining-room into the sitting-room, where they were allowed to play and have good times if they did not get too rough. and they did not often do this. "all right. it _is_ early," ted agreed. "but what can we do?" "let's pretend we have a camp here," went on jan. "where?" asked ted. "right in the sitting-room," answered jan. "we can make-believe the couch is a tent, and we can crawl under it and go to sleep." "i wants to go to sleeps there!" cried trouble. "i wants to go to sleeps right now!" "shall we take him back to mother?" asked ted, looking at his sister. "if he's sleepy now he won't want to play." "i isn't too sleepy to play," objected baby william. "i can go to sleeps under couch if you wants me to," he added. "oh, that'll be real cute!" cried janet. "come on, ted, let's do it! we can make-believe trouble is our little dog, or something like that, to watch over our tent, and he can go to sleep--" "huh! how's he going to _watch_ if he goes to _sleep?_" ted demanded. "oh, well, he can make-believe go to sleep or make-believe watch, either one," explained janet. "yes, i s'pose he could do that," agreed teddy. baby william opened his mouth wide and yawned. "i guess he'll do some _real_ sleeping," said janet with a laugh. "come on, trouble, before you get your eyes so tight shut you can't open 'em again. come on, we'll play camping!" and she led the way into the sitting room and over toward the big couch at one end. many a good time the children had had in this room, and the old couch, pretty well battered and broken now, had been in turn a fort, a steamboat, railroad car, and an automobile. that was according to the particular make-believe game the children were playing. now the old couch was to be a tent, and jan and ted moved some chairs, which would be part of the pretend-camp, up in front of it. "it'll be a lot of fun when we go camping for real," said teddy, as he helped his sister spread one of grandma martin's old shawls over the backs of some chairs. this was to be a sort of second tent where they could make-believe cook their meals. "yes, we'll have grand fun," agreed jan. "no, you mustn't go to sleep up there, trouble!" she called to the little fellow, for he had crawled up on top of the couch and had stretched himself out as though to take a nap. "why?" he asked. "'cause the tent part is under it," explained his sister. "that's the top of the tent where you are. you can't go to sleep on _top_ of a tent. you might fall off." "i can fall off now!" announced trouble, as he suddenly thought of something. then he gave a wiggle and rolled off the seat, bumping into ted, who had stooped down to put a rug under the couch-tent. "ouch!" cried ted. "look out what you're doing, trouble! you bumped my head." "i--i bumped _my_ head!" exclaimed the little fellow, rubbing his tangled hair. "he didn't mean to," said janet. "you mustn't roll off that way, trouble. you might be hurt. come now, go to sleep under the couch. that's inside the tent you know." she showed him where ted had spread the rug, as far back under the couch as he could reach, and this looked to trouble like a nice place. "i go to sleeps in there!" he said, and under the couch he crawled, growling and grunting. "what are you doing that for?" asked ted, in some surprise. "i's a bear!" exclaimed baby william. "i's a bad bear! burr-r-r-r!" and he growled again. "oh, you mustn't do that!" objected janet. "we don't want any bears in our camp!" "course we can have 'em!" cried ted. "that'll be fun! we'll play trouble is a bear 'stead of a dog, and i can hunt him. only i ought to have something for a gun. i know! i'll get grandpa's sunday cane!" and he started for the hall. "oh, no. i don't want to play bear and hunting!" objected janet. "why not?" "'cause it's too--too--scary at night. let's play something nice and quiet. let trouble be our watch dog, and we can be in camp and he can bark and scare something." "what'll he scare?" asked ted. meanwhile baby william was crawling as far back under the couch as he could, growling away, though whether he was pretending to be a bear, a lion or only a dog no one knew but himself. "what do you want him to scare?" asked ted of his sister. "oh--oh--well, chickens, maybe!" she answered. "pooh! chickens aren't any fun!" cried ted. "if trouble is going to be a dog let him scare a wild bull, or something like that. anyhow chickens don't come to camp." "well, neither does wild bulls!" declared janet. "yes, they do!" cried ted, and it seemed as if there would be so much talk that the children would never get to playing anything. "don't you 'member how daddy told us about going camping, and in the night a wild bull almost knocked down the tent." "well, that was real, but this is only make-believe," said janet. "let trouble scare the chickens." "all right," agreed ted, who was nearly always kind to his sister. "go on and growl, trouble. you're a dog and you're going to scare the chickens out of camp." they waited a minute but trouble did not growl. "why don't you make a noise?" asked janet. trouble gave a grunt. "what's the matter?" asked ted. "i--i can't growl 'cause i'm all stuck under here," answered the voice of the little fellow, from far under the couch. "i can't wiggle!" "oh, dear!" cried janet. teddy stooped and looked beneath the couch. "he's caught on some of the springs that stick down," he said. "i'll poke him out." he caught hold of trouble's clothes and pulled the little fellow loose. but trouble cried--perhaps because he was sleepy--and then his mother came and got him, leaving teddy and janet to play by themselves, which they did until they, too, began to feel sleepy. "you'll want to go to bed earlier than this when you go camping, my curlytops," said grandpa martin, as the children came out of the sitting-room. "are you really going to take them camping?" asked mother martin after jan and ted had gone upstairs to bed. "i really am. there are some tents in the barn. i own part of star island and there's no nicer place to camp. you'll come, too, and so will dick when he comes back from cresco. we'll take nora along to do the cooking. will you come, mother?" and the curlytops' grandfather looked at his gray-haired wife. "no, i'll stay on cherry farm and feed the hired men," she answered with a smile. "why do they call it star island?" asked ted's mother. "well, once upon a time, a good many years ago," said grandpa martin, "a shooting star, or meteor, fell blazing on the island, and that's how it got its name." "maybe it was a part of the star shining that the children saw to- night," said grandma martin. "though i don't see how it could be, for it fell many years ago." "maybe," agreed her husband. none of them knew what a queer part that fallen star was to have in the lives of those who were shortly to go camping on the island. early the next morning after breakfast, ted and jan went out to the barn to get nicknack to have a ride. "where is you? i wants to come, too!" cried the voice of their little brother, as they were putting the harness on their goat. "oh, there's trouble," whispered ted. "shall we take him with us, jan?" "yes, this time. we're not going far. grandma wants us to go to the store for some baking soda." "all right, we'll drive down," returned ted. "come on, trouble!" he called. "i's tummin'," answered baby william. "i's dot a tookie." "he means cookie," said jan, laughing. "i know it," agreed ted. "i wish he'd bring me one." "me too!" exclaimed janet. "i's dot a 'ot of tookies," went on trouble, who did not always talk in such "baby fashion." when he tried to he could speak very well, but he did not often try. "oh, he's got his whole apron _full_ of cookies!" cried jan. "where did you get them?" she asked, as her little brother came into the barn. "drandma given 'em to me, an' she said you was to have some," announced the little boy, as he let the cookies slide out of his apron to a box that stood near the goat-wagon. then baby william began eating a cookie, and jan and ted did also, for they, too, were hungry, though it was not long after breakfast. "goin' to wide?" asked trouble, his mouth full of cookie. "yes, we're going for a ride," answered jan. "oh, ted, get a blanket or something to put over our laps. it's awful dusty on the road to- day, even if it did rain last night. it all dried up, i guess." "all right, i'll get a blanket from grandpa's carriage. and you'd better get a cushion for trouble." "i will," said janet, and her brother and sister left baby william alone with the goat for a minute or two. when jan came back with the cushion she went to get another cookie, but there were none. "why trouble martin!" she cried, "did you eat them _all?"_ "all what?" "all the cookies!" "i did eat one and nicknack--he did eat the west. he was hungry, he was, and he did eat the west ob 'em. i feeded 'em to him. nicknack was a hungry goat," said trouble, smiling. "i should think he was hungry, to eat up all those cookies! i only had one!" cried jan. "what! did nicknack get at the cookies?" cried ted, coming back with a light lap robe. "trouble gave them to him," explained janet. "oh dear! i was so hungry for another!" "i'll ask grandma for some," promised ted, and he soon came back with his hands full of the round, brown molasses cookies. "hello, curlytops, what can i do for you to-day?" asked the storekeeper a little later, when the three children had driven up to his front door. "do you want a barrel of sugar put in your wagon or a keg of salt mack'rel? i have both." "we want baking soda," answered jan. "and you shall have the best i've got. where are you going--off to look for the end of the rainbow and get the pot of gold at the end?" he asked jokingly. "no, we're not going far to-day," answered ted. "well, stop in when you're passing this way again," called out the storekeeper as ted turned nicknack around for the homeward trip. "i'm always glad to see you." "maybe you won't see us now for quite a while," answered jan proudly. "no? why not? you're not going to leave cherry farm i hope." ted stopped nicknack that they might better explain. "we're going camping with grandpa on star island." "where's that you're going?" asked a farmer who had just come out of the store after buying some groceries. "camping on star island in clover lake," repeated ted. "huh! i wouldn't go there if i were you," said the farmer, shaking his head. "why not?" asked ted. "is it because of the blue light?" and he looked at his sister to see if she remembered. "i don't know anything about a blue light," the farmer answered. "but if i were your grandfather i wouldn't take you there camping," and the man again shook his head. "why not!" asked janet, her eyes opening wide in surprise. "well, i'll tell you why," went on the farmer. "i was over on star island fishing the other day, and i saw a couple of tramps, or maybe gypsies, there. i didn't like the looks of the men, and that's why i wouldn't go there camping if i were you or your grandpa," and the farmer shook his head again as he unhitched his team of horses. chapter iii off to star island "oh ted!" exclaimed janet, as she drove home in the goat-wagon with her brother and baby william, "do you s'pose we can't go camping with grandpa?" "why can't we?" demanded teddy. "'cause of what that farmer said." "oh, well, i guess grandpa won't be 'fraid of tramps on the island. it's part his, anyhow, and he can make 'em get off." "yes, he could do that," agreed janet, after thinking the matter over. "but if they were gypsies?" "well, gypsies and tramps are the same. grandpa can make the gypsies get off the island too." "they--they might take trouble," faltered jan in a low voice. "who?" asked ted. "the gypsies." "who take me?" demanded trouble himself. "who take me, jam?" sometimes he called his sister jam instead of jan. "who take me?" he asked, playfully poking his fingers in his sister's eyes. "oh--nobody," she answered quickly, as she took him off her lap and put him behind her in the cart. she did not want to frighten her little brother. "let's hurry home and tell grandpa," jan said to ted, and he nodded his curly head to show that he would do that. on trotted nicknack, trouble being now seated in the back of the wagon on a cushion, while ted and jan were in front. "maybe it was tramps making a campfire that we saw last night," went on jan after a pause, during which they came nearer to cherry farm. "a campfire blaze isn't blue," declared ted. "well, maybe this is a new kind." ted shook his head until his curls waggled. "i don't b'lieve so," he said. "bang! there, me shoot you!" suddenly cried trouble, and ted and jan heard something fall with a thud on the ground behind them. "whoa, there!" cried ted to nicknack. "what are you shootin', trouble baby?" he asked, turning to look at his little brother. "me shoot a bunny rabbit," was the answer. "oh, there _is_ a little bunny!" cried jan, pointing to a small, brown one that ran along under the bushes, and then came to a stop in front of the goat-wagon, pausing to look at the children. "me shoot him," said trouble, laughing gleefully. "what with?" asked ted, a sudden thought coming into his mind. "trouble frow store thing at bunny," said the little boy, "it bwoke an' all white stuff comed out!" "oh, trouble, did you throw grandma's soda at the bunny?" cried jan. "yes, i did," answered baby william. "and it's all busted!" exclaimed ted, as he saw the white powder scattered about on the woodland path. "we've got to go back to the store for some more. oh, trouble martin!" "i's didn't hurt de bunny wabbit," said trouble earnestly. "i's only make-be'ieve shoot him--bang!" "i know you didn't hurt the bunny," observed jan. "but you've hurt grandma's soda. is there any left, ted?" she asked, as her brother got out of the wagon to pick up the broken package. "a little," he answered. "there's some in the bottom. i guess we'll go back to the store and get more. i want to ask that farmer again about the tramps on star island." "no, don't," begged jan. "let's take what soda we have to grandma. maybe it'll be enough. anyhow, if we did go back for more trouble might throw that out, too, if he saw a rabbit." "that's so. i guess we'd better leave him when we go to the store next time. how'd he get the soda, anyhow?" "it must have jiggled out of my lap, where i was holding it, and then it fell in the bottom of the wagon and he got it. he didn't know any better." "no, i s'pose not. well, maybe grandma can use this." teddy carefully lifted up the broken package of baking soda, more than half of which had spilled when trouble threw it at the little brown rabbit. baby william may have thought the package of soda was a white stone, for it was wrapped in a white paper. "well, i'm glad he didn't hit the little bunny, anyhow," said jan. "where is it?" and she looked for the rabbit. but the timid woodland creature had hopped away, probably to go to its burrow and tell a wonderful story, in rabbit language, about having seen some giants in a big wagon drawn by an elephant--for to a rabbit a goat must seem as large as a circus animal. "i guess trouble can't hit much that he throws at," observed ted, as he started nicknack once more toward cherry farm. "he threw a hair brush at me once and hit me," declared jan. "yes, i remember," said teddy. "here, trouble, if you want to throw things throw these," and he stopped to pick up some old acorns which he gave his little brother. "you can't hurt anyone with them." trouble was delighted with his new playthings, and kept quiet the rest of the way home tossing the acorns out of the goat-wagon at the trees he passed. grandma martin said it did not matter about the broken box of soda, as there was enough left for her need; so ted and jan, did not have to go back to the store. "but i'd like to ask that farmer more about the tramps on star island," said ted to his grandfather, when telling what the man had said at the grocery. "i'll see him and ask him," decided grandpa martin. it was two days after this--two days during which the curlytops had much fun at cherry farm--that grandpa martin spoke at dinner one afternoon. "i saw mr. crittendon," he said, "and he told me that he had seen you curlytops at the store and mentioned the tramps on star island." "are they really there?" asked jan eagerly. "well, they might have been. but we won't let them bother us if we go camping. i'll make them clear out. most of that island belongs to me, and the rest to friends of mine. they'll do as i say, and we'll clear out the tramps." "i hope you will, grandpa," said janet. "did mr. crittendon say anything about the queer blue light jan and ted saw?" asked grandma martin. "no, he hadn't seen that." "where did the tramps come from? and is he sure they weren't gypsies?" asked jan's mother. "no, they weren't gypsies. we don't often see them around here. oh, i imagine the tramps were the regular kind that go about the country in summer, begging their way. they might have found a boat and gone to the island to sleep, where no constable would trouble them. "but we're not afraid of tramps, are we, curlytops?" he cried, as he caught baby william up in his arms and set him on his broad shoulder. "we don't mind them, do we, trouble?" "we frow water on 'em!" said baby william, laughing with delight as his grandfather made-believe bite some "souse" off his ears. "that's what we will! no tramps for us on star island!" "when are we going?" asked ted excitedly. "yes, when?" echoed jan. "in a few days now. i've got to get out the tents and other things. we'll go the first of the week i think." ted and jan could hardly wait for the time to come. they helped as much as they could when grandpa martin got the tents out of the barn, and they wanted to take so many of their toys and playthings along that there would have been no room in the boat for anything else if they had had their way. but mother martin thinned out their collection of treasures, allowing them to take only what she thought would give them the most pleasure. boxes of food were packed, and a little stove made ready to take along, for although a campfire looks nice it is hard to cook over. trouble got into all sorts of mischief, from almost falling out of the haymow once, to losing the bucket down the well by letting the chain unwind too fast. but a hired man caught him as he toppled off the hay in the barn, and grandpa martin got the bucket up from the well by tying the rake to a long pole and fishing deep down in the water. at last the day came when the curlytops were to go camping on star island. the boat was loaded with the tents and other things, and two or three trips were to be made half-way across the lake, for the island was about in the middle. nicknack and his wagon were to be taken over and a small stable made for him under a tree not far from the big tent. "all aboard!" cried ted, as he and jan took their places in the first boat. "all aboard!" "isn't this fun!" laughed janet, who was taking care of trouble. "dis fun," echoed the little chap. "i'm sure we'll have a nice time," said mother martin. "and your father will like it when he, too, can camp out with us." "i hope the tramps don't bother you," said mr. crittendon, who had come to help grandpa martin get his camping party ready. "oh, we're not afraid of them!" cried ted. "well, be careful; that's all i've got to say," went on the farmer. "i'll let you have my gun, if you think you'll need it," he said to grandpa martin. "nonsense! i won't need it, thank you. i'm not afraid of a few tramps. besides i sent one of my men over to the island yesterday, and he couldn't find a sign of a vagrant. if any tramps were there they've gone." "wa-all, maybe," said the farmer, with a shake of his head. "good luck to you, anyhow!" "thanks!" laughed grandpa martin. "all aboard!" called ted once more. then sam, the hired man, and grandpa martin began to row the boat. the curlytops were off for star island, to camp out with grandpa. chapter iv ovebboard "trouble! sit still!" ordered janet. "yes, trouble, you sit still!" called mother martin, as the curlytops' grandfather and his man pulled on the oars that sent the boat out toward the middle of the lake. "don't move about." "i wants to splash water." "oh, no, you mustn't do that! splashing water isn't nice," said baby william's mother. "'ike drandpa does," trouble went on, pointing to the oars which the farmer was moving to and fro. now and then a little wave hit the broad blades and splashed little drops into the boat. "trouble want do that!" declared the little fellow. "no, trouble mustn't do that," said his mother. "grandpa isn't splashing the water. he's rowing. sit still and watch him." baby william did sit still for a little while, but not for very long. his mother held to the loose part of his blue and white rompers so he would not get far away, but, after a bit, she rather forgot about him, in talking to ted and jan about what they were to do and not to do in camp. suddenly grandpa, who had been rowing slowly toward star island, dropped his oars and cried: "look out there, trouble!" "oh, what's the matter?" asked mother martin, looking around quickly. "trouble nearly jumped out of the boat," explained grandpa martin. "i just grabbed him in time." and so he had, catching baby william by the seat of his rompers and pulling him back on the seat from which he had quickly sprung up. "what were you trying to do?" asked mrs. martin. "trouble want to catch fish," was the little fellow's answer. "yes! i guess a fish would catch _you_ first!" laughed ted. "i'll sit by him and hold him in," offered janet, and she remained close to her small brother during the remainder of the trip across the lake. he did not again try to lean far over as he had done when his grandfather saw him and grabbed him. "hurray!" cried teddy, as he sprang ashore. "now for the camp! can i help put up the tents, grandpa?" "yes, when it's time. but first we must bring the rest of the things over. we'll finish that first and put up the tents afterward. we have two more boatloads to bring." "then can't i help do that?" "yes, you may do that," said grandpa martin with a smile. "can't i come, too?" asked janet. "i'm almost as strong as teddy." "i think you'd better stay and help me look after trouble," said mrs. martin. "nora will be busy getting lunch ready for us, which we will eat before the tents are up." "oh, then i can help at that!" cried janet, who was eager to be busy. "come on, nora! where are the things to eat, mother? i'm hungry already!" "so'm i!" cried ted. "can't we eat before we go back for the other boatload, grandpa?" "yes, i guess so. you curlytops can eat while sam and i unload the boat. i'll call you teddy, when i'm ready to go back." "all right, grandpa." the tents were to be put up and camp made a little way up from the shore near the spot at which they had landed. grandpa martin took out of the boat the different things he had brought over, and stacked them up on shore. parts of the tents were there, and things to cook with as well as food to eat. more things would be brought on the next two trips, when another of the hired men was to come over to help put up the tents and make camp. "oh, i just know we'll have fun here, camping with grandpa!" laughed jan, as she picked up her small brother who had slipped and fallen down a little hill, covered with brown pine needles. "let's go and look for something," proposed ted, when he had run about a bit and thrown stones in the lake, watching the water splash up and hundreds of rings chase each other toward shore. "what'll we look for?" asked janet, as she took hold of trouble's hand, so he would not slip down again. "oh, anything we can find," went on ted. "we'll have some fun while we're waiting for grandpa to get out the things to eat." "i want something to eat!" cried trouble. "i's hungry!" "so'm i--a little bit," admitted jan. "maybe we could find a cookie--or something--before they get everything unpacked," suggested teddy, and this was just what happened. grandpa martin had some cookies in a paper bag in his pocket. grandma martin had put them there, for she felt sure the children would get hungry before their regular lunch was ready on the island. and she knew how hungry it makes anyone, children especially, to start off on a picnic in the woods or across a lake. "there you are, curlytops!" laughed grandpa martin, as he passed out the molasses and sugar cookies. "now don't drop any of them on your toes!" "why not?" ted wanted to know. "oh, because it might break them--i mean it might break your cookies," and grandpa martin laughed again. "come now, we'll go and look for things," proposed ted, as he took a bite of his cookie, something which jan and trouble were also doing. "what'll we look for!" jan asked again. "oh, maybe we can find a cave or a den where a--where a fox lives," he said, rather stumbling over his words. at first ted had been going to say that perhaps they would look for a bear's den, but then he happened to remember that even talk of a bear, though of course there were none on star island, might scare his little brother and jan. so he said "fox" instead. "is there a fox here!" jan asked. "maybe," said ted. "anyhow, let's go off and look." "don't go too far!" called grandpa martin after them, as he started to unload the boat and get the camp in order. "and don't go too near the edge of the lake. i don't want you to fall in and have your mother blame me." "no, we won't!" promised ted. "come on," he called to his little brother and sister. "oh, there you go again!" he cried, as he saw trouble stumble and fall. "what's the matter?" he asked. "it's these pine needles. they're awfully slippery," answered janet. "i nearly slipped down myself. did you hurt yourself, trouble?" she asked the little fellow. he did not answer directly, but first looked at the place where he had fallen. he could easily see it, because the pine needles were brushed to one side. then baby william tried to turn around and look at the back of his little bloomers. "no, i isn't hurted," he said. janet and ted laughed. "i guess maybe he thought he might have broken his leg or something," remarked teddy. "now come on and don't fall any more, trouble." but the little fellow was not quite ready to go on. he stooped over and looked at the ground where he had fallen. "what's the matter?" asked janet, who was waiting to lead him on, holding his hand so he would not fall. "maybe he lost something," said teddy. "has he got any pockets in his bloomers, jan?" "no, mother sewed 'em up so he wouldn't put his hands in 'em all the while--and his hands were so dirty they made his bloomers the same way. he hasn't any pockets." "then he couldn't lose anything," decided ted. he was always losing things from his pockets, so perhaps he ought to know about what he was talking. "what is it, trouble?" he asked, for the little fellow was still stooping over and looking carefully at the ground near the spot where he had fallen. "i--i satted right down on him," said trouble at last, as he picked up something from the earth. "i satted right down on him, but i didn't bust him," and he held out something on a little piece of wood. "what's he got?" asked ted. "oh, it's only an ant!" answered janet. "i guess he saw a little ant crawling along, just before he fell, and he sat down on him. did you think you'd hurt the little ant, trouble?" "i satted on him, but i didn't hurt him," answered the little boy. "he can wiggle along nice--see!" and he showed the ant, crawling about on the piece of wood. perhaps the little ant wondered how in the world it was ever going to get back to the ground again. "put him down and come on," said ted. "we want to find something before grandpa puts up the tent. maybe we can find the den where the fox lives." trouble carefully put the little ant back on the ground. "i satted on him, but i didn't hurted him," again said the little fellow, grunting as he stood up straight again. janet took his hand and they followed teddy off through the forest. it was very pleasant in the woods on star island. the sun was shining brightly and the waters of the lake sparkled in the sun. the children felt glad and happy that they had come camping with their grandpa, and they knew that the best fun was yet to happen. "let's look around for holes now," said teddy, after they had gone a little way down a woodland path. "what sort of holes?" asked janet. "holes where a fox lives," answered her brother. "if we could find a fox maybe we could tame it." "wouldn't it bite?" the little girl asked. "well, maybe a little bit at first, but not after it got tame," said teddy. "come on!" they walked a little way farther, and then jan suddenly cried: "oh, i see a hole!" she pointed to one beneath the roots of a big tree. "that's a fox den, i guess!" exclaimed teddy. "we'll watch and see what comes out." the children hid in the bushes where they could look at the hole in the ground. for some time they waited, and then they began to get tired. the curlytops were not used to keeping still. "i'm going to sneeze!" said trouble suddenly, and sneeze he did. and just then a little brown animal bounced out from under a bush and ran into the hole. "oh, it's a bunny rabbit!" cried janet. "he lives in that hole! come on, ted, let's walk. we've found out what it was. it isn't a fox, it's a bunny! let's go and find something else on the island. maybe we can find a big cave." "and maybe well find out what that blue light was," cried ted eagerly. "i guess i don't want to look for that," remarked jan slowly. "why not?" "'cause don't you 'member what hal said about there bein' ghosts on this island?" and janet looked over her shoulder, though it was broad daylight. "pooh!" laughed her brother. "i thought you didn't believe in ghosts." "i don't--but--" "i'm not afraid!" declared teddy. "and i'm going to look and see if i can't find the lost star that fell on the island." "grandpa said it all burned up." "well, maybe a little piece of it was left. anyhow i'm going to look." so they looked, but they found nothing like the blue light, and then ted said he was hungry and wanted to eat. nora and mrs. martin had set out a little lunch for the children on top of a packing box, and the curlytops and trouble were soon enjoying the sandwiches and cake, while their grandfather and the hired man finished unloading the boat. in a little while grandpa martin called: "all aboard, teddy, if you're going back with me!" "i'm coming!" was the answer. "i'm coming!" it did not take grandpa martin long to pull back to the mainland in the boat which was empty save for himself and ted. the lake was smooth, a little wind making tiny waves that gently lapped the side of the boat. "i think we'd better bring nicknack over this trip," said grandpa martin, when a second farm hand met him on shore and began to help load the boat for the second trip. "the sooner we get that goat over on the island, the better i'll feel." "why, you're not afraid of him, are you?" asked the hired man whose name was george. "no. but i don't know how easy it's going to be to ferry him over. he may start some of his tricks. so we won't put much in the boat this time. we'll leave plenty of room for the goat and the cart." "oh, nicknack will be good," declared ted. "i know he will. won't you, nicknack?" and he put his arms around his pet. the goat had been driven down near the dock whence the boat started for star island. "well, unharness him and we'll get him on board," said the farmer. "then we'll see what happens next." nicknack made no fuss at all about being unharnessed. his wagon was first wheeled on the boat, which was a large one and broad. then ted started nicknack toward the craft. "giddap!" cried teddy to nicknack. "we're going to camp on star island, and you can have lots of fun! giddap!" nicknack stood still on the dock for a few seconds, and he seemed to be sniffing the boat and the water in which it floated. then with a little wiggle of his funny, short tail, he jumped down in near his wagon, and began eating some grass which ted had pulled and placed there for him. "it's a sort of bait, like a piece of cheese in a mouse trap," remarked ted, as he saw the goat nibbling. "isn't he good, grandpa?" "he's good now, teddy; but whether he'll be good all the way over is something i can't say. i hope so." george put in the boat as much as could safely be carried, with the goat as a passenger, and then he and grandpa martin began rowing toward star island. at first everything went very well. nicknack seemed a little frightened when the boat tipped and rocked, but ted patted him and fed him more grass, which nicknack liked very much. "i knew he'd be good!" teddy said, when they were almost at the island, and could see jan waving to them. "i knew he'd like the boat ride, grandpa." "yes, he seems to like it. now if we--" but just then something happened. the wind suddenly blew rather hard, roughening the water and causing the boat to tip. nicknack was jostled over against the wagon, and some water splashed on him. "baa-a-a-a-a!" bleated the goat. then, before anyone could stop him, he gave a leap over teddy's head, and into the water splashed nicknack. the goat had leaped overboard into the deepest part of clover lake! chapter v the bag of salt "oh! oh!" cried teddy. "oh, there goes my nice goat! catch him, grandpa! stop him!" grandpa martin stopped rowing and looked in surprise at the goat. so did the hired man. "well, just look!" exclaimed george. "oh, he'll be drowned! he'll be drowned!" wailed teddy, tears coming into his eyes, for he loved nicknack. "he'll be drowned!" grandpa martin rested his hands on the oars and looked into the water. then he smiled. "i guess you'd have hard work drowning that goat," he said. "he's swimming like a fish!" "and right straight for star island!" added the hired man. "that's a smart goat all right! he knows where he wants to go, and the shortest way to get there!" surely enough nicknack was swimming toward the island. when he jumped out of the boat he floundered a little in the water, and splashed some on teddy. then he struck out, paddling as a dog does with his front feet. nicknack turned himself about until he was headed toward the island, and then he swam straight toward it. "oh, won't he drown, grandpa?" asked teddy. "i don't believe so, my boy! i guess nicknack knows more than we thought he did. maybe he didn't like the way we rowed, or he may have wanted a bath. anyhow he jumped overboard, but he'll be all right." "see him go!" cried the hired man. nicknack was swimming quite fast. of course a goat is not as good a swimmer as is a duck or a fish, but ted's pet did very well. on shore were nora, mrs. martin, janet, trouble, and the farm hand who had gone over in the first boatload. they were watching the goat swimming toward them. "did you throw him into the water, teddy?" asked janet, as soon as the boat was near enough so that talking could be heard. "he jumped in," ted answered. "isn't he a good swimmer?" "i should say so! here, nicknack! come here!" janet called. the goat, which had been headed toward a spot a little way down the island from where janet and her mother stood, turned at the sound of the little girl's voice and came in her direction. "oh, he knows me!" she cried in delight "now don't shake yourself the way skyrocket does, and get me all wet!" she begged, as nicknack scrambled out on shore, water dripping from his hairy coat. but the goat did not act like a dog, who gives himself a great shaking whenever he comes on shore after having been in the water. nicknack just let it drip off him, and began to nibble some of the grass that grew on the island. he was making himself perfectly at home, it seemed. the goat-wagon and the other things were soon landed, and then grandpa martin and one of the hired men went back for the last load. when that came back and the things were piled up near the tents, the work of setting up the camp went on. there was much yet to be done. ted and jan helped all they could in putting up the tents. so did mother martin and nora, who was large and strong. she could pull on a rope about as well as a man, and there were many ropes that needed tightening and fastening around pegs driven into the ground so the tents would not blow over in the wind. nicknack had been tied to a tree, near which, a little later, ted and jan were going to make him a little bower of leaves and branches. that was to be his stable until a better one could be built by grandpa martin--one that would keep nicknack dry when it rained. at last the tents were up, one for sleeping, another for cooking, and a third where the curlytops and the others would eat their meals. it was a fine camp that grandpa martin made, and he knew just how to do it right, even to digging little trenches, or ditches, around the tents so the water would run off when it stormed. "and now let's take a walk and see what we can find," suggested ted to janet, when mother martin said they might play about until supper was ready, for they had called the lunch they had eaten their dinner. "don't go too far," cautioned mother martin. "oh, we can't get lost on this island," said ted. "all we'd have to do, if we were, would be to walk along the shore until we came to this camp." "i know that. but it wasn't so much about your getting lost that i was thinking," said mrs. martin. "oh, you mean--the tramps?" half whispered janet. "well, i don't know whether there are any here or not," went on her mother. "but it's best to be careful until grandpa has had a chance to look about. where is grandpa now?" "he's getting some water at the spring," ted answered. there was a fine spring on star island, not far from the place where the tents had been set up, and mr. martin was now bringing pails of water from that and pouring them into a barrel which would hold so much that even trouble would have plenty to drink no matter how thirsty he was. "well, don't go too far away until either grandpa or i have a chance to go with you," added mrs. martin. "me come, too," called trouble, as he saw his brother and sister starting off. "oh, mother!" exclaimed teddy. "no, you stay with mother," said mrs. martin. "i'll give you a nice drink of milk." "don't want milk. i's had milk. trouble want ted an' jan." "but you can't go with them, my dear. come on, we'll go and throw stones into the lake and make-believe it's a great, big ocean!" baby william pouted a little at first. he liked to have his own way. but when he saw what fun his mother was having tossing stones into the lake and making the water splash up, trouble did the same, laughing at the fun he was having. "dis a ocean, momsey?" he asked as he set a little stick afloat, making believe it was a boat. "well, we'll call it an ocean," mrs. martin answered. "but this water is fresh, and that in the ocean is very salty. some day i'll take you and my two little curlytops to the real ocean, and you can taste how salty the waves are. now we'll throw some more stones." meanwhile ted and jan started for a little walk down the path that went the whole length of star island. "shall we take nicknack?" asked jan. "no, let's wait until he dries off after his bath," decided teddy. "i don't like wet goats." "why, teddy martin! nicknack got dried out hours ago!" "well, anyway, a goat isn't like a dog. we don't want a goat along when we are going out walking." so nicknack was left to nibble the grass, while the curlytops wandered on and on. grandpa and the hired men, having finished putting up the tents, were getting the stove ready so nora could get supper. "what are you looking for?" asked jan when she noticed that her brother walked along as if searching for something. "are you trying to see if any tramps or gypsies are here on the island?" "no. i was thinking maybe i could find that fallen star." "but didn't grandpa say it all melted up?" "maybe a piece of it's left," went on ted. this was the second time that he had spoken of the star that day. "if i can't find a chunk of it, maybe i can find the hole it made when it hit," he added. "i'd like to find that. maybe it would be bigger than the one i dug when i thought i could go all the way through to china." "yes. the time skyrocket fell in!" laughed jan. "'member that, teddy?" "i guess i do! daddy had to go out in the night and bring him in. come on, let's look for the hole the shooting star made." "all right." the two curlytops walked on over the island, looking here and there for star-holes. they found a number of deep places, but after looking at them, and poking sticks down into them, ted decided that none of them had ever held a shooting star. "maybe bears made them," half whispered jan. "there aren't any bears on this island!" teddy declared. "i hope not," murmured his sister, as she looked over her shoulder and then kept close to her brother during the rest of the walk. pretty soon the children heard their mother's voice calling them. they could hear very plainly, for the air was clear. "i guess supper is ready," said janet. "i hope it is!" sighed ted. "i'm awful hungry!" supper was ready, smoking hot on the table in the dining-tent, when ted and jan reached the camp grandpa had made. "oh, how good it smells!" cried ted. "and how nice the white tents look under the green trees," added his sister. "i just love it here!" "it is the nicest place we have yet been for the summer vacation," said mother martin. "this and cherry farm are two lovely places." they sat down under the tent and began to eat. nora had gotten up a fine supper, for a regular cook stove had been brought along, and it was almost like eating at grandma martin's table, only this was out of doors, for the sides of the tent were raised to let in the air and the rays of the setting sun. "what's the matter, father?" asked mrs. martin, as she saw the children's grandfather pause after tasting the potatoes. "is anything wrong?" "i think i'd like a little more salt on these." "yes, they do need salting. nora, bring the salt please." "there isn't any, except what i used when i was cooking--a little i had in a salt-shaker." "oh, yes, there must be. i brought a whole bagful. i saw it when i unpacked some of the things. there was a sack of salt." "well, it isn't here now," said nora, as she looked among her kitchen things. "has anyone seen the bag of salt?" asked mrs. martin. she looked at ted and jan, who shook their heads. then trouble's mother looked at him. he was busy with a piece of bread and jam. one could have told trouble had been eating bread and jam just by looking at his mouth and face. "did you see the salt. trouble?" asked his mother. "iss, i did," he answered, taking another bite. "where is it?" "in de water," he replied. "i puts it in de water." "you put the salt in the water? what water? tell mother, trouble." "i puts salt in de lake water to make him 'ike ocean. trouble 'ike ocean. come on, i show!" and, getting down out of his chair, he toddled toward a little cove near the camp. the others, following him, saw something white on the ground near the edge of the lake. grandpa martin touched it with his finger and tasted. "the little tyke did empty the whole bag of salt in the lake!" cried the farmer. "fancy his trying to make it like the ocean! ho! ho!" "oh, trouble!" cried mrs. martin. "you wasted a whole bag of salt, and now grandpa hasn't any for his potatoes!" chapter vi ted and the bear baby williams looked a little bit frightened and ashamed as his mother spoke to him in that way. he loved his grandfather, and of course he would not have done anything to make him feel bad if he had thought. but trouble was a very little fellow, though his father often said he could get into as many kinds of mischief as could the larger curlytops. "oh dear! this is too bad!" went on mrs. martin. "why did you do it, trouble! what made you empty the bag of salt into the lake?" "want to make ocean wif salt water," was the answer. "i suppose it's my fault, for telling him so much about the big sea and its salt water," said trouble's mother. "he liked to hear me talk about the ocean, and i guess he must have been thinking about it more than i had any idea of. "he must have tasted the water of the lake, and found it wasn't salty, and then he thought that, to make an ocean and big waves out of a lake, all he had to do was to put in the salt. i'm sorry, father." "oh, that's all right," laughed grandpa martin. "i guess i can get along without any more salt." "trouble sorry, too," said the little fellow, when he understood that he had done something wrong. "me get salt water for you," and he started toward the place where he had emptied the bag into the water, carrying a spoon from the table. "no, trouble! come back!" ordered his mother. "i guess he wants to dip up some salt water for you," she said laughingly to the children's grandfather, "but he'd be more likely to fall in himself." she caught trouble up in her arms and kissed him, and then nora managed to find a little salt in the bottom of the shaker, so grandpa martin had some on his potatoes after all. but trouble was told he must never again do anything like that. he promised, of course, but jan said: "he'll do something else, just as bad." "i guess he will," laughed teddy. supper over, mr. martin took his two men over to the mainland. on his return they all gathered about a little campfire grandpa made in front of the sleeping tent. the cot beds had been set up, and a mosquito netting was hung at the "front door" of the white canvas house, though really there was no door, just two flaps of the tent that could be tied together. but the netting kept out the bugs. fortunately there were no mosquitoes, though all sorts of moths, snapping bugs and other flying things came around whenever a lantern was lighted. "tell us a story, grandpa!" begged janet, when they had finished talking about the many things that had happened during the first day in camp. "tell us about the shooting star that fell on this island," begged teddy. "tell us about de twamps!" exclaimed trouble, who ought to have been asleep, but who had begged to stay up a little longer than usual. "i don't know anything about the tramps," laughed grandpa, "and i don't believe there are any on the island, though it is a large one, and it will take two or three days for us to walk all about it. "as for the shooting star, which teddy thinks about so much, i really didn't see it fall, and all i know is what the old men in the village have told me. it was many years ago." "and did you ever see the blue light?" asked ted, thinking of what he and his sister had seen the night they were coming home from the little visit to hal chester. "no, i never did; though i'd like to, so i might know what it was." "children, how is grandpa ever going to tell you a story if you keep asking him so many questions?" laughed mrs. martin. "all right--now we'll listen," promised teddy, and grandpa martin told a tale of when he was a little boy, and lived further to the north and on the edge of a big wood where there were bears and other wild animals. his father was a good hunter, grandpa martin said, and often used to kill bears and wolves, for the country was wild, with never so much as one automobile in it. grandpa finished his story of the olden days by telling of once when he was a small boy, coming home through the woods toward dark one evening and being chased by a bear. but he crawled into a hollow log where the bear could not get him, and later his father and some other hunters came, shot the bear and got the little boy safely out. "whew!" whistled teddy, when this was finished. "i'd like to have been there!" "in the log, hiding away from the bear?" asked his mother. "no, i--i guess not that," ted answered. "i'd just like to have seen it up in a tree, where the bear couldn't get me." "bears can climb trees," remarked janet. "well, i'd go up in a little tree too small for a bear," her brother answered. "i guess you'd all better go to your little beds!" laughed mother martin. "it's long past your sleepy time." and the curlytops and trouble were soon sound asleep. it must have been about the middle of the night---anyhow it was quite late--when teddy, who was sleeping in his cot next to one of the side walls of the tent, was suddenly awakened by a noise outside, and something seemed to be trying to get through. "oh! oh!" cried teddy, quickly sitting up in bed, and wide awake all at once. "oh, mother! something's after me! it's a bear! it's a bear!" "hush!" quickly exclaimed mrs. martin. "you'll waken william, and frighten him!" "but mother! i'm sure it's a bear! he growled!" "what is it?" asked jan, from her cot on the other side of the tent. "it's a bear!" cried ted again. there did seem to be something going on outside the tent near ted's side. there was a crackling in the bushes, and once something came pushing hard against the side of the white canvas house with force enough to make a bulge in it. teddy jumped up from his cot and ran over to his mother, who was sitting up on her bed. "oh, mother! it's coming in!" cried teddy. "nonsense!" and mrs. martin laughed as she put her arms around her small son. "what is it?" asked grandpa martin from the curtained-off part of the tent where he slept. "it's a bear!" cried janet. just then, from outside came a loud: "baa-a-a-a-a!" teddy looked very much surprised. then he smiled. then he laughed and cried: "why, it's our goat nicknack!" "i guess that's what it is," added grandpa martin. "but he seems to be in trouble. i'll go outside and look." taking a lantern with him, while mrs. martin and the children waited a bit anxiously, grandpa martin went to see what had happened. the curlytops heard him laughing as they saw the flicker of his light through the white tent. then they heard nicknack bleating again. the goat seemed, to those inside, to be kicking about with his little black hoofs. "whoa there, nicknack!" called grandpa martin. "i'll soon get you loose!" there was more noise, more tramping in the bushes and then, after a while, grandpa martin came back. "what was it?" asked ted and jan in whispers, for their mother had begged them not to awaken trouble, who was still sleeping peacefully. "it was your goat," was the answer. "he had got loose, and his horns were caught between two trees where he had tried to jump. he was held fast by his horns and he was kicking his heels up in the air, trying to get loose." "did you get him out?" asked jan. "yes, i pried the trees apart and got his head loose. then he was all right. i tied him good and tight in his stable, and i guess he won't bother us again to-night." "then it wasn't a bear after all," remarked jan, laughing at her brother. "no, indeed! there aren't any bears on this island," said her grandfather. "go to sleep." nothing else happened the rest of the night, and they all slept rather late the next morning, for they were tired from the work of the day before. the sun was shining over clover lake when nora rang the breakfast bell, and ted and jan hurried with their dressing, for they were eager to be at their play. "what'll we do to-day?" asked janet, as she tried to get a comb through her thick, curly hair. "we'll go for a ride with nicknack," decided ted, who was also having a hard time with his locks. "oh, i wish i was a barber!" he cried, as the comb stuck in a bunch of curls. "why?" asked his mother, who was giving trouble his breakfast. "'cause then i'd cut my own hair short, and i'd never have to comb it." "oh, i wouldn't want to see you without your curls," mother martin said. "here, i'll help you as soon as i feed trouble." trouble could feed himself when his plate had been set in front of him, and while he was eating mrs. martin made her two curlytops look better by the use of their combs. after breakfast the children ran to hitch nicknack to the wagon. grandpa martin was going back in the rowboat to the mainland to get a few things that had been forgotten, and also another bag of salt. "and i'll hide it away from trouble," said nora with a laugh. "we don't want any more salty oceans around here." "let's drive away before trouble sees us," proposed jan to her brother. "he'll want to come for a ride and we can't go very far if he comes along." "all right. stoop down and walk behind the bushes. then he can't see us." jan and ted managed to get away unseen, and were soon hitching their goat to the wagon. trouble finished his breakfast and called to them, wanting to go with them wherever they went. but his mother knew the two curlytops did not want trouble with them every time, so baby william had to play by himself about camp, while the two older children drove off on a path that led the long way of the island. "maybe we'll have an adventure," suggested jan, as she sat in the cart driving the goat, for she and her brother took turns at this fun. "maybe we'll see some of the tramps," he added. "i don't want to," said jan. "well, maybe we'll see a bear." "i don't want that, either. i wish you wouldn't say such things, teddy." "well, what do you want to see?" "oh, something nice--flowers or birds or maybe a fairy." "huh! i guess there's no fairies on this island, either. let's see if we can find an apple tree. i'd like an apple." "so would i. but we mustn't eat green ones." "not if they're too green," agreed teddy. "but a little green won't hurt." they drove on, nicknack trotting along the path through the woods, now and then stopping to nibble at the leaves. at last the children came to a beautiful shady spot, where many ferns grew beneath the trees, and it was so cool that they stopped their goat, tied him to an old stump and sat down to eat some cookies their mother had given them. the curlytops nearly always became hungry when they were out on their little trips. "wouldn't it be funny," remarked ted, after a bit, "if we should see a bear?" "the-o-dore martin!" gasped janet. "i wish you'd keep quiet! it makes me scared to hear you say that." "well, i was only foolin'," and teddy dropped a "g," a habit of which his mother was trying to break him. and he did not often forget. "if i saw a bear," began janet, "i'd just scream and--" suddenly she stopped because of a queer look she saw on her brother's face. teddy dropped the cookie he had been about to bite, and, pointing toward a hollow log that lay not far off, said, in a hoarse whisper: "look, jan! it _is_ a bear!" chapter vii jan sees something for a moment after her brother had said this janet did not speak. she, too, dropped the cookie she had just taken from the bag, and turned slowly around to see at what teddy was pointing. she was just in time to see something furry and reddish-brown in color dart into the hollow log, which was open at both ends. then jan gave a scream. "oh!" exclaimed ted, who was as much frightened by janet's shrill voice as he was at what he had seen. "oh, jan! don't!" "i--i couldn't help it," she answered. "i told you i'd scream if i saw a bear, and i _did_ see one. it is a bear, isn't it, teddy?" "it is," he answered. "i saw it first. it's my bear!" "you can have it--every bit of it," said jan, quickly getting up from the mossy rock on which she had been sitting. "i don't want any of it, not even the stubby tail. i like to own half of nicknack with you, but i don't want half a bear." "then i'll take all of it--it's my bear," went on ted. "where're you going, jan?" he asked, as he saw his sister hurrying away. "i'm going home. i don't like it here. i'm going to make nicknack run home with me." teddy got up, too. he did not stop to pick up the cookie he had dropped. "i--i guess i'll go with you, jan," he said. "i guess my bear will stay in the log until i come back." "are you coming back?" asked janet, as with trembling fingers she unfastened nicknack's strap from around the stump to which he had been tied. "i'm going to get grandpa to come back with me and shoot the bear," replied ted. "i want his skin to make a rug. you know--like grandpa did with the bear his father shot." jan did not say anything. she got into the cart and turned the goat about, ready to leave the place. she gave a look over her shoulder at the hollow log into which she and ted had seen the furry, brown animal crawl. it did not seem to be coming out, and jan was glad of that. "giddap, nicknack!" she called to the goat, and as the animal started off ted jumped into the wagon from behind. "i wish i had a gun," he said. "you're too little," declared jan. "oh, ted! what if he should chase us? was it an awful big bear? i didn't dare look much." "it wasn't so very big." "was it as big as nicknack?" "oh, bigger'n him--a lot." "oh!" and again jan looked back over her shoulder. "i hope he doesn't chase us," she added. "i'll fix him if he does!" threatened ted. "i'll fix him!" "how? you haven't any gun, and maybe you couldn't shoot it if you had, lessen maybe it was your christmas pop gun." "pooh! pop guns wouldn't be any good to shoot a bear! you've got to have real bullets. but i can fix this bear if he chases us," and ted tried to look brave. "how?" asked jan again. she felt safer now, for nicknack was going fast, and the hollow log, into which the furry animal had crawled, was out of sight. "i'll make our goat buck the bear with his horns if he chases us, that's what i'll do!" declared ted. "oh, that would be good!" exclaimed jan in delight. "nicknack is brave and his horns are sharp. 'member how he stuck 'em in the fence one day?" "yes," answered ted, "i do. and i'll get him to stick 'em in the bear if he comes too close. giddap, nicknack!" and ted flicked the goat with the ends of the reins. i think he wanted the goat to go faster so there would be no danger of the bear's chasing after him and his sister. perhaps ted thought nicknack might be afraid of the bear, even if the goat did have sharp horns. the curlytops were greatly excited when they reached the camp. trouble was playing out in front and grandpa martin had just landed in the boat. "what's that?" he cried, when he heard ted's story. "a bear in a hollow log? nonsense! there are no bears on star island." "but i saw it, and so did janet. didn't you, jan?" cried ted. "i saw something fuzzy with a big tail going inside the log," answered teddy's sister. "then it couldn't have been a bear," laughed grandpa martin. "for a bear has only a little short, stubby tail. i'll go to see what it is. i think i know, however." "what?" asked mother martin. "don't go into any danger, father." "i won't," promised the farmer. "but i won't tell you what i think the animal is until i see it. i may be mistaken." "maybe it's a twamp," put in trouble, who seemed to be thinking about them as much as ted thought about the fallen star. "tramps aren't animals," laughed jan. "furry animals, anyway," added ted. "well, you stay here and i'll go see what it was," went on grandpa, and he started off toward the hollow log with a big club. he was not gone very long, and when he came back he was laughing, as he had the night before when nicknack gave them a scare. "just as i thought!" cried the children's grandpa. "it was a big, red fox in the hollow log." "and not a bear?" asked ted. "not a bear, curlytop! only a fox that was more frightened by you than you were by him, i guess. i knew it couldn't be a bear." "how did you get it out of the log?" asked jan. "oh, i just tapped on the log with my club, and mr. fox must have thought it was somebody knocking at his front door. for out he ran, looked at me with his bright eyes, and then away he ran into the woods. so you curlytops needn't be afraid. the fox won't hurt you." "i'm glad of that," said jan. "now let's go fishing, ted." "all right," he agreed. "can't you take trouble with you?" asked his mother. "i want to help nora and grandpa do a little work around the camp." "yes, we'll take him," agreed jan. "but you mustn't put any salt in the water, trouble, and scare the fish." "i not do it. i tatch a fiss myself." they gave him a pole and a line without any hook on it so he could not scratch himself, and then jan and ted sat down under a shady tree, not far from camp, to try to catch some fish. they knew how, for their father had taught them, and soon jan had landed a good-sized sunfish. a little later ted caught a perch which had stripes on its sides, "like a zebra," as jan said. after that jan and ted each caught two fish, and they soon had enough to cook. "what do you curlytops want me to do with these?" asked nora, as the two children came along, laughing and shouting, with the fish dangling from strings each of them carried. "cook 'em, of course!" cried teddy. "that's what we caught them for, nora--to have you cook them." "but won't they bite me?" asked the cook, pretending to be afraid. "oh, no! they can't!" explained jan. "they bit on our hooks, and now they can't bite any more, but we can bite them," said teddy. "oh, would you bite the poor fish?" asked nora. for a moment the curlytops did not know what to answer. then teddy replied: "oh, well, it can't hurt 'em to bite 'em after they're cooked, can it?" "no, i guess not," laughed nora, "no more than it can hurt a baked potato. well, run along and i'll get the fish ready for dinner, or whatever you call the next meal. i declare, i'm so mixed up with this camping business that i hardly know breakfast from supper. but run along, and i'll fry the fish for you, anyhow." "let's go and take a walk," proposed jan, when they had washed their hands in the tin basin that mother martin had set on a bench under a tree, with a towel and soap near by, for fish did leave such a funny smell on your hands, the little girl said. "where'll we walk to?" asked teddy. "oh, let's go and look. maybe we can find that cute little bunny we saw when we were looking for the den where the fox lived but didn't find him," proposed jan. "all right," answered teddy, and they set off. they had not gone very far before teddy stopped near a bush and began to look about him. "what's the matter?" asked his sister. "why, i saw a bird fly out of here," answered her brother, "and it seemed just as if it had a broken wing. it couldn't fly--hardly." "where is it?" asked jan eagerly. "maybe if we take it to mother she can fix the wing. once she mended a dog's broken leg, and he could walk 'most as good as ever when he got well, only he limped a little." "but a dog can't fly," said teddy. "i know it," agreed jan. "but if mother can mend a broken leg, she can fix a broken wing, can't she?" "maybe," admitted her brother. "oh, there's the bird again, jan! see how it nutters along!" and the little boy pointed to one that was dragging itself along over the ground as though its wings or legs were broken or hurt. "come on!" cried teddy. "maybe we can catch the bird, jan!" brother and sister started after the little feathered songster, which was making a queer, chirping noise. then jan suddenly called: "oh, here's another!" and, surely enough, there was a second bird acting almost as was the first--fluttering along, half hopping and half flying through the grass. "we'll get 'em both!" yelled teddy, and he and jan hurried along. but, somehow or other, as soon as they came almost to the place where they could reach out and touch one of the birds, which acted as though it could not go a bit farther, the little creature would manage to flutter on just beyond the eager hands of the children. "that's funny!" exclaimed teddy. "i almost had one of 'em that time!" "so did i!" added janet. "now i'm sure i can get this one!" and she ran forward to grasp the fluttering bird, but it managed to hop along, just out of her reach. the one ted was after did the same thing, and for some time the children hurried on after the birds. at last the two songsters, with little chirps and calls, suddenly flew high in the air and circled back through the woods. "well, would you look at that!" cried teddy, in surprise. "they can fly, after all!" gasped janet. "what d'you s'pose made 'em pretend they couldn't?" "i--i guess they wanted to fool us," said her brother. and that really was it. the little birds had built a nest in a low bush, close to the ground where the children could easily have reached it if they had seen it. and they were very close to it, though their eyes had not spied it. but the birds had seen the curlytops and, fearing that jan and ted might take out the eggs in the nest, the wise little birds had pretended to be willing to let the boy and girl catch them instead of robbing the nest. of course, jan and ted wouldn't have done such a thing as that! but the birds, knew no differently. not all birds act this way--pretending to be hurt, or that they can't fly--to get people to chase after them, and so keep far away from the little nests. but this particular kind of bird always does that. some day, if you are in the woods or the fields, and see one bird--or two--acting in this queer way, as though it could not fly or walk, and as though it wanted you to hurry after it and try to catch it--if you see a bird acting that way you may be sure you are near its nest and eggs and this is the way the bird does to get you away. "let's look for their nest," suggested teddy, when the two birds had flown far away, back through the woods. "oh, no," answered jan. "we don't want to scare them. maybe we can look at the nest of a bird that won't mind if we watch her feeding her little ones." and, a little later, they came to a bush in which was a robin's nest. in it were some tiny birds, and, by standing on their tiptoes, and bending the nest down a little way, the curlytops could look in. the baby birds, which had only just begun to grow feathers, opened their mouths as wide as they could, thinking, i suppose, that jan and ted had worms or bugs for them. but the children did not have. "your mother will soon be along to feed you," said janet, and soon the mother bird did come flying back from the field. she seemed afraid at first, when she saw how close jan and ted were to her nest, but the children soon walked away, and then the robin fed her young. ted and jan had a nice walk through the woods and then they went back to camp. "we'll take trouble for a walk, so mother won't have to look after him so much," said janet. "come, trouble!" "show me where the fox was," begged baby william, and ted and jan turned their steps that way. but there was no sign of the big-tailed animal in the hollow log, though the children pounded on it as grandpa martin said he had done. then they wandered on a little farther in the beautiful woods. jan saw some flowers she wanted to gather, and leaving the path where ted stood to take care of his little brother, she began picking a handful. janet saw so many pretty blossoms that she went a little farther than she meant to, and, before she knew it, she had lost sight of her two brothers, though she could hear them talking. suddenly, after crawling through some bushes, jan found herself on another path. on the other side of it she saw some black-eyed susans. "oh, i must get some of them!" she cried. she darted across the path, and, as she was about to pick the flowers, she saw, standing behind a big tree, a man who had on very ragged clothes. he looked at jan, who dropped her bouquet and gasped: "oh! oh, dear!" the ragged man looked at janet and smiled. but jan did not smile. one thought only was in her mind. "here is one of the tramps!" chapter viii trouble falls in janet martin thought it must have been all of five minutes that she stood staring at the ragged man and he at her, though, very likely, it was only a few seconds. a little while seems very long sometimes; for instance, waiting for a train, or for the day of the party to come. "are you looking for anything?" the man asked of janet after a while. "he doesn't speak like a tramp," thought the little girl, who had occasionally heard them asking nora, at the back door at home, for something to eat. "i guess i'll answer him." so she replied: "i'm looking for flowers." "well, there are some pretty ones here in the woods," went on the ragged man. "i saw some fine red ones a little while ago. if i had known i should meet you i would have picked them for you." "i wonder if he _can_ be a tramp," thought janet. "do tramps pick flowers, or want to pick them?" what she said was: "thank you, but i think i have enough now." "yes, you have a nice bouquet," went on the ragged man, still smiling. he was dressed like a tramp, that was certain. but, somehow or other, janet did not feel as afraid as she expected she would be when she thought of meeting a tramp. "do you live around here?" the man continued. "yes, we're camping in a tent," jan replied. "my grandfather owns part of this island and we're with him--my mother and my brothers. we like it here." "yes, it's fine," said the ragged man, who janet thought must be a tramp, even if he did not talk like most of them. "so you live in a tent? does the professor stay here all the while?" "the professor?" repeated janet, and she wondered what the long word meant. she was sure she had heard it before. pretty soon she remembered. at school she had heard some of the teachers speak of the principal as "professor." "my grandpa isn't a professor," explained janet with a smile. "he's a farmer." "well, some farmers are scientists. maybe he is a scientist," went on the tramp. "i was wondering if some one else was on this island looking for the same thing i'm looking for. can you tell me, little girl---?" but just then, from somewhere back in the woods, a voice called. the ragged man listened a moment, and then he cried: "all right! i'm coming!" janet saw him stoop and pick up off the ground a canvas bag, through the opening of which she saw stones, such as might be picked up on the shore of the lake or almost anywhere on the island. "i hope i shall see you again, little girl," went on the tramp, as janet called him afterward when telling the story. "and when i do, i hope i'll have some red flowers for you. good-bye!" janet was so surprised by the quick way in which the man ran off through the woods with his bag of stones that she did not answer or say good-bye. she just stood looking at the quivering bushes which closed up behind him and showed which way the man had gone. janet could not see him any longer. a moment later she heard the bushes behind her crackling, and, turning quickly, she saw ted and trouble coming toward her. "what's the matter?" called her older brother. "did you see another bear--i mean a fox?" "no. but i saw a tramp man," replied janet. "oh, but he was awful ragged!" "a tramp!" cried ted. "then we'd better get away from here. we'd better go and tell grandpa!" janet thought the same thing, and, after telling ted all that had happened and what she and the man had said, the curlytops hurried back through the woods to the camp. "a ragged man on the island; is that it?" asked grandpa martin, when jan told him what had happened. "it must be as mr. crittendon said, that there are tramps here. though what they are doing i don't know. there isn't anything to eat here, except what we brought. and you haven't missed anything, have you, nora? has anybody been taking your strawberry shortcake or apple dumplings from the tent kitchen?" "no, mr. martin, they haven't," nora answered. "well, maybe it was a tramp and perhaps it wasn't," said grandpa martin. "still it will be a good thing to have a look about the island. i don't want strange men roaming where they please, scaring the children." "oh, he didn't scare me, except at first," janet hastened to say. "he spoke real nice to me, but his clothes were old and awful ragged. he wanted to know if you were a professor." "well, i guess i'm professor enough to drive away tramps that won't work, and only want to eat what other people get," returned the farmer. "i'll have a look around this island to-morrow, and drive away the tramps." "and until then, don't you curlytops go far away. stay where i can watch you," went on mrs. martin, shaking her finger at them, half in fun, but a great deal in earnest. "we'll stay near the tent," promised jan. "i'm going to help grandpa hunt the tramps," declared ted. "no, curlytop, you'd better stay with your sister and mother," said the farmer. "i don't really believe there are any tramps here." "but i saw him!" insisted janet. "i know you saw some one, curly girl," and grandpa smiled at her. "of course there may be a strange man--maybe two, for you say you heard one call to the other. but they may have just stopped for a little while on this island. ill have to ask them to go away, though, for we want to be by ourselves while camping. so, as there might be strangers around here who would not be pleasant, you'd better stay here, too, teddy." "all right, i'll stay," teddy promised, and he tried to be happy and contented about it, though he did want to go with his grandfather on the "tramp-hunt" as he called it. but, though teddy was quite a good- sized boy for his age, there were some things that it was not wise for him to do. this was one of them. the next day grandpa martin, rowing over to the mainland, brought back with him one of his hired men. the two walked all over the island, only stopping for their lunch, and at night they had found no trace of anyone. "if tramps were here they have gone," said grandpa martin. "i can't think why that man who talked to janet should speak of a professor, though." "it _is_ queer," said mrs. martin. "never mind, i'm glad it is safe for the children to run about now. it has been hard work to keep them about the tents all this day." "i guess it has been," laughed grandpa martin. "well, to-morrow they can run as much as they like." ted and janet had lots of fun, playing on the shores of clover lake. they took off their shoes and stockings, and went wading. trouble did the same, splashing about in his bare feet until he saw a little crawfish, darting from one stone to another under water to hide away. "trouble 'fraid of dem big water-bugs," he said, as he ran out on the grassy bank. "don't want to wade any more," and ted and jan could not get him to come in again that day. by this time the camp was well settled. they had stored away in the cooking tent many good things to eat, and whenever they wanted anything more grandpa martin would row over to the store on the mainland for it. daddy martin wrote from cresco, where he was looking after his store, that he would soon be back at cherry farm, and then he would come out to the camp and spend a week. the curlytops played all the games they knew. they took long rides with nicknack, and often trouble went with them. but it was not all play. mrs. martin thought it wise for ted and jan to have some work to do; so, each day, she gave them little tasks. they had to bring a small pail of water from the spring, gather wood for the evening campfire, and also some for nora to use when she made the fire in the cook-stove. for nora was a good cook, and many a fine pie or cake came out of the oven. sometimes ted and jan helped around the kitchen by drying the dishes or helping set the table or clear it off. one afternoon, when it was almost time to get supper, mrs. martin sent ted to the spring for a pail of water. she wanted one so they could all have a fresh drink, as it was rather warm that day. "i'll go with you," offered janet. "me come too," added trouble. "yes, take him," said his mother to janet. "he hasn't been out much to-day." so trouble toddled off with his brother and sister. ted filled the pail at the bubbling spring, which was a large one, out of sight of the tents of the camp. then he heard a strange bird whistling in a tree overhead, and, setting down the pail, he ran to see what it was. "oh, jan," called her brother a moment later, "it's a big red and black bird. awful pretty! come and see him!" jan ran to get a look at the scarlet tanager, as grandpa said later it was, and, without thinking, she left trouble alone. well, you can well imagine what trouble did! for a long while--ever since he had been in camp, in fact--baby william had wanted to dip a pail of water out of the spring. but of course he could not be allowed to do this, for he might fall in. now, however, he saw his chance. "trouble bring de water," he said, talking to himself while teddy and janet were looking at the pretty bird. the little fellow carefully emptied the pail his brother had filled. then with it in his hand he went slowly toward the spring. he leaned over, but longer arms than his were needed to reach the pail down into the bubbling water. trouble reached and stretched and reached again, and then--- "splash!" baby william had fallen in! chapter ix ted finds a cave janet and ted returned from looking at the pretty scarlet bird just in time to see what happened to trouble. they saw him fall into the spring. "oh!" cried janet, clasping her hands. "oh, look!" "he'll be drowned!" yelled ted, and then he ran as fast as he could toward the place where he had last seen his little brother, for baby william was not in sight now. he was down in the water. perhaps trouble might not have come to any harm, more than to get wet through by the time ted reached him. perhaps the little fellow might not have been drowned. at any rate, no harm came to him, even though jan and her brother did not get there in time to help. the two curlytops, their fuzzy hair fluttering in the wind, were half way to the spring when they saw coming from the bushes a ragged man. "there he is!" cried janet. "who?" asked ted. "the man who--talked to me--while i was picking flowers," and jan's voice came in gasps, for she was getting out of breath from having run so hard. "there he is!" and she pointed. "that's the tramp!" cried ted. "they _are_ on the island, only grandpa couldn't find 'em!" "do you--do you s'pose he's goin' to take trouble?" faltered janet. before ted could answer, the curlytops saw what the ragged man was going to do. they saw him stoop over the spring, reach down into it and lift something up. the "something" was baby william, screaming and crying in fright, and dripping wet. the ragged man set trouble down on a rock near the spring, and then, waving his hand to ted and jan, he cried: "he's all right--swallowed hardly any water. take him home as soon as you can, though. i haven't time to stop--have to go to see the professor!" with that the man seemed to dive in between some high bushes, and the curlytops could not see him any more. but trouble was still sitting on the rock, the water from his clothes making a little puddle all around him, and he was crying hard, his tears running down his cheeks. "oh, trouble!" gasped jan, putting her arms around him, all wet as he was. "are you hurt?" asked ted, looking carefully at his little brother. "i--i--i fal--falled in an'--an' i's all--all wetted!" wailed trouble, his breath coming in gasps because of his crying, which he had partly stopped on seeing his brother and sister. "i failed in de spwing, i did!" "what made you?" asked ted, while jan tried to wring some of the water out of the little fellow's waist and rompers. "i wanted to get de pail full for mamma." "but i filled the pail, trouble. you oughtn't to have touched it," said teddy. he went to the spring and looked down in it. the pail was at the bottom of the little pool. "it's a good thing that tramp got him out," remarked janet. "he must be a nice man, even if his clothes are ragged." "i guess so, too," agreed ted. "but he said we must take trouble home. i guess we'd better." "yes," assented jan. "but he isn't hurt." "he wasn't in very long," ted said. "the man got him out awful quick-- quicker than we could. you lead him home, jan, and i'll get the pail out of the spring. it's sunk like a ship." "how're you going to get it?" "with a stick, i guess. you mustn't lean over the spring any more, trouble." "no," promised baby william. but the curlytops could not be sure he would keep his promise. he might for a time, while he remembered what had happened to him. with a crooked stick teddy managed to fish up the pail after two or three trials. then, filling it with water from the spring, he carried it back to camp, while jan led the wet and dripping trouble. "oh, my goodness! what's happened now?" asked nora, as she saw the three children coming into camp. "did you go in swimming with all your clothes on, trouble?? "no. i failed into de spwing, i did!" "and the tramp got him out!" added jan. then she and teddy, taking turns, told what had happened. mrs. martin scolded trouble a little, to make him more careful the next time. then grandpa martin said: "well, there must be strangers on this island after all, though i could not find them. they must be hiding somewhere, and i'd like to know what for." "maybe they're living in gypsy wagons," suggested jan. "or in a cave," added ted. "they look as if they lived in a cave." "there isn't any cave on the island, as far as i know," his grandfather told ted. "but i don't like those strange men roaming about our place here. they may not do any harm, but i don't like it. i'll have another look for them." "so will i," added teddy, but he did not say this aloud. teddy had made up his mind to do something. he was going to look for those men himself, either in a cave or a gypsy wagon. ted wanted to find the ragged man--find all of them if more than one; and there seemed to be at least two, for the one who had pulled teddy out of the spring had spoken of another--a "professor." "what's a professor?" asked jan. "oh, it's a man or a woman who has studied his lessons and teaches them to others," answered her mother. "one who knows a great deal about something, such as about the stars or about the world we live in. professors find out many things and then tell others--young people generally--about them." "i'm going to be a professor," said teddy. "are you?" inquired his mother with a smile. "i hope you will get wise enough to be one." but teddy did not speak all that was in his mind. if a professor was one who found out things, then the small boy decided he would be one long enough to find out about the tramps, and perhaps find the cave where they lived, and then he could tell jan. when trouble had been put into dry clothes and sent to sleep by his mother's singing, "ding-dong bell, pussy's in the well," jan and ted sat by themselves, talking over what had happened that day. ted was making a small boat to sail on the lake, and jan was mending her doll's dress, where a prickly briar bush had torn a little hole in it. early the next morning ted slipped away from his place at the breakfast table, and motioned to jan to join him behind the sleeping tent. ted held his finger over his lips to show his sister that he wanted her to keep very quiet. "what's the matter?" she whispered, when they were safe by themselves. "did you see the tramp-man?" "no, but i'm going to find him!" "you are?" cried janet, and her eyes opened wide with wonder and surprise. "don't tell anybody," went on ted. "we don't want trouble to follow us. come on off this way," and he pointed to a path that led through the bushes back of the tent. trouble was busy just then, playing in the sand on the shore of clover lake, while mrs. martin and nora were clearing away the breakfast things. grandpa martin was raking up around the tents, so no one saw the curlytops slip away. "which way are you going?" asked jan of her brother. "over to the spring." "what for? to get more water? where's your pail?" "i don't have to get water yet," answered ted. "i'm going to the spring to look to see if i can tell which way that tramp went. don't you know how indians do--look at the leaves and grass in the woods, and they can tell by the marks which way anybody went? mother read us a story once like that." "i don't like indians," remarked jan somewhat shortly, half turning back. "oh, there's no indians!" exclaimed ted impatiently. "i was only sayin' what they did. come on!" so jan followed her brother, though she was a little bit afraid. however, she saw nothing to frighten her, and it was nice in the woods. the wind was blowing through the trees, the birds were singing and it was cool and pleasant. the curlytops soon came to the spring where trouble had fallen in. "now we must look all around," declared teddy. "what for?" his sister demanded again. "to tell which way the tramp-man went. then we can find his cave." "maybe he lives in a wagon or a tent." "then we'll find them. come on, help look!" "i don't know how," confessed janet. "well, look for a place where the bushes are broken down and where you see footprints in the dirt. that's the way indians tell. mother read it out of a book to us." so jan and ted looked all around the spring, and at last ted found a place where it seemed as if some one had run through in a hurry, for twigs were broken off the bushes, and, by looking down at the ground, he saw the marks of shoes in the dirt. of course ted could not tell who had made them, but he thought surely it must have been the tramp who had pulled trouble from the spring. ted was sure they were not the footprints of himself and his sister, for their own were much smaller. "come on, jan!" cried teddy. "we'll find that tramp now or, anyway, the place where he hides." he pushed on through the bushes. there seemed to be a sort of path leading away from the spring, which was not the same path that ted and grandpa martin took when they went from the camp to the water-hole to fill the pail each day. on and on went ted, with jan following. she was so excited now at the thought that perhaps they might find something, that she was not a bit frightened. "wait a minute! wait for me, teddy!" she called, as her brother hurried on ahead of her. "come on, jan!" he called. "there's a good path here, and i guess i see something. oh, look here! oh, jan! oh! oh!" suddenly cried teddy. then his voice seemed to fade away, as if he had all at once gone down the cellar, and jan could hear him calling faintly. "oh, teddy! what's the matter? what's the matter?" she cried as she ran on through the bushes. "i've found the cave!" was his answer, so faint and far away that jan could hardly hear. "i've found the cave. i fell right into it! come on!" chapter x the grapevine swing wondering what had happened to her brother, jan hurried on toward the place from which his voice came. it sounded more than ever as if he were down a cellar. "but there can't be any cellars in these woods," thought the little girl. "where are you, teddy?" she called after a bit. "i can't see you!" "here i am, right behind you!" was the answer, and jan, turning quickly, saw the head of her brother sticking up out of a hole in the ground. "oh! oh!" exclaimed ted's sister. "where's the rest of you? where's your legs and your feet?" "down in the hole," explained teddy. "i'm in the cave. i fell in. that's how i found it." "is it a real cave?" asked janet. "it is. it goes away back under the ground, only i didn't go in 'cause it's so dark. i'm going to get a light and see what's there." "i'm not!" said jan, very decidedly. "well, then i'll get grandpa. maybe this is the cave where the tramps live. come and look where i am. you won't fall in." "how did you find it?" asked janet, as she walked toward the hole, down in which teddy was standing. it was a little way from the path the two curlytops had walked along through the woods--the path leading from the spring. "i just fell in it, i told you," ted answered. "i was walking along, and, all at once, i slipped down through the dried leaves. first i thought i was going down in a big hole, but it isn't over my head and a lot of leaves went down with me, so i didn't get jounced hardly at all." jan went to the edge and looked down in the hole. it seemed to be a large one in between two big rocks, and ted showed her where the hole slanted downward and went farther underground. it was dark there, and jan made up her mind she would never go into it, even if ted did. "you'd better come up," she said at last. "maybe mother wouldn't like it. besides, there might be snakes down in there." "oh! i didn't think about them!" exclaimed ted, and he tried to scramble up, but it was not so easy as he had hoped. he was a little excited, too, since janet had spoken of snakes. teddy did not like them, and they might be in among the leaves that had fallen down into the hole with him. "can't you get up?" jan asked, when her brother had slipped back two or three times. "maybe i could if you'd let me take hold of your hand," suggested teddy. "then you'd pull me in, and we'd both be down there." ted saw that this was so. he tried again to get out, but could not, for mixed with the leaves were many dry, brown pine needles from the trees growing overhead; and if you have ever been in the woods you know how slippery pine needles are when the ground is covered with them. teddy slipped back again and again. "oh, ted! can't you _ever_ get up?" asked janet, almost ready to cry. "oh, i'll get out somehow," he said. then dangling down from a tree behind his sister, he saw a long wild grapevine, which was almost like a piece of rope. "if i had hold of that i could pull myself out," teddy said. "see if you can reach it to me, jan." after two or three trials his sister did this. then, holding to a loose end of the grapevine while the other end was twined fast round a tree, teddy pulled himself out of the hole. once on firm ground he made the loose end of the grapevine fast to a stone that lay near the edge of the hole. "what made you do that?" asked janet. "so the next time i get down there i can pull myself out," teddy answered. "are you going down there again?" jan queried. "course i am!" declared ted. "i didn't half look in the cave. it's a big place. i could see in only a little way, 'cause it was so dark. i'm goin' to tell grandpa and have him bring a lantern." grandpa martin was surprised when ted and jan told him what they had found in the woods. "i didn't suppose there was a cave on the island," said the farmer. "i must have a look at it." "and may i come? and will you take a lantern?" asked teddy eagerly. "well, yes, i guess so," said grandpa slowly. "oh, father, do you think it is safe?" asked mrs. martin. "yes, i think so. i won't go very far in with the children. it may be only the den of a fox or some small animal, and not a real cave." "i think it's a big cave," declared ted. "come on, grandpa." "me come!" cried trouble, as the two curlytops set off with grandpa martin through the woods, toward the place where teddy had fallen down with the pile of leaves. "me come!" "no, you stay with me," laughed mother martin, catching him up in her arms. trouble did not want to stay behind, not having been with his brother and sister of late as much as he wished. "we'll bake a patty- cake!" mrs. martin added, and then trouble laughed, for he liked to help nora bake. that is, he thought he helped. and at least he helped to eat what nora took out of the oven. "now show me where the cave is," said grandpa martin to ted, as they neared the place. "but be careful not to fall into it again." "oh, i've got a grapevine rope so i can pull myself out," said jan's brother. "here it is, over this way." teddy martin was an observing little fellow. he could find his way around in the woods very well, once he had been to a place, and he did not go wrong this time. he led his grandfather right to the entrance of the cave. and it proved to be a real cave. grandpa martin found this out when he jumped down into the place where teddy had fallen, and when the lantern had been lighted and flashed into the dark hole. "yes, it's a cave all right," the children's grandfather said. "and to think the many times i've been on this island i never found it! well, i'll go in a little way." "can't i come?" asked ted, as he saw his grandfather start into the dark hole which spread out from the open place into which ted had fallen. "i'm not coming," declared janet, "and i don't want to stay here all alone." "you stay there with your sister, curlytop," directed mr. martin. "if i find out it's all right and is safe, i'll come back and take you both in a little way." grandpa martin walked into the dark hole, his lantern flickering like a firefly at night. the curlytops watched it until they could no longer see the gleam. then they waited expectantly. "maybe somethin'll grab grandpa," said jan, after a bit. "what?" asked ted. "a fox--or somethin'!" "pooh, he isn't afraid of a fox!" "well, a bear, maybe!" "there isn't any bears here, janet martin! i'm not afraid." perhaps ted said this because, just then, he saw his grandfather coming out of the cave. the farmer had not been gone very long. "is it a cave?" called ted. "a sure-enough one?" added his sister. "yes, it's a sure-enough cave. but there's nothing in it." "no wild animals?" jan demanded. "not even a mouse, as far as i could see," laughed mr. martin. "but some one had been in the cave eating his lunch." "maybe there was a picnic, grandpa," suggested ted. "no, i think only one or two persons were in the big hole," said his grandfather. "for it _is_ a big hole, larger than i thought it was. i could stand up straight once i was inside." "take us in!" begged ted. "yes, i think it will be all right. come along, jan. i'll hold your hand, and there isn't anything of which to be afraid. come on!" so janet and teddy went into the cave. by the light of grandpa's lantern they could see that it was a large place, a regular underground house--a cave just like those of which they had read in fairy stories. "and was there somebody here, really?" asked ted eagerly. "yes," answered his grandfather. "see. here are bits of bread scattered about, and papers in which some one brought his lunch here." "maybe it was the tramps," whispered janet. "maybe," agreed mr. martin. "i must have another look over the island." there was not much else in the cave that they could see with the one lantern. grandpa martin wanted to look about more, and back in the far corners, but he did not like to take the children along, and jan held tightly to his hand as if she feared she would lose him. "i'll come here alone some other time, and see what i can find," thought grandpa martin to himself, as they came out. "i don't like it in there," said jan, once they were again out in the sunshine. "i don't like caves." "i do," declared ted. "when hal chester comes to visit me, as he said he would, he and i will look all through this cave." "is hal coming?" asked jan, remembering the boy, once lame but now cured, who had played with them and told them about princess blue eyes. "yes, mother asked him to come and spend a week, and he said he would. we'll have some fun in the cave." "what do you suppose the big hole can be?" asked mrs. martin, when grandpa martin and the children reached camp after their visit to the strange place. "i don't know," he answered. "it doesn't seem to have been dug with picks and shovels. it's just a natural cave i guess, and some fishermen may have eaten their lunch there one day when it rained. but there is no one in it now." ted and jan talked much about the cave the rest of that day. they went for a ride in the wagon drawn by nicknack, taking trouble with them. on their way back jan said: "oh, i wish i had a swing." "it would be fun," agreed ted. "maybe i can make one." "you'll have to get a rope," said his sister. "grandpa is going to row over in the boat to-morrow. ask him to bring us one." "no, he don't need to bring us a rope," went on her brother. "why not?" "'cause i can get a rope in the woods." "a rope in the woods? oh, teddy martin, you can not! ropes don't grow on trees." "the kind i mean does," answered ted with a laugh. "wait and i'll show you." when nicknack had been put in the new stable which grandpa martin had built for him, teddy, followed by jan and trouble, walked a little way into the woods. ted carried with him a piece of old carpet. "what's that for?" his sister asked. "for a swing board," he answered. "but where's the swing rope?" "here!" cried ted suddenly. he pointed to a long wild grapevine, which hung dangling between two trees, around which it was twined. the vine was a very long one, and as thick around as the piece teddy had used to pull himself out of the hole near the cave. it did seem like a regular swing. "well--maybe," murmured jan. "now we can have some fun!" cried ted. he folded the piece of carpet and laid it over the grapevine. then he sat down, gave a push on the ground with his feet, and away he swung as nicely as though he was in a regular swing, made with a rope from the store. "oh, how nice!" cried janet. "let me try it, teddy." "wait till i see if it's strong enough." he swung back and forward several more times and then let his sister try it. she, too, swayed to and fro in the grapevine swing, which was in a shady place in the woods. then trouble, who had seen what was going on, cried: "i want to swing, too! i want to swing!" "i'll take you on my lap," offered janet, and this she did. "i'll push you," offered teddy, and he gave his sister and his baby brother a long push in the grapevine swing. but, just as they were going nicely and trouble was laughing in delight, there was a sudden cracking sound and janet cried: "oh, i'm falling! i'm falling! the swing is coming down!" and that is just what happened. chapter xi trouble makes a cake with a crackle and a snap the grapevine swing sagged down on one side. janet tried to hold trouble in her arms, but he slipped from her lap, just as she slipped off the piece of carpet which ted had folded for the seat of the swing. then janet toppled down as the vine broke, and she and her little brother came together in a heap on the ground. "oh!" exclaimed ted. "are you hurt?" neither jan nor trouble answered him for a moment. then baby william began to cry. jan lay still on the ground for a second or two, and then she jumped up with a laugh. "i'm not hurt a bit!" she said. "i fell right in a pile of leaves, and it was like jouncing up and down in the hay." "what's the matter with trouble?" asked ted. baby william kept on crying. "never mind!" put in jan. "sister'll kiss it and make it all better! where is you hurt, trouble dear?" the little fellow stopped crying and looked up at jan, his eyes filled with tears. "my posy-tree is hurted," he said, holding a broken flower out to his sister. "swing broked my posy-tree!" trouble called any weed, flower or bunch of grass he happened to pick a "posy-tree." "oh, i guess he isn't hurt," remarked teddy. "if it's only a broken posy-tree i'll get you another," he said kindly. "are you all right, trouble? can you stand up?" for he feared, after all, lest baby william's legs might have been hurt, since they were doubled up under him. trouble showed he was all right by getting up and walking about. he had stopped crying, and ted and jan could see that he, too, had fallen on a pile of soft leaves near the swing, so he was only "jiggled up," as jan called it. one side of the grapevine swing had torn loose from the tree, and thus it had come down with jan and trouble. "i guess it wasn't strong enough for two," said ted. "maybe i can find another grapevine." "i'd like a rope swing better," janet said. "then it wouldn't tumble down." "i guess that's so," agreed her brother. "we'll ask grandpa to get one." grandpa martin laughed when he heard what had happened to the grapevine swing, and promised to make a real one of rope for the curlytops. this he did a day or so afterward, so that ted and jan had a fine swing in their camp on star island, as well as one at cherry farm. they were two very fortunate children, i think, to have such a grandfather. "where are you going now, grandpa?" called jan one day, as she saw the farmer getting the boat ready for use. "i'm going over to the mainland to get some things for our camp," answered mr. martin. "they came from a big store in some boxes and crates, and they're at the railroad station. i'm going over to get them. do you curlytops want to come along?" "well, i just guess we do!" cried ted. "me want to come!" begged trouble. "not this time, dear," said his mother. "you stay with me, and we will have some fun. let jan and ted go." trouble was going to cry, but when nora gave him a cookie he changed his mind and ate the little cake instead, though i think one or two tears splotched down on it and made it a bit salty. but trouble did not seem to mind. ted and jan had lots of fun riding back in the boat to the main shore with their grandfather. when the boat was almost at the dock mr. martin let the two children take hold of one of the oars and help him row. of course the curlytops could not pull very much, but they did pretty well, and it helped them to know how a boat is made to go through the water, when it has no steam engine or gasolene motor to make it glide along, or sails on which the wind can blow to push it. "you can't know too much about boats and the water, especially when you are camping on an island in the middle of a lake," said grandpa martin. "when you get bigger, ted and jan, you'll be able to row a boat all by yourselves." "maybe day after to-morrow," suggested jan. "i wish i could now," said ted. "oh, but you're too small!" his grandfather said. the boat was tied to the wharf, and then, getting an expressman to go to the depot for the boxes and crates, mr. martin took the children with him on the wagon. "we're having lots of fun!" cried jan, as the horse trotted along. "we're camping and we had a ride in a boat and now we're having a ride in a wagon." "lots of fun!" agreed ted. "i'm glad we've got grandpa!" "and grandpa is glad he has you two curlytops to go camping with him!" laughed the farmer, as the expressman made his horse go faster. at the depot, while the children were waiting to have the boxes and crates of things for the camp loaded into the wagon, ted saw arthur weldon, a boy with whom he sometimes played. "hello, art!" called ted. "hello!" answered arthur. "i thought you were camping on star island." "we are," answered teddy. "it doesn't look so!" laughed arthur, or "art," as most of his boy friends called him. "well, we just came over to get some things. there's grandpa and the expressman with them now," went on ted, as the two men came from the freight house with a number of bundles. "i wish i was camping," went on the other boy. "it isn't any fun around here." "you can come over to see us sometimes," invited jan. "i'll ask my mother to let you, and you can play with us." "he don't want to play girls' games!" cried ted. "well, i guess i can play boys' games as well as girls' games!" exclaimed janet, with some indignation. "oh, yes, course you can," agreed her brother. "and maybe art can bring his sister to the island to see us, and then we could play boys' games and girls', too," went on jan. "i'll ask my mother," promised arthur. grandpa and the expressman soon had the wagon loaded, and arthur, rode back in it with the curlytops to the wharf where the boat was tied. "all aboard for star island!" cried mr. martin, when the things were in the boat, nearly filling it. "all aboard!" "i wish i could come now!" sighed arthur. "well, we'd like to take you," said grandpa martin, "but it wouldn't be a good thing to take you unless your mother know you were coming with us, and we haven't time to go up to ask her now. the next time maybe we'll take you back with us." there was a wistful look on arthur's face as he watched the boat being rowed away from the main shore and toward the island. ted and janet waved their hands to him, and said they would ask their mother to invite him for a visit, which they did a few weeks later. once back on the island the things were taken out of the boat and then began the work of taking them out of the boxes and crates. there was a new oil stove, to warm the tent on cool or rainy days, and other things for the camp, and when all had been unpacked there was quite a pile of boards and sticks left. "i know what we can do with them," said teddy to janet, when they had been piled in a heap not far from the shore of the lake, and a little distance away from the tents. "what?" asked the little girl. "we can make a raft like robinson crusoe did," answered teddy, for his mother had read him a little about the shipwrecked sailor who, as told in the story book, lived so long alone on an island. "what's a raft?" asked janet. "oh, it's something like a boat, but it hasn't got any sides to it-- only a bottom," answered her brother. "you make it out of flat boards and you have to push it along with a pole. we can make a raft out of all the boards and pieces of wood grandpa took the things out of. it'll be a lot of fun!" "will mother let us?" asked jan. "oh, i guess so," answered teddy. but he did not go to ask to find out. he found a hammer where grandpa had been using it to knock apart the crates and boxes, and, with the help of jan, teddy was soon making his raft. there were plenty of nails which had come out of the boxes and crates. some of them were rather crooked, but when ted tried to hammer them straight he pounded his fingers. "that hurts," he said. "i guess crooked nails are as good as straight ones. anyhow this raft is going to be crooked." and it was very crooked and "wobboly," as janet called it, when teddy had shoved it into the water and, taking off his shoes and stockings, got on it. "come on, jan!" he cried, "i'm going to have a ride." "no, it's too tippy," janet answered. "oh, it can't tip over," said teddy. "that's what a raft is for--not to tip over. maybe you can slide off, but it can't tip over. come on!" so janet took off her shoes and stockings. now of course she ought not to have done that, nor ought teddy to have got on the raft without asking his mother or his grandfather. but then the curlytops were no different from other children. so on the raft got teddy and janet, and for a time they had lots of fun pushing it around a shallow little cove, not far from the shore of star island. a clump of trees hid them from the sight of mother martin and grandpa at camp. "let's go farther out," suggested teddy, after a bit. "i'm afraid," replied janet. "aw, it'll be all right!" cried ted. "i won't let it tip over!" so janet let him pole out a little farther, until she saw that the shore was far away, and then she cried: "i want to go back!" "all right," answered ted. "i don't want anybody on my raft who's a skeered. i'll go alone!" he poled back to shore and janet got off the raft. then teddy shoved the wabbly mass of boards and sticks, fastened together with crooked nails, out into the lake again. he had not gone very far before something happened. one end of the raft tipped up and the other end dipped down, and--off slid teddy into the water. "oh! oh!" screamed janet. "you'll be drowned! i'm going to tell grandpa." she ran to the camp with the news, and mr. and mrs. martin came hurrying back. by this time teddy had managed to get up and was standing in the water, which was not deep. "i--i'm all right," he stammered. "only i--i'm--wet!" "i should say you _were!"_ exclaimed his mother. "you mustn't go on any more rafts." teddy promised that he would not, and then, when he had put on dry clothes, he and janet played other games that were not so dangerous. they had lots of fun in the camp on star island. "come on, jan!" called her brother one morning after breakfast. "come on down to the lake." "what're you goin' to do?" she asked. "i think he had better look for the 'g' you dropped," said mrs. martin with a laugh. "what 'g?' asked jan. "the one off 'going,'" was the answer. "you must be more careful of your words, janet dear. learn to talk nicely, and don't drop your 'g' letters." she had been trying to teach this to the curlytops for a long while, and they were almost cured of leaving off the final "g" of their words. but, once in a while, just as jan did that time, they forgot. "what are you going to do?" asked janet, slowly and carefully this time. "sail my boat," answered ted. "i'll give your doll a ride if you want me to." "not this one," replied his sister, looking at the one she carried. it had on a fine red dress. "why not that doll?" ted inquired. "'cause your boat might tip over and spill my doll in the lake. then she'd be spoiled and so would her dress. wait. i'll get my rubber doll. water won't hurt her." "my boat won't tip over," ted declared. "it's a good one." but even jan's rubber doll must have been too heavy for ted's small boat, for, half way across a little shallow cove in the lake, where the curlytops waded and ted sailed his ships, the boat tipped to one side, and the doll was thrown into the water. "there! i told you so!" cried janet. "well, she's rubber, and you can pretend she has on a bathing suit an' has gone in swimming!" declared ted. "but maybe a fish'll bite a hole in her and then she can't whistle through the hole in her back!" wailed jan, ready to cry. "there's no fish here, only baby ones; and they can't bite," ted answered. "but i'll get her for you, jan." he waded out, set his ship upright again, and brought his sister's doll to shore. nancy--which was the doll's name--did not seem to have been hurt by falling into the lake. her painted smile was the same as ever. "i guess i'll dress her now so she won't get cold after her bath," said jan, who sometimes acted as though her dolls were really alive. she liked her playthings very much indeed. while his sister went back to the tent with her doll ted sailed his boat. then trouble came down to the edge of the little cove, and began to take off his shoes and stockings to go wading as ted was doing. ted was not sure whether or not his mother wanted baby william to do this, so he decided to run up to the camp to ask. "don't go in the water until i come back, trouble," ted ordered his little brother. but the sight of the cool, sparkling water was too much for baby william. off came his shoes and stockings without waiting for ted to come back to say whether or not mother martin would let him go splashing in the water. into the lake baby william went. and he was not careful about getting wet, either, so that when ted came back with his mother, who wanted to make sure that her baby boy was all right, they saw him out in the middle of the cove with ted's boat. and the water was half way up to trouble's waist, the lower part of his bloomers being soaked. "oh, you dear bunch of trouble!" cried his mother. "you mustn't do that!" "havin' fun!" was all trouble said. "come here!" cried mrs. martin. "wait till i sail boat," and he pushed ted's toy about in the cove, splashing more water on himself. "i guess you'll have to get him," said mrs. martin to teddy, who half dragged, half led his little brother to shore. trouble got wetter than ever during this, and his mother had to take him back to the tent to put dry things on him. "trouble," she said, "you are a bad little boy. i'll have to keep you in camp the rest of the day now. after this you must not go in wading until i say you may. if you had had your bathing suit on it would have been all right. now you must be punished." trouble cried and struggled, but it was of no use. when mother martin said a thing must be done it was done, and trouble could not play in the water again that day. toward the middle of the afternoon, however, as he had been pretty good playing around the tent, he was allowed to roam farther off, though told he must not go near the water. "you stay with me, baby," called nora. "i'm going to bake a cake and i'll give you some." "trouble bake a cake, too?" he asked. "no, trouble isn't big enough to bake a cake, but you can watch me. i'll get out the flour and sugar and other things, and i'll make a little cake just for you." on a table in the cooking tent nora set out the things she was to use for her baking. there was the bag of flour, some water in a dish and other things. just as she was about to mix the cake mrs. martin called nora away for a moment. "now, trouble, don't touch anything until i come back!" warned the girl, as she hurried out of the tent. "i won't be gone a minute." but she was gone longer than that. left alone in the tent, with many things on the table in front of him, trouble looked at them. he knew he could have lots of fun with some of the pans, cups, the egg beater, the flour, the water and the eggs. a little smile spread over his tanned, chubby face. "trouble bake a cake," he said to himself. "nora bake a cake--trouble bake a cake. yes!" first baby william pulled toward him the bag of flour. he managed to do it without upsetting it, for the bag was a small one. near it was a bowl of water with a spoon in it. trouble had seen his mother and nora bake cakes, and he must have remembered that they mixed the flour and water together. anyhow that was the way to make mud pies--by mixing sand and water. trouble looked for something to mix his cake in. the tins and dishes were so far back on the table that he could not get them easily. he must take something else. off his head trouble pulled his white hat--a new one that grandpa had brought only that day from the village store. "make cake in dis," murmured baby william to himself. he pushed a chair up to the table and climbed upon it. from the chair he got on the table and sat down. then he began to make his cake in his hat. chapter xii the curlytops go swimming "trouble make a cake--trouble make a nice cake for jan an' ted," murmured baby william to himself. certainly he thought he was going to do that--make a nice cake--but it did not turn out just that way. trouble's hat, being of felt, held water just as a dish or a basin would have done, but the little fellow had to hold it very carefully in his lap between his knees as he sat on the table, or he would have squeezed his hat and the water would have spilled out. but when trouble really wanted to do anything he could be very careful. and he wanted, very much this time, to make that cake. so, when he had the water in his hat he began to dip up some flour from the bag with a large spoon. when the little fellow thought he had enough flour sifted into the water in his hat he began to stir it, just as he had seen nora stir her cake batter. around and around he stirred it, and then he found that his cake was much too wet. he had not enough flour in it, just as, sometimes, when he and jan made mud pies, they did not have enough sand or dirt in the water to make the stuff for the pies as thick as they wanted it. so trouble stirred in more flour. and then, just as you can easily guess, he made it too thick, and had to put in more water. by this time troubles small hat was almost full of flour and water, and some dough began to run over the edges, down on his little bare legs, and also on his rompers and on the table and even to the floor of the kitchen tent. trouble did not like that. he wanted to get his cake mixed before nora came back, so she could bake it in the oven for him. for he knew cakes must be baked to make them good to eat, and he really hoped, knowing no better, that his cake would be good enough to eat. "trouble make a big cake," he said, as he slowly put a little more water into his hat, and stirred the dough some more. he splashed some of the flour and water on the end of his stubby nose, and wiped it off on the back of his hand. then, as he kept on stirring, some more of the dough splashed on his cheeks, and he had to wipe that off. so that, by this time, baby william had on his hands and face at least as much dough as there was in the spoon. but finally the little mischief-maker got the dough in his hat just about thick enough--not too much flour and not too much water in it. when this point was reached he knew that it was time to get ready for the baking part--putting the dough in the pans so it would go into the oven. trouble wanted to do as much toward making his own cake as he could without asking nora to help. so now he thought he could put the dough in the baking pans himself. but they were on the table beyond his reach. he must get up to reach them. so trouble got up, and then-- well, you can just imagine what happened. he forgot that he was holding in his lap the hat full of dough and as soon as he stood up of course that slipped from his lap and the table and went splashing all over the floor. "squee-squish-squash!" the hat full of dough dropped. "oh!" exclaimed trouble. "oh!" his feet were covered with the white flour and water. some splashed on nora's chair near the table, some splashed on the table legs and more spread over the tent floor and ran in little streams toward the far edges. and, in the midst of it, like a little island in the middle of a lake of dough, was trouble's new hat. only now you could hardly tell which was the hat and which was the dough. "trouble's cake all gone!" said the little fellow sadly, and just as he said that back came nora. she gave one look inside her nice, clean tent-kitchen--at least it had been clean when she left it--and then she cried: "oh, trouble martin! what _have_ you gone and done?" "trouble make a cake but it spill," he said slowly, climbing down from the table. "spill! i should say it did spill!" cried nora. "oh, what a sight you are! and what will your mother say!" "what is it now, nora?" asked mrs. martin, who heard the noise in the kitchen. "oh, it's trouble, as you might guess. he's tried to make a cake. but --such a mess!" mrs. martin looked in. she wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, but, as that is rather hard to do, she did neither. she just stood and looked at trouble. he had picked up his hat, which still had a little of the paste in it, and this was now dripping down the front of his rompers. "well, it's clean dirt, not like the time he was stuck in the mud of the brook at home, that's one consolation," said nora at last. nora had a good habit of trying to make the best of everything. "yes, it's clean dirt and it will wash off," agreed mother martin. "but, oh, trouble! you are _such_ a sight! and so is nora's kitchen." "oh, well, i don't mind cleaning up," paid the good-natured maid. "come on, trouble, i'll let your mother wash you and then i'll finish the cake." "make a cake for trouble?" asked baby william. "yes, i guess i'll have to, since you couldn't make one for yourself," laughed nora. "never mind, you'll be a man when you grow up and you won't have to mess around a kitchen. here you are!" and she caught him up, all doughy as he was, and carried him to the big tent where his mother soon had him washed and in clean clothes. then nora cleaned up the kitchen and made some real cakes and cookies which ted and jan, as well as trouble, ate a little later. the curlytops laughed when told of trouble's attempt to make a cake, and for a long time after that whenever they were telling any of their friends about the queer things their baby brother did, they always told first about the cake he made in his hat one day. "oh, ted, i know what let's do!" cried janet one day, about a week after trouble had played with the flour and water. "what?" asked her brother. "go fishing?" "no, i don't like fishing. anyhow we went fishing once, and i don't like to see the worms wiggle. let's make a little play tent for ourselves in the woods." "we haven't any cloth." "we can make one of leaves and branches, just like the bower we made for nicknack before grandpa put up the little board barn for him." "yes, we can do that," agreed ted. "it'll be fun. come on." a little later the two curlytops were cutting down branches from low trees, sticking the ends into the soft ground, and tying the leafy tops together with string. this made a sort of tent, and though there were holes in it, where the leaves did not quite come together, it made a shady place. jan brought in her dolls, and ted his sailboat and other toys, and there the two children played for some little time. trouble was not with them. "but he'll be along pretty soon," remarked janet, "and he'll want part of the tent for his. is it big enough for three, teddy?" "well, we can make trouble a little bower for himself right next door. he'll want to bring in a lot of old stones and mud pies anyhow, and we don't want them. we'll make a little bower for him when he comes along." so, waiting for their little brother to hunt them out, which he always did sooner or later if they went off to play without him, ted and jan had fun in the little leafy house they had made for themselves. they were having a good time, and were wondering if grandpa martin would ever find the queer ragged man or if they would see the strange blue light again, when jan suddenly gave a scream. "what's the matter?" asked ted. "something tickled the back of my neck," explained his sister. "maybe it's a big worm, or a caterpillar! look, ted, will you?" teddy turned to look, but, as he did so, he gave a cry of surprise. "it's a goat! it's our goat! it's nicknack!" yelled teddy. "he's stuck his head right through the bower and, oh, jan! he's eating it!" and so nicknack was. his head was halfway through the side of the tree-tent nearest jan and the goat was chewing some of the green leaves. it was nicknack's whiskers that had, tickled jan on the back of her neck. "whoa there, nicknack!" called ted, as the goat from the outside pushed his way farther into the tent. "whoa, there! you'll upset this place in a minute!" and so it seemed nicknack would do, for he was hungrily eating the leaves of the branches from which jan and ted had made their playhouse. "how'd he get loose?" asked jan. "i don't know," ted answered. "i tied him good and tight by his rope. i wonder if--" just then a voice called: "wait for me, nicknack! wait for me!" "it's trouble!" cried jan and ted together. ted looked out through the hole the goat had eaten in the side of the bower, and saw baby william toddling toward him. "did you let nicknack loose?" demanded ted. "ess, i did," answered trouble. "i cutted his wope with a knife, i did. i wants a wide. wait for me, nicknack!" the goat was in no hurry to get away, for he liked to eat the green leaves, and ted, coming out of the bower, which was almost ready to fall down now that the goat was half-way inside it, saw where the rope, fast around his pet's horns, had been cut. "you mustn't do that, trouble," ted said to his little brother. "you mustn't cut nicknack's rope. he might run away into the lake." "trouble wants a wide." "well, we'll give you a ride," added jan. "but did mother or nora give you the knife to cut the rope?" "no. trouble got knife offen table." "oh, you must _never_ do that!" cried jan. "you might fall on the sharp knife and cut yourself. trouble was bad!" the little fellow had really taken a knife from the table, and had sawed away with it on nicknack's rope until he had cut it through. then nicknack had wandered over to the green bower to get something to eat, and trouble, dropping the knife, had followed. mrs. martin, to punish baby william so he would remember not to take knives again, would not let him have a goat ride, and he cried very hard when ted and jan went off without him. but even little boys must learn not to do what is wrong, and trouble was no different from any others. one afternoon, when the curlytops had been wandering around the woods of the island, looking to see if any berries were yet ripe, they came back to camp rather tired and warm. "i know what would be nice for you," said nora, who came to the flap doorway of the kitchen tent. "yes, i know _two_ things that would be nice for you." "what?" asked jan, fanning herself with her sunbonnet. "i hope it's something good to eat," sighed teddy, as he sat down in the shade. "part of it," answered nora. "how would you like some cool lemonade-- that is, when you are not so warm," she added quickly, for teddy had jumped up on hearing this, and was about to make a rush for the kind cook. "you must always rest a bit, when you are so warm from running, walking or playing, before you take a cold drink of anything." "but have you any lemonade?" asked janet, for she, too, was tired and thirsty. "i'll make some, and you may have it when you are not so heated," went on the cook. "and i'll get some sweet crackers for you." "that's nice," said janet. "are they the two things you were going to tell us to do, nora?" "no, i'll count the lemonade and crackers as one," went on the cook with a smile. "the other thing i was going to tell you to do is to take nicknack and have a ride. that will cool you off if you go in the shade." "oh, so it will!" cried ted. "we'll do it! and can we take the lemonade in a bottle, and the crackers in a bag, and put them in the goat-wagon?" "do you mean to give the crackers and lemonade a ride, too?" asked mother martin, who came out of her tent just then. "no, but we can take them with us, and have a little picnic in the woods," explained teddy. "we didn't find any berries, and so we didn't have any picnic." "all right, nora, give them the lemonade and crackers to take with them," said mrs. martin, smiling at the curlytops. "i'll go and make the cool drink now," said the cook. "and i'll get the crackers," said the children's mother. "and we'll go and get nicknack and harness him to the cart," added ted. he and janet were soon on their way to the little leafy bower where the goat was kept, for it was so warm on star island that the goat did not stay more than half the time in the stable grandpa martin had made for him. "here, nicknack! where are you?" called teddy, as he neared the bower. "here, nicknack!" called janet. but the goat did not answer. nearly always, when he was called to in that way, he did, giving a loud "baa-a-a-a-a!" that could be heard a long way. "oh, nicknack isn't here!" cried jan, when she saw the empty place. "maybe he's run away, ted." "he must be on the island somewhere," said the little boy. "he can't row a boat and get off, and he doesn't like to swim, i guess, though he did fall into the water once." "but where is he?" asked janet. "we'll look," teddy said. so the children peered about in the bushes, but not a sign of nicknack could they see. they called and called, but the goat did not bleat back to them. "oh, where can he be?" asked janet, and her eyes filled with tears, for she loved the pet animal very much. "we'll look," said teddy. "and if we can't find him we'll ask grandpa to help us look." they wandered about, but not going too far from the leafy bower, and, all at once, ted cried: "hark! i hear him!" "so do i!" added janet. "oh, where is he?" "listen!" returned her brother. they both listened, hardly breathing, so as to make as little noise as possible. once more they heard the cry of the goat: "baa-a-a-a-a-a!" went nicknack. "baa-a-a-a!" "he's over this way!" cried teddy, and he started to run to the left. "no, i think he's here," and janet pointed to the right. "what's the matter, curlytops?" asked mrs. martin, who came out just then to see what was keeping the children. "we can hear nicknack, but we can't see him," answered ted. mrs. martin listened to the goat's call. "i think he's down this path," she said, and she took one midway between those ted and janet would have taken. "come along!" she called back to the two children. "we'll soon find nicknack." "here, nicknack! here, nicknack!" called ted. "come on, we want you to give us a ride!" added janet. but though the goat answered, as he nearly always did, his voice sounded afar off, and he did not come running to see his little friends. "oh, i wonder if anything is the matter with him?" asked ted. "we'll soon see," said mrs. martin. just then the barking of a dog was heard. "oh, i wonder if that's skyrocket?" asked janet. "no, we left our dog home," said mrs. martin. "that sounds like a strange dog, and he seems to be barking at nicknack. come on, children. we'll see what the matter is!" they hurried on, and, in a little while, they saw what had happened. nicknack was caught in a thick bush by the rope around his horns. he had pulled the rope loose from his leafy bower, and it had dragged along after him as he wandered away. then the end of the rope had become tangled in a thick bush and the goat could not pull it loose. he was held as tightly as if tied. in front of him, but far enough away so the goat could not butt him with his horns, which nicknack tried to do, was a big, and not very nice-looking, dog. this dog was barking fiercely at nicknack, and the goat could not make him go away. "oh, mother! don't let the dog hurt our goat!" begged janet. "i'll drive him away," cried ted, catching up a stone. "no, you had better let me do it," said mrs. martin. she picked up a stick and walked toward the dog, but he did not wait for her to get very close. with a last howl and a bark at nicknack, the dog ran away, jumped into the lake and swam off toward shore. then the rope was loosed and nicknack, who was badly frightened, was led back by ted and jan and hitched to the wagon. he then gave them a fine ride. the dog was a stray one, which had swum over from the mainland, grandpa martin said. ted and janet took the lemonade and crackers with them in the goat- wagon and had a nice little picnic in the woods. "what can we do to-day?" asked janet, as she and teddy finished breakfast in the tent one morning, and, after playing about on the beach of the lake, wanted some other fun. "let's go swimming!" cried teddy. "and take trouble with us," added ms sister. in their bathing suits and with nora on the bank to watch them, the children were soon splashing in the cool water. ted could swim a little bit, and jan was just learning. "come on out where it's a little deeper," ted urged his sister. "it isn't up to your knees here, and you can't swim in such shallow water." "i'm afraid to go out," she said. "afraid of what?" "big fish or a crab." "pooh! those little crabs won't bite you, and when we splash around we scare away all the fish. they wouldn't bite you anyhow." "maybe a water snake would." "no, it wouldn't," declared ted. "come on and see me swim." so jan waded out a little way with him. ted was just taking a few strokes, really swimming quite well for so small a boy, when, all at once, he heard a cry from his sister. "oh, ted! ted!" she called. "come on in, quick. a big fish is goin' to bite you!" ted gave one look over his shoulder and saw something with a pointed nose, long whiskers and two bright eyes swimming toward him. "oh!" yelled ted, and he began running for shore as fast as he could splash through the water. chapter xiii jan's queer ride "what's the matter? what is it?" cried nora from the bank where she was tossing bits of wood into the lake for trouble to pretend they were little boats. "have you got a cramp, teddy boy?" "it's a--a big fish--or--somethin'," he panted, as he kept on running and splashing the water all about, which, after all, did not matter as he was in his bathing suit. "it's a shark after him!" cried jan, who, by this time, was safe on shore, stopping on her way to grasp trouble by the hand and lead him also to safety. "it's a shark!" she had heard her mother read of bathers in the ocean being sometimes frightened by sharks, or by big fish that looked like sharks. "oh, a shark! good land! we mustn't bathe here any more!" cried nora. by this time ted was in such shallow water that it was not much above his ankles. he could see the bottom, and he hoped no very big fish could swim in so little water. so he thought it would be safe to stop and look back. "oh, it's coming some more!" cried jan, from where she stood on the bank with nora and trouble. "look, ted! it's coming." the animal, fish, or whatever it was, indeed seemed to be coming straight for the shore near the place where the curlytops were playing. ted, jan and nora could see the sharp nose and the bright eyes more plainly now. as for trouble, he did not know what it was all about, and he wanted to go back in the water to wade, which was as near swimming as he ever came. then the strange creature turned and suddenly made for a small rock, which stood out of the water a little way from the sandy beach. it climbed out on the rock, while the children and nora watched eagerly, and then ted gave a laugh. "why!" he exclaimed, "it's nothing but a big muskrat!" "a muskrat?" echoed jan. "yes." "and see, he has a mussel, or fresh-water clam," said nora. "look at him crack the shell." and this is what the muskrat was really doing. it had been swimming in the lake--for muskrats are good swimmers--when it had found a fresh- water mussel, which is like a clam except that it has a longer shell that is black instead of white. muskrats like mussels, but they cannot eat them in water. they have to bring them up on shore, or to a flat rock or stump that sticks up out of water, where they can crack the shell and eat the mussel inside. "if i'd a known what it was i wouldn't 'a' been scared," said ted, who felt a little ashamed of himself for hurrying toward shore. "you frightened me yelling so, jan." "well, i didn't want to see you get bit by a shark, teddy. first i thought it was a shark." "well, sharks live in the ocean, where the water is salty," declared ted. "anyhow maybe a muskrat bites," went on janet. "well, maybe," agreed ted. "i guess it's a good thing i didn't stay there when he came swimming in," for the big rat passed right over the place where ted had been about to swim. "i'm glad you yelled, janet." "so'm i. i'm not going in swimming here anymore." "oh, he won't come back," ted said. "come on!" but janet would not go, and as it was no fun for ted to splash in the water all alone he stayed near shore and went wading with trouble and his sister. this was fun, and the curlytops had a good time, while nora, now that she knew there was no danger from sharks, sat in the shade and mended holes in the children's stockings. "i wish we had a boat," said ted after a while. "why, we have," answered jan. "yes, i know, the big rowboat. but that's too heavy for me and you--i mean you and me," and ted quickly corrected himself, for he knew it was polite always to name oneself last. "but i want a little boat that we can paddle around in." jan thought for a moment and then cried: "oh, i know the very thing!" "what?" asked ted eagerly. "one of the boxes grandpa brought the things in from the store. they're long, and we can make box-boats of them. there's two of 'em!" "that's what we can!" cried teddy, as he thought of the boxes his sister meant. groceries from the store had been sent to the camp in them. the boxes were strong, and long; big enough for jan or ted to sit down in them and reach over the sides to paddle, not being too high. mother martin said they might take the boxes and make of them the play-boats they wanted, and, in great delight, ted and his sister ran to get their new playthings. grandpa martin pulled out all the nails that might scratch the children, and he also fastened strips of wood over the largest cracks in the boxes. "that will keep out some of the water, but not all," he said. "your box-boats won't float very long. they'll sink as soon as enough water runs in through the other cracks." "oh, well, we'll paddle in them in shallow water," promised ted. "and sinking won't hurt, 'cause we've got on our bathing suits. come on, jan!" trouble wanted to sail in the new boats, also, but they were not large enough for two. besides mrs. martin did not want the baby to be in the water too much. so she carried him away, trouble crying and screaming to be allowed to stay, while jan and ted got ready for their first trip. they pretended the boats were ocean steamers and that the cove in the lake, near grandpa's camp, was the big ocean. they had pieces of wood which their grandfather had whittled out for them to use as paddles, and, as ted said, they could sit down in the bottoms of the box-boats and never mind how much water came in, for they still had on their bathing suits. "all aboard!" called teddy, as he got into his boat. "i'm coming," answered janet, pushing off from shore. "oh, i can really paddle!" cried ted in delight, as he found that his box floated with him in it and he could send it along by using the board for a paddle, as one does in a canoe. "isn't this great, janet?" "oh, it's lots of fun!" "i'm glad you thought of it. i never would," went on ted. he was a good brother, for, whenever his sister did anything unusual like this he always gave her credit for it. around and around in the little cove paddled the curlytops, having fun in their box-boats. "i'm going to let the wind blow me," said jan, after a bit. "i'm tired of paddling." "there isn't any wind," ted remarked. "well, what makes me go along, then?" asked his sister. "look, i'm moving and i'm not paddling at all!" she surely was. in her boat she was sailing right across the little cove, and, as ted had said, there was not enough wind to blow a feather, to say nothing of a heavy box with a little girl in it. "isn't it queer!" exclaimed janet. "what makes me go this way, ted? you aren't sailing." ted's boat was not moving now, for he had stopped paddling. still jan's craft moved on slowly but surely through the water. then ted saw a funny thing and gave a cry of surprise. chapter xiv digging for gold "what's the matter?" called jan. her boat was now quite a little distance away from her brother's. "do you see anything, teddy?" "i see you are being towed, janet." "being what?" "towed--pulled along, you know, just like the mules pull the canal boats." once the curlytops had visited a cousin who lived in the country near a canal, and they had seen the mules and horses walking along the canal towpath pulling the big boats by a long rope. "who's towing me, ted?" asked jan, trying to look over the side of her box. but, as she did so it tipped to one side and she was afraid it would upset, so she quickly sat down again. "i don't know what it is," her brother answered. "but something has hold of the rope that's fast to the front part of your box, and it's as tight as anything--the rope is. something in the water is pulling you along." on each of the box-boats the curlytops had fastened a piece of clothesline their mother had given them. this line was to tie fast their boats to an overhanging tree branch, near the shore of the cove, when they were done playing. and, as ted had said, the rope fast to the end of jan's box was stretched out tightly in front, the end being down under water. "oh, maybe it's the big muskrat that has hold of my rope and is giving me a ride," cried janet. "it's fun!" "no, i don't guess it's a rat," answered teddy. "a muskrat wouldn't do that. oh, i see what it is!" he cried suddenly. "i see it!" "what?" asked janet. again she got up and tried to look over the side of the box, but once more it tipped as though going to turn over and she sat down. by this time both her box and ted's was half full of water, and so went only very slowly along the little cove. the weight of the water that had leaked in through the cracks and the weight of the curlytops themselves made the boxes float low in the lake. "can you see what's pulling me?" asked janet. "yes," answered teddy, "i can. it's a great big mud turtle!" "a mud turtle!" cried janet. "i guess he's scared, too," said her brother, "for he's swimmin' all around as fast as anything!" "where is he?" asked janet. "right in front of your boat. i guess your rope got caught around one of his legs, or on his shell, and he can't get it loose. he must have been swimming along and run into the rope. or maybe he's got it in his mouth." "if he had he could let go," answered janet. "oh, i see him!" she cried. she had stood up in her box and was looking over the front. the box had now sunk so low in the water that it was on the bottom of the little cove and no longer was the turtle towing it along. the turtle, finding that it could no longer swim, had come to the top of the water and was splashing about, trying to get loose. jan could see it plainly now, as ted had seen it before from his boat, which was still floating along, as not so much water had leaked in as had seeped into his sister's. "oh, isn't it a big one!" cried jan. "it's a big turtle." "it surely is!" assented ted. "he could bite hard if he got hold of you." "is he biting my rope?" janet asked. "no, it's round one of his front legs," replied ted. "there! he's got it loose!" "there he goes!" shrieked jan. by this time the mud turtle, which was a very large one, had struggled and squirmed about so hard in the water that he had shaken loose the knot in the end of jan's rope. the knot had been caught under its left front leg and when the turtle swam or crawled along on the bottom, the rope had been held tightly in place, and so the box was pulled along. but when jan's boat sank and went aground, the turtle could not pull it any farther, and had to back up, just as nicknack the goat sometimes backed up his cart. this made the rope slack, or loose, and then the creature could shake the knot of the rope out from under its leg. "there it goes!" cried ted, as the turtle swam away. "oh, what a whopper! it's bigger than the big muskrat!" "your muskrat didn't give you a ride ted, and my turtle gave me a fine one," said jan. "but i can't sail my boat any more." "well, we'll have to empty out some of the water. then it will float again and you can get in it." "i'm not going to let the rope drag in the water any more," decided janet, after ted had helped her tip her box over so the water would run out. "i don't really want any more rides like that. the next turtle might go out into the lake. i want to paddle." "i wish a big whale would come along and tow me," laughed ted. "i wouldn't let him go loose." "he _might_ pull you all across the lake," janet said. "i'd like that. come on, we'll have a race." "all right, ted." the curlytops began paddling their box-boats about the cove once more. ted won the race, being older and stronger than janet, but she did very well. then after some more fun sailing about in their floating boxes the children were called by their mother, who said they had been in the water long enough. besides dinner was ready, and they were hungry for the good things nora had made. "and didn't you find any of them, father?" asked mrs. martin as the farmer pushed back his chair, when the meal was over. "no, i didn't see a sign of them, and i looked all over the cave, too, some persons have been sleeping in there, for i found a pile of old bags they had used for a bed, but i didn't find anyone." "find who?" ted inquired. "the tramps, or the ragged man you and jan saw," answered his grandfather. "i have been looking about the island, but i could not find any of the ragged men, for i think there was more than one. so i guess they've gone, and we needn't think anything more about them." "did you see the blue light?" asked ted. "no, i didn't see that, either. i guess it wouldn't show in the daytime. but don't worry. just have all the fun you can in camp. we can't stay here very much longer." "oh, do we have to go home?" cried the curlytops, sorrowfully. "well, we can't stay here much longer," said mother martin. "in another month the weather will be too cold for living in a tent. besides daddy will want us back, and grandpa has to gather in his farm crops for the winter. so have fun while you can." "isn't daddy coming here?" asked jan. "yes, he'll be here next week to stay several days with us. then he has to go back to the store." the curlytops had great fun when daddy martin came. they showed him all over the island--the cave, the place where nicknack nearly ate up the bower-tent, the place where ted saw the muskrat, and they even wanted him to go riding in the box-boats. "oh, i'm afraid i'm too big!" laughed daddy martin. "besides, i'd be afraid if a mud turtle pulled me along." "oh, daddy martin! you would not!" laughed janet. and so the happy days went by, until mr. martin had to leave star island to go back to his business. he promised to pay another visit, though, before the camp was ended. several times, before and after daddy martin's visit, ted and jan talked about the queer ragged man they had seen, and about the blue light and the cave. "i wonder if we'll ever find out what it all means," said jan. "it's like a story-book, isn't it, ted?" "a little, yes. but grandpa says not to be scared so i'm not." "i'm not, either. but what do you s'pose that ragged man is looking for, and who is the professor?" teddy did not know, and said so. then, when he and jan got back to the tent, having been out with trouble for a ride in the goat-cart, they found good news awaiting them. "here is a letter from hal chester, the little boy who used to be lame," said mrs. martin, for grandpa had come in, bringing the mail from the mainland post-office. "oh, can he come to pay us a visit?" asked ted. his mother had allowed him to invite hal. "yes, that's what he is going to do," went on mrs. martin. "his doctor says he is much better, and can walk with hardly a limp now, and the trip here will do him good. so to-morrow grandpa martin is going to bring him to star island." "oh, goody!" cried ted and jan, jumping up and down and clapping their hands. trouble did the same thing, though he did not know exactly what for. "we'll have fun with hal!" cried ted. "maybe he'll help us find the tramp-man. hal's smart--he can make kites and lots of things." the next day hal chester came to visit the camp on star island. "say, this is a dandy place!" he exclaimed as he looked about at the tents and at the boat floating in the little cove. "i'll just love it here!" "it's awful nice," agreed jan. "and there's a mystery here, too," added ted "what do you mean?" hal demanded. "what's a mystery?" "oh, it's something queer," went on ted. "something you can't tell what it is. this mystery is a tramp." "a tramp?" "yes. jan saw him when she was picking flowers, and he pulled trouble out of the spring afterward. and there's a cave here where maybe he sleeps, 'cause there's some bags for beds in it. he's looking for something on this island, that tramp-man is," declared ted. "looking for something?" repeated hal, quite puzzled. "yes. he goes all around, and we saw him picking up some stones. didn't we, jan?" "yes, we did." "picking up stones," repeated hal slowly. then he sprang up from where he was sitting under a tree with the curlytop children. "i know what he's looking for!" hal cried. "what?" "gold!" and hal's voice changed to a whisper. "that tramp knows there's gold on this island, and he's trying to dig it up so you won't know it. he's after gold--that's what he is!" "oh!" gasped jan, her eyes shining brightly. "oh!" exclaimed ted. "can't we stop him? this is grandpa's island. he mustn't take grandpa's gold." "there's only one way to stop him," said hal quickly. "how?" demanded ted and janet in the same breath. "we'll have to dig for the gold ourselves! come on, let's get some shovels and well start right away. it must be up near the cave. come on! we'll dig for the gold ourselves!" chapter xv the big hole hal chester was very much in earnest. his eyes shone and he could not keep still. he fairly danced around janet and ted. "do you really think that tramp-man was looking for gold?" asked ted. "'deed i do," declared hal. "what else was he after?" neither ted nor janet could answer that. "but how will we know where it is?" asked janet. "we don't know where there's any gold, and mother won't want us to go near that tramp-man." "and i don't want to, either," answered hal. "but we can dig down till we find the gold, can't we?" "if we knowed--i mean if we knew where to dig," agreed ted, after thinking about it. "but digging for gold isn't like digging for angle- worms to go fishing. you can dig them anywhere. but you've got to have a gold mine to dig for gold." "well, we'll start a mine," decided hal. "that's what the miners do out west. i read about it in a book at the home when i was crippled and couldn't walk much. the miners just start to dig, and if they don't find gold in one place they dig in another. that's what we'll do. we'll dig till we find the gold, then we'll have a gold mine." "oh, yes, let's do it!" cried jan. "i'd love to have some gold to make a pair of bracelets for my doll." "pooh!" scoffed ted, "if we get gold we aren't going to waste it on doll's bracelets! are we, hal?" "well, if jan helps us dig she can have her share of the gold. that's what miners always do. they divide up the gold and each one takes his share. of course jan can do what she likes with hers." "there, see, mr. smarty!" cried jan to her brother. "i'll make my gold into doll's bracelets." "maybe you won't get any," objected ted. "well, i'll help you dig, anyhow. i helped grandpa dig trenches around tents so the rain water would run off, and i can help dig a gold mine. i know where the shovels are." "good!" cried hal. "we don't want any girls in this gold mine!" objected ted, as his sister hurried off to where grandpa martin kept the shovels, hoes and other garden tools he used about the camp. usually ted did not mind what game his sister played with him, but since hal had spoken of gold the little curlytop boy had acted differently. "we don't want girls in the gold mine," repeated ted. "course we do!" laughed hal. "jan's a strong digger, and i can't do very much, as my foot that used to be lame isn't all well yet. it used to be almost as strong as the other, but now it isn't. so you and jan will have to do most of the digging, though i can shovel away the dirt. anyhow they always have girls or women in gold camps, you know." "they do?" cried ted. "of course! they do the cooking where there aren't any chinamen. mostly chinamen do the cooking in gold camps, but we haven't any, so we'll have to have a girl. she can be jan." "there's a chinaman who washes shirts and collars in our town," remarked ted. "maybe we could get him to cook for us." "no! what's the use when we've got jan? anyhow it'll be only make- believe cooking, and i don't guess that shirt-chinaman would want to come here just for that. anyhow we'd have to pay him and we haven't any money." "we'll get some out of the gold mine," ted answered. "well, maybe we won't find any gold for a week or so." "does it take as long as that?" "oh, yes. sometimes longer. and that chinaman would want to be paid for his cooking every week, or every night maybe. we won't have to pay jan." "that's so. well, then i guess she can come. but we can get my mother or nora to make us sandwiches and we won't have to cook much of anything." "that's what i thought, teddy. but we can let jan set the table and things like that when she isn't digging. she'll help a lot." "yes, she's almost as strong as i am," agreed ted. "hurry up, jan!" he called. "got those shovels yet?" "yes, but i can't carry 'em all. you must help. come on!" jan was walking back toward the boys, dragging two heavy shovels. seeing this, hal hurried to help her and ted followed. they got another shovel and a hoe and with these they started off toward the cave, about which ted had told hal. "that'll be the place where the gold is," decided the visitor. "the tramps must have been looking for it there. we'll start our gold mine right near the cave." "what about something to eat?" asked ted, pausing as they started up the path that led to the hole out of which the cave opened. "that's so. we ought to have something. i'm getting hungry now," remarked jan, though it was not long since they had had a meal. "so'm i," announced ted. "better not stop to go back for anything to eat now," decided hal. "your mother or grandma might make us stay in camp. did you tell them we were going to dig for gold, jan?" "no. i didn't see any of them when i got the shovels." "well then, we'll go on up to the cave. one of us can come back later and get something to eat. they call it 'grub' in the books." "call what grub?" ted asked. "stuff the miners eat. we'll send jan back for the grub after we start the gold mine. you're going to be the cook," hal informed ted's sister. "i am not!" she cried, dropping her shovel. "i'm going to be a gold miner just like you two. if i can't be that i won't play, and i'll take my shovel right back! so there now!" "oh, you can be a gold miner too," hal made haste to say. "but we've got to have a cook--they always do in a gold camp." "well, i'll be a cook when i'm not digging gold," agreed jan. "but i want to get enough for my doll's bracelets." "that's all right," agreed hal. it would not do to have jan leave them right at the start. if mrs. martin or grandpa saw the children starting out with hoe and shovels they probably thought the curlytops were only going to dig fish worms, as they often did. grandpa martin was very fond of fishing, but he did not like to dig the bait. but trouble was fretful that day, and his mother had to take care of him, so she did not pay much attention to jan or ted, feeling sure they would come to no harm. so on the three children hurried toward the hole into which ted had fallen just before they found the queer cave. "this is just the place for a gold mine!" cried hal when he looked at the ground around the big hole. "i guess some one must have started a mine here once before." "it does look so," agreed ted. "let's go into the cave," proposed the visitor. "no, grandpa told us we must never go in without him," objected jan. "it's all right to stay outside here and dig, but we mustn't go inside. the tramps might be in there." "that's right," chimed in ted. "we'll stay outside." hal was not very anxious, himself, to go into the dark hole, so they looked at the place where ted had fallen through the loose leaves and talked about whether it would be better to start to make that hole larger or begin a new one. the children decided the last would be the best thing to do. "we'll start a new mine of our own," said hal. "i guess maybe somebody dug there and couldn't find any gold. so we'll start a new mine." this suited the curlytops and they soon began making the dirt fly with shovels and hoe, digging a hole that was large enough for all three of them to stand in. hal said they didn't want to start by making too small a mine. "if we've got to divide it into three parts we want each one's part big enough to see," he said, and ted and jan agreed to this. the ground was of sand and very easy to dig. there were no big rocks, only a few small stones, and of course this was just what the children liked. so that in about half an hour they had really dug quite a deep hole. it was almost as easy digging as it is in the sand at the seashore, and if any of you have been there you know how soon, even if you use only a big clam shell for a shovel, you can make a hole deep enough for you and your playmates to stand up in. "do you see any gold yet?" asked jan of the two boys, when they had dug down so that only the top parts of their bodies were out of the big hole. "no, not yet. but we'll come to it pretty soon," hal said. "say, how're we going to get up when the hole gets too deep?" asked ted. "we ought to have a ladder or something." "there's a ladder in camp," answered jan. "grandpa had it when he put up our real rope swing. don't you remember, ted?" "yes, that's right. we'd better get it if we're going any deeper, hal," he added. "course we're going deeper. gold mines are real deep. i guess the ladder would be a good thing." "then we'll go for it. jan, you can come and get us something to eat, too. i'm awful hungry." "so'm i," said hal. while jan was in the tent-kitchen begging nora for some cookies and sandwiches, ted and hal carried the small ladder, which was not very heavy, up to the big hole they had started. by putting one end of the ladder down inside, allowing it to slant up to the top of the hole, the children could easily get down in and climb up. after they had eaten the things jan got from nora, they began digging again. the hole was soon so deep that the dirt which was shoveled and hoed away from the bottom and sides could no longer be tossed out by ted and jan. "we've got to get a pail and hoist up the dirt," decided hal. "that's what they do in gold mines. one of us must stay at the bottom and dig the dirt and fill the pail, and the other pull it up by a rope." "we'll take turns," said teddy. "and i want to help, too!" cried jan, so the boys agreed to let her, especially as they had seen that she could dig and toss dirt almost as well as they could. they found an old pail and part of a clothes-line for the rope, and the work at the "gold mine," as they called it, went on more merrily than before. by this time the hole was really quite deep--so deep that hal chester could not see over the rim when he stood up straight on the bottom, and only by using the ladder could the children get down and up. "we ought to find gold pretty soon now," said hal, as he climbed up to let ted take a turn at going down in the hole and digging. just then from the camp they heard the sound of the supper bell. "come on!" called ted, not waiting to go down into the big hole. "we can dig some more after supper and to-morrow. i'm hungry!" "so'm i," agreed hal. leaving their shovels and the hoe on the pile of dirt, the children hastened down to the tent where nora had supper waiting for them, and it had a most delicious smell. "where have you children been?" asked mrs. martin. "oh, havin' fun," answered ted. "don't forget your 'g,' curlytop," warned his mother with a laugh. "are you hungry, hal?" "indeed i am! this island is a good place for getting hungry." "and this is a good place to be stopped from getting hungry," laughed grandpa martin, as he pulled his chair up to the well-filled table near which nora stood ready to serve the meal. the curlytops and hal had just a little idea that the grown folks would not like their plan of digging a gold mine, so nothing was said about it. hal, ted and jan looked at one another when their plates were emptied, and then all three of them started once more back toward the big hole. "where are you going?" asked mother martin. "we----" began jan, then stopped. "oh, we--we're playing a game," answered ted. it was a sort of game. "can't you take trouble with you? you haven't looked after him to- day," went on mrs. martin, "and i want to help nora. take trouble with you." "all right," agreed ted, though he thought perhaps baby william might be in the way at the gold mine. "where is he?" asked jan. they looked around for the little fellow. he was not in sight. "he got down from the table and was playing over there on the path a while ago," said grandpa martin, and he pointed toward the path that led to the gold mine. but trouble was not in sight now. "he must have wandered off into the woods," said his mother. "i've kept him close by me all day, and he didn't like it. trouble! william!" she called aloud. "where are you?" ted and jan looked at one another. hal seemed startled. the same thought came to all three of them: "suppose trouble had fallen down the big hole at the gold mine?" chapter xvi a glad surprise janet, ted and hal started to run. "where are you going?" called mrs. martin after them. "wait for trouble!" "we're going to find him," answered janet. "maybe he fell down the big hole we dug for a gold mine," added ted. "what do you mean?" gasped mrs. martin. "what have you curlytops been up to now?" asked grandpa martin. "we dug a big hole to find the gold the tramps are looking for on this island," explained hal, who walked on slowly, following mrs. martin, who had run after ted and janet. "maybe the little boy fell into it." "where did you dig the big hole?" asked grandpa, and he, too, began to be afraid that something had happened. "up near what ted calls the cave. it's got a ladder in it, our gold mine hole has, and maybe trouble could climb out on that." "if it's a hole deep enough for a ladder, i'm afraid he couldn't," said grandpa martin. "you children must have dug a pretty big hole." "we wanted to find the gold," explained hal. "what gold?" "the gold the tramps are looking for here on star island. ted told me about them, and i suppose they were after gold. we want to find it first." "there isn't any gold here, and you mustn't dig holes so deep that trouble--or anyone else--would wander off and fall into them," said mr. martin. "however, i presume it will be all right. but we must hurry there and find out what has happened." he and hal hastened on, following mrs. martin and the curlytops, who were now out of sight around a turn in the path that led to the big hole. hal was rather frightened, for he knew it was his idea, more than the plans of jan and ted, that had caused the "gold mine" to be dug. on and on, along the path and up the hill hurried grandpa and mrs. martin and the children. they called aloud for trouble, but he did not answer. at least they could not hear him if he did. he must have gone quietly away from the table when no one noticed him. he had had his supper before the curlytops and hal came from their digging. "there's the pile of dirt," called back ted, who was running on ahead. he pointed to the mound of yellow sand that he, hal and jan had dug out of the hole. "and some one is there, digging!" cried jan. "oh, maybe it's trouble!" "i only hope he hasn't fallen in and hurt himself!" murmured mrs. martin. by this time grandpa martin and hal had caught up to the others. they could all see some one making the dirt fly on top of the yellow mound of sand at one side of the big hole. as ted came nearer he saw a man on top of the dirt, using a shovel. the man was digging quickly, and at first teddy thought it was one of the tramps. but a second look showed him he was wrong. and then came a glad surprise, for the man called: "i'll have him out in a minute. he isn't under very deep!" "why it's the lollypop man!" cried jan. and so it was, mr. sander, the jolly, fat man who sold waffles and lollypops. "is trouble in the hole? are you digging him out?" gasped mrs. martin, and she felt as though she were going to faint, she said afterward. "no! trouble isn't here--i mean he isn't in the hole!" cried mr. sander. "it's your goat, nicknack, who's buried under the sand. but his nose is sticking out so he won't smother, and i'll soon have him all the way out." "but where is trouble?" cried baby william's mother. "there he is, safe and sound, tied to a tree so he can't get in the way of the dirt i'm shoveling out. i didn't want to throw sand in his eyes!" cried the lollypop man. "trouble is all right!" and so the little fellow was, though he had been crying, perhaps from fright, and his face was tear-streaked and dirty. but he was safe. with a glad cry his mother loosed the rope by which mr. sander had carefully tied trouble to a near-by tree and gathered him up in her arms. meanwhile grandpa martin caught up one of the shovels and began to help the lollypop man dig in the sand. the curlytops and hal saw what had happened. a lot of the dirt they had shoveled out had slid back into the big hole, almost filling it. and caught under this dirt was nicknack, their goat. only the black tip of his nose stuck out, and it is a good thing this much of him was uncovered, or he might have smothered under the sand. "how did it happen?" asked ted. "there must have been a cave-in at our gold mine," said hal. "but how did nicknack get here?" ted went on. "i guess trouble must have untied him and brought him here." suggested janet. then they all watched while grandpa martin and the lollypop man dug out the goat. "baa-a-a-a-a!" bleated nicknack as he scrambled out after most of the sand had been shoveled off his back. "baa-a-a-a!" "my! i guess he's glad to get out!" cried ted. "i guess so!" agreed the lollypop man. "i got here just as the dirt caved in on him, and i began to dig as soon as i tied trouble out of the way so he'd be safe." "but how did you come to be here?" asked grandpa martin. "and how did our goat get here?" asked janet. "i saw trouble leading him along by the strap on his horns," explained mr. sander. "i guess he must have taken him out of his stable when you folks weren't looking. trouble led the goat up on top of the pile of sand near the hole. i called to him to be careful. "just as i did so the sand slid down and i saw the goat go down into the hole. baby william fell down, but he didn't slide in with the dirt. then i ran and picked him up, and i tied him to the tree with a piece of rope i found fast to a pail. i thought that was the best way to keep him out of danger while i dug out the goat." "i guess it was," said grandpa martin. "poor trouble cried when i tied him fast, but i knew crying wouldn't hurt him, and falling under a lot of sand might. i dug as fast as i could, for i knew how you curlytops loved your goat. he's all right, i guess." and nicknack was none the worse for having been buried under the sliding sand. as they learned afterward trouble had slipped off to have some fun by himself with the pet animal. baby william had, somehow, found his way to the "gold mine," and pretending the pile of sand was a mountain had led nicknack up it. then had come the slide down into the big hole which hal and the curlytops had dug. if it had not been for mr. sander appearing when he did, poor nicknack might have died. "but, trouble. you must never, never, never go away again alone with nicknack!" warned mother martin. "never! do you hear?" "me won't!" promised the little fellow. "and you children mustn't dig any more deep holes," said grandpa martin. "there isn't any gold on this island, so don't look for it." "but what are the tramps looking for?" ted asked. "i can't tell you. but, no matter about that, don't dig any more deep holes. they're dangerous!" "we won't!" promised the curlytops and hal. "how did you come to pay a visit to star island, mr. sander?" asked the children's mother. "well, i'm stopping for the night on the main shore just across from here," was the answer, "so, having had my supper and having made my bed in my red wagon, i thought i'd come over and pay you a visit. i heard you were camping here, so i borrowed a boat and rowed over. i walked along this path, and i happened to see trouble and the goat. then i knew i had found the right place, but i did not imagine i'd have to come to the rescue of my friend nicknack," and with a laugh he patted the shaggy coat of the animal, that rubbed up against the kind lollypop man. "well, come back to the tent and visit a while," was grandpa martin's invitation. "we're ever so much obliged to you." "what does all this mean about tramps and a gold mine?" asked mr. sander. "if there's gold to be had in an easier way than by selling hot waffles from a red wagon with a white horse to pull it, i'd like to know about it," he added with a jolly laugh. "oh, ho! oh, ho!" he cried. "hot waffles do i sell. hot waffles i love well!" "did you bring any with you?" asked ted eagerly. "indeed i did, my little curlytop. they may not be hot now, but maybe your mother can warm them on the stove," and picking up a package he had laid down near the tree to which he had tied trouble, the lollypop man gave it to mrs. martin with a low bow. "waffles for the curlytops," he said laughing. chapter xvii trouble's playhouse safe once more in their camp, the children ate the waffles which nora made nice and crisp again over the fire. trouble was comforted and made happy by two of the sugar-covered cakes, and then everyone told his or her share in what had just happened. "so you think there are gold-hunting tramps here?" asked the lollypop man, just before he got ready to go back to the mainland where he had left his red wagon and white horse. "well, there are ragged men here--tramps i suppose you could call them," answered grandpa martin. "but i don't know anything about gold. that's one of hal's ideas." "i couldn't think of anything else they'd be looking for," explained ted's friend. "don't you think it might be gold, mr. martin?" "hardly--on this island. anyhow we haven't seen the ragged men lately, so they may have gone. perhaps they were only stray fishermen. we would like to thank one for having pulled trouble out of the spring, only we haven't had the chance." "no. he ran away without stopping for thanks," said baby william's mother. "he must be a kind man, even if he is a tramp." after a little more talk while they were seated about the campfire grandpa martin built in front of the tents, during which time the lollypop man told of his travels since he had helped sell the cherries for the chewing candy, mr. sander rowed back to the main shore to sleep in his red wagon, which was like a little house on wheels. "come again!" invited mrs. martin. "i will when any more goats fall into gold mines," he promised with a laugh. the next day grandpa martin filled up the hole ted, jan and hal had dug, thus making sure that neither trouble nor anyone else, not even nicknack the goat, would again fall down into it. for when the sand slid into the "gold mine," carrying the goat with it, the hole was not altogether filled. then grandpa martin brought away the hoe and shovels, and told the children they must play at some other game. "where are you going now?" called mrs. martin to the two curlytops, as they started away from camp one morning. hal stayed in the tent, as he was tired. "oh, we're just going for a walk," answered teddy. "we want to have some fun," added his sister. "well, don't go digging any more gold mines," warned grandpa martin, with a laugh. "all the fun of camping will be spoiled if you get into that sort of trouble again." "we won't," promised janet, and teddy nodded his head to show that he, too, would at least try to be good. it was not that the curlytops were bad--that is, any worse than perhaps you children are sometimes, or, perhaps, some boys or girls you know of. they were just playful and full of life, and wanted to be doing something all the while. "do you want to take trouble with you?" asked mrs. martin, as ted and janet started away from camp, and down a woodland path. "yes, we'll take him," said janet. "come on, little brother," she went on. "come with sister and have some fun." "only i can't play in de dirt 'cause i got on a clean apron," said baby william. "no, we won't let you play in the dirt," teddy remarked. "but don't fall down, either. that's where he gets so dirty," teddy told his mother. "he's always falling down, trouble is." "it--it's so--s'ippery in de woods!" said the little fellow. "so it is--on the pine needles," laughed grandpa martin, who was going to the mainland in the boat. but this time he did not want to take the children with him. "it is slippery in the woods, trouble, my boy. but keep tight hold of jan's hand, and maybe you won't fall down." "me will," said trouble, but he did not mean that he would fall down. he meant he would keep tight hold of jan's hand. then he started off by her side, with ted walking on ahead, ready for anything he might see that would make fun for him and his sister. through the woods they wandered, now and then stopping to gather some pretty flowers, on graceful, green ferns, and again waiting to listen to the song of some wild bird, which flitted about from branch to branch, but which seemed always to keep out of sight amid the leaves of the forest trees. "oh, isn't it just lovely here!" said janet, as they came to a little grassy dell, around which the trees grew in a sort of circle, or magic, fairy ring. "it's just like in a picture book, teddy!" "yes, it is," agreed her brother. "i don't see any pisshures," complained trouble. "no, there aren't _real_ pictures here," explained janet; "only make- believe ones. but you can sit down on the grass and roll, trouble. the grass is so clean i guess it won't make your apron dirty. roll on the grass." trouble liked nothing better than this, and he was soon sitting on the soft, green grass, pulling bits and tossing them in the air like a shower. the grass was soft and thick, and did not soil his clean clothes at all. "exceptin' maybe a little stain," explained janet to teddy; "and nora can get that out in the wash." after they had sat in the shade for a while, in the green, grassy place, ted and janet wandered off among the trees, leaving trouble by himself. but they were not going far. "he'll be all right for a little while," said teddy, "and maybe we can find some sassafras or wintergreen." "but we mustn't eat anything we find in the woods, lessen we show it to grandpa or mother," returned janet. "no, that's so," agreed her brother. they had been told, as all children should be who live near the woods or fields, never to eat any strange berries or plants unless some older person tells them it is all right to do so. but teddy and janet could easily tell sassafras and wintergreen by the pleasant smell of the leaves. they did not find any, however. they found a bird's empty nest, though, with broken egg shells in it, showing that the little birds had been hatched out and had flown away. all at once, as the curlytops were wondering what else they could do, they heard trouble calling, and his voice sounded very strange. "oh, what has happened to him now?" cried janet. "we'd better go to see!" exclaimed teddy. they ran back to where they had left their little brother. all they could see of him was his back and legs. he did not seem to have any head. "oh! oh!" gasped janet. "where is trouble's head?" ted did not know, and said so, and then the little fellow cried: "tum an' det me out! tum an' det me out!" then janet saw what had happened. trouble had thrust his head between the crotch, or the t-shaped part, of a tree, and had become so tightly wedged that he could not get out. "oh, what shall we do?" cried janet. "i'll show you," answered teddy. "you can help me." then he pushed on the little boy's head, and janet pulled, and he was soon free again, a little scratched about the neck, and frightened, but not hurt. "you must never do such a thing again," said mrs. martin, when the children reached camp and told her what had happened. "no, we won't do it any more," promised trouble, feeling of his neck, where he had thrust it between the parts of the tree. "and you mustn't go off again, and leave him by himself," said their mother to the curlytops. "there is no telling what he'll do." "that's right," said grandpa martin with a laugh. "you may go away, leaving trouble standing on his feet, but when you come back he's standing on his head. oh, you're a great bunch of trouble!" and he caught the little fellow up in his arms and kissed him. for several days teddy and janet and hal had many good times on star island. then they wanted something new for amusement. "let's make a trap and catch something," said ted, after he and jan had spoken of several ways of having fun. "how can you make a trap?" hal asked. "i'll show you," offered ted. "you just take a box, turn it upside down, and raise one end by putting a stick under it. then you tie a string to the stick, and when you pull the string the stick is yanked out and the box falls down and you catch something." "what do you catch?" hal asked. "oh, birds, or an animal--maybe a fox or a muskrat--whatever goes under the box when it's raised up." "but what makes them go under?" hal inquired. "to get something to eat. you see you put some bait under the box-- some crumbs for birds or pieces of meat for a fox or a muskrat. then you hide in the bushes, with the end of the string in your hand and when you see anything right under the box you pull it and catch 'em!" "oh, but doesn't it hurt them?" asked hal, who had a very kind heart. "maybe it might, ted," put in jan. "no. it doesn't hurt 'em a bit," declared ted. "they just stay under the box, you know, like in a cage." "i wouldn't like to catch a bird," said hal softly. "you see the birds are friends of princess blue eyes. she wouldn't like to have them caught." "oh, well, we could let them go again," ted decided, after a little thought. "does princess blue eyes like foxes and muskrats too?" jan asked softly. "i guess she likes everything--birds, animals and flowers. anyway i make-believe she does," and hal smiled. "of course she's only a pretend-person, but i like to think she's real. i like to dream of her." "i would, too," said janet softly. "we mustn't catch any birds, ted, nor animals, either." "not if we let them go right off quick?" ted asked. "no," and janet shook her head. "it might scare 'em you know. and the box might fall on their legs, or their wings, if it's a bird, and hurt them." "well, then, we won't do it!" decided ted. "i wouldn't want to hurt anything, and i wouldn't want to make your friend, princess blue eyes, feel bad," he added to hal. he remembered the story hal had told about the make-believe princess, when they sat in the green meadow studded with yellow buttercups and white daisies. "let's play store!" suggested jan. "there's lots of pretty stones and shells on the shore, and we can use them for money." "what'll we sell?" asked hal. "oh, we can sell other stones--big ones--for bread, and sand for sugar and leaves for cookies and things like that," janet proposed. "i wish we had something real to eat, and then we could sell that and it would be some good," remarked ted. "i'm going to ask nora." "oh, that'll be fun!" cried jan. "come on, hal. we'll get the store ready and ted can go in and ask nora for some real cookies and maybe a piece of cake." nora, good-natured as she always was, gave ted a nice lot of broken cookies, some crackers and some lumps of sugar so the children could play store and really eat the things they sold. hal gathered some mussel shells and colored stones on the shore of the lake, and these were money. the store counter was made by putting a board across two boxes and they took turns being the storekeeper. trouble wanted to play, too. but he only wanted to buy bits of molasses cookies, and he ate the pieces as fast as he got them, without pretending to go out of the store to take them home. "me buy more tookie!" he would say, swallowing the last crumb and hurrying up to the board counter with another "penny," which was a shell or a stone. "you mustn't eat them up so fast, trouble," said janet. "else we won't have any left to play store with." "oh, well, we can get more from nora," said ted. "and the cookies taste awful good." they played store until there were no more good things left to eat and nora would not hand out any others from her boxes and pans in the kitchen tent. then the curlytops and hal got in the rowboat and paddled about in the shallow cove. trouble did not go with them, his mother saying he must have a little sleep so he would not be so cross in the afternoon. and when jan, her brother and hal came up from the lake they found the little fellow making what he called a "playhouse." "oh, what funny stones trouble has!" cried ted as he saw them. "they're blue." "they're pretty," decided janet. "where'd you get them, trouble?" "over dere," and he pointed to a spot some distance from the camp. "he found them himself and brought them here in his apron," said mrs. martin. "he's been piling them up into what i called a castle, but he says it's a playhouse. he's been very good playing with the blue stones." "let's get some too, and see who can build the biggest castle!" cried janet. "show us where you got them, trouble." but when baby william toddled to the place where he had picked up the blue stones there were no more. he had gathered them all, it seemed, and now would not let his brother or sister take any from his pile. however they found other stones which did as well, though they were not blue in color, and soon the curlytops and hal, as well as trouble, were making a little house of stones. "this is more fun than playing store!" cried janet, as she made a little round tower as part of her castle. "are you making a palace for princess blue eyes, hal?" asked ted. "yes," he answered, for his stone castle was rather a large one. "but i can't be sure she'll like it. she doesn't want to stay in one place very long. she's like a firefly--always dancing about." and so they pretended and played, having a very good time, while mother martin watched them and smiled. the children were having great fun camping with grandpa. the castles finished--trouble's being the prettiest because of the blue stones, though not as large or fancy as the others--the curlytops, hal and baby william went on a little picnic in the woods that afternoon, taking nicknack with them. or rather, the goat took them, for he pulled them in the cart along the forest path. when jan, hal and ted were eating breakfast the next morning they heard a cry from trouble, who had toddled out of the tent as soon as he had finished his meal. "oh, what has happened to him now?" exclaimed mother martin. "run and see, jan, dear, that's a good girl!" janet found her little brother at the place where they had made the castles the night before. trouble's eyes were filled with tears. "my p'ayhouse all gone!" he cried. "trouble's house all goned away!" it was true. not a trace of his playhouse was left! in the night someone or something had taken the blue stones away. chapter xviii in the cave trouble felt very bad about his playhouse of blue stones which had been taken away. he was only a little fellow, and when he had gone to so much work, building up what looked like a fairy castle, he surely thought he would find it where he left it at night to have it to play with the next morning. but it was gone. "all goned," sobbed trouble. "isn't it funny, though?" said teddy. "mine is all right, and so is yours, jan, and hal's, too. they just spoiled trouble's." "maybe it was nicknack," suggested jan. "he might have got loose in the night and knocked it down. but he didn't mean to i guess, for he's a good goat." "it couldn't have been nicknack," declared hal. "why not?" asked ted. "didn't he fall down into the big hole when trouble led him to it?" "yes, but nicknack is there in his stable. he isn't loose at all, and he'd have to be loose to come here and knock over trouble's playhouse. the goat is tied fast just where he was last night." so nicknack was; and grandpa martin, who was the first one up in the camp that morning, said the goat was lying quietly down in his stable when he went to give him a drink of water. so it couldn't have been nicknack. "anyhow, trouble's blue-stone castle wasn't just knocked down," went on hal, "it's gone--every stone is gone. somebody took 'em!" jan and ted noticed this for the first time. when trouble had called out that his playhouse was gone they had thought he meant it was just knocked over. but, instead, it was gone completely. not a blue stone was left. and, strangely enough, none of the other three castles was touched. hal had built quite a large one, but not a stone had been taken from it. "where my p'ayhouse?" asked trouble, looking all about. "i want my p'ayhouse." "we'll find it for you," promised jan, though she did not know how she was going to do it. perhaps hal could think of a way. hal was older than jan and ted. "what's the matter, curlytops?" asked mother martin as she came out of the tent. "has anything happened? why is trouble crying? did he get hurt?" "no, but someone took away his nice blue stone castle," explained jan, and she and the others took turns telling what had happened. "it is queer," said grandpa martin, when he came up and heard what had taken place. "i wonder if any of those--" then he stopped talking and looked at the children's mother in a queer way. she nodded her head, glanced down at the curlytops and hal, and put her finger across her lips as your teacher does in school when she wants someone to stop whispering. hal saw what mrs. martin did, but neither jan nor ted noticed, for they were running around looking for any of the blue stones that might have been scattered from trouble's playhouse. "never mind," said mother martin. "i'll find you something else to play with, trouble. you shall have a nice ride with nicknack. you'll take him, won't you, jan and ted?" "yes," they answered. "i want my p'ayhouse!" sobbed baby william, and for a time he made a fuss about his missing blue stones. '"i guess i know what happened to them," said hal in a whisper to jan and ted when their mother had taken trouble into the tent to find something with which to amuse him. "what?" asked ted in a whisper. "the tramps!" exclaimed hal, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one but ms two little friends heard him. "that's what your grandfather was going to say the time he stopped so quick. your mother didn't want him to speak of them. but i'm sure the tramps took the blue stones from trouble's castle." "what would they do with 'em?" ted demanded. "there's gold in 'em!" whispered hal, more excited than ever now. "there's gold in those blue stones, and the tramps know it. that's what they've been looking for, and when trouble had 'em all in a nice pile made into a playhouse, the tramps came along in the night and took 'em away." "oh, do you s'pose it could happen that way, really?" asked jan, her eyes big with wonder. "course it could!" said hal, growing more excited all the while. "i remember now, gold doesn't always look yellow when you find it, the way it does in a watch or a ring. sometimes gold is inside stones and they have to melt 'em in the fire to get the gold out. my nurse at the crippled home read me about it. and there was gold in the blue stones. that's why the tramps came and got 'em--i mean _them_," and he corrected himself. "they told me not to say 'em,'" he added with a smile. "do you really think the blue stones had gold in 'em--them?" asked ted. "yes, i do! else why would the tramps want them? they came last night and took trouble's castle--every stone, and now they've hid the gold away." "where?" asked jan, as excited as the boys. "i think it must be up in the cave," went on hal. "if we could only go there and look we could find it too. let's go." "maybe mother wouldn't let us." suggested ted. "we don't have to tell her," said jan. "i don't mean to do anything bad, nor have you," went on hal. "but wouldn't it be great if we could go up to the cave, without anybody knowing it, and get the gold? then your mother would be glad, and your grandpa, too." "maybe they would--if there was gold in the blue stones," agreed ted. "we could pretend there was," said janet. "wouldn't that be fun? but i don't want to go into that dark cave 'cept maybe grandpa goes, too, with a light." "you wouldn't be afraid with us, would you?" asked hal. "hal and i would be with you," added ted. "well, maybe i wouldn't be afraid if you took hold of my hands. but it's dark there--awful dark." "i've got one of those little electric lights," hal said. "my father sent it to me for my birthday when i was in the home, and i didn't use it hardly at all, 'cause i wasn't up nights. it flashes bright. i brought it with me when i came to visit you, and i can get it and take it to the cave with us." "that'll be fun!" cried ted. "let's go, jan!" he pleaded. "well, maybe i will. but hadn't we better ask mother?" "maybe she'd say we couldn't," suggested her brother, speaking very slowly. "we'll tell her when we come back." of course this was not just the right thing to do, especially after ted and his sister had been told not to go to the cave alone. but they forgot all about that when hal spoke about gold being in the blue stones. ted and jan thought it would be wonderful if they could get some gold for their mother and grandfather, who was not as rich as he had been, even if he did sell a lot of cherries. "we can't take trouble along," said jan, as she saw her little brother coming out of the tent. "we've got to leave him here." "yes," agreed hal. "but we don't need to go right away. we can play with him awhile. you and ted take care of trouble and i'll go to get my flashlight. i put it under my pillow last night." "and i'll get something to eat from nora," added ted. "we'll make- believe we're going on a little picnic in the woods." "oh, that'll be fun!" cried jan. she was not afraid to think of the dark cave now. "trouble want p'ayhouse!" cried baby william, as he toddled up to his sister. "want b'ue stones." "i can't get you the blue stones--not now," said janet. "but i guess teddy will let you knock down his playhouse and build up another one. and you can knock down my playhouse, too. come on, trouble!" knocking over the playhouses of stone which his brother and sister had built the night before seemed such great fun to the little boy, and he had such a good time doing this and, with jan's help, making another and larger house of his own, that he forgot all about his blue stones. ted and hal did not forget them, though, and the more they thought of the queer way they had been taken away in the night, the more they felt sure that the stones must have gold in them, or, at least, something that the tramps wanted badly enough to come and take it. and that it was the tramps, or some man, or men, who had taken the blue stones, hal and ted felt certain. "for no dog or other animal could carry away every stone," said hal. "anyhow a dog wouldn't want them, nor a fox either. it was the tramps all right." "maybe they wouldn't like us to go to the cave and get the stones back," suggested ted. "well, the tramps can't have the blue stones," said hal, shaking his head. "we found 'em, and they're trouble's. but he's so little he don't want any gold, so we'll give it to your grandfather and grandmother." "don't you want any?" asked ted. "no. my father's got lots of money. i just want to find some gold for you. i got my light from under my pillow," and hal showed it to ted. they were out behind the sleeping tent talking, and ted had his pockets full of cookies and little cakes he had begged from nora. "though what in the world the child is going to do with them all, is more than i can guess," laughed the maid. "but i s'pose the children are always hungry." ted and hal were now ready to go to the cave. they looked around the corner of the tent and saw janet still playing with trouble. he had gotten over crying for his blue stones, and was now busy making a play-house of the rocks and pebbles his brother and sister had used. "come on, janet! we're going!" called ted in a loud whisper, as his sister looked at him. he also made motions with his hands to show that he and hal were ready to start for the cave. janet saw that her little brother was too busy playing to need her to stay with him--at least for a time. still she could not leave him alone without calling her mother or nora to watch what he did. very quietly, while baby william was trying to make one stone stay on top of another in one side of the castle he was making, janet stepped up to the flap of the tent, inside which her mother was sitting sewing. "i'm going with ted and hal into the woods," said the little girl. "will you watch trouble, mother?" "yes, janet. but be careful, and don't go too far." janet did not answer but hurried away. of course she did not do just right, for she knew her mother would not want her to go to the cave, nor would mrs. martin have let ted and hal go had she known it. but the curlytops and hal were very desirous of finding the blue stones and of seeing if there was any gold in them, and they did not stop to think of what was right and what was wrong. "hurry up now!" exclaimed hal as he went on ahead up the path that led from behind the tents to the queer cave. "we want to get there before anybody knows it." "what'll we do if the tramps are there?" asked ted. "they won't be there," said hal, though how he could tell that he did not say. "i've got a little hatchet and we can cut down some clubs," said ted. he had brought with him a little boy scout hatchet, with a covering over the sharp blade. his grandfather had given it to ted, but had told him never to take it out alone. but ted did, and this was another wrong thing. i'm afraid if i speak of all the wrong things the curlytops did that day i'd never finish with this story. but it wasn't often they did so many acts they ought not to have done. on they hurried through the woods, the boys hurrying ahead of janet. she did her best to keep up with them, but her legs were shorter than ted's or hal's and it was hard work for the little girl. "oh, wait for me!" she called at last. "i'm awful tired." "hurry up!" begged ted. "we want to get the blue stones before the tramps take 'em away!" "are they going to?" asked janet, sitting down on a stone to rest, after she had caught up to the boys. "well, they might," answered hal. "we've got to hurry." they went on again, walking a little more slowly this time, and when they came to a muddy puddle in the middle of the woodland path, ted tried to jump over it. but he slipped on the edge and one leg, from his foot to above his knee, got very wet and muddy. "oh, wow!" he cried. "now i've got to stop and clean this off." he began to wipe off the worst of the mud on bunches of grass, while janet sat down on a log near by. "i'm sorry you fell in the mud, teddy," she said, "but i'm glad i can rest, for i'm awful tired. you go so fast!" "come on, hurry up!" called hal, as ted still brushed away with the bunch of grass. "let it dry and it will come off easier." "i guess it will," agreed ted, looking at his muddy stocking. "it won't come off this way." however, the accident had given his sister a little chance to rest, and now janet was able to keep up with the boys. pretty soon they were near the hole into which ted had fallen, and out of which the cave opened. "now be careful!" whispered hal, as he got out his flashlight. "maybe the tramps are there!" "i've got my hatchet!" exclaimed ted. "i'm not going in if the tramps are there," declared janet. "we'll look first, and see," offered hal. "but i don't want to stay here alone!" objected janet, as her brother and hal slid down into the hole and looked into the black opening of the cave. "we won't go very far," promised ted. "we'll be back in a minute. don't be afraid." then he and hal went into the cave, while jan, half wanting to cry, waited outside. chapter xix the blue light again flashing his light about, hal walked boldly into the dark cave. ted followed, just a little bit afraid, though he did not want to say so. "don't go too far," begged janet's brother. "jan'll be afraid if we leave her alone." "i won't go far," promised hal. "i just want to see if there're any tramps in here." "listen an' maybe you can hear them talking," suggested ted. hal, though larger and older than ted, was not quite brave enough to go very far into the dark cave, even if he did have his light with him. so, after taking a few steps, he stopped and listened. so did ted. they could hear nothing but the voice of janet calling to them from outside. "ted! hal!" cried the little girl. "where are you? i'm going back to camp!" "we're coming!" answered ted. "come on back and get her," he added to his chum. "then we'll look for the blue rocks." "i guess we can't find them unless they're right around here," returned hal, as he moved his light about in a circle. "why not?" asked ted. "because this cave is so dark, and my flashlamp doesn't give much light. we could hardly see the stones if they were here." "then how are we going to get 'em?" ted demanded. "i guess we'll have to bring a big lantern. maybe we ought to bring your grandfather along." "i guess we had better," agreed ted. "but we can look a little bit when we're here. let's go for janet. she's crying." janet was crying by this time, not liking to be left alone outside while the boys were in the cave. they ran back to her and her tears were soon dried. "will you come in a little way with us?" asked her brother. "there isn't anything to be afraid of. is there, hal?" "no, not a thing. we won't go in very far, jan. and maybe you can see the blue stones. we couldn't, but sometimes girls' eyes are better than boys. come on!" so with hal holding a hand on one side, and ted on the other, janet went slowly into the cave with her brother and his chum. hal flashed his light, and by its gleam the curlytops could see that the cave was large, larger even than it had seemed when they were in it with their grandfather. "look on the floor for the rocks," suggested hal. "that's where the tramp-man would put 'em if he brought 'em here." but they did not see the blue rocks, nor any others. the floor of the cave seemed to be of stone or hard clay, and there was nothing on it. they did not go in far enough to see the sacks which grandpa martin said someone had used for a bed, nor did the children see the bread and other bits of food which might have meant that someone had had a picnic in the cave. "i guess the rocks aren't here," said hal, in disappointed tones as janet said she wanted to turn back, for she did not like it in the cave. "or else maybe they're away at the far end." "i'm not going there!" exclaimed ted. "no, i guess we won't go," agreed hal. "we'll go and tell your grandfather and have him come with a big lantern." "hark! what's that?" suddenly called jan, taking a tighter hold of her brother's hand. from the back part of the cave came a noise. it was as though a rock had fallen--probably it had--from the roof of the cavern. "someone's throwing stones at us!" cried ted. "who? who? who?" a voice seemed to ask. "oh, dear! we don't know who it was!" cried janet. "come on out of here! i'm afraid!" "that was only an owl," said hal with a laugh. "owls live in dark caves in the daytime and when it's dark they hoot and call 'who!' i've heard 'em lots of times around the home." "there isn't any cave at the home," objected ted, who was as frightened as janet was. "no, but there were owls in the trees. i heard 'em lots of times. but we'll go out. i guess maybe that was a loose stone that fell down and made the first noise. but we don't want any to fall on our heads. come on!" called hal. together he and ted led janet back to the mouth of the cave, where they could see the sunshine. and even hal, who was not so frightened as the curlytops had been, was glad to get out. "it's too bad we couldn't find the blue gold-stones," he said. "but maybe the tramps didn't hide them there, anyhow. we'll look around some more." "let's eat," suggested ted. "i'm hungry, and i've got a lot of cookies in my pockets." so they sat down on a stone in a shady place not far from the cave and ate the things nora had given ted. they then got a drink from a bubbling spring not far away, and pretended they were on a picnic. ted's muddy stocking had dried by this time, and he and jan, using sticks, scraped most of the dirt off. "now we'd better be going home," jan suggested after a bit. "there isn't any fun here." "yes, we might as well go," agreed hal. "and i'll tell you what let's do!" "what?" demanded ted. "let's look in the place where trouble found those blue stones and see if we can find anymore." "oh, yes, let's!" cried janet. she was happy again, now that she was out in the bright sunshine. the children remembered where baby william had found the pretty rocks from which he had made his castle, but when they reached the place not a one was to be had, though they searched all about. "i guess trouble took them all," said janet. "i remember now. i helped him look for more and we couldn't find any." "well, maybe there'll be some more somewhere else," suggested hal hopefully. "let's look." so they looked, wandering about in the woods not far from camp, until they heard nora ringing the bell for dinner. "well, where have you children been?" asked mrs. martin as they came trooping up to the tent, tired, hungry and dirty. "oh, we've been looking for gold," explained ted, but he did not say they had visited the cave, where they had been told not to go. "you didn't dig any more deep holes, did you?" asked his grandfather. "no, sir," answered ted. after dinner ted asked hal why he didn't speak of having grandpa martin go to the cave with the big lantern. "i thought you were going to do that," he said to hal. "well, i was. but maybe we can find some more of the blue stones for ourselves. we'll look around before we ask your grandpa to help." janet wanted to stay around camp and play with her dolls that afternoon, and she took care of trouble. "then we'll go for a goat ride," said ted. "come on, hal." the two boys hitched nicknack to the wagon, and set off down the island. "we'll look for some more blue rocks," suggested hal, and ted was willing. on and on the two boys rode, now stopping to look at some pretty flower, again waiting to hear the finish of some bird's song. they looked on both sides of the woodland path for some of the blue rocks, but, though they saw some of other colors, there were none like those they wanted. "whoa there, where are you going now?" ted suddenly called to nicknack, and the little boy pulled on the reins by which he guided the goat--or "steered" it, as he sometimes called it. "what's the matter?" asked hal. "nicknack wants to go over that way and i want him to go straight ahead," answered ted. "maybe he sees some of those blue rocks the way he wants to go," suggested hal. "oh, i don't guess so," replied his chum. "i guess he just wants to get some new kind of grass to eat. whoa, nicknack, i tell you!" and teddy pulled as hard as he could on the reins, without hurting his goat, for he never wanted to do that. but the goat would not go straight down the island path. he kept pulling off to one side, and at last ted cried: "here, hal, you take hold of the lines and pull with me. maybe we can steer him around then." "can we pull real hard--i mean will the lines break?" asked hal. "oh, no, they're good and strong," answered ted. so he and his chum both pulled on the one rein--the one to get nicknack's head pointed straight down the path instead of off to one side, but it did no good. the goat knew what he wanted to do, and he was going to do it. "look out!" suddenly cried teddy. "we're going to tip over!" the next minute the front wheels of the wagon ran up on a little pile of dirt at one side of the path, and the cart gently tilted to one side and then went over with a rattle and a bang. "there!" laughed hal, as he rolled out on some soft grass. "we are over, ted." "i knew we were going," said teddy as he, too, laughed and got up. "whoa there, nicknack!" he shouted, for the goat was still going on, dragging the overturned wagon after him. but nicknack did not stop until he reached a little bush, on which were some green leaves that he seemed to like very much, for he began to chew them. "that's what he wanted all the while," said teddy. "well, let him eat all he wants, and then he won't be hungry any more and he'll pull us where we want to go," advised hal. they did this, after setting the cart up on its wheels. when nicknack turned away from the bush, and looked at the two waiting boys, ted said: "well, i guess we can go on now." "yes," added hal, "and i hope we'll find those blue rocks. but i don't believe we're ever going to." at last, however, when it was getting rather late in the afternoon and ted had said it was time to go back, hal, who was driving the goat through a part of the woods they never before had visited, pointed to a big stone buried in the side of a hill and cried: "look! isn't that rock blue, ted?" "it does look kind of blue, yes." "then it's just what we're looking for. see, there's lots of little blue rocks, too. let's take some back to camp. maybe they're the same kind trouble had, and there may be gold in 'em! come on." they piled the rocks, which were certainly somewhat blue in color, into the wagon, and started back with them. "we found 'em! we found 'em!" they called as they came within sight of the tents. "we got the blue rocks!" "well, they're pretty, certainly," said grandpa martin, as he picked up one from the wagon, "but they're no better than any other rocks around here, as far as i can see." "they've got gold in 'em, hal says," ted stated. "gold? oh, no, curlytop!" laughed his grandfather. "i've told you there is no gold on this island." "there's _something_ in the blue rocks," declared hal. "feel how heavy they are--lots heavier than any other stones around here." "yes, they are," agreed grandpa martin, as he weighed one of the stones in his hand. "there might be some iron in them, but not gold. look out!" he suddenly called as the stone slipped from his hand. "look out for your toes!" laughing, the curlytops and hal jumped back. the blue stone which grandpa martin dropped, struck on the edge of the shovel which was out in front of the tent. as the rock hit the steel tool with a clang, something queer happened. at once the rock began to burn with a curious blue flame, and a yellowish smoke curled up. "oh, the rock's on fire!" cried janet. "the rock's on fire!" "yes, and look!" added ted. "it's burning blue, just like the light we saw on the island one night." "and how queer it smells!" exclaimed hal. "sulphur!" ejaculated grandpa martin. he and the children looked at the queer blue fire that seemed to come from inside the rock. what could it mean? chapter xx the happy tramp grandpa martin stood looking down at the queer, burning rock. the blue fire was flaming up brighter now, and it made a strange light on the faces of the curlytops and hal as they gathered about. the sky was cloudy and it was getting dark. "oh, what is it? what is it?" asked ted and jan. "it smells just like old-fashioned sulphur matches that my grandmother used to light," said nora, who had come out, having seen the queer light from the cook-tent. "and it _is_ sulphur that is burning," said grandpa martin. "that rock has sulphur in it, not gold, hal. and it is the sulphur that is burning with the blue fire." "but what makes it?" asked the children. grandpa martin did not answer for a few seconds. he stood again looking down at the flaming blue rock. mrs. martin, who had started to put trouble to bed early, came out and looked. "it's like something i once saw in the theater," said the maid. "i don't like it--that blue light. it reminds me of the time our house was struck by lightning--that sulphur smell." "it is the same smell," said mr. martin. "curlytops, i think you have found something very queer in this blue rock. i don't know just what it is, but we'll find out. see, the stone is burning like a lump of coal now, but with a blue flame instead of red." "just like the night we saw the blue fire on the island before we came camping here." said ted. "is it the same thing, grandpa?" "i don't know. perhaps it is. where did you get the blue rocks?' "over in the woods," answered hal. "there's a great big one there. as big as this tent." "is there?" some one suddenly asked. "then please show me where it is! oh, can it be that at last i have found what i have been looking for so long?" the curlytops and the others turned at the sound of this new and strange voice. a man seemed to spring out of the bushes back of the tent. by the light of the blue fire ted and jan saw that his clothes were ragged and torn in many places. "oh! oh!" gasped jan. "that's the tramp!" "well, i guess maybe i do look like a tramp, all ragged and dirty as i am," laughed the man, and his voice sounded pleasant. "but i am not a regular tramp. i am mr. weston--alfred weston," he went on, speaking to grandpa martin. "i haven't a card with me, but when i get washed and dressed and shaved i'll look more like what i am. excuse me for intruding this way, but i could not keep from speaking when i heard what you were talking about." "then aren't you a tramp?" asked ted. "no, though i have been _tramping_ all over this island looking for the very blue rock you children seem to have found. i wear my oldest clothes, just as my friend professor anderson does, for we have been going through briar bushes, into caves and mud holes and our clothes are a sad sight. but we are not tramps." "is there someone with you?" asked grandpa martin, looking over the man's head toward the bushes, out of which he had come. "there was another. anderson is his name. but he has gone to the village, and i was on my way to row across the lake to join him when i happened to pass by your tent, saw the blue light, and heard what your children said. do you really know where there is a big blue rock like this little one that is on fire?" he asked as he pointed to the flaming blue light. "yes, we found a big one," said hal. "if you will show me where it is you will get a lot of money," said mr. weston. "that is, if you will sell me the meteor," he went on to grandpa martin. "i understand you own part of this island," he added. "about half of it, yes. but are you looking for a meteor?" "yes, for a meteor, or fallen star, and the blue rock your children found is part of it. we have been looking for it a long time, my friend and myself, and we had about given up. now we may get it. will you sell me the fallen star?" he asked. "i'll see about it," promised mr. martin with a smile. "perhaps you will come into our tent and tell us about it. are you--well, i was going to say the tramp--but are you the man we saw before, wandering about our camp?" "i presume i am. i don't mind being called a tramp, for i certainly look like one. however, now that the fallen star is found i don't need to be so ragged." "are you the ragged man that pulled trouble out of the spring?" asked ted, as they watched the blue light die away. "i did pull a little boy out of the spring," answered mr. weston, "though i didn't know his name was trouble." "that's only his pet name," laughed grandpa martin. "but come and sit down and tell us your story. the children have been wondering a long while what the blue light meant, and who the ragged man was. and, to- day, they've been trying to find what became of the blue rocks that trouble made into a playhouse." "i took those rocks, i'm sorry to say," answered the ragged man. "i'm sorry to have spoiled trouble's playhouse. i wanted those pieces of rock, for i thought perhaps they were all i would ever be able to get of the fallen star." "was the blue rock really once a star?" asked hal. "well, yes, a part of one, or at least part of a meteor, or shooting star, as they are called. now i'll tell you all that happened, and i'm sorry if i have frightened you. my friend and i didn't mean to. "some time ago," went on mr. weston, "we heard about star island--this place that was so named because it was said a big meteor had landed here many years back. professor anderson and i decided to come here and see if we could find it for the museum which is connected with the college in which anderson teaches. "for we knew that, though most meteors are burned up as they shoot through the air before they strike the earth, yet some come down in big chunks, and we wanted such a one if we could get it. so we hunted for it all over this island. we saw you, but you were never very near. sometimes we stayed in the cave at night, but usually went back to the mainland. all the while we were hunting for the blue rocks, for that is the color of this particular meteor. "a few nights before you folks came here to camp, when we were digging in the ground hoping to find what we wanted, our shovel must have struck a piece of the meteor, for there was a flash of blue fire that burned for quite a while." "we saw it," cried ted, "and we didn't know what it was!" "teddy and me--we saw it!" added jan. "well, that was all of the meteor we could find for some time," went on mr. weston. "and as that burned up--was consumed--we didn't have any. then, the other night through the bushes we happened to come upon some blue stones, and i took them away. "then my friend and i hunted again to find the big piece of the fallen star, but we could not come across it. i was about to give up, but now we are all right. i am so glad! can you take me to the big blue rock?" "we will to-morrow," answered hal. "it's too dark to find it now." "you had better stay in our camp until morning," was grandpa martin's kindly invitation, and mr. weston did so. "this meteor is a good bit like a sulphur match," said mr. weston. "when anything hard, like iron or steel, strikes it, blue fire starts and burns up the rock. the big piece will be very valuable. "but we'll have to be careful not to set it ablaze. we picked up a lot of different rocks on the island, hoping some of them might be pieces of the meteor. but none was. once i saw your little girl picking flowers, as i was gathering rocks. i guess she thought i was a tramp. did i scare you?" he asked janet. "a little," she answered with a smile. "sometimes we stayed in a cave we found on the island," went on mr. weston. "i thought once the meteor might be there, but it was not." the next day ted, janet and hal, followed by all the others in camp, even down to trouble, whose mother carried him, went to the place where the big blue rock was buried in the side of the hill. as soon as he had looked at it mr. weston said it was the very meteor for which he and professor anderson had been looking so long. they seemed to have missed coming to the hill. the museum directors bought the fallen star from grandpa martin, on whose part of the island it had fallen many years before, and so the owner of cherry farm had as much money as before the flood spoiled so many of his crops. thus the story of the fallen star, after which the island was named, was true, you see, though it had happened so many years ago that most folk had forgotten about it. a few days after mr. weston had been led to the queer blue rock, he and professor anderson, no longer dressed like tramps, brought some men to the island and the big rock was carefully dug out with wooden shovels, as the wood was soft and could not strike sparks and make blue fire. "for a time," said mr. weston to grandpa martin, after the meteor had been taken to the mainland in a big boat, "i thought you were a scientist." "me--a scientist!" laughed the children's grandfather. "yes. i thought maybe you had heard about the fallen star and had come here and were trying to find it, too." "no, i haven't any use for fallen stars," said mr. martin. "i had heard the story about one being on this island, but i never quite believed it. i just came here to give the children a good time camping." "well, i think they had it--every one of them," laughed mr. weston, as he looked at the brown curlytops, who were tanned like indians. "oh, we've had the loveliest time in the world!" cried jan, as she held her grandfather's hand. "we're going to stay here a long while yet. aren't we, grandpa?" "well, i'm afraid not much longer," said grandpa martin. "the days are getting shorter and the nights longer. it will soon be too cold to live in a tent on star island." "oh, grandpa!" and jan looked sad. "but we want to have fun!" cried ted. "oh, i guess you'll have fun," said his mother. "you always do every winter." and the children did. in the next volume of this series, to be called "the curlytops snowed in; or, grand fun with skates and sleds," you may read about the good times they had when they went back home. "come on, jan, we'll have a last ride with nicknack!" called ted to his sister about a week after the meteor had been dug up. in a few days the curlytops were to leave their camp on star island. hal chester had gone back to his home, promising to visit his friends again some day. "i'm coming!" cried jan. "me, too!" added trouble. "i wants a wide!" into the goat cart they piled and off started nicknack, waggling his funny, stubby tail, for he enjoyed the children as much as they did him. "hurray!" yelled ted. "isn't this fun?" and he cracked the whip in the air. "hurray!" yelled jan and trouble. "baa-a-a-a!" bleated nicknack. that was his way of cheering. and so we will leave the curlytops and say good-bye. the end none the little colonel by annie fellows johnston to one of kentucky's dearest little daughters the little colonel herself--this remembrance of a happy summer is affectionately inscribed list of illustrations "'cause i'm so much like you,' was the startling answer". "the same temper seemed to be burning in the eyes of the child". "with the parrot perched on the broom she was carrying". "the little colonel clattered up and down the hall". "singing at the top of her voice". "'tell me good-by, baby dear,' said mrs. sherman". "'amanthis,' repeated the child dreamily". "she climbed up in front of the mirror". "the sweet little voice sang it to the end". chapter i. it was one of the prettiest places in all kentucky where the little colonel stood that morning. she was reaching up on tiptoes, her eager little face pressed close against the iron bars of the great entrance gate that led to a fine old estate known as "locust." a ragged little scotch and skye terrier stood on its hind feet beside her, thrusting his inquisitive nose between the bars, and wagging his tasselled tail in lively approval of the scene before them. they were looking down a long avenue that stretched for nearly a quarter of a mile between rows of stately old locust-trees. at the far end they could see the white pillars of a large stone house gleaming through the virginia creeper that nearly covered it. but they could not see the old colonel in his big chair on the porch behind the cool screen of vines. at that very moment he had caught the rattle of wheels along the road, and had picked up his field-glass to see who was passing. it was only a coloured man jogging along in the heat and dust with a cart full of chicken-coops. the colonel watched him drive up a lane that led to the back of the new hotel that had just been opened in this quiet country place. then his glance fell on the two small strangers coming through his gate down the avenue toward him. one was the friskiest dog he had ever seen in his life. the other was a child he judged to be about five years old. her shoes were covered with dust, and her white sunbonnet had slipped off and was hanging over her shoulders. a bunch of wild flowers she had gathered on the way hung limp and faded in her little warm hand. her soft, light hair was cut as short as a boy's. there was something strangely familiar about the child, especially in the erect, graceful way she walked. old colonel lloyd was puzzled. he had lived all his life in lloydsborough, and this was the first time he had ever failed to recognize one of the neighbours' children. he knew every dog and horse, too, by sight if not by name. living so far from the public road did not limit his knowledge of what was going on in the world. a powerful field-glass brought every passing object in plain view, while he was saved all annoyance of noise and dust. "i ought to know that child as well as i know my own name," he said to himself. "but the dog is a stranger in these parts. liveliest thing i ever set eyes on! they must have come from the hotel. wonder what they want." he carefully wiped the lens for a better view. when he looked again he saw that they evidently had not come to visit him. they had stopped half-way down the avenue, and climbed up on a rustic seat to rest. the dog sat motionless about two minutes, his red tongue hanging out as if he were completely exhausted. suddenly he gave a spring, and bounded away through the tall blue grass. he was back again in a moment, with a stick in his mouth. standing up with his fore paws in the lap of his little mistress, he looked so wistfully into her face that she could not refuse this invitation for a romp. the colonel chuckled as they went tumbling about in the grass to find the stick which the child repeatedly tossed away. he hitched his chair along to the other end of the porch as they kept getting farther away from the avenue. it had been many a long year since those old locust-trees had seen a sight like that. children never played any more under their dignified shadows. time had been (but they only whispered this among themselves on rare spring days like this) when the little feet chased each other up and down the long walk, as much at home as the pewees in the beeches. suddenly the little maid stood up straight, and began to sniff the air, as if some delicious odour had blown across the lawn. "fritz," she exclaimed, in delight, "i 'mell 'trawberries!" the colonel, who could not hear the remark, wondered at the abrupt pause in the game. he understood it, however, when he saw them wading through the tall grass, straight to his strawberry bed. it was the pride of his heart, and the finest for miles around. the first berries of the season had been picked only the day before. those that now hung temptingly red on the vines he intended to send to his next neighbour, to prove his boasted claim of always raising the finest and earliest fruit. he did not propose to have his plans spoiled by these stray guests. laying the field-glass in its accustomed place on the little table beside his chair, he picked up his hat and strode down the walk. colonel lloyd's friends all said he looked like napoleon, or rather like napoleon might have looked had he been born and bred a kentuckian. he made an imposing figure in his suit of white duck. the colonel always wore white from may till october. there was a military precision about him, from his erect carriage to the cut of the little white goatee on his determined chin. no one looking into the firm lines of his resolute face could imagine him ever abandoning a purpose or being turned aside when he once formed an opinion. most children were afraid of him. the darkies about the place shook in their shoes when he frowned. they had learned from experience that "ole marse lloyd had a tigah of a tempah in him." as he passed down the walk there were two mute witnesses to his old soldier life. a spur gleamed on his boot heel, for he had just returned from his morning ride, and his right sleeve hung empty. he had won his title bravely. he had given his only son and his strong right arm to the southern cause. that had been nearly thirty years ago. he did not charge down on the enemy with his usual force this time. the little head, gleaming like sunshine in the strawberry patch, reminded him so strongly of a little fellow who used to follow him everywhere,--tom, the sturdiest, handsomest boy in the county,--tom, whom he had been so proud of, whom he had so nearly worshipped. looking at this fair head bent over the vines, he could almost forget that tom had ever outgrown his babyhood, that he had shouldered a rifle and followed him to camp, a mere boy, to be shot down by a yankee bullet in his first battle. the old colonel could almost believe he had him back again, and that he stood in the midst of those old days the locusts sometimes whispered about. he could not hear the happiest of little voices that was just then saying, "oh, fritz, isn't you glad we came? an' isn't you glad we've got a gran'fathah with such good 'trawberries?" it was hard for her to put the "s" before her consonants. as the colonel came nearer she tossed another berry into the dog's mouth. a twig snapped, and she raised a startled face toward him. "suh?" she said, timidly, for it seemed to her that the stern, piercing eyes had spoken. "what are you doing here, child?" he asked, in a voice so much kinder than his eyes that she regained her usual self-possession at once. "eatin' 'trawberries," she answered, coolly. "who are you, anyway?" he exclaimed, much puzzled. as he asked the question his gaze happened to rest on the dog, who was peering at him through the ragged, elfish wisps of hair nearly covering its face, with eyes that were startlingly human. "'peak when yo'ah 'poken to, fritz," she said, severely, at the same time popping another luscious berry into her mouth. fritz obediently gave a long yelp. the colonel smiled grimly. "what's your name?" he asked, this time looking directly at her. "mothah calls me her baby," was the soft-spoken reply, "but papa an' mom beck they calls me the little cun'l." "what under the sun do they call you that for?" he roared. "'cause i'm so much like you," was the startling answer. "like me!" fairly gasped the colonel. "how are you like me?" "oh, i'm got such a vile tempah, an' i stamps my foot when i gets mad, an' gets all red in the face. an' i hollahs at folks, an' looks jus' zis way." she drew her face down and puckered her lips into such a sullen pout that it looked as if a thunder-storm had passed over it. the next instant she smiled up at him serenely. the colonel laughed. "what makes you think i am like that?" he said. "you never saw me before." "yes, i have too," she persisted. "you's a-hangin' in a gold frame over ou' mantel." just then a clear, high voice was heard calling out in the road. the child started up in alarm. "oh, deah," she exclaimed in dismay, at sight of the stains on her white dress, where she had been kneeling on the fruit, "that's mom beck. now i'll be tied up, and maybe put to bed for runnin' away again. but the berries is mighty nice," she added, politely. "good mawnin', suh. fritz, we mus' be goin' now." the voice was coming nearer. "i'll walk down to the gate with you," said the colonel, anxious to learn something more about his little guest. "oh, you'd bettah not, suh!" she cried in alarm. "mom beck doesn't like you a bit. she just hates you! she's goin' to give you a piece of her mind the next time she sees you. i heard her tell aunt nervy so." there was as much real distress in the child's voice as if she were telling him of a promised flogging. "lloyd! aw, lloy-eed!" the call came again. a neat-looking coloured woman glanced in at the gate as she was passing by, and then stood still in amazement. she had often found her little charge playing along the roadside or hiding behind trees, but she had never before known her to pass through any one's gate. as the name came floating down to him through the clear air, a change came over the colonel's stern face. he stooped over the child. his hand trembled as he put it under her soft chin and raised her eyes to his. "lloyd, lloyd!" he repeated, in a puzzled way. "can it be possible? there certainly is a wonderful resemblance. you have my little tom's hair, and only my baby elizabeth ever had such hazel eyes." he caught her up in his one arm, and strode on to the gate, where the coloured woman stood. "why, becky, is that you?" he cried, recognizing an old, trusted servant who had lived at locust in his wife's lifetime. her only answer was a sullen nod. "whose child is this?" he asked, eagerly, without seeming to notice her defiant looks. "tell me if you can." "how can i tell you, suh," she demanded, indignantly, "when you have fo'bidden even her name to be spoken befo' you?" a harsh look came into the colonel's eyes. he put the child hastily down, and pressed his lips together. "don't tie my sunbonnet, mom beck," she begged. then she waved her hand with an engaging smile. "good-bye, suh," she said, graciously. "we've had a mighty nice time!" the colonel took off his hat with his usual courtly bow, but he spoke no word in reply. when the last flutter of her dress had disappeared around the bend of the road, he walked slowly back toward the house. half-way down the long avenue where she had stopped to rest, he sat down on the same rustic seat. he could feel her soft little fingers resting on his neck, where they had lain when he carried her to the gate. a very un-napoleonlike mist blurred his sight for a moment. it had been so long since such a touch had thrilled him, so long since any caress had been given him. more than a score of years had gone by since tom had been laid in a soldier's grave, and the years that elizabeth had been lost to him seemed almost a lifetime. and this was elizabeth's little daughter. something very warm and sweet seemed to surge across his heart as he thought of the little colonel. he was glad, for a moment, that they called her that; glad that his only grandchild looked enough like himself for others to see the resemblance. but the feeling passed as he remembered that his daughter had married against his wishes, and he had closed his doors for ever against her. the old bitterness came back redoubled in its force. the next instant he was stamping down the avenue, roaring for walker, his body-servant, in such a tone that the cook's advice was speedily taken: "bettah hump yo'self outen dis heah kitchen befo' de ole tigah gits to lashin' roun' any pearter." chapter ii. mom beck carried the ironing-board out of the hot kitchen, set the irons off the stove, and then tiptoed out to the side porch of the little cottage. "is yo' head feelin' any bettah, honey?" she said to the pretty, girlish-looking woman lying in the hammock. "i promised to step up to the hotel this evenin' to see one of the chambah-maids. i thought i'd take the little cun'l along with me if you was willin'. she's always wild to play with mrs. wyford's children up there." "yes, i'm better, becky," was the languid reply. "put a clean dress on lloyd if you are going to take her out." mrs. sherman closed her eyes again, thinking gratefully, "dear, faithful old becky! what a comfort she has been all my life, first as my nurse, and now as lloyd's! she is worth her weight in gold!" the afternoon shadows were stretching long across the grass when mom beck led the child up the green slope in front of the hotel. the little colonel had danced along so gaily with fritz that her cheeks glowed like wild roses. she made a quaint little picture with such short sunny hair and dark eyes shining out from under the broad-brimmed white hat she wore. several ladies who were sitting on the shady piazza, busy with their embroidery, noticed her admiringly. "it's elizabeth lloyd's little daughter," one of them explained. "don't you remember what a scene there was some years ago when she married a new york man? sherman, i believe, his name was, jack sherman. he was a splendid fellow, and enormously wealthy. nobody could say a word against him, except that he was a northerner. that was enough for the old colonel, though. he hates yankees like poison. he stormed and swore, and forbade elizabeth ever coming in his sight again. he had her room locked up, and not a soul on the place ever dares mention her name in his hearing." the little colonel sat down demurely on the piazza steps to wait for the children. the nurse had not finished dressing them for the evening. she amused herself by showing fritz the pictures in an illustrated weekly. it was not long until she began to feel that the ladies were talking about her. she had lived among older people so entirely that her thoughts were much deeper than her baby speeches would lead one to suppose. she understood dimly, from what she had heard the servants say, that there was some trouble between her mother and grandfather. now she heard it rehearsed from beginning to end. she could not understand what they meant by "bank failures" and "unfortunate investments," but she understood enough to know that her father had lost nearly all his money, and had gone west to make more. mrs. sherman had moved from their elegant new york home two weeks ago to this little cottage in lloydsborough that her mother had left her. instead of the houseful of servants they used to have, there was only faithful mom beck to do everything. there was something magnetic in the child's eyes. mrs. wyford shrugged her shoulders uneasily as she caught their piercing gaze fixed on her. "i do believe that little witch understood every word i said," she exclaimed. "oh, certainly not," was the reassuring answer. "she's such a little thing." but she had heard it all, and understood enough to make her vaguely unhappy. going home she did not frisk along with fritz, but walked soberly by mom beck's side, holding tight to the friendly black hand. "we'll go through the woods," said mom beck, lifting her over the fence. "it's not so long that way." as they followed the narrow, straggling path into the cool dusk of the woods, she began to sing. the crooning chant was as mournful as a funeral dirge. "the clouds hang heavy, an' it's gwine to rain. fa'well, my dyin' friends. i'm gwine to lie in the silent tomb. fa'well, my dyin' friends." a muffled little sob made her stop and look down in surprise. "why, what's the mattah, honey?" she exclaimed. "did emma louise make you mad? or is you cryin' 'cause you're so ti'ed? come! ole becky'll tote her baby the rest of the way." she picked the light form up in her arms, and, pressing the troubled little face against her shoulder, resumed her walk and her song. "it's a world of trouble we're travellin' through, fa'well, my dyin' friends." "oh, don't, mom beck," sobbed the child, throwing her arms around the woman's neck, and crying as though her heart would break. "land sakes, what is the mattah?" she asked, in alarm. she sat down on a mossy log, took off the white hat, and looked into the flushed, tearful face. "oh, it makes me so lonesome when you sing that way," wailed the little colonel. "i just can't 'tand it! mom beck, is my mothah's heart all broken? is that why she is sick so much, and will it kill her suah 'nuff?" "who's been tellin' you such nonsense?" asked the woman, sharply. "some ladies at the hotel were talkin' about it. they said that gran'fathah didn't love her any moah, an' it was just a-killin' her." mom beck frowned fiercely. the child's grief was so deep and intense that she did not know just how to quiet her. then she said, decidedly, "well, if that's all that's a-troublin' you, you can jus' get down an' walk home on yo' own laigs. yo' mamma's a-grievin' 'cause yo' papa has to be away all the time. she's all wo'n out, too, with the work of movin', when she's nevah been used to doin' anything. but her heart isn't broke any moah'n my neck is." the positive words and the decided toss mom beck gave her head settled the matter for the little colonel. she wiped her eyes and stood up much relieved. "don't you nevah go to worryin' 'bout what you heahs," continued the woman. "i tell you p'intedly you cyarnt nevah b'lieve what you heahs." "why doesn't gran'fathah love my mothah?" asked the child, as they came in sight of the cottage. she had puzzled over the knotty problem all the way home. "how can papas not love their little girls?" "'cause he's stubbo'n," was the unsatisfactory answer. "all the lloyds is. yo' mamma's stubbo'n, an' you's stubbo'n--" "i'm not!" shrieked the little colonel, stamping her foot. "you sha'n't call me names!" then she saw a familiar white hand waving to her from the hammock, and she broke away from mom beck with very red cheeks and very bright eyes. cuddled close in her mother's arms, she had a queer feeling that she had grown a great deal older in that short afternoon. maybe she had. for the first time in her little life she kept her troubles to herself, and did not once mention the thought that was uppermost in her mind. "yo' great-aunt sally tylah is comin' this mawnin'," said mom beck, the day after their visit to the hotel. "do fo' goodness' sake keep yo'self clean. i'se got too many spring chickens to dress to think 'bout dressin' you up again." "did i evah see her befo'?" questioned the little colonel. "why, yes, the day we moved heah. don't you know she came and stayed so long, and the rockah broke off the little white rockin'-chair when she sat down in it?" "oh, now i know!" laughed the child. "she's the big fat one with curls hangin' round her yeahs like shavin's. i don't like her, mom beck. she keeps a-kissin' me all the time, an' a-'queezin' me, an' tellin' me to sit on her lap an' be a little lady. mom beck, i de'pise to be a little lady." there was no answer to her last remark. mom beck had stepped into the pantry for more eggs for the cake she was making. "fritz," said the little colonel, "yo' great-aunt sally tylah's comin' this mawnin', an' if you don't want to say 'howdy' to her you'll have to come with me." a few minutes later a resolute little figure squeezed between the palings of the garden fence down by the gooseberry bushes. "now walk on your tiptoes, fritz!" commanded the little colonel, "else somebody will call us back." mom beck, busy with her extra baking, supposed she was with her mother on the shady, vine-covered porch. she would not have been singing quite so gaily if she could have seen half a mile up the road. the little colonel was sitting in the weeds by the railroad track, deliberately taking off her shoes and stockings. "just like a little niggah," she said, delightedly, as she stretched out her bare feet. "mom beck says i ought to know bettah. but it does feel so good!" no telling how long she might have sat there enjoying the forbidden pleasure of dragging her rosy toes through the warm dust, if she had not heard a horse's hoof-beats coming rapidly along. "fritz, it's gran'fathah," she whispered, in alarm, recognizing the erect figure of the rider in its spotless suit of white duck. "sh! lie down in the weeds, quick! lie down, i say!" they both made themselves as flat as possible, and lay there panting with the exertion of keeping still. presently the little colonel raised her head cautiously. "oh, he's gone down that lane!" she exclaimed. "now you can get up." after a moment's deliberation she asked, "fritz, would you rathah have some 'trawberries an' be tied up fo' runnin' away, or not be tied up and not have any of those nice tas'en 'trawberries?" chapter iii. two hours later, colonel lloyd, riding down the avenue under the locusts, was surprised by a novel sight on his stately front steps. three little darkies and a big flop-eared hound were crouched on the bottom step, looking up at the little colonel, who sat just above them. she was industriously stirring something in an old rusty pan with a big, battered spoon. "now, may lilly," she ordered, speaking to the largest and blackest of the group, "you run an' find some nice 'mooth pebbles to put in for raisins. henry clay, you go get me some moah sand. this is 'most too wet." "here, you little pickaninnies!" roared the colonel, as he recognized the cook's children. "what did i tell you about playing around here, tracking dirt all over my premises? you just chase back to the cabin where you belong!" the sudden call startled lloyd so that she dropped the pan, and the great mud pie turned upside down on the white steps. "well, you're a pretty sight!" said the colonel, as he glanced with disgust from her soiled dress and muddy hands to her bare feet. he had been in a bad humour all morning. the sight of the steps covered with sand and muddy tracks gave him an excuse to give vent to his cross feelings. it was one of his theories that a little girl should always be kept as fresh and dainty as a flower. he had never seen his own little daughter in such a plight as this, and she had never been allowed to step outside of her own room without her shoes and stockings. "what does your mother mean," he cried, savagely, "by letting you run barefooted around the country just like poor white trash? an' what are you playing with low-flung niggers for? haven't you ever been taught any better? i suppose it's some of your father's miserable yankee notions." may lilly, peeping around the corner of the house, rolled her frightened eyes from one angry face to the other. the same temper that glared from the face of the man, sitting erect in his saddle, seemed to be burning in the eyes of the child, who stood so defiantly before him. the same kind of scowl drew their eyebrows together darkly. "don't you talk that way to me," cried the little colonel, trembling with a wrath she did not know how to express. suddenly she stooped, and snatching both hands full of mud from the overturned pie, flung it wildly over the spotless white coat. colonel lloyd gasped with astonishment. it was the first time in his life he had ever been openly defied. the next moment his anger gave way to amusement. "by george!" he chuckled, admiringly. "the little thing has got spirit, sure enough. she's a lloyd through and through. so that's why they call her the 'little colonel,' is it?" there was a tinge of pride in the look he gave her haughty little head and flashing eyes. "there, there, child!" he said, soothingly. "i didn't mean to make you mad, when you were good enough to come and see me. it isn't often i have a little lady like you pay me a visit." "i didn't come to see you, suh," she answered, indignantly, as she started toward the gate. "i came to see may lilly. but i nevah would have come inside yo' gate if i'd known you was goin' to hollah at me an' be so cross." she was walking off with the air of an offended queen, when the colonel remembered that if he allowed her to go away in that mood she would probably never set foot on his grounds again. her display of temper had interested him immensely. now that he had laughed off his ill humour, he was anxious to see what other traits of character she possessed. he wheeled his horse across the walk to bar her way, and quickly dismounted. "oh, now, wait a minute," he said, in a coaxing tone. "don't you want a nice big saucer of strawberries and cream before you go? walker's picking some now. and you haven't seen my hothouse. it's just full of the loveliest flowers you ever saw. you like roses, don't you, and pinks and lilies and pansies?" he saw he had struck the right chord as soon as he mentioned the flowers. the sullen look vanished as if by magic. her face changed as suddenly as an april day. "oh, yes!" she cried, with a beaming smile. "i loves 'm bettah than anything!" he tied his horse, and led the way to the conservatory. he opened the door for her to pass through, and then watched her closely to see what impression it would make on her. he had expected a delighted exclamation of surprise, for he had good reason to be proud of his rare plants. they were arranged with a true artist's eye for colour and effect. she did not say a word for a moment, but drew a long breath, while the delicate pink in her cheeks deepened and her eyes lighted up. then she began going slowly from flower to flower, laying her face against the cool, velvety purple of the pansies, touching the roses with her lips, and tilting the white lily-cups to look into their golden depths. as she passed from one to another as lightly as a butterfly might have done, she began chanting in a happy undertone. ever since she had learned to talk she had a quaint little way of singing to herself. all the names that pleased her fancy she strung together in a crooning melody of her own. there was no special tune. it sounded happy, although nearly always in a minor key. "oh, the jonquils an' the lilies!" she sang. "all white an' gold an' yellow. oh, they're all a-smilin' at me, an' a-sayin' howdy! howdy!" she was so absorbed in her intense enjoyment that she forgot all about the old colonel. she was wholly unconscious that he was watching or listening. "she really does love them," he thought, complacently. "to see her face one would think she had found a fortune." it was another bond between them. after awhile he took a small basket from the wall, and began to fill it with his choicest blooms. "you shall have these to take home," he said. "now come into the house and get your strawberries." she followed him reluctantly, turning back several times for one more long sniff of the delicious fragrance. she was not at all like the colonel's ideal of what a little girl should be, as she sat in one of the high, stiff chairs, enjoying her strawberries. her dusty little toes wriggled around in the curls on fritz's back, as she used him for a footstool. her dress was draggled and dirty, and she kept leaning over to give the dog berries and cream from the spoon she was eating with herself. he forgot all this, however, when she began to talk to him. "my great-aunt sally tylah is to our house this mawnin'," she announced, confidentially. "that's why we came off. do you know my aunt sally tylah?" "well, slightly!" chuckled the colonel. "she was my wife's half-sister. so you don't like her, eh? well, i don't like her either." he threw back his head and laughed heartily. the more the child talked the more entertaining he found her. he did not remember when he had ever been so amused before as he was by this tiny counterpart of himself. when the last berry had vanished, she slipped down from the tall chair. "do you 'pose it's very late?" she asked, in an anxious voice. "mom beck will be comin' for me soon." "yes, it is nearly noon," he answered. "it didn't do much good to run away from your aunt tyler; she'll see you after all." "well, she can't 'queeze me an' kiss me, 'cause i've been naughty, an' i'll be put to bed like i was the othah day, just as soon as i get home. i 'most wish i was there now," she sighed. "it's so fa' an' the sun's so hot. i lost my sunbonnet when i was comin' heah, too." something in the tired, dirty face prompted the old colonel to say, "well, my horse hasn't been put away yet. i'll take you home on maggie boy." the next moment he repented making such an offer, thinking what the neighbours might say if they should meet him on the road with elizabeth's child in his arm. but it was too late. he could not unclasp the trusting little hand that was slipped in his. he could not cloud the happiness of the eager little face by retracting his promise. he swung himself into the saddle, with her in front. then he put his one arm around her with a firm clasp, as he reached forward to take the bridle. "you couldn't take fritz on behin', could you?" she asked, anxiously. "he's mighty ti'ed too." "no," said the colonel, with a laugh. "maggie boy might object and throw us all off." hugging her basket of flowers close in her arms, she leaned her head against him contentedly as they cantered down the avenue. "look!" whispered all the locusts, waving their hands to each other excitedly. "look! the master has his own again. the dear old times are coming back to us." "how the trees blow!" exclaimed the child, looking up at the green arch overhead. "see! they's all a-noddin' to each othah." "we'll have to get my shoes an' 'tockin's," she said, presently, when they were nearly home. "they're in that fence cawnah behin' a log." the colonel obediently got down and handed them to her. as he mounted again he saw a carriage coming toward them. he recognized one of his nearest neighbours. striking the astonished maggie boy with his spur, he turned her across the railroad track, down the steep embankment, and into an unfrequented lane. "this road is just back of your garden," he said. "can you get through the fence if i take you there?" "that's the way we came out," was the answer. "see that hole where the palin's are off?" just as he was about to lift her down, she put one arm around his neck, and kissed him softly on the cheek. "good-bye, gran'fatha'," she said, in her most winning way. "i've had a mighty nice time." then she added, in a lower tone, "'kuse me fo' throwin' mud on yo' coat." he held her close a moment, thinking nothing had ever before been half so sweet as the way she called him grandfather. from that moment his heart went out to her as it had to little tom and elizabeth. it made no difference if her mother had forfeited his love. it made no difference if jack sherman was her father, and that the two men heartily hated each other. it was his own little grandchild he held in his arms. she had sealed the relationship with a trusting kiss. "child," he said, huskily, "you will come and see me again, won't you, no matter if they do tell you not to? you shall have all the flowers and berries you want, and you can ride maggie boy as often as you please." she looked up into his face. it was very familiar to her. she had looked at his portrait often, unconsciously recognizing a kindred spirit that she longed to know. her ideas of grandfathers, gained from stories and observation, led her to class them with fairy godmothers. she had always wished for one. the day they moved to lloydsborough, locust had been pointed out to her as her grandfather's home. from that time on she slipped away with fritz on every possible occasion to peer through the gate, hoping for a glimpse of him. "yes, i'll come suah!" she promised. "i likes you just lots, gran'fathah!" he watched her scramble through the hole in the fence. then he turned his horse's head slowly homeward. a scrap of white lying on the grass attracted his attention as he neared the gate. "it's the lost sunbonnet," he said, with a smile. he carried it into the house, and hung it on the hat-rack in the wide front hall. "ole marse is crosser'n two sticks," growled walker to the cook at dinner. "there ain't no livin' with him. what do you s'pose is the mattah?" chapter iv. mom beck was busy putting lunch on the table when the little colonel looked in at the kitchen door. so she did not see a little tramp, carrying her shoes in one hand, and a basket in the other, who paused there a moment. but when she took up the pan of beaten biscuit she was puzzled to find that several were missing. "it beats my time," she said, aloud. "the parrot couldn't have reached them, an' lloyd an' the dog have been in the pa'lah all mawnin'. somethin' has jus' natch'ly done sperrited 'em away." fritz was gravely licking his lips, and the little colonel had her mouth full, when they suddenly made their appearance on the front porch. aunt sally tyler gave a little shriek, and stopped rocking. "why, lloyd sherman!" gasped her mother, in dismay. "where have you been? i thought you were with becky all the time. i was sure i heard you singing out there a little while ago." "i've been to see my gran'fathah," said the child, speaking very fast. "i made mud pies on his front 'teps, an' we both of us got mad, an' i throwed mud on him, an' he gave me some 'trawberries an' all these flowers, an' brought me home on maggie boy." she stopped out of breath. mrs. tyler and her niece exchanged astonished glances. "but, baby, how could you disgrace mother so by going up there looking like a dirty little beggar?" "he didn't care," replied lloyd, calmly. "he made me promise to come again, no mattah if you all did tell me not to." just then becky announced that lunch was ready, and carried the child away to make her presentable. to lloyd's great surprise she was not put to bed, but was allowed to go to the table as soon as she was dressed. it was not long until she had told every detail of the morning's experience. while she was taking her afternoon nap, the two ladies sat out on the porch, gravely discussing all she had told them. "it doesn't seem right for me to allow her to go there," said mrs. sherman, "after the way papa has treated us. i can never forgive him for all the terrible things he has said about jack, and i know jack can never be friends with him on account of what he has said about me. he has been so harsh and unjust that i don't want my little lloyd to have anything to do with him. i wouldn't for worlds have him think that i encouraged her going there." "well, yes, i know," answered her aunt, slowly. "but there are some things to consider besides your pride, elizabeth. there's the child herself, you know. now that jack has lost so much, and your prospects are so uncertain, you ought to think of her interests. it would be a pity for locust to go to strangers when it has been in your family for so many generations. that's what it certainly will do unless something turns up to interfere. old judge woodard told me himself that your father had made a will, leaving everything he owns to some medical institution. imagine locust being turned into a sanitarium or a training-school for nurses!" "dear old place!" said mrs. sherman, with tears in her eyes. "no one ever had a happier childhood than i passed under these old locusts. every tree seems like a friend. i would be glad for lloyd to enjoy the place as i did." "i'd let her go as much as she pleases, elizabeth. she's so much like the old colonel that they ought to understand each other, and get along capitally. who knows, it might end in you all making up some day." mrs. sherman raised her head haughtily. "no, indeed, aunt sally. i can forgive and forget much, but you are greatly mistaken if you think i can go to such lengths as that. he closed his doors against me with a curse, for no reason on earth but that the man i loved was born north of the mason and dixon line. there never was a nobler man living than jack, and papa would have seen it if he hadn't deliberately shut his eyes and refused to look at him. he was just prejudiced and stubborn." aunt sally said nothing, but her thoughts took the shape of mom beck's declaration, "the lloyds is all stubborn." "i wouldn't go through his gate now if he got down on his knees and begged me," continued elizabeth, hotly. "it's too bad," exclaimed her aunt; "he was always so perfectly devoted to 'little daughter,' as he used to call you. i don't like him myself. we never could get along together at all, because he is so high-strung and overbearing. but i know it would have made your poor mother mighty unhappy if she could have foreseen all this." elizabeth sat with the tears dropping down on her little white hands, as her aunt proceeded to work on her sympathies in every way she could think of. presently lloyd came out all fresh and rosy from her long nap, and went to play in the shade of the great beech-trees that guarded the cottage. "i never saw a child with such influence over animals," said her mother, as lloyd came around the house with the parrot perched on the broom she was carrying. "she'll walk right up to any strange dog and make friends with it, no matter how savage-looking it is. and there's polly, so old and cross that she screams and scolds dreadfully if any of us go near her. but lloyd dresses her up in doll's clothes, puts paper bonnets on her, and makes her just as uncomfortable as she pleases. look! that is one of her favourite amusements." the little colonel squeezed the parrot into a tiny doll carriage, and began to trundle it back and forth as fast as she could run. "ha! ha!" screamed the bird. "polly is a lady! oh, lordy! i'm so happy!" "she caught that from the washerwoman," laughed mrs. sherman. "i should think the poor thing would be dizzy from whirling around so fast." "quit that, chillun; stop yo' fussin'," screamed polly, as lloyd grabbed her up and began to pin a shawl around her neck. she clucked angrily, but never once attempted to snap at the dimpled fingers that squeezed her tight. suddenly, as if her patience was completely exhausted, she uttered a disdainful "oh, pshaw!" and flew up into an old cedar-tree. "mothah! polly won't play with me any moah," shrieked the child, flying into a rage. she stamped and scowled and grew red in the face. then she began beating the trunk of the tree with the old broom she had been carrying. "did you ever see anything so much like the old colonel?" said mrs. tyler, in astonishment. "i wonder if she acted that way this morning." "i don't doubt it at all," answered mrs. sherman. "she'll be over it in just a moment. these little spells never last long." mrs. sherman was right. in a few moments lloyd came up the walk, singing. "i wish you'd tell me a pink story," she said, coaxingly, as she leaned against her mother's knee. "not now, dear; don't you see that i am busy talking to aunt sally? run and ask mom beck for one." "what on earth does she mean by a pink story?" asked mrs. tyler. "oh, she is so fond of colours. she is always asking for a pink or a blue or a white story. she wants everything in the story tinged with whatever colour she chooses,--dresses, parasols, flowers, sky, even the icing on the cakes and the paper on the walls." "what an odd little thing she is!" exclaimed mrs. tyler. "isn't she lots of company for you?" she need not have asked that question if she could have seen them that evening, sitting together in the early twilight. lloyd was in her mother's lap, leaning her head against her shoulder as they rocked slowly back and forth on the dark porch. there was an occasional rattle of wheels along the road, a twitter of sleepy birds, a distant croaking of frogs. mom beck's voice floated in from the kitchen, where she was stepping briskly around. "oh, the clouds hang heavy, an' it's gwine to rain. fa'well, my dyin' friends," she sang. lloyd put her arms closer around her mother's neck. "let's talk about papa jack," she said. "what you 'pose he's doin' now, 'way out west?" elizabeth, feeling like a tired, homesick child herself, held her close, and was comforted as she listened to the sweet little voice talking about the absent father. the moon came up after awhile, and streamed in through the vines of the porch. the hazel eyes slowly closed as elizabeth began to hum an old-time negro lullaby. "wondah if she'll run away to-morrow," whispered mom beck, as she came out to carry her in the house. "who'd evah think now, lookin' at her pretty, innocent face, that she could be so naughty? bless her little soul!" the kind old black face was laid lovingly a moment against the fair, soft cheek of the little colonel. then she lifted her in her strong arms, and carried her gently away to bed. chapter v. summer lingers long among the kentucky hills. each passing day seemed fairer than the last to the little colonel, who had never before known anything of country life. roses climbed up and almost hid the small white cottage. red birds sang in the woodbine. squirrels chattered in the beeches. she was out-of-doors all day long. sometimes she spent hours watching the ants carry away the sugar she sprinkled for them. sometimes she caught flies for an old spider that had his den under the porch steps. "he is an ogah" (ogre), she explained to fritz. "he's bewitched me so's i have to kill whole families of flies for him to eat." she was always busy and always happy. before june was half over it got to be a common occurrence for walker to ride up to the gate on the colonel's horse. the excuse was always to have a passing word with mom beck. but before he rode away, the little colonel was generally mounted in front of him. it was not long before she felt almost as much at home at locust as she did at the cottage. the neighbours began to comment on it after awhile. "he will surely make up with elizabeth at this rate," they said. but at the end of the summer the father and daughter had not even had a passing glimpse of each other. one day, late in september, as the little colonel clattered up and down the hall with her grandfather's spur buckled on her tiny foot, she called back over her shoulder: "papa jack's comin' home to-morrow." the colonel paid no attention. "i say," she repeated, "papa jack's comin' home to-morrow." "well," was the gruff response. "why couldn't he stay where he was? i suppose you won't want to come here any more after he gets back." "no, i 'pose not," she answered, so carelessly that he was conscious of a very jealous feeling. "chilluns always like to stay with their fathahs when they's nice as my papa jack is." the old man growled something behind his newspaper that she did not hear. he would have been glad to choke this man who had come between him and his only child, and he hated him worse than ever when he realized what a large place he held in lloyd's little heart. she did not go back to locust the next day, nor for weeks after that. she was up almost as soon as mom beck next morning, thoroughly enjoying the bustle of preparation. she had a finger in everything, from polishing the silver to turning the ice-cream freezer. even fritz was scrubbed till he came out of his bath with his curls all white and shining. he was proud of himself, from his silky bangs to the tip of his tasselled tail. just before train time, the little colonel stuck his collar full of late pink roses, and stood back to admire the effect. her mother came to the door, dressed for the evening. she wore an airy-looking dress of the palest, softest blue. there was a white rosebud caught in her dark hair. a bright colour, as fresh as lloyd's own, tinged her cheeks, and the glad light in her brown eyes made them unusually brilliant. lloyd jumped up and threw her arms about her. "oh, mothah," she cried, "you an' fritz is so bu'ful!" the engine whistled up the road at the crossing. "come, we have just time to get to the station," said mrs. sherman, holding out her hand. they went through the gate, down the narrow path that ran beside the dusty road. the train had just stopped in front of the little station when they reached it. a number of gentlemen, coming out from the city to spend sunday at the hotel, came down the steps. they glanced admiringly from the beautiful, girlish face of the mother to the happy child dancing impatiently up and down at her side. they could not help smiling at fritz as he frisked about in his imposing rose-collar. "why, where's papa jack?" asked lloyd, in distress, as passenger after passenger stepped down. "isn't he goin' to come?" the tears were beginning to gather in her eyes, when she saw him in the door of the car; not hurrying along to meet them as he always used to come, so full of life and vigour, but leaning heavily on the porter's shoulder, looking very pale and weak. lloyd looked up at her mother, from whose face every particle of colour had faded. mrs. sherman gave a low, frightened cry as she sprang forward to meet him. "oh, jack! what is the matter? what has happened to you?" she exclaimed, as he took her in his arms. the train had gone on, and they were left alone on the platform. "just a little sick spell," he answered, with a smile. "we had a fire out at the mines, and i overtaxed myself some. i've had fever ever since, and it has pulled me down considerably." "i must send somebody for a carriage," she said, looking around anxiously. "no, indeed," he protested. "it's only a few steps; i can walk it as well as not. the sight of you and the baby has made me stronger already." he sent a coloured boy on ahead with his valise, and they walked slowly up the path, with fritz running wildly around them, barking a glad welcome. "how sweet and homelike it all looks!" he said, as he stepped into the hall, where mom beck was just lighting the lamps. then he sank down on the couch, completely exhausted, and wearily closed his eyes. the little colonel looked at his white face in alarm. all the gladness seemed to have been taken out of the homecoming. her mother was busy trying to make him comfortable, and paid no attention to the disconsolate little figure wandering about the house alone. mom beck had gone for the doctor. the supper was drying up in the warming-oven. the ice-cream was melting in the freezer. nobody seemed to care. there was no one to notice the pretty table with its array of flowers and cut glass and silver. when mom beck came back, lloyd ate all by herself, and then sat out on the kitchen door-step while the doctor made his visit. she was just going mournfully off to bed with an aching lump in her throat, when her mother opened the door. "come tell papa good-night," she said. "he's lots better now." she climbed up on the bed beside him, and buried her face on his shoulder to hide the tears she had been trying to keep back all evening. "how the child has grown!" he exclaimed. "do you notice, beth, how much plainer she talks? she does not seem at all like the baby i left last spring. well, she'll soon be six years old,--a real little woman. she'll be papa's little comfort." the ache in her throat was all gone after that. she romped with fritz all the time she was undressing. papa jack was worse next morning. it was hard for lloyd to keep quiet when the late september sunshine was so gloriously yellow and the whole outdoors seemed so wide awake. she tiptoed out of the darkened room where her father lay, and swung on the front gate until she saw the doctor riding up on his bay horse. it seemed to her that the day never would pass. mom beck, rustling around in her best dress ready for church, that afternoon, took pity on the lonesome child. "go get yo' best hat, honey," she said, "an' i'll take you with me." it was one of the little colonel's greatest pleasures to be allowed to go to the coloured church. she loved to listen to the singing, and would sit perfectly motionless while the sweet voices blended like the chords of some mighty organ as they sent the old hymns rolling heavenward. service had already commenced by the time they took their seats. nearly everybody in the congregation was swaying back and forth in time to the mournful melody of "sinnah, sinnah, where's you boun'?" one old woman across the aisle began clapping her hands together, and repeated in a singsong tone, "oh, lordy! i'm so happy!" "why, that's just what our parrot says," exclaimed lloyd, so much surprised that she spoke right out loud. mom beck put her handkerchief over her mouth, and a general smile went around. after that the child was very quiet until the time came to take the collection. she always enjoyed this part of the service more than anything else. instead of passing baskets around, each person was invited to come forward and lay his offering on the table. woolly heads wagged, and many feet kept time to the tune: "oh! i'se boun' to git to glory. hallelujah! le' me go!" the little colonel proudly marched up with mom beck's contribution, and then watched the others pass down the aisle. one young girl in a gorgeously trimmed dress paraded up to the table several times, singing at the top of her voice. "look at that good-fo'-nothin' lize richa'ds," whispered mom beck's nearest neighbour, with a sniff. "she done got a nickel changed into pennies so she could ma'ch up an' show herself five times." it was nearly sundown when they started home. a tall coloured man, wearing a high silk hat and carrying a gold-headed cane, joined them on the way out. "howdy, sistah po'tah," he said, gravely shaking hands. "that was a fine disco'se we had the pleasuah of listenin' to this evenin'." "'deed it was, brothah fostah," she answered. "how's all up yo' way?" the little colonel, running on after a couple of white butterflies, paid no attention to the conversation until she heard her own name mentioned. "mistah sherman came home last night, i heah." "yes, but not to stay long, i'm afraid. he's a mighty sick man, if i'm any judge. he's down with fevah,--regulah typhoid. he doesn't look to me like he's long for this world. what's to become of poah miss 'lizabeth if that's the case, is moah'n i know." "we mustn't cross the bridge till we come to it, sistah po'tah," he suggested. "i know that; but a lookin'-glass broke yeste'day mawnin' when nobody had put fingah on it. an' his picture fell down off the wall while i was sweepin' the pa'lah. pete said his dawg done howl all night last night, an' i've dremp three times hand runnin' 'bout muddy watah." mom beck felt a little hand clutch her skirts, and turned to see a frightened little face looking anxiously up at her. "now, what's the mattah with you, honey?" she asked. "i'm only a-tellin' mistah fostah about some silly old signs my mammy used to believe in. but they don't mean nothin' at all." lloyd couldn't have told why she was unhappy. she had not understood all that mom beck had said, but her sensitive little mind was shadowed by a foreboding of trouble. the shadow deepened as the days passed. papa jack got worse instead of better. there were times when he did not recognize any one, and talked wildly of things that had happened out at the mines. all the long, beautiful october went by, and still he lay in the darkened room. lloyd wandered listlessly from place to place, trying to keep out of the way, and to make as little trouble as possible. "i'm a real little woman now," she repeated, proudly, whenever she was allowed to pound ice or carry fresh water. "i'm papa's little comfort." one cold, frosty evening she was standing in the hall, when the doctor came out of the room and began to put on his overcoat. her mother followed him to take his directions for the night. he was an old friend of the family's. elizabeth had climbed on his knees many a time when she was a child. she loved this faithful, white-haired old doctor almost as dearly as she had her father. "my daughter," he said, kindly, laying his hand on her shoulder, "you are wearing yourself out, and will be down yourself if you are not careful. you must have a professional nurse. no telling how long this is going to last. as soon as jack is able to travel you must have a change of climate." her lips trembled. "we can't afford it, doctor," she said. "jack has been too sick from the very first to talk about business. he always said a woman should not be worried with such matters, anyway. i don't know what arrangements he has made out west. for all i know, the little i have in my purse now may be all that stands between us and the poorhouse." the doctor drew on his gloves. "why don't you tell your father how matters are?" he asked. then he saw he had ventured a step too far. "i believe jack would rather die than take help from his hands," she answered, drawing herself up proudly. her eyes flashed. "i would, too, as far as i am concerned myself." then a tender look came over her pale, tired face, as she added, gently, "but i'd do anything on earth to help jack get well." the doctor cleared his throat vigorously, and bolted out with a gruff good night. as he rode past locust, he took solid satisfaction in shaking his fist at the light in an upper window. chapter vi. the little colonel followed her mother to the dining-room, but paused on the threshold as she saw her throw herself into mom beck's arms and burst out crying. "oh, becky!" she sobbed, "what is going to become of us? the doctor says we must have a professional nurse, and we must go away from here soon. there are only a few dollars left in my purse, and i don't know what we'll do when they are gone. i just know jack is going to die, and then i'll die, too, and then what will become of the baby?" mom beck sat down, and took the trembling form in her arms. "there, there!" she said, soothingly, "have yo' cry out. it will do you good. poah chile! all wo'n out with watchin' an' worry. ne'm min', ole becky is as good as a dozen nuhses yet. i'll get judy to come up an' look aftah the kitchen. an' nobody ain' gwine to die, honey. don't you go to slayin' all you's got befo' you's called on to do it. the good lawd is goin' to pahvide fo' us same as abraham." the last sabbath's sermon was still fresh in her mind. "if we only hold out faithful, there's boun' to be a ram caught by the hawns some place, even if we haven't got eyes to see through the thickets. the lawd will pahvide whethah it's a burnt offerin' or a meal's vittles. he sho'ly will." lloyd crept away frightened. it seemed such an awful thing to see her mother cry. all at once her bright, happy world had changed to such a strange, uncertain place. she felt as if all sorts of terrible things were about to happen. she went into the parlour, and crawled into a dark corner under the piano, feeling that there was no place to go for comfort, since the one who had always kissed away her little troubles was so heart-broken herself. there was a patter of soft feet across the carpet, and fritz poked his sympathetic nose into her face. she put her arms around him, and laid her head against his curly back with a desolate sob. it is pitiful to think how much imaginative children suffer through their wrong conception of things. she had seen the little roll of bills in her mother's pocketbook. she had seen how much smaller it grew every time it was taken out to pay for the expensive wines and medicines that had to be bought so often. she had heard her mother tell the doctor that was all that stood between them and the poorhouse. there was no word known to the little colonel that brought such, thoughts of horror as the word poorhouse. her most vivid recollection of her life in new york was something that happened a few weeks before they left there. one day in the park she ran away from the maid, who, instead of mom beck, had taken charge of her that afternoon. when the angry woman found her, she frightened her almost into a spasm by telling her what always happened to naughty children who ran away. "they take all their pretty clothes off," she said, "and dress them up in old things made of bed-ticking. then they take 'm to the poorhouse, where nobody but beggars live. they don't have anything to eat but cabbage and corndodger, and they have to eat that out of tin pans. and they just have a pile of straw to sleep in." on their way home she had pointed out to the frightened child a poor woman who was grubbing in an ash-barrel. "that's the way people get to look who live in poorhouses," she said. it was this memory that was troubling the little colonel now. "oh, fritz!" she whispered, with the tears running down her cheeks, "i can't beah to think of my pretty mothah goin' there. that woman's eyes were all red, an' her hair was jus' awful. she was so bony an' stahved-lookin'. it would jus' kill poah papa jack to lie on straw an' eat out of a tin pan. i know it would!" when mom beck opened the door, hunting her, the room was so dark that she would have gone away if the dog had not come running out from under the piano. "you heah, too, chile?" she asked, in surprise. "i have to go down now an' see if i can get judy to come help to-morrow. do you think you can undress yo'self to-night?" "of co'se," answered the little colonel. mom beck was in such a hurry to be off that she did not notice the tremble in the voice that answered her. "well, the can'le is lit in yo' room. so run along now like a nice little lady, an' don't bothah yo' mamma. she got her hands full already." "all right," answered the child. a quarter of an hour later she stood in her little white nightgown with her hand on the door-knob. she opened the door just a crack and peeped in. her mother laid her finger on her lips, and beckoned silently. in another instant lloyd was in her lap. she had cried herself quiet in the dark corner under the piano; but there was something more pathetic in her eyes than tears. it was the expression of one who understood and sympathized. "oh, mothah," she whispered, "we does have such lots of troubles." "yes, chickabiddy, but i hope they will soon be over now," was the answer, as the anxious face tried to smile bravely for the child's sake, "papa is sleeping so nicely now he is sure to be better in the morning." that comforted the little colonel some, but for days she was haunted by the fear of the poorhouse. every time her mother paid out any money she looked anxiously to see how much was still left. she wandered about the place, touching the trees and vines with caressing hands, feeling that she might soon have to leave them. she loved them all so dearly,--every stick and stone, and even the stubby old snowball bushes that never bloomed. her dresses were outgrown and faded, but no one had any time or thought to spend on getting her new ones. a little hole began to come in the toe of each shoe. she was still wearing her summer sunbonnet, although the days were getting frosty. she was a proud little thing. it mortified her for any one to see her looking so shabby. still she uttered no word of complaint, for fear of lessening the little amount in the pocketbook that her mother had said stood between them and the poorhouse. she sat with her feet tucked under her when any one called. "i wouldn't mind bein' a little beggah so much myself," she thought, "but i jus' can't have my bu'ful sweet mothah lookin' like that awful red-eyed woman." one day the doctor called mrs. sherman out into the hall. "i have just come from your father's," he said. "he is suffering from a severe attack of rheumatism. he is confined to his room, and is positively starving for company. he told me he would give anything in the world to have his little grandchild with him. there were tears in his eyes when he said it, and that means a good deal from him. he fairly idolizes her. the servants have told him she mopes around and is getting thin and pale. he is afraid she will come down with the fever, too. he told me to use any stratagem i liked to get her there. but i think it's better to tell you frankly how matters stand. it will do the child good to have a change, elizabeth, and i solemnly think you ought to let her go, for a week at least." "but, doctor, she has never been away from me a single night in her life. she'd die of homesickness, and i know she'll never consent to leave me. then suppose jack should get worse--" "we'll suppose nothing of the kind," he interrupted, brusquely. "tell becky to pack up her things. leave lloyd to me. i'll get her consent without any trouble." "come, colonel," he called, as he left the house. "i'm going to take you a little ride." no one ever knew what the kind old fellow said to her to induce her to go to her grandfather's. she came back from her ride looking brighter than she had in a long time. she felt that in some way, although in what way she could not understand, her going would help them to escape the dreaded poorhouse. "don't send mom beck with me," she pleaded, when the time came to start. "you come with me, mothah." mrs. sherman had not been past the gate for weeks, but she could not refuse the coaxing hands that clung to hers. it was a dull, dreary day. there was a chilling hint of snow in the damp air. the leaves whirled past them with a mournful rustling. mrs. sherman turned up the collar of lloyd's cloak. "you must have a new one soon," she said, with a sigh. "maybe one of mine could be made over for you. and those poor little shoes! i must think to send to town for a new pair." the walk was over so soon. the little colonel's heart beat fast as they came in sight of the gate. she winked bravely to keep back the tears; for she had promised the doctor not to let her mother see her cry. a week seemed such a long time to look forward to. she clung to her mother's neck, feeling that she could never give her up so long. "tell me good-bye, baby dear," said mrs. sherman, feeling that she could not trust herself to stay much longer. "it is too cold for you to stand here. run on, and i'll watch you till you get inside the door." the little colonel started bravely down the avenue, with fritz at her heels. every few steps she turned to look back and kiss her hand. mrs. sherman watched her through a blur of tears. it had been nearly seven years since she had last stood at that old gate. such a crowd of memories came rushing up! she looked again. there was a flutter of a white handkerchief as the little colonel and fritz went up the steps. then the great front door closed behind them. chapter vii. that early twilight hour just before the lamps were lit was the lonesomest one the little colonel had ever spent. her grandfather was asleep up-stairs. there was a cheery wood fire crackling on the hearth of the big fireplace in the hall, but the great house was so still. the corners were full of shadows. she opened the front door with a wild longing to run away. "come, fritz," she said, closing the door softly behind her, "let's go down to the gate." the air was cold. she shivered as they raced along under the bare branches of the locusts. she leaned against the gate, peering out through the bars. the road stretched white through the gathering darkness in the direction of the little cottage. "oh, i want to go home so bad!" she sobbed. "i want to see my mothah." she laid her hand irresolutely on the latch, pushed the gate ajar, and then hesitated. "no, i promised the doctah i'd stay," she thought. "he said i could help mothah and papa jack, both of 'em, by stayin' heah, an' i'll do it." fritz, who had pushed himself through the partly opened gate to rustle around among the dead leaves outside, came bounding back with something in his mouth. "heah, suh!" she called. "give it to me!" he dropped a small gray kid glove in her outstretched hand. "oh, it's mothah's!" she cried. "i reckon she dropped it when she was tellin' me good-bye. oh, you deah old dog fo' findin' it." she laid the glove against her cheek as fondly as if it had been her mother's soft hand. there was something wonderfully comforting in the touch. as they walked slowly back toward the house she rolled it up and put it lovingly away in her tiny apron pocket. all that week it was a talisman whose touch helped the homesick little soul to be brave and womanly. when maria, the coloured housekeeper, went into the hall to light the lamps, the little colonel was sitting on the big fur rug in front of the fire, talking contentedly to fritz, who lay with his curly head in her lap. "you all's goin' to have tea in the cun'ls room to-night," said maria. "he tole me to tote it up soon as he rung the bell." "there it goes now," cried the child, jumping up from the rug. she followed maria up the wide stairs. the colonel was sitting in a large easy chair, wrapped in a gaily flowered dressing-gown, that made his hair look unusually white by contrast. his dark eyes were intently watching the door. as it opened to let the little colonel pass through, a very tender smile lighted up his stern face. "so you did come to see grandpa after all," he cried, triumphantly. "come here and give me a kiss. seems to me you've been staying away a mighty long time." as she stood beside him with his arm around her, walker came in with a tray full of dishes. "we're going to have a regular little tea-party," said the colonel. lloyd watched with sparkling eyes as walker set out the rare old-fashioned dishes. there was a fat little silver sugar-bowl with a butterfly perched on each side to form the handles, and there was a slim, graceful cream-pitcher shaped like a lily. "they belonged to your great-great-grandmother," said the colonel, "and they're going to be yours some day if you grow up and have a house of your own." the expression on her beaming face was worth a fortune to the colonel. when walker pushed her chair up to the table, she turned to her grandfather with shining eyes. "oh, it's just like a pink story," she cried, clapping her hands. "the shades on the can'les, the icin' on the cake, an' the posies in the bowl,--why, even the jelly is that colah, too. oh, my darlin' little teacup! it's jus' like a pink rosebud. i'm so glad i came!" the colonel smiled at the success of his plan. in the depths of his satisfaction he even had a plate of quail and toast set down on the hearth for fritz. "this is the nicest pahty i evah was at," remarked the little colonel, as walker helped her to jam the third time. her grandfather chuckled. "blackberry jam always makes me think of tom," he said. "did you ever hear what your uncle tom did when he was a little fellow in dresses?" she shook her head gravely. "well, the children were all playing hide-and-seek one day. they hunted high and they hunted low after everybody else had been caught, but they couldn't find tom. at last they began to call, 'home free! you can come home free!' but he did not come. when he had been hidden so long they were frightened about him, they went to their mother and told her he wasn't to be found anywhere. she looked down the well and behind the fire-boards in the fireplaces. they called and called till they were out of breath. finally she thought of looking in the big dark pantry where she kept her fruit. there stood mister tom. he had opened a jar of blackberry jam, and was just going for it with both hands. the jam was all over his face and hair and little gingham apron, and even up his wrists. he was the funniest sight i ever saw." the little colonel laughed heartily at his description, and begged for more stories. before he knew it he was back in the past with his little tom and elizabeth. nothing could have entertained the child more than these scenes he recalled of her mother's childhood. "all her old playthings are up in the garret," he said, as they rose from the table. "i'll have them brought down to-morrow. there's a doll i brought her from new orleans once when she was about your size. no telling what it looks like now, but it was a beauty when it was new." lloyd clapped her hands and spun around the room like a top. "oh, i'm so glad i came!" she exclaimed for the third time. "what did she call the doll, gran'fathah, do you remembah?" "i never paid much attention to such things," he answered, "but i do remember the name of this one, because she named it for her mother,--amanthis." "amanthis," repeated the child, dreamily, as she leaned against his knee. "i think that is a lovely name, gran'fathah. i wish they had called me that." she repeated it softly several times. "it sounds like the wind a-blowin' through white clovah, doesn't it?" "it is a beautiful name to me, my child," answered the old man, laying his hand tenderly on her soft hair, "but not so beautiful as the woman who bore it. she was the fairest flower of all kentucky. there never was another lived as sweet and gentle as your grandmother amanthis." he stroked her hair absently, and gazed into the fire. he scarcely noticed when she slipped away from him. she buried her face a moment in the bowl of pink roses. then she went to the window and drew back the curtain. leaning her head against the window-sill, she began stringing on the thread of a tune the things that just then thrilled her with a sense of their beauty. "oh, the locus'-trees a-blowin'," she sang, softly. "an' the moon a-shinin' through them. an' the starlight an' pink roses; an' amanthis--an' amanthis!" she hummed it over and over until walker had finished carrying the dishes away. it was a strange thing that the colonel's unfrequent moods of tenderness were like those warm days that they call weather-breeders. they were sure to be followed by a change of atmosphere. this time as the fierce rheumatic pain came back he stormed at walker, and scolded him for everything he did and everything he left undone. when maria came up to put lloyd to bed, fritz was tearing around the room barking at his shadow. "put that dog out, m'ria!" roared the colonel, almost crazy with its antics. "take it down-stairs, and put it out of the house, i say! nobody but a heathen would let a dog sleep in the house, anyway." the homesick feeling began to creep over lloyd again. she had expected to keep fritz in her room at night for company. but for the touch of the little glove in her pocket, she would have said something ugly to her grandfather when he spoke so harshly. his own ill humour was reflected in her scowl as she followed maria down the stairs to drive fritz out into the dark. they stood a moment in the open door, after maria had slapped him with her apron to make him go off the porch. "oh, look at the new moon!" cried lloyd, pointing to the slender crescent in the autumn sky. "i'se feared to, honey," answered maria, "less i should see it through the trees. that 'ud bring me bad luck for a month, suah. i'll go out on the lawn where it's open, an' look at it ovah my right shouldah." while they were walking backward down the path, intent on reaching a place where they could have an uninterrupted view of the moon, fritz sneaked around to the other end of the porch. no one was watching. he slipped into the house as noiselessly as his four soft feet could carry him. maria, going through the dark upper hall, with a candle held high above her head and lloyd clinging to her skirts, did not see a tasselled tail swinging along in front of her. it disappeared under the big bed when she led lloyd into the room next the old colonel's. the child felt very sober while she was being put to bed. the furniture was heavy and dark. an ugly portrait of a cross old man in a wig frowned at her from over the mantel. the dancing firelight made his eyes frightfully lifelike. the bed was so high she had to climb on a chair to get in. she heard maria's heavy feet go shuffling down the stairs. a door banged. then it was so still she could hear the clock tick in the next room. it was the first time in all her life that her mother had not come to kiss her good night. her lips quivered, and a big tear rolled down on the pillow. she reached out to the chair beside her bed, where her clothes were hanging, and felt in her apron pocket for the little glove. she sat up in bed, and looked at it in the dim firelight. then she held it against her face. "oh, i want my mothah! i want my mothah!" she sobbed, in a heart-broken whisper. laying her head on her knees, she began to cry quietly, but with great sobs that nearly choked her. there was a rustling under the bed. she lifted her wet face in alarm. then she smiled through her tears, for there was fritz, her own dear dog, and not an unknown horror waiting to grab her. he stood on his hind legs, eagerly trying to lap away her tears with his friendly red tongue. she clasped him in her arms with an ecstatic hug. "oh, you're such a comfort!" she whispered. "i can go to sleep now." she spread her apron on the bed, and motioned him to jump. with one spring he was beside her. it was nearly midnight when the door from the colonel's room was noiselessly opened. the old man stirred the fire gently until it burst into a bright flame. then he turned to the bed. "you rascal!" he whispered, looking at fritz, who raised his head quickly with a threatening look in his wicked eyes. lloyd lay with one hand stretched out, holding the dog's protecting paw. the other held something against her tear-stained cheek. "what under the sun!" he thought, as he drew it gently from her fingers. the little glove lay across his hand, slim and aristocratic-looking. he knew instinctively whose it was. "poor little thing's been crying," he thought. "she wants elizabeth. and so do i! and so do i!" his heart cried out with bitter longing. "it's never been like home since she left." he laid the glove back on her pillow, and went to his room. "if jack sherman should die," he said to himself many times that night, "then she would come home again. oh, little daughter, little daughter! why did you ever leave me?" chapter viii. the first thing that greeted the little colonel's eyes when she opened them next morning was her mother's old doll. maria had laid it on the pillow beside her. it was beautifully dressed, although in a queer, old-fashioned style that seemed very strange to the child. she took it up with careful fingers, remembering its great age. maria had warned her not to waken her grandfather, so she admired it in whispers. "jus' think, fritz," she exclaimed, "this doll has seen my gran'mothah amanthis, an' it's named for her. my mothah wasn't any bigger'n me when she played with it. i think it is the loveliest doll i evah saw in my whole life." fritz gave a jealous bark. "sh!" commanded his little mistress. "didn't you heah m'ria say, 'fo' de lawd's sake don't wake up ole marse?' why don't you mind?" the colonel was not in the best of humours after such a wakeful night, but the sight of her happiness made him smile in spite of himself, when she danced into his room with the doll. she had eaten an early breakfast and gone back up-stairs to examine the other toys that were spread out in her room. the door between the two rooms was ajar. all the time he was dressing and taking his coffee he could hear her talking to some one. he supposed it was maria. but as he glanced over his mail he heard the little colonel saying, "may lilly, do you know about billy goat gruff? do you want me to tell you that story?" he leaned forward until he could look through the narrow opening of the door. two heads were all he could see,--lloyd's, soft-haired and golden, may lilly's, covered with dozens of tightly braided little black tails. he was about to order may lilly back to the cabin, when he remembered the scene that followed the last time he had done so. he concluded to keep quiet and listen. "billy goat gruff was so fat," the story went on, "jus' as fat as gran'fathah." the colonel glanced up with an amused smile at the fine figure reflected in an opposite mirror. "trip-trap, trip-trap, went billy goat gruff's little feet ovah the bridge to the giant's house." just at this point walker, who was putting things in order, closed the door between the rooms. "open that door, you black rascal!" called the colonel, furious at the interruption. in his haste to obey, walker knocked over a pitcher of water that had been left on the floor beside the wash-stand. then the colonel yelled at him to be quick about mopping it up, so that by the time the door was finally opened, lloyd was finishing her story. the colonel looked in just in time to see her put her hands to her temples, with her forefingers protruding from her forehead like horns. she said in a deep voice, as she brandished them at may lilly, "with my two long speahs i'll poke yo' eyeballs through yo' yeahs." the little darky fell back giggling. "that sut'n'y was like a billy-goat. we had one once that 'ud make a body step around mighty peart. it slip up behine me one mawnin' on the poach, an' fo' awhile i thought my haid was buss open suah. i got up toreckly, though, an' i cotch him, and when i done got through, mistah billy-goat feel po'ly moah'n a week. he sut'n'y did." walker grinned, for he had witnessed the scene. just then maria put her head in at the door to say, "may lilly, yo' mammy's callin' you." lloyd and fritz followed her noisily down-stairs. then for nearly an hour it was very quiet in the great house. the colonel, looking out of the window, could see lloyd playing hide-and-seek with fritz under the bare locust-trees. when she came in her cheeks were glowing from her run in the frosty air. her eyes shone like stars, and her face was radiant. "see what i've found down in the dead leaves," she cried. "a little blue violet, bloomin' all by itself." she brought a tiny cup from the next room, that belonged to the set of doll dishes, and put the violet in it. "there!" she said, setting it on the table at her grandfather's elbow. "now i'll put amanthis in this chair, where you can look at her, an' you won't get lonesome while i'm playing outdoors." he drew her toward him and kissed her. "why, how cold your hands are!" he exclaimed. "staying in this warm room all the time makes me forget it is so wintry outdoors. i don't believe you are dressed warmly enough. you ought not to wear sunbonnets this time of year." then for the first time he noticed her outgrown cloak and shabby shoes. "what are you wearing these old clothes for?" he said, impatiently. "why didn't they dress you up when you were going visiting? it isn't showing proper respect to send you off in the oldest things you've got." it was a sore point with the little colonel. it hurt her pride enough to have to wear old clothes without being scolded for it. besides, she felt that in some way her mother was being blamed for what could not be helped. "they's the best i've got," she answered, proudly choking back the tears. "i don't need any new ones, 'cause maybe we'll be goin' away pretty soon." "going away!" he echoed, blankly, "where?" she did not answer until he repeated the question. then she turned her back on him, and started toward the door. the tears she was too proud to let him see were running down her face. "we's goin' to the poah-house," she exclaimed, defiantly, "jus' as soon as the money in the pocketbook is used up. it was nearly gone when i came away." here she began to sob, as she fumbled at the door she could not see to open. "i'm goin' home to my mothah right now. she loves me if my clothes are old and ugly." "why, lloyd," called the colonel, amazed and distressed by her sudden burst of grief. "come here to grandpa. why didn't you tell me so before?" the face, the tone, the outstretched arm, all drew her irresistibly to him. it was a relief to lay her head on his shoulder, and unburden herself of the fear that had haunted her so many days. with her arms around his neck, and the precious little head held close to his heart, the old colonel was in such a softened mood that he would have promised anything to comfort her. "there, there," he said, soothingly, stroking her hair with a gentle hand, when she had told him all her troubles. "don't you worry about that, my dear. nobody is going to eat out of tin pans and sleep on straw. grandpa just won't let them." she sat up and wiped her eyes on her apron. "but papa jack would die befo' he'd take help from you," she wailed. "an' so would mothah. i heard her tell the doctah so." the tender expression on the colonel's face changed to one like flint, but he kept on stroking her hair. "people sometimes change their minds," he said, grimly. "i wouldn't worry over a little thing like that if i were you. don't you want to run down-stairs and tell m'ria to give you a piece of cake?" "oh, yes," she exclaimed, smiling up at him. "i'll bring you some, too." when the first train went into louisville that afternoon, walker was on board with an order in his pocket to one of the largest dry goods establishments in the city. when he came out again, that evening, he carried a large box into the colonel's room. lloyd's eyes shone as she looked into it. there was an elegant fur-trimmed cloak, a pair of dainty shoes, and a muff that she caught up with a shriek of delight. "what kind of a thing is this?" grumbled the colonel, as he took out a hat that had been carefully packed in one corner of the box. "i told them to send the most stylish thing they had. it looks like a scarecrow," he continued, as he set it askew on the child's head. she snatched it off to look at it herself. "oh, it's jus' like emma louise wyfo'd's!" she exclaimed. "you didn't put it on straight. see! this is the way it goes." she climbed up in front of the mirror, and put it on as she had seen emma louise wear hers. "well, it's a regular napoleon hat," exclaimed the colonel, much pleased. "so little girls nowadays have taken to wearing soldier's caps, have they? it's right becoming to you with your short hair. grandpa is real proud of his 'little colonel.'" she gave him the military salute he had taught her, and then ran to throw her arms around him. "oh, gran'fathah!" she exclaimed, between her kisses, "you'se jus' as good as santa claus, every bit." the colonel's rheumatism was better next day; so much better that toward evening he walked down-stairs into the long drawing-room. the room had not been illuminated in years as it was that night. every wax taper was lighted in the silver candelabra, and the dim old mirrors multiplied their lights on every side. a great wood fire threw a cheerful glow over the portraits and the frescoed ceiling. all the linen covers had been taken from the furniture. lloyd, who had never seen this room except with the chairs shrouded and the blinds down, came running in presently. she was bewildered at first by the change. then she began walking softly around the room, examining everything. in one corner stood a tall, gilded harp that her grandmother had played in her girlhood. the heavy cover had kept it fair and untarnished through all the years it had stood unused. to the child's beauty-loving eyes it seemed the loveliest thing she had ever seen. she stood with her hands clasped behind her as her gaze wandered from its pedals to the graceful curves of its tall frame. it shone like burnished gold in the soft firelight. "oh, gran'fathah!" she asked at last in a low, reverent tone, "where did you get it? did an angel leave it heah fo' you?" he did not answer for a moment. then he said, huskily, as he looked up at a portrait over the mantel, "yes, my darling, an angel did leave it here. she always was one. come here to grandpa." he took her on his knee, and pointed up to the portrait. the same harp was in the picture. standing beside it, with one hand resting on its shining strings, was a young girl all in white. "that's the way she looked the first time i ever saw her," said the colonel, dreamily. "a june rose in her hair, and another at her throat; and her soul looked right out through those great, dark eyes--the purest, sweetest soul god ever made! my beautiful amanthis!" "my bu'ful amanthis!" repeated the child, in an awed whisper. she sat gazing into the lovely young face for a long time, while the old man seemed lost in dreams. "gran'fathah," she said at length, patting his cheek to attract his attention, and then nodding toward the portrait, "did she love my mothah like my mothah loves me?" "certainly, my dear," was the gentle reply. it was the twilight hour, when the homesick feeling always came back strongest to lloyd. "then i jus' know that if my bu'ful gran'mothah amanthis could come down out of that frame, she'd go straight and put her arms around my mothah an' kiss away all her sorry feelin's." the colonel fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair a moment. then to his great relief the tea-bell rang. chapter ix. every evening after that during lloyd's visit the fire burned on the hearth of the long drawing-room. all the wax candles were lighted, and the vases were kept full of flowers, fresh from the conservatory. she loved to steal into the room before her grandfather came down, and carry on imaginary conversations with the old portraits. tom's handsome, boyish face had the greatest attraction for her. his eyes looked down so smilingly into hers that she felt he surely understood every word she said to him. once walker overheard her saying, "uncle tom, i'm goin' to tell you a story 'bout billy goat gruff." peeping into the room, he saw the child looking earnestly up at the picture, with her hands clasped behind her, as she began to repeat her favourite story. "it do beat all," he said to himself, "how one little chile like that can wake up a whole house. she's the life of the place." the last evening of her visit, as the colonel was coming down-stairs he heard the faint vibration of a harp-string. it was the first time lloyd had ever ventured to touch one. he paused on the steps opposite the door, and looked in. "heah, fritz," she was saying, "you get up on the sofa, an' be the company, an' i'll sing fo' you." fritz, on the rug before the fire, opened one sleepy eye and closed it again. she stamped her foot and repeated her order. he paid no attention. then she picked him up bodily, and, with much puffing and pulling, lifted him into a chair. he waited until she had gone back to the harp, and then, with one spring, disappeared under the sofa. "n'm min'," she said, in a disgusted tone. "i'll pay you back, mistah." then she looked up at the portrait. "uncle tom," she said, "you be the company, an' i'll play fo' you." her fingers touched the strings so lightly that there was no discord in the random tones. her voice carried the air clear and true, and the faint trembling of the harp-strings interfered with the harmony no more than if a wandering breeze had been tangled in them as it passed. "sing me the songs that to me were so deah long, long ago, long ago. tell me the tales i delighted to heah long, long ago, long ago." the sweet little voice sang it to the end without missing a word. it was the lullaby her mother oftenest sang to her. the colonel, who had sat down on the steps to listen, wiped his eyes. "my 'long ago' is all that i have left to me," he thought, bitterly, "for to-morrow this little one, who brings back my past with every word and gesture, will leave me, too. why can't that jack sherman die while he's about it, and let me have my own back again?" that question recurred to him many times during the week after lloyd's departure. he missed her happy voice at every turn. he missed her bright face at the table. the house seemed so big and desolate without her. he ordered all the covers put back on the drawing-room furniture, and the door locked as before. it was a happy moment for the little colonel when she was lifted down from maggie boy at the cottage gate. she went dancing into the house, so glad to find herself in her mother's arms that she forgot all about the new cloak and muff that had made her so proud and happy. she found her father propped up among the pillows, his fever all gone, and the old mischievous twinkle in his eyes. he admired her new clothes extravagantly, paying her joking compliments until her face beamed; but when she had danced off to find mom beck, he turned to his wife. "elizabeth," he said, wonderingly, "what do you suppose the old fellow gave her clothes for? i don't like it. i'm no beggar if i have lost lots of money. after all that's passed between us i don't feel like taking anything from his hands, or letting my child do it, either." to his great surprise she laid her head down on his pillow beside his and burst into tears. "oh, jack," she sobbed, "i spent the last dollar this morning. i wasn't going to tell you, but i don't know what is to become of us. he gave lloyd those things because she was just in rags, and i couldn't afford to get anything new." he looked perplexed. "why, i brought home so much," he said, in a distressed tone. "i knew i was in for a long siege of sickness, but i was sure there was enough to tide us over that." she raised her head. "you brought money home!" she replied, in surprise. "i hoped you had, and looked through all your things, but there was only a little change in one of your pockets. you must have imagined it when you were delirious." "what!" he cried, sitting bolt upright, and then sinking weakly back among the pillows. "you poor child! you don't mean to tell me you have been skimping along all these weeks on just that check i sent you before starting home?" "yes," she sobbed, her face still buried in the pillow. she had borne the strain of continued anxiety so long that she could not stop her tears, now they had once started. it was with a very thankful heart she watched him take a pack of letters from the coat she brought to his bedside, and draw out a sealed envelope. "well, i never once thought of looking among those letters for money," she exclaimed, as he held it up with a smile. his investments of the summer before had prospered beyond his greatest hopes, he told her. "brother rob is looking after my interests out west, as well as his own," he explained, "and as his father-in-law is the grand mogul of the place, i have the inside track. then that firm i went security for in new york is nearly on its feet again, and i'll have back every dollar i ever paid out for them. nobody ever lost anything by those men in the long run. we'll be on top again by this time next year, little wife; so don't borrow any more trouble on that score." the doctor made his last visit that afternoon. it really seemed as if there would never be any more dark days at the little cottage. "the clouds have all blown away and left us their silver linings," said mrs. sherman the day her husband was able to go out-of-doors for the first time. he walked down to the post-office, and brought back a letter from the west. it had such encouraging reports of his business that he was impatient to get back to it. he wrote a reply early in the afternoon, and insisted on going to mail it himself. "i'll never get my strength back," he protested, "unless i have more exercise." it was a cold, gray november day. a few flakes of snow were falling when he started. "i'll stop and rest at the tylers'," he called back, "so don't be uneasy if i'm out some time." after he left the post-office the fresh air tempted him to go farther than he had intended. at a long distance from his home his strength seemed suddenly to desert him. the snow began to fall in earnest. numb with cold, he groped his way back to the house, almost fainting from exhaustion. lloyd was blowing soap-bubbles when she saw him come in and fall heavily across the couch. the ghastly pallor of his face and his closed eyes frightened her so that she dropped the little clay pipe she was using. as she stooped to pick up the broken pieces, her mother's cry startled her still more. "lloyd, run call becky, quick, quick! oh, he's dying!" lloyd gave one more terrified look and ran to the kitchen, screaming for mom beck. no one was there. the next instant she was running bareheaded as fast as she could go, up the road to locust. she was confident of finding help there. the snowflakes clung to her hair and blew against her soft cheeks. all she could see was her mother wringing her hands, and her father's white face. when she burst into the house where the colonel sat reading by the fire, she was so breathless at first that she could only gasp when she tried to speak. "come quick!" she cried. "papa jack's a-dyin'! come stop him!" at her first impetuous words the colonel was on his feet. she caught him by the hand and led him to the door before he fully realized what she wanted. then he drew back. she was impatient at the slightest delay, and only half answered his questions. "oh, come, gran'fathah!" she pleaded. "don't wait to talk!" but he held her until he had learned all the circumstances. he was convinced by what she told him that both lloyd and her mother were unduly alarmed. when he found that no one had sent for him, but that the child had come of her own accord, he refused to go. he did not believe that the man was dying, and he did not intend to step aside one inch from the position he had taken. for seven years he had kept the vow he made when he swore to be a stranger to his daughter. he would keep it for seventy times seven years if need be. she looked at him perfectly bewildered. she had been so accustomed to his humouring her slightest whims, that it had never occurred to her he would fail to help in a time of such distress. "why, gran'fathah," she began, her lips trembling piteously. then her whole expression changed. her face grew startlingly white, and her eyes seemed so big and black. the colonel looked at her in surprise. he had never seen a child in such a passion before. "i hate you! i hate you!" she exclaimed, all in a tremble. "you's a cruel, wicked man. i'll nevah come heah again, nevah! nevah! nevah!" the tears rolled down her cheeks as she banged the door behind her and ran down the avenue, her little heart so full of grief and disappointment that she felt she could not possibly bear it. for more than an hour the colonel walked up and down the room, unable to shut out the anger and disappointment of that little face. he knew she was too much like himself ever to retract her words. she would never come back. he never knew until that hour how much he loved her, or how much she had come to mean in his life. she was gone hopelessly beyond recall, unless--he unlocked the door of the drawing-room and went in. a faint breath of dried rose-leaves greeted him. he walked over to the empty fireplace and looked up at the sweet face of the portrait a long time. then he leaned his arm on the mantel and bowed his head on it. "oh, amanthis," he groaned, "tell me what to do." lloyd's own words came back to him. "she'd go right straight an' put her arms around my mothah an' kiss away all the sorry feelin's." it was a long time he stood there. the battle between his love and pride was a hard one. at last he raised his head and saw that the short winter day was almost over. without waiting to order his horse he started off in the falling snow toward the cottage. chapter x. a good many forebodings crowded into the colonel's mind as he walked hurriedly on. he wondered how he would be received. what if jack sherman had died after all? what if elizabeth should refuse to see him? a dozen times before he reached the gate he pictured to himself the probable scene of their meeting. he was out of breath and decidedly disturbed in mind when he walked up the path. as he paused on the porch steps, lloyd came running around the house carrying her parrot on a broom. her hair was blowing around her rosy face under the napoleon hat she wore, and she was singing. the last two hours had made a vast change in her feelings. her father had only fainted from exhaustion. when she came running back from locust, she was afraid to go in the house, lest what she dreaded most had happened while she was gone. she opened the door timidly and peeped in. her father's eyes were open. then she heard him speak. she ran into the room, and, burying her head in her mother's lap, sobbed out the story of her visit to locust. to her great surprise her father began to laugh, and laughed so heartily as she repeated her saucy speech to her grandfather, that it took the worst sting out of her disappointment. all the time the colonel had been fighting his pride among the memories of the dim old drawing-room, lloyd had been playing with fritz and polly. now as she came suddenly face to face with her grandfather, she dropped the disgusted bird in the snow, and stood staring at him with startled eyes. if he had fallen out of the sky she could not have been more astonished. "where is your mother, child?" he asked, trying to speak calmly. with a backward look, as if she could not believe the evidence of her own sight, she led the way into the hall. "mothah! mothah!" she called, pushing open the parlour door. "come heah, quick!" the colonel, taking the hat from his white head, and dropping it on the floor, took an expectant step forward. there was a slight rustle, and elizabeth stood in the doorway. for just a moment they looked into each other's faces. then the colonel held out his arm. "little daughter," he said, in a tremulous voice. the love of a lifetime seemed to tremble in those two words. in an instant her arms were around his neck, and he was "kissing away the sorry feelin's" as tenderly as the lost amanthis could have done. as soon as lloyd began to realize what was happening, her face grew radiant. she danced around in such excitement that fritz barked wildly. "come an' see papa jack, too," she cried, leading him into the next room. whatever deep-rooted prejudices jack sherman may have had, they were unselfishly put aside after one look into his wife's happy face. he raised himself on his elbow as the dignified old soldier crossed the room. the white hair, the empty sleeve, the remembrance of all the old man had lost, and the thought that after all he was elizabeth's father, sent a very tender feeling through the younger man's heart. "will you take my hand, sir?" he asked, sitting up and offering it in his straightforward way. "of co'se he will!" exclaimed lloyd, who still clung to her grandfather's arm. "of co'se he will!" "i have been too near death to harbour ill will any longer," said the younger man, as their hands met in a strong, forgiving clasp. the old colonel smiled grimly. "i had thought that even death itself could not make me give in," he said, "but i've had to make a complete surrender to the little colonel." that christmas there was such a celebration at locust that may lilly and henry clay nearly went wild in the general excitement of the preparation. walker hung up cedar and holly and mistletoe till the big house looked like a bower. maria bustled about, airing rooms and bringing out stores of linen and silver. the colonel himself filled the great punch-bowl that his grandfather had brought from virginia. "i'm glad we're goin' to stay heah to-night," said lloyd, as she hung up her stocking christmas eve. "it will be so much easiah fo' santa claus to get down these big chimneys." in the morning when she found four tiny stockings hanging beside her own, overflowing with candy for fritz, her happiness was complete. that night there was a tree in the drawing-room that reached to the frescoed ceiling. when may lilly came in to admire it and get her share from its loaded branches, lloyd came skipping up to her. "oh, i'm goin' to live heah all wintah," she cried. "mom beck's goin' to stay heah with me, too, while mothah an' papa jack go down south where the alligatahs live. then when they get well an' come back, papa jack is goin' to build a house on the othah side of the lawn. i'm to live in both places at once; mothah said so." there were music and light, laughing voices and happy hearts in the old home that night. it seemed as if the old place had awakened from a long dream and found itself young again. the plan the little colonel unfolded to may lilly was carried out in every detail. it seemed a long winter to the child, but it was a happy one. there were not so many displays of temper now that she was growing older, but the letters that went southward every week were full of her odd speeches and mischievous pranks. the old colonel found it hard to refuse her anything. if it had not been for mom beck's decided ways, the child would have been sadly spoiled. at last the spring came again. the pewees sang in the cedars. the dandelions sprinkled the roadsides like stars. the locust-trees tossed up the white spray of their fragrant blossoms with every wave of their green boughs. "they'll soon be heah! they'll soon be heah!" chanted the little colonel every day. the morning they came she had been down the avenue a dozen times to look for them before the carriage had even started to meet them. "walkah," she called, "cut me a big locus' bough. i want to wave it fo' a flag!" just as he dropped a branch down at her feet, she caught the sound of wheels. "hurry, gran'fathah," she called; "they's comin'." but the old colonel had already started on toward the gate to meet them. the carriage stopped, and in a moment more papa jack was tossing lloyd up in his arms, while the old colonel was helping elizabeth to alight. "isn't this a happy mawnin'?" exclaimed the little colonel, as she leaned from her seat on her father's shoulder to kiss his sunburned cheek. "a very happy morning," echoed her grandfather, as he walked on toward the house with elizabeth's hand clasped close in his own. long after they had passed up the steps the old locusts kept echoing the little colonel's words. years ago they had showered their fragrant blossoms in this same path to make a sweet white way for amanthis's little feet to tread when the colonel brought home his bride. they had dropped their tribute on the coffin-lid when tom was carried home under their drooping branches. the soldier-boy had loved them so, that a little cluster had been laid on the breast of the gray coat he wore. night and day they had guarded this old home like silent sentinels that loved it well. now, as they looked down on the united family, a thrill passed through them to their remotest bloom-tipped branches. it sounded only like a faint rustling of leaves, but it was the locusts whispering together. "the children have come home at last," they kept repeating. "what a happy morning! oh, what a happy morning!" [illustration: she stopped a moment when she came upon the bridge.] queechy. by elizabeth wetherell. illustrated by frederic dielman. "i hope i may speak of woman without offence to ladies." the guardian contents. i. curtain rises at queechy ii. things loom out dimly through the smoke iii. you amuse me and i'll amuse you iv. aunt miriam v. as to whether a flower can grow in the woods vi. queechy at dinner vii. the curtain falls upon the scene viii. the fairy leaves the house ix. how mr. carleton happened to be not at home x. the fairy and the englishman xi. a little candle xii. spars below xiii. the fairy peeps into an english house, but does not stay there xiv. two bibles in paris xv. very literary xvi. dissolving view--ending with a saw-mill in the distance xvii. rain and water--cresses for breakfast xviii. mr. rossitur's wits sharpened upon a ploughshare xix. fleda goes after help and finds dr. quackenboss xx. society in queechy xxi. "the sweetness of a man's friend by a hearty counsel" xxii. wherein a great many people pay their respects in form and substance xxiii. the captain out-generalled by the fairy xxiv. a breath of the world at queechy xxv. "as good a boy as you need to have" xxvi. pine knots xxvii. sweet--in its consequences xxviii. the brook's old song--and the new xxix. flighty and unsatisfactory xxx. disclosures--by mr. skillcorn xxxi. mr. olmney's cause argued xxxii. sometimes inconvenient "from the loophole of retreat to peep at such a world" xxxiii. fleda's white muslin xxxiv. how the fairy engaged the two englishmen xxxv. fleda forgets herself xxxvi. the roses and the gentlemen xxxvii. "an unseen enemy round the corner" xxxviii. the fairy at her work again xxxix. a night of uncertain length xl. a thorn enters xli. dealings with the press xlii. ends with sweet music xliii. how fleda was watched by blue eyes xliv. what pleasant people one meets in society xlv. how much trouble one may have about a note xlvi. aromatic vinegar xlvii. the fur cloak on a journey xlviii. quarrenton to queechy xlix. montepoole becomes a point of interest l. the house on "the hill" once more li. the first one that left queechy lii. the last sunset there liii. fleda alone on an isthmus liv. the moorish temple before breakfast list of illustrations. she stopped a moment when she came upon the bridge. (_frontispiece_) she made a long job of her bunch of holly. "i wasn't thinking of myself in particular." "who's got it now, cynthy?" fleda coloured and looked at her grandfather. fleda was sitting, her face bowed in her hands. she stood back and watched. then he seated himself beside her. the children were always together. "he is not a pug." "they will expect me at home." "well, sir, you know the road by deacon patterson's?" "o uncle rolf, don't have anything to do with him." "look at these roses, and don't ask me for papers!" she knelt down before him. "how lovely it is, hugh!" philetus was left to "shuck" and bring home a load of the fruit. "and there goes mr. carleton!" said constance. fleda saw with a start that it was mr. carleton. "i am sure mr. thorn will excuse me." "my dear child," he said, holding her face in both his hands. mrs. rossitur sat there alone. barby's energies and fainting remedies were again put in use. then he stood and watched her. "well, take your place," said thorn. "i told him, 'o you were not gone yet!'" "how are they all at home?" "is this the gentleman that's to be your husband?" slowly and lingeringly they moved away. the roses could not be sweeter to any one. queechy. chapter i. a single cloud on a sunny day when all the rest of heaven is clear, a frown upon the atmosphere, that hath no business to appear, when skies are blue and earth is gay. byron. come, dear grandpa!--the old mare and the wagon are at the gate--all ready." "well, dear!"--responded a cheerful hearty voice, "they must wait a bit; i haven't got my hat yet." "o i'll get that." and the little speaker, a girl of some ten or eleven years old, dashed past the old gentleman and running along the narrow passage which led to his room soon returned with the hat in her hand. "yes, dear,--but that ain't all. i must put on my great-coat--and i must look and see if i can find any money--" "o yes--for the post-office. it's a beautiful day, grandpa. cynthy!--won't you come and help grandpa on with his great-coat?--and i'll go out and keep watch of the old mare till you're ready." a needless caution. for the old mare, though spirited enough for her years, had seen some fourteen or fifteen of them and was in no sort of danger of running away. she stood in what was called the back meadow, just without the little paling fence that enclosed a small courtyard round the house. around this courtyard rich pasture-fields lay on every side, the high road cutting through them not more than a hundred or two feet from the house. the little girl planted herself on the outside of the paling and setting her back to it eyed the old mare with great contentment; for besides other grounds for security as to her quiet behaviour, one of the men employed about the farm, who had harnessed the equipage, was at the moment busied in putting some clean straw in the bottom of the vehicle. "watkins," said the child presently to this person, "here is a strap that is just ready to come unbuckled." "what do you know about straps and buckles?" said the man rather grumly. but he came round however to see what she meant, and while he drew the one and fastened the other took special good care not to let fleda know that her watchful eyes had probably saved the whole riding party from ruin; as the loosing of the strap would of necessity have brought on a trial of the old mare's nerves which not all her philosophy could have been expected to meet. fleda was satisfied to see the buckle made fast, and that watkins, roused by her hint or by the cause of it, afterwards took a somewhat careful look over the whole establishment. in high glee then she climbed to her seat in the little wagon, and her grandfather coming out coated and hatted with some difficulty mounted to his place beside her. "i think watkins might have taken the trouble to wash the wagon, without hurting himself," said fleda; "it is all specked with mud since last time." "ha'n't he washed it!" said the old gentleman in a tone of displeasure. "watkins!"-- "well."-- "why didn't you wash the wagon as i told you?" "i did." "it's all over slosh." "that's mr. didenhover's work--he had it out day 'fore yesterday; and if you want it cleaned, mr. ringgan, you must speak to him about it. mr. didenhover may file his own doings; it's more than i'm a going to." the old gentleman made no answer, except to acquaint the mare with the fact of his being in readiness to set out. a shade of annoyance and displeasure for a moment was upon his face; but the gate opening from the meadow upon the high road had hardly swung back upon its hinges after letting them out when he recovered the calm sweetness of demeanour that was habitual with him, and seemed as well as his little granddaughter to have given care the go-by for the time. fleda had before this found out another fault in the harness, or rather in mr. didenhover, which like a wise little child she kept to herself. a broken place which her grandfather had ordered to be properly mended was still tied up with the piece of rope which had offended her eyes the last time they had driven out. but she said not a word of it, because "it would only worry grandpa for nothing;" and forgetting it almost immediately she moved on with him in a state of joyous happiness that no mud-stained wagon nor untidy rope-bound harness could stir for an instant. her spirit was like a clear still-running stream which quietly and surely deposits every defiling and obscuring admixture it may receive from its contact with the grosser elements around; the stream might for a moment be clouded; but a little while, and it would run as clear as ever. neither fleda nor her grandfather cared a jot for the want of elegancies which one despised, and the other if she had ever known had well nigh forgotten. what mattered it to her that the little old green wagon was rusty and worn, or that years and service had robbed the old mare of all the jauntiness she had ever possessed, so long as the sun shone and the birds sang? and mr. ringgan, in any imaginary comparison, might be pardoned for thinking that _he_ was the proud man, and that his poor little equipage carried such a treasure as many a coach and four went without. "where are we going first, grandpa? to the post-office?" "just there!" "how pleasant it is to go there always, isn't it, grandpa? you have the paper to get, and i--i don't very often get a letter, but i have always the _hope_ of getting one; and that's something. maybe i'll have one to-day, grandpa?" "we'll see. it's time those cousins of yours wrote to you." "o _they_ don't write to me--it's only aunt lucy; i never had a letter from a single one of them, except once from little hugh,--don't you remember, grandpa? i should think he must be a very nice little boy, shouldn't you?" "little boy? why i guess he is about as big as you are, fleda--he is eleven years old, ain't he?" "yes, but i am past eleven, you know, grandpa, and i am a little girl." this reasoning being unanswerable mr. ringgan only bade the old mare trot on. it was a pleasant day in autumn. fleda thought it particularly pleasant for riding, for the sun was veiled with thin hazy clouds. the air was mild and still, and the woods, like brave men, putting the best face upon falling fortunes. some trees were already dropping their leaves; the greater part standing in all the varied splendour which the late frosts had given them. the road, an excellent one, sloped gently up and down across a wide arable country, in a state of high cultivation and now shewing all the rich variety of autumn. the redish buckwheat patches, and fine wood tints of the fields where other grain had been; the bright green of young rye or winter wheat, then soberer coloured pasture or meadow lands, and ever and anon a tuft of gay woods crowning a rising ground, or a knot of the everlasting pines looking sedately and steadfastly upon the fleeting glories of the world around them, these were mingled and interchanged and succeeded each other in ever-varying fresh combinations. with its high picturesque beauty the whole scene had a look of thrift and plenty and promise which made it eminently cheerful. so mr. ringgan and his little granddaughter both felt it to be. for some distance the grounds on either hand the road were part of the old gentleman's farm; and many a remark was exchanged between him and fleda as to the excellence or hopefulness of this or that crop or piece of soil; fleda entering into all his enthusiasm, and reasoning of clover leys and cockle and the proper, harvesting of indian corn and other like matters, with no lack of interest or intelligence. "o grandpa," she exclaimed suddenly, "won't you stop a minute and let me get out. i want to get some of that beautiful bittersweet." "what do you want that for?" said he. "you can't get out very well." "o yes i can--please, grandpa! i want some of it _very_ much--just one minute!" he stopped, and fleda got out and went to the roadside, where a bittersweet vine had climbed into a young pine tree and hung it as it were with red coral. but her one minute was at least four before she had succeeded in breaking off as much as she could carry of the splendid creeper; for not until then could fleda persuade herself to leave it. she came back and worked her way up into the wagon with one hand full as it could hold of her brilliant trophies. "now what good'll that do you?" inquired mr. ringgan good-humouredly, as he lent fleda what help he could to her seat. "why grandpa, i want it to put with cedar and pine in a jar at home--it will keep for ever so long, and look beautiful. isn't that handsome?--only it was a pity to break it." "why yes, it's handsome enough," said mr. ringgan, "but you've got something just by the front door there at home that would do just as well--what do you call it?--that naming thing there?" "what, my burning bush? o grandpa! i wouldn't cut that for any thing in the world! it's the only pretty thing about the house; and besides," said fleda, looking up with a softened mien, "you said that it was planted by my mother. o grandpa! i wouldn't cut that for any thing." mr. ringgan laughed a pleased laugh. "well, dear!" said he, "it shall grow till it's as big as the house, if it will." "it won't do that," said fleda. "but i am very glad i have got this bittersweet--this is just what i wanted. now if i can only find some holly--" "we'll come across some, i guess, by and by," said mr. ringgan; and fleda settled herself again to enjoy the trees, the fields, the roads, and all the small handiwork of nature, for which her eyes had a curious intelligence. but this was not fated to be a ride of unbroken pleasure. "why what are those bars down for?" she said as they came up with a field of winter grain. "somebody's been in here with a wagon. o grandpa! mr. didenhover has let the shakers have my butternuts!--the butternuts that you told him they mustn't have." the old gentleman drew up his horse. "so he has!" said he. their eyes were upon the far end of the deep lot, where at the edge of one of the pieces of woodland spoken of, a picturesque group of men and boys in frocks and broad-brimmed white hats were busied in filling their wagon under a clump of the now thin and yellow leaved butternut trees. "the scoundrel!" said mr. ringgan under his breath. "would it be any use, grandpa, for me to jump down and run and tell them you don't want them to take the butternuts?--i shall have so few." "no, dear, no," said her grandfather, "they have got 'em about all by this time; the mischief's done. didenhover meant to let 'em have 'em unknown to me, and pocket the pay himself. get up!" fleda drew a long breath, and gave a hard look at the distant wagon where _her_ butternuts were going in by handfuls. she said no more. it was but a few fields further on that the old gentleman came to a sudden stop again. "ain't there some of my sheep over yonder there, fleda,--along with squire thornton's?" "i don't know, grandpa," said fleda,--"i can't see--yes, i do see--yes, they are, grandpa; i see the mark." "i thought so!" said mr. ringgan bitterly; "i told didenhover, only three days ago, that if he didn't make up that fence the sheep would be out, or squire thornton's would be in;--only three days ago!--ah well!" said he, shaking the reins to make the mare move on again,--"it's all of a piece.--every thing goes--i can't help it." "why do you keep him, grandpa, if he don't behave right?" fleda ventured to ask gently. "'cause i can't get rid of him, dear," mr. ringgan answered rather shortly. and till they got to the post-office he seemed in a disagreeable kind of muse, which fleda did not choose to break in upon. so the mile and a half was driven in sober silence. "shall i get out and go in, grandpa?" said fleda when he drew up before the house. "no, deary," said he in his usual kind tone; "you sit still. holloa there!--good-day, mr. sampion--have you got any thing for me?" the man disappeared and came out again. "there's your paper, grandpa," said fleda. "ay, and something else," said mr. ringgan: "i declare!--miss fleda ringgan--care of e. ringgan, esq.'--there, dear, there it is." "paris!" exclaimed fleda, as she clasped the letter and both her hands together. the butternuts and mr didenhover were forgotten at last. the letter could not be read in the jolting of the wagon, but, as fleda said, it was all the pleasanter, for she had the expectation of it the whole way home. "where are we going now, grandpa?" "to queechy run." "that will give us a nice long ride. i am very glad. this has been a good day. with my letter and my bittersweet i have got enough, haven't i, grandpa?" queechy run was a little village, a very little village, about half a mile from mr. ringgan's house. it boasted however a decent brick church of some size, a school-house, a lawyer's office, a grocery store, a dozen or two of dwelling-houses, and a post-office; though for some reason or other mr. ringgan always chose to have his letters come through the sattlersville post-office, a mile and a half further off. at the door of the lawyer's office mr. ringgan again stopped, and again shouted "holloa!"-- "good-day, sir. is mr. jolly within?" "he is, sir." "will you ask him to be so good as to step here a moment? i cannot very well get out." mr. jolly was a comfortable-looking little man, smooth and sleek, pleasant and plausible, reasonably honest too, as the world goes; a nice man to have to do with, the world went so easy with his affairs that you were sure he would make no unnecessary rubs in your own. he came now fresh and brisk to the side of the wagon, with that uncommon hilarity which people sometimes assume when they have a disagreeable matter on hand that must be spoken of. "good-morning, sir! fine day, mr. jolly." "beautiful day, sir! splendid season! how do you do, mr. ringgan?" "why, sir, i never was better in my life, barring this lameness, that disables me very much. i can't go about and see to things any more as i used to. however--we must expect evils at my time of life. i don't complain. i have a great deal to be thankful for." "yes, sir,--we have a great deal to be thankful for," said mr. jolly rather abstractedly, and patting the old mare with kind attention. "have you seen that fellow mcgowan?" said mr. ringgan abruptly, and in a lower tone. "i have seen him," said mr. jolly, coming back from the old mare to business. "he's a hard customer i guess, ain't he?" "he's as ugly a cur as ever was whelped!" "what does he say?" "says he must have it." "did you tell him what i told you?" "i told him, sir, that you had not got the returns from your farm that you expected this year, owing to one thing and 'nother; and that you couldn't make up the cash for him all at once; and that he would have to wait a spell, but that he'd be sure to get it in the long run. nobody ever suffered by mr. ringgan yet, as i told him." "well?" "well, sir,--he was altogether refractible--he's as pig-headed a fellow as i ever see." "what did he say?" "he gave me names, and swore he wouldn't wait a day longer--said he'd waited already six months." "he has so. i couldn't meet the last payment. there's a year's rent due now. i can't help it. there needn't have been an hour,--if i could go about and attend to things myself. i have been altogether disappointed in that didenhover." "i expect you have." "what do you suppose he'll do, mr. jolly?--mcgowan, i mean." "i expect he'll do what the law'll let him, mr. ringgan; i don't know what'll hinder him." "it's a worse turn than i thought my infirmities would ever play me," said the old gentleman after a short pause,--"first to lose the property altogether, and then not to be permitted to wear out what is left of life in the old place--there won't be much." "so i told him, mr. ringgan. i put it to him. says i, 'mr. mcgowan, it's a cruel hard business; there ain't a man in town that wouldn't leave mr. ringgan the shelter of his own roof as long as he wants any, and think it a pleasure,--if the rent was anyhow.'" "well--well!" said the old gentleman, with a mixture of dignity and bitterness,--"it doesn't much matter. my head will find a shelter somehow, above ground or under it. the lord will provide.--whey! stand still, can't ye! what ails the fool? the creature's seen years enough to be steady," he added with a miserable attempt at his usual cheerful laugh. fleda had turned away her head and tried not to hear when the lowered tones of the speakers seemed to say that she was one too many in the company. but she could not help catching a few bits of the conversation, and a few bits were generally enough for fleda's wit to work upon; she had a singular knack at putting loose ends of talk together. if more had been wanting, the tones of her grandfather's voice would have filled up every gap in the meaning of the scattered words that came to her ear. her heart sank fast as the dialogue went on, and she needed no commentary or explanation to interpret the bitter little laugh with which it closed. it was a chill upon all the rosy joys and hopes of a most joyful and hopeful little nature. the old mare was in motion again, but fleda no longer cared or had the curiosity to ask where they were going. the bittersweet lay listlessly in her lap; her letter, clasped to her breast, was not thought of; and tears were quietly running one after the other down her cheeks and falling on her sleeve; she dared not lift her handkerchief nor turn her face towards her grandfather lest they should catch his eye. her grandfather?--could it be possible that he must be turned out of his old home in his old age? could it be possible? mr. jolly seemed to think it might be, and her grandfather seemed to think it must. leave the old house! but where would he go?--son or daughter he had none left; resources be could have none, or this need not happen. work he could not; be dependent upon the charity of any kin or friend she knew he would never; she remembered hearing him once say he could better bear to go to the almshouse than do any such thing. and then, if they went, he would have his pleasant room no more where the sun shone in so cheerfully, and they must leave the dear old kitchen where they had been so happy, and the meadows and hills would belong to somebody else; and she would gather her stores of buttercups and chestnuts under the loved old trees never again. but these things were nothing, though the image of them made the tears come hot and fast, these were nothing in her mind to the knowledge or the dread of the effect the change would have upon mr. ringgan. fleda knew him and knew it would not be slight. whiter his head could not be, more bowed it well might, and her own bowed in anticipation as her childish fears and imaginings ran on into the possible future. of mcgowan's tender mercies she had no hope. she had seen him once, and being unconsciously even more of a physiognomist than most children are, that one sight of him was enough to verify all mr. jolly had said. the remembrance of his hard sinister face sealed her fears. nothing but evil could come of having to do with such a man. it was however still not so much any foreboding of the future that moved fleda's tears as the sense of her grandfather's present pain,--the quick answer of her gentle nature to every sorrow that touched him. his griefs were doubly hers. both from his openness of character and her penetration, they could rarely be felt unshared; and she shared them always in more than due measure. in beautiful harmony, while the child had forgotten herself in keen sympathy with her grandfather's sorrows, he on the other hand had half lost sight of them in caring for her. again, and this time not before any house but in a wild piece of woodland, the little wagon came to a stop. "ain't there some holly berries that i see yonder?" said mr. ringgan,--"there, through those white birch stems? that's what you were wanting, fleda, ain't it? give your bittersweet to me while you go get some,--and here, take this knife dear, you can't break it. don't cut yourself." fleda's eyes were too dim to see white birch or holly, and she had no longer the least desire to have the latter; but with that infallible tact which assuredly is the gift of nature and no other, she answered, in a voice that she forced to be clear, "o yes, thank you, grandpa;"--and stealthily dashing away the tears clambered down from the rickety little wagon and plunged with a cheerful _step_ at least through trees and underbrush to the clump of holly. but if anybody had seen fleda's face!--while she seemed to be busied in cutting as large a quantity as possible of the rich shining leaves and bright berries. her grandfather's kindness and her effort to meet it had wrung her heart; she hardly knew what she was doing, as she cut off sprig after sprig and threw them down at her feet; she was crying sadly, with even audible sobs. she made a long job of her bunch of holly. but when at last it must come to an end she choked back her tears, smoothed her face, and came back to mr. ringgan smiling and springing over the stones and shrubs in her way, and exclaiming at the beauty of her vegetable stores. if her cheeks were red he thought it was the flush of pleasure and exercise, and she did not let him get a good look at her eyes. "why you've got enough to dress up the front room chimney," said he. "that'll be the best thing you can do with 'em, won't it?" "the front room chimney! no, indeed i won't, grandpa. i don't want 'em where nobody can see them, and you know we are never in there now it is cold weather." "well, dear! anyhow you like to have it. but you ha'n't a jar in the house big enough for them, have you?" "o i'll manage--i've got an old broken pitcher without a handle, grandpa, that'll do very well." "a broken pitcher! that isn't a very elegant vase," said he. "o you wouldn't know it is a pitcher when i have fixed it. i'll cover up all the broken part with green, you know. are we going home now, grandpa?" "no, i want to stop a minute at uncle joshua's." uncle joshua was a brother-in-law of mr. ringgan, a substantial farmer and very well to do in the world! he was found not in the house but abroad in the field with his men, loading an enormous basket-wagon with corn-stalks. at mr. ringgan's shout he got over the fence and came to the wagon-side. his face showed sense and shrewdness, but nothing of the open nobility of mien which nature had stamped upon that of his brother. [illustration: she made a long job of her bunch of holly.] "fine morning, eh?" said he. "i'm getting in my corn stalks." "so i see," said mr. ringgan. "how do you find the new way of curing them answer?" "fine as ever you see. sweet as a nut. the cattle are mad after them. how are you going to be off for fodder this winter?" "it's more than i can tell you," said mr. ringgan. "there ought to be more than plenty; but didenhover contrives to bring everything out at the wrong end. i wish i was rid of him." "he'll never get a berth with _me_, i can tell you," said uncle joshua laughing. "brother," said mr. ringgan, lowering his tone again, "have you any loose cash you could let me have for six months or so?" uncle joshua took a meditative look down the road, turned a quid of tobacco in his cheek, and finally brought his eyes again to mr. ringgan and answered. "well, i don't see as i can," said he. "you see josh is just a going to set up for himself at kenton, and he'll want some help of me; and i expect that'll be about as much as i can manage to lay my hands on." "do you know who has any that he would be likely to lend?" said mr. ringgan. "no, i don't. money is rather scarce. for your rent, eh?" "yes, for my rent! the farm brings me in nothing but my living. that didenhover is ruining me, brother joshua." "he's feathering his own nest, i reckon." "you may swear to that. there wa'n't as many bushels of grain, by one-fourth, when they were threshed out last year, as i had calculated there would be in the field. i don't know what on earth he could have done with it. i suppose it'll be the same thing over this year." "maybe he has served you as deacon travis was served by one of his help last season--the rascal bored holes in the granary floor and let out the corn so, and travis couldn't contrive how his grain went till the floor was empty next spring, and then he see how it was." "ha!--did he catch the fellow?" "not he--he had made tracks before that. a word in your ear--i wouldn't let didenhover see much of his salary till you know how he will come out at the end." "he has got it already!" said mr. ringgan, with a nervous twitch at the old mare's head; "he wheedled me out of several little sums on one pretence and another,--he had a brother in new york that he wanted to send some to, and goods that he wanted to get out of pawn, and so on,--and i let him have it! and then there was one of those fatting steers that he proposed to me to let him have on account, and i thought it was as good a way of paying him as any; and that made up pretty near the half of what was due to him." "i warrant you his'n was the fattest of the whole lot. well, keep a tight hold of the other half, brother elzevir, that's my advice to you." "the other half he was to make upon shares." "whew i--well--i wish you well rid of him; and don't make such another bargain again. good-day to ye!" it was with a keen pang that little fleda saw the down-hearted look of her grandfather as again he pave the old mare notice to move on. a few minutes passed in deep thought on both sides. "grandpa," said fleda, "wouldn't mr. jolly perhaps know of somebody that might have some money to lend?" "i declare!" said the old gentleman after a moment, "that's not a bad thought. i wonder i didn't have it myself." they turned about, and without any more words measured back their way to queechy run. mr. jolly came out again, brisk and alert as ever; but after seeming to rack his brains in search of any actual or possible money-lender was obliged to confess that it was in vain; he could not think of one. "but i'll tell you what, mr. ringgan," he concluded, "i'll turn it over in my mind to-night and see if i can think of any thing that'll do, and if i can i'll let you know. if we hadn't such a nether millstone to deal with, it would be easy enough to work it somehow." so they set forth homewards again. "cheer up, dear!" said the old gentleman heartily, laying one hand on his little granddaughter's lap,--"it will be arranged somehow. don't you worry your little head with business. god will take care of us." "yes, grandpa!" said the little girl, looking up with an instant sense of relief at these words; and then looking down again immediately to burst into tears. chapter ii. have you seen but a bright lily grow, before rude hands have touch'd it? ha' you mark'd but the fall o' the snow, before the soil hath smutch'd it? ben jonson. where a ray of light can enter the future, a child's hope can find a way--a way that nothing less airy and spiritual can travel. by the time they reached their own door fleda's spirits were at par again. "i am very glad we have got home, aren't you, grandpa?" she said as she jumped down; "i'm so hungry. i guess we are both of us ready for supper, don't you think so?" she hurried up stairs to take off her wrappings and then came down to the kitchen, where standing on the broad hearth and warming herself at the blaze, with all the old associations of comfort settling upon her heart, it occurred to her that foundations so established _could not_ be shaken. the blazing fire seemed to welcome her home and bid her dismiss fear; the kettle singing on its accustomed hook looked as if quietly ridiculing the idea that they could be parted company; her grandfather was in his cushioned chair at the corner of the hearth, reading the newspaper, as she had seen him a thousand times; just in the same position, with that collected air of grave enjoyment, one leg crossed over the other, settled back in his chair but upright, and scanning the columns with an intent but most un-careful face. a face it was that always had a rare union of fineness and placidness. the table stood spread in the usual place, warmth and comfort filled every corner of the room, and pleda began to feel as if she had been in an uncomfortable dream, which was very absurd, but from which she was very glad she had awoke. "what have you got in this pitcher, cynthy?" said she. "muffins!--o let me bake them, will you? i'll bake them." "now fleda," said cynthy, "just you be quiet. there ain't no place where you can bake 'em. i'm just going to clap 'em in the reflector--that's the shortest way i can take to do 'em. you keep yourself out o' muss." "they won't be muffins if you bake 'em in the reflector, cynthy; they aren't half so good. ah, do let me i i won't make a bit of muss." "where'll you do 'em?" "in grandpa's room--if you'll just clean off the top of the stove for me--now do, cynthy! i'll do 'em beautifully and you won't have a bit of trouble.--come!" "it'll make an awful smoke, flidda; you'll fill your grandpa's room with the smoke, and he won't like that, i guess." "o he won't mind it," said fleda. "will you, grandpa?" "what, dear?"--said mr. ringgan, looking up at her from his paper with a relaxing face which indeed promised to take nothing amiss that she might do. "will you mind if i fill your room with smoke?" "no, dear!" said he, the strong heartiness of his acquiescence almost reaching a laugh,--"no, dear!--fill it with anything you like!" there was nothing more to be said; and while fleda in triumph put on an apron and made her preparations, cynthy on her part, and with a very good grace, went to get ready the stove; which being a wood stove, made of sheet iron, with a smooth even top, afforded in fleda's opinion the very best possible field for muffins to come to their perfection. now fleda cared little in comparison for the eating part of the business; her delight was by the help of her own skill and the stove-top to bring the muffins to this state of perfection; her greatest pleasure in them was over when they were baked. a little while had passed, mr. ringgan was still busy with his newspaper, miss cynthia gall going in and out on various errands, fleda shut up in the distant room with the muffins and the smoke; when there came a knock at the door, and mr. ringgan's "come in!"--was followed by the entrance of two strangers, young, well-dressed, and comely. they wore the usual badges of seekers after game, but their guns were left outside. the old gentleman's look of grave expectancy told his want of enlightening. "i fear you do not remember me, mr. ringgan," said the foremost of the two coming up to him,--"my name is rossitur--charlton rossitur--a cousin of your little grand-daughter. i have only"-- "o i know you now!" said mr. ringgan, rising and grasping his hand heartily,--"you are very welcome, sir. how do you do? i recollect you perfectly, but you took me by surprise.--how do you do, sir? sit down--sit down." and the old gentleman had extended his frank welcome to the second of his visitors almost before the first had time to utter, "my friend mr. carleton." "i couldn't imagine what was coming upon me," said mr. ringgan, cheerfully, "for you weren't anywhere very near my thoughts; and i don't often see much of the gay world that is passing by me. you have grown since i saw you last, mr. rossitur. you are studying at west point, i believe." "no sir; i _was_ studying there, but i had the pleasure of bringing that to an end last june." "ah!--well, what are you now? not a cadet any longer, i suppose." "no sir--we hatch out of that shell lieutenants." "hum.--and do you intend to remain in the army?" "certainly sir, that is my purpose and hope." "your mother would not like that, i should judge. i do not understand how she ever made up her mind to let you become that thing which hatches out into a lieutenant. gentle creatures she and her sister both were.--how was it, mr. rossitur? were you a wild young gentleman that wanted training?" "i have had it sir, whether i wanted it or no." "hum!--how is he, mr. carleton?--sober enough to command men?" "i have not seen him tried, sir," said this gentleman smiling; "but from tho inconsistency of the orders he issues to his dogs i doubt it exceedingly." "why carleton would have no orders issued to them at all, i believe," said young rossitur; "he has been saying 'hush' to me all day." the old gentleman laughed in a way that indicated intelligence with one of the speakers,--which, appeared not. "so you've been following the dogs to-day," said he. "been successful?" "not a bit of it," said rossitur. "whether we got on the wrong grounds, or didn't get on the right ones, or the dogs didn't mind their business, or there was nothing to fire at, i don't know; but we lost our patience and got nothing in exchange." "speak for yourself," said the other. "i assure you i was sensible of no ground of impatience while going over such a superb country as this." "it _is_ a fine country," said mr. ringgan,--"all this tract; and i ought to know it, for i have hunted every mile of it for many a mile around. there used to be more game than partridges in these hills when i was a young man;--bears and wolves, and deer, and now and then a panther, to say nothing of rattlesnakes." "that last mentioned is an irregular sort of game, is it not?" said mr. carleton smiling. "well, game is what you choose to make it," said the old gentleman. "i have seen worse days' sport than i saw once when we were out after rattlesnakes and nothing else. there was a cave, sir, down under a mountain a few miles to the south of this, right at the foot of a bluff some four or five hundred feet sheer down,--it was known to be a resort of those creatures; and a party of us went out,--it's many years ago now,--to see if we couldn't destroy the nest--exterminate the whole horde. we had one dog with us,--a little dog, a kind of spaniel; a little white and yellow fellow,--and he did the work! well, sir,--how many of those vermin do you guess that little creature made a finish of that day?--of large and small, sir, there were two hundred and twelve." "he must have been a gallant little fellow." "you never saw a creature, sir, take to a sport better; he just dashed in among them, from one to another,--he would catch a snake by the neck and give it a shake, and throw it down and rush at another;--poor fellow, it was his last day's sport,--he died almost as soon as it was over; he must have received a great many bites. the place is known as the rattlesnakes' den to this day, though there are none there now, i believe." "my little cousin is well, i hope," said mr. rossitur. "she? yes, bless her i she is always well. where is she? fairy, where are you?--cynthy, just call elfieda here." "she's just in the thick of the muffins, mr. ringgan." "let the muffins burn! call her." miss cynthia accordingly opened a little way the door of the passage, from which a blue stifling smoke immediately made its way into the room, and called out to fleda. whose little voice was heard faintly responding from the distance. "it's a wonder she can hear through all that smoke," remarked cynthia. "she," said mr. ringgan, laughing,--"she's playing cook or housekeeper in yonder, getting something ready for tea. she's a busy little spirit, if ever there was one. ah! there she is. come here, fleda--here's your cousin rossitur from west point--and mr. carleton." fleda made her appearance flushed with the heat of the stove and the excitement of turning the muffins, and the little iron spatula she used for that purpose still in her hand; and a fresh and larger puff of the unsavoury blue smoke accompanied her entrance. she came forward however gravely and without the slightest embarrassment to receive her cousin's somewhat unceremonious "how do, fleda?"--and keeping the spatula still in one hand shook hands with him with the other. but at the very different manner in which mr. carleton _rose_ and greeted her, the flush on fleda's cheek deepened, and she cast down her eyes and stepped back to her grandfather's side with the demureness of a young lady just undergoing the ceremony of presentation. "you come upon us out of a cloud, fleda," said her cousin. "is that the way you have acquired a right to the name of fairy?" "i am sure, no," said mr. carleton. fleda did not lift up her eyes, but her mounting colour shewed that she understood both speeches. "because if you are in general such a misty personage," mr. rossitur went on half laughing, "i would humbly recommend a choice of incense." "o i forgot to open the windows!" exclaimed fleda ingenuously. "cynthy, won't you please go and do it? and take this with you," said she, holding out the spatula. "she is as good a fairy as _i_ want to see," said her grandfather, passing his arm fondly round her. "she carries a ray of sunshine in her right hand; and that's as magic-working a wand as any fairy ever wielded,--hey, mr. carleton?" mr. carleton bowed. but whether the sunshine of affection in fleda's glance and smile at her grandfather made him feel that she was above a compliment, or whether it put the words out of his head, certain it is that he uttered none. "so you've had bad success to-day," continued mr. ringgan. "where have you been? and what after? partridges?" "no sir," said mr. carleton, "my friend rossitur promised me a rare bag of woodcock, which i understand to be the best of american feathered game; and in pursuance of his promise led me over a large extent of meadow and swamp land this morning, with which in the course of several hours i became extremely familiar, without flushing a single bird." "meadow and swamp land?" said the old gentleman. "whereabouts?" "a mile or more beyond the little village over here where we left our horses," said rossitur. "we beat the ground well, but there were no signs of them even." "we had not the right kind of dog," said mr. carleton. "we had the kind that is always used here," said rossitur; "nobody knows anything about a cocker in america." "ah, it was too wet," said mr. ringgan. "i could have told you that. there has been too much rain. you wouldn't find a woodcock in that swamp after such a day as we had a few days ago. but speaking of game, mr. rossitur, i don't know anything in america equal to the grouse. it is far before woodcock. i remember, many years back, going a grouse shooting, i and a friend, down in pennsylvania,--we went two or three days running, and the birds we got were worth a whole season of woodcock.--but gentlemen, if you are not discouraged with your day's experience and want to try again, _i'll_ put you in a way to get as many woodcock as will satisfy you--if you'll come here to-morrow morning i'll go out with you far enough to shew you the way to the best ground _i_ know for shooting that game in all this country; you'll have a good chance for partridges too in the course of the day; and that ain't bad eating, when you can't get better--is it, fairy?" he said, with a sudden smiling appeal to the little girl at his side. her answer again was only an intelligent glance. the young sportsmen both thanked him and promised to take advantage of his kind offer. fleda seized the opportunity to steal another look at the strangers; but meeting mr. carleton's eyes fixed on her with a remarkably soft and gentle expression she withdrew her own again as fast as possible, and came to the conclusion that the only safe place for them was the floor. "i wish i was a little younger and i'd take my gun and go along with you myself," said the old gentleman pleasantly; "but," he added sighing, "there is a time for everything, and my time for sporting is past." "you have no right to complain, sir," said mr. carleton, with a meaning glance and smile which the old gentleman took in excellent good part. "well," said he, looking half proudly, half tenderly, upon the little demure figure at his side, "i don't say that i have. i hope i thank god for his mercies, and am happy. but in this world, mr. carleton, there is hardly a blessing but what draws a care after it. well--well--these things will all be arranged for us!" it was plain, however, even to a stranger, that there was some subject of care not vague nor undefined pressing upon mr. ringgan's mind as he said this. "have you heard from my mother lately, fleda?" said her cousin. "why yes," said mr. ringgan,--"she had a letter from her only to-day. you ha'n't read it yet, have you, fleda?" "no grandpa," said the little girl; "you know i've been busy." "ay," said the old gentleman; "why couldn't you let cynthia bake the cakes, and not roast yourself over the stove till you're as red as a turkey-cock?" "this morning i was like a chicken," said fleda laughing, "and now like a turkey-cock." "shall i tell mamma, fleda," said young rossitur, "that you put off reading her letter to bake muffins?" fleda answered without looking up, "yes, if he pleased." "what do you suppose she will think?" "i don't know." "she will think that you love muffins better than her." "no," said fleda, quietly but firmly,--"she will not think that, because it isn't true." the gentlemen laughed, but mr. carleton declared that fleda's reasoning was unanswerable. "well, i will see you to-morrow," said mr. rossitur, "after you have read the letter, for i suppose you will read it sometime. you should have had it before,--it came enclosed to me,--but i forgot unaccountably to mail it to you till a few days ago." "it will be just as good now, sir," said mr. ringgan. "there is a matter in it though," said rossitur, "about which my mother has given me a charge. we will see you to-morrow. it was for that partly we turned out of our way this evening." "i am very glad you did," said mr. ringgan. "i hope your way will bring you here often. won't you stay and try some of these same muffins before you go?" but this was declined, and the gentlemen departed; fleda, it must be confessed, seeing nothing in the whole leave-taking but mr. carleton's look and smile. the muffins were a very tame affair after it. when supper was over she sat down fairly to her letter, and read it twice through before she folded it up. by this time the room was clear both of the tea equipage and of cynthia's presence, and fleda and her grandfather were alone in the darkening twilight with the blazing wood fire; he in his usual place at the side, and she on the hearth directly before it; both silent, both thinking, for some time. at length mr. ringgan spoke, breaking as it were the silence and his seriousness with the same effort. "well dear!" said he cheerfully,--"what does she say?" "o she says a great many things, grandpa; shall i read yon the letter?" "no dear, i don't care to hear it; only tell me what she says." "she says they are going to stay in paris yet a good while longer." "hum!"--said mr. ringgan. "well--that ain't the wisest thing i should like to hear of her doing." "oh but it's because uncle rossitur likes to stay there, i suppose, isn't it, grandpa?" "i don't know, dear. maybe your aunt's caught the french fever. she used to be a good sensible woman; but when people will go into a whirligig, i think some of their wits get blown away before they come out. well--what else?" "i am sure she is very kind," said fleda. "she wants to have me go out there and live with her very much. she says i shall have everything i like and do just as i please, and she will make a pet of me and give me all sorts of pleasant things. she says she will take as good care of me as ever i took of the kittens. and there's a long piece to you about it, that i'll give you to read as soon as we have a light. it is very good of her, isn't it, grandpa? i love aunt lucy very much." "well," said mr. ringgan after a pause, "how does she propose to get you there?" "why," said fleda,--"isn't it curious?--she says there is a mrs. carleton here who is a friend of hers, and she is going to paris in a little while, and aunt lucy asked her if she wouldn't bring me, if you would let me go, and she said she would with great pleasure, and aunt lucy wants me to come out with her." "carleton!--hum--" said mr. ringgan; "that must be this young man's mother?" "yes, aunt lucy says she is here with her son,--at least she says they were coming." "a very gentlemanly young man, indeed," said mr. ringgan. there was a grave silence. the old gentleman sat looking on the floor; fleda sat looking into the fire, with all her might. "well," said mr. ringgan after a little, "how would you like it, fleda?" "what, grandpa?" "to go out to paris to your aunt, with this mrs. carleton?" "i shouldn't like it at all," said fleda smiling, and letting her eyes go back to the fire. but looking after the pause of a minute or two again to her grandfather's face, she was struck with its expression of stern anxiety. she rose instantly, and coming to him and laying one hand gently on his knee, said in tones that fell as light on the ear as the touch of a moonbeam on the water, "_you_ do not want me to go, do you, grandpa?" "no dear!" said the old gentleman, letting his hand fall upon hers,--"no dear!--that is the last thing i want!" but fleda's keen ear discerned not only the deep affection but something of _regret_ in the voice, which troubled her. she stood, anxious and fearing, while her grandfather lifting his hand again and again let it fall gently upon hers; and amid all the fondness of the action fleda somehow seemed to feel in it the same regret. "you'll not let aunt lucy, nor anybody else, take me away from you, will you, grandpa?" said she after a little, leaning both arms affectionately on his knee and looking up into his face. "no indeed, dear!" said he, with an attempt at his usual heartiness,--"not as long as i have a place to keep you. while i have a roof to put my head under, it shall cover yours." to fleda's hope that would have said enough; but her grandfather's face was so moved from its wonted expression of calm dignity that it was plain _his_ hope was tasting bitter things. fleda watched in silent grief and amazement the watering eye and unnerved lip; till her grandfather indignantly dashing away a tear or two drew her close to his breast and kissed her. but she well guessed that the reason why he did not for a minute or two say anything, was because he could not. neither could she. she was fighting with her woman's nature to keep it down,--learning the lesson early! "ah well,"--said mr ringgan at length, in a kind of tone that might indicate the giving up a struggle which he had no means of carrying on, or the endeavour to conceal it from the too keen-wrought feelings of his little granddaughter,--"there will be a way opened for us somehow. we must let our heavenly father take care of us." "and he will, grandpa," whispered fleda. "yes dear!--we are selfish creatures. your father's and your mother's child will not be forgotten." "nor you either, dear grandpa," said the little girl, laying her soft cheek alongside of his, and speaking by dint of a great effort. "no," said he, clasping her more tenderly,--"no--it would he wicked in me to doubt it. he has blessed me all my life long with a great many more blessings than i deserved; and if he chooses to take away the sunshine of my last days i will bow my head to his will, and believe that he does all things well, though i cannot see it." "don't, dear grandpa," said fleda, stealing her other arm round his neck and hiding her face there,--"please don't!--" he very much regretted that he had said too much. he did not however know exactly how to mend it. he kissed her and stroked her soft hair, but that and the manner of it only made it more difficult for fleda to recover herself, which she was struggling to do; and when he tried to speak in accents of cheering his voice trembled. fleda's heart was breaking, but she felt that she was making matters worse, and she had already concluded on a mature review of circumstances that it was her duty to be cheerful. so after a few very heartfelt tears which she could not help, she raised her head and smiled, even while she wiped the traces of them away. "after all, grandpa," said she, "perhaps mr. jolly will come here in the morning with some good news, and then we should be troubling ourselves just for nothing." "perhaps he will," said mr. ringgan, in a way that sounded much more like "perhaps he won't!" but fleda was determined now not to _seem_ discouraged again. she thought the best way was to change the conversation. "it is very kind in aunt lucy, isn't it, grandpa, what she has written to me?" "why no," said mr. ringgan, decidedly, "i can't say i think it is any very extraordinary manifestation of kindness in anybody to want you." fleda smiled her thanks for this compliment. "it might be a kindness in me to give you to her." "it wouldn't be a kindness to me, grandpa." "i don't know about that," said he gravely. they were getting back to the old subject. fleda made another great effort at a diversion. "grandpa, was my father like my uncle rossitur in any thing?" the diversion was effected. "not he, dear!" said mr. ringgan. "your father had ten times the man in him that ever your uncle was." "why what kind of a man is uncle rossitur, grandpa?" "ho dear! i can't tell. i ha'n't seen much of him. i wouldn't judge a man without knowing more of him than i do of mr. rossitur. he seemed an amiable kind of man. but no one would ever have thought of looking at him, no more than at a shadow, when your father was by." the diversion took effect on fleda herself now. she looked up pleased. "you remember your father, fleda?" "yes grandpa, but not very well always;--i remember a great many things about him, but i can't remember exactly how he looked,--except once or twice." "ay, and he wa'n't well the last time you remember him. but he was a noble-looking man--in form and face too--and his looks were the worst part of him. he seemed made of different stuff from all the people around," said mr. ringgan sighing, "and they felt it too i used to notice, without knowing it. when his cousins were 'sam' and 'johnny' and 'bill,' he was always, that is, after he grew up, '_mr. walter._' i believe they were a little afeard of him. and with all his bravery and fire he could be as gentle as a woman." "i know that," said fleda, whose eyes were dropping soft tears and glittering at the same time with gratified feeling. "what made him be a soldier, grandpa?" "oh i don't know, dear!--he was too good to make a farmer of--or his high spirit wanted to rise in the world--he couldn't rest without trying to be something more than other folks. i don't know whether people are any happier for it." "did _he_ go to west point, grandpa?" "no dear!--he started without having so much of a push as that; but he was one of those that don't need any pushing; he would have worked his way up, put him anywhere you would, and he did,--over the heads of west pointers and all, and would have gone to the top, i verily believe, if he had lived long enough. he was as fine a fellow as there was in all the army. _i_ don't believe there's the like of him left in it." "he had been a major a good while, hadn't he, grandpa?" "yes. it was just after he was made captain that he went to albany, and there he saw your mother. she and her sister, your aunt lucy, were wards of the patroon. i was in albany, in the legislature, that winter, and i knew them both very well; but your aunt lucy had been married some years before. she was staying there that winter without her husband--he was abroad somewhere." fleda was no stranger to these details and had learned long ago what was meant by 'wards' and 'the patroon.' "your father was made a major some years afterwards," mr. ringgan went on, "for his fine behaviour out here at the west--what's the name of the place?--i forget it just now--fighting the indians. there never was anything finer done." "he was brave, wasn't he, grandpa?" "brave!--he had a heart of iron sometimes, for as soft as it was at others. and he had an eye, when he was roused, that i never saw anything that would stand against. but your father had a better sort of courage than the common sort--he had enough of _that_--but this is a rarer thing--he never was afraid to do what in his conscience he thought was right. moral courage i call it, and it is one of the very noblest qualities a man can have." "that's a kind of courage a woman may have," said fleda. "yes--you may have that; and i guess it's the only kind of courage _you'll_ ever be troubled with," said her grandfather looking laughingly at her. "however, any man may walk up to the cannon's mouth, but it is only one here and there that will walk out against men's opinions because he thinks it is right. that was one of the things i admired most in your father." "didn't my mother have it too?" said fleda. "i don't know--she had about everything that was good. a gweet, pretty creature she was, as i ever saw." "was she like aunt lucy?" "no, not much. she was a deal handsomer than your aunt is or ever could have been. she was the handsomest woman, i think, that ever i set eyes upon; and a sweet, gentle, lovely creature. _you_'ll never match her," said mr. ringgan, with a curious twist of his head and sly laughing twist of his eyes at fleda;--"you may be as _good_ as she was, but you'll never be as good-looking." fleda laughed, nowise displeased. "you've got her hazel eyes though," remarked mr. ringgan, after a minute or two, viewing his little granddaughter with a sufficiently satisfied expression of countenance. "grandpa," said she, "don't you think mr. carleton has handsome eyes?" "mr. carleton?--hum--i don't know; i didn't look at his eyes. a very well-looking young man though--very gentlemanly too." fleda had heard all this and much more about her parents some dozens of times before; but she and her grandfather were never tired of going it over. if the conversation that recalled his lost treasures had of necessity a character of sadness and tenderness, it yet bespoke not more regret that he had lost them than exulting pride and delight in what they had been,--perhaps not so much. and fleda delighted to go back and feed her imagination with stories of the mother whom she could not remember, and of the father whose fair bright image stood in her memory as the embodiment of all that is high and noble and pure. a kind of guardian angel that image was to little fleda. these ideal likenesses of her father and mother, the one drawn from history and recollection, the other from history only, had been her preservative from all the untoward influences and unfortunate examples which had surrounded her since her father's death some three or four years before had left her almost alone in her grandfather's house. they had created in her mind a standard of the true and beautiful in character, which nothing she saw around her, after of course her grandfather, and one other exception, seemed at all to meet; and partly from her own innate fineness of nature, and partly from this pure ideal always present with her, she had shrunk almost instinctively from the few varieties of human nature the country-side presented to her, and was in fact a very isolated little being, living in a world of her own, and clinging with all her strong outgoings of affection to her grandfather only; granting to but one other person any considerable share in her regard or esteem. little fleda was not in the least misanthropical; she gave her kindly sympathies to all who came in her way on whom they could possibly be bestowed; but these people were nothing to her: her spirit fell off from them, even in their presence; there was no affinity. she was in truth what her grandfather had affirmed of her father, made of different stuff from the rest of the world. there was no tincture of pride in all this; there was no conscious feeling of superiority; she could merely have told you that she did not care to hear these people talk, that she did not love to be with them; though she _would_ have said so to no earthly creature but her grandfather, if even to him. [illustration: "i wasn't thinking of myself in particular."] "it must be pleasant," said fleda, after looking for some minutes thoughtfully into the fire,--"it must be a pleasant thing to have a father and mother." "yes dear!" said her grandfather, sighing,--"you have lost a great deal! but there is your aunt lucy--you are not dependent altogether on me." "oh grandpa!" said the little girl laying one hand again pleadingly on his knee;--"i didn't mean--i mean--i was speaking in general--i wasn't thinking of myself in particular." "i know, dear!" said he, as before taking the little hand in his own and moving it softly up and down on his knee. but the action was sad, and there was the same look of sorrowful stern anxiety. fleda got up and put her arm over his shoulder, speaking from a heart filled too full. "i don't want aunt lucy--i don't care about aunt lucy; i don't want anything but you, grandpa. i wish you wouldn't talk so." "ah well, dear," said he, without looking at her,--he couldn't bear to look at her,--"it's well it is so. i sha'n't last a great while--it isn't likely--and i am glad to know there is some one you can fall back upon when i am gone." pleda's next words were scarcely audible, but they contained a reproach to him for speaking so. "we may as well look at it, dear," said he gravely; "it must come to that--sooner or later--but you mustn't distress yourself about it beforehand. don't cry--don't, dear!" said he, tenderly kissing her. "i didn't mean to trouble you so. there--there--look up, dear--let's take the good we have and be thankful for it. god will arrange the rest, in his own good way. fleda!--i wouldn't have said a word if i had thought it would have worried you so." he would not indeed. but he had spoken as men so often speak, out of the depths of their own passion or bitterness, forgetting that they are wringing the cords of a delicate harp, and not knowing what mischief they have done till they find the instrument all out of tune,--more often not knowing it ever. it is pity,--for how frequently a discord is left that jars all life long; and how much more frequently still the harp, though retaining its sweetness and truth of tone to the end, is gradually unstrung. poor fleda could hardly hold up her head for a long time, and recalling bitterly her unlucky innocent remark which had led to all this trouble she almost made up her mind with a certain heroine of miss edgeworth's, that "it is best never to mention things." mr. ringgan, now thoroughly alive to the wounds he had been inflicting, held his little pet in his arms, pillowed her head on his breast, and by every tender and soothing action and word endeavoured to undo what he had done. and after a while the agony was over, the wet eyelashes were lifted up, and the meek sorrowful little face lay quietly upon mr. ringgan's breast, gazing out into the fire as gravely as if the panorama of life were there. she little heeded at first her grandfather's cheering talk, she knew it was for a purpose. "ain't it most time for you to go to bed?" whispered mr. ringgan when he thought the purpose was effected. "shall i tell cynthy to get you your milk, grandpa?" said the little girl rousing herself. "yes dear.--stop,--what if you and me was to have some roast apples?--wouldn't you like it?" "well--yes, i should, grandpa," said fleda, understanding perfectly why he wished it, and wishing it herself for that same reason and no other. "cynthy, let's have some of those roast apples," said mr. ringgan, "and a couple of bowls of milk here." "no, i'll get the apples myself, cynthy," said fleda. "and you needn't take any of the cream off, cynthy," added mr. ringgan. one corner of the kitchen table was hauled up to the fire, to be comfortable, fleda said, and she and her grandfather sat down on the opposite sides of it to do honour to the apples and milk; each with the simple intent of keeping up appearances and cheating the other into cheerfulness. there is however, deny it who can, an exhilarating effect in good wholesome food taken when one is in some need of it; and fleda at least found the supper relish exceeding well. every one furthermore knows the relief of a hearty flow of tears when a secret weight has been pressing on the mind. she was just ready for anything reviving. after the third mouthful she began to talk, and before the bottom of the bowls was reached she had smiled more than once. so her grandfather thought no harm was done, and went to bed quite comforted; and fleda climbed the steep stairs that led from his door to her little chamber just over his head. it was small and mean, immediately under the roof, with only one window. there were plenty of better rooms in the house, but fleda liked this because it kept her near her grandfather; and indeed she had always had it ever since her father's death, and never thought of taking any other. she had a fashion, this child, in whom the simplicity of practical life and the poetry of imaginative life were curiously blended,--she had a fashion of going to her window every night when the moon or stars were shining to look out for a minute or two before she went to bed; and sometimes the minutes were more than any good grandmother or aunt would have considered wholesome for little fleda in the fresh night air. but there was no one to watch or reprimand; and whatever it was that fleda read in earth or sky, the charm which held her one bright night was sure to bring her to her window the next. this evening a faint young moon lighted up but dimly the meadow and what was called the "east-hill," over-against which the window in question looked. the air was calm and mild; there was no frost to-night; the stillness was entire, and the stars shone in a cloudless sky. fleda set open the window and looked out with a face that again bore tokens of the experiences of that day. she wanted the soothing speech of nature's voice; and child as she was she could hear it. she did not know, in her simplicity, what it was that comforted and soothed her, but she stood at her window enjoying. it was so perfectly still, her fancy presently went to all those people who had hushed their various work and were now resting, or soon would be, in the unconsciousness and the helplessness of sleep. the _helplessness_,--and then that eye that never sleeps; that hand that keeps them all, that is never idle, that is the safety and the strength alike of all the earth and of them that wake or sleep upon it,-- "and if he takes care of them all, will he not take care of poor little me?" thought fleda. "oh how glad i am i know there is a god!--how glad i am i know he is such a god! and that i can trust in him; and he will make everything go right. how i forget this sometimes! but jesus does not forget his children. oh i am a happy little girl!--grandpa's saying what he did don't make it so--perhaps i shall die the first--but i hope not, for what would become of him!--but this and everything will all be arranged right, and i have nothing to do with it but to obey god and please him, and he will take care of the rest. he has forbidden _us_ to be careful about it too." with grateful tears of relief fleda shut the window and began to undress herself, her heart so lightened of its burden that her thoughts presently took leave to go out again upon pleasure excursions in various directions; and one of the last things in fleda's mind before sleep surprised her was, what a nice thing it was for any one to bow and smile so as mr. carleton did! chapter iii. i know each lane, and every alley green, dingle or bushy dell of this wild wood, and every bosky bourn from side to side my daily walks and ancient neighbourhood. milton. fleda and her grandfather had but just risen from a tolerably early breakfast the next morning, when the two young sportsmen entered the room. "ha!" said mr. ringgan,--"i declare! you're stirring betimes. come five or six miles this morning a'ready. well--that's the stuff to make sportsmen of. off for the woodcock, hey?--and i was to go with you and shew you the ground.--i declare i don't know how in the world i can do it this morning, i'm so very stiff--ten times as bad as i was yesterday. i had a window open in my room last night, i expect that must have been the cause. i don't see how i could have overlooked it, but i never gave it a thought, till this morning i found myself so lame i could hardly get out of bed.--i am very sorry, upon my word?" "i am very sorry we must lose your company, sir," said the young englishman, "and for such a cause; but as to the rest!--i dare say your directions will guide us sufficiently." "i don't know about that," said the old gentleman. "it is pretty hard to steer by a chart that is only laid down in the imagination. i set out once to go in new york from one side of the city over into the other, and the first thing i knew i found myself travelling along half a mile out of town. i had to get in a stage and ride back and take a fresh start. out at the west they say when you are in the woods you can tell which is north by the moss growing on that side of the trees; but if you're lost you'll be pretty apt to find the moss grows on _all_ sides of the trees. i couldn't make out any waymarks at all, in such a labyrinth of brick corners. well, let us see--if i tell you now it is so easy to mistake one hill for another--fleda, child, you put on your sun-bonnet and take these gentlemen back to the twenty-acre lot, and from there you can tell 'em how to go so i guess they won't mistake it." "by no means!" said mr. carleton; "we cannot give her so much trouble; it would be buying our pleasure at much too dear a rate." "tut, tut," said the old gentleman; "she thinks nothing of trouble, and the walk'll do her good. she'd like to be out all day, i believe, if she had any one to go along with, but i'm rather a stupid companion for such a spry little pair of feet. fleda, look here,--when they get to the lot they can find their own way after that. you know where the place is--where your cousin seth shot so many woodcock last year, over in mr. hurlbut's land,--when you get to the big lot you must tell these gentlemen to go straight over the hill, not squire thornton's hill, but mine, at the back of the lot,--they must go straight over it till they come to cleared land on the other side; then they must keep along by the edge of the wood, to the right, till they come to the brook; they must _cross the brook_, and follow up the opposite bank, and they'll know the ground when they come to it, or they don't deserve to. do you understand?--now run and get your hat for they ought to be off." fleda went, but neither her step nor her look shewed any great willingness to the business. "i am sure, mr. ringgan," said mr. carleton, "your little granddaughter has some reason for not wishing to take such a long walk this morning. pray allow us to go without her." "pho, pho," said the old gentleman, "she wants to go." "i guess she's skeered o' the guns," said cynthy, happy to get a chance to edge in a word before such company;--"it's that ails her." "well, well,--she must get used to it," said mr. ringgan. "here she is!" fleda had it in her mind to whisper to him a word of hope about mr. jolly; but she recollected that it was at best an uncertain hope, and that if her grandfather's thoughts were off the subject it was better to leave them so. she only kissed him for good-by, and went out with the two gentlemen. as they took up their guns mr. carleton caught the timid shunning glance her eye gave at them. "do you dislike the company of these noisy friends of ours, miss fleda?" said he. fleda hesitated, and finally said "she didn't much like to be very near them when they were fired." "put that fear away then," said he, "for they shall keep a respectful silence so long as they have the honour to be in your company. if the woodcock come about us as tame as quails our guns shall not be provoked to say anything till your departure gives them leave." fleda smiled her thanks and set forward, privately much confirmed in her opinion that mr. carleton had handsome eyes. at a little distance from the house fleda left the meadow for an old apple-orchard at the left, lying on a steep side hill. up this hill-side they toiled; and then found themselves on a ridge of table-land, stretching back for some distance along the edge of a little valley or bottom of perfectly flat smooth pasture-ground. the valley was very narrow, only divided into fields by fences running from side to side. the table-land might be a hundred feet or more above the level of the bottom, with a steep face towards it. a little way back from the edge the woods began; between them and the brow of the hill the ground was smooth and green, planted as if by art with flourishing young silver pines and once in a while a hemlock, some standing in all their luxuriance alone, and some in groups. with now and then a smooth grey rock, or large boulder-stone which had somehow inexplicably stopped on the brow of the hill instead of rolling down into what at some former time no doubt was a bed of water,--all this open strip of the table-land might have stood with very little coaxing for a piece of a gentleman's pleasure-ground. on the opposite side of the little valley was a low rocky height, covered with wood, now in the splendour of varied red and green and purple and brown and gold; between, at their feet, lay the soft quiet green meadow; and off to the left, beyond the far end of the valley, was the glory of the autumn woods again, softened in the distance. a true october sky seemed to pervade all, mildly blue, transparently pure, with that clearness of atmosphere that no other month gives us; a sky that would have conferred a patent of nobility on any landscape. the scene was certainly contracted and nowise remarkable in any of its features, but nature had shaken out all her colours over the land, and drawn a veil from the sky, and breathed through the woods and over the hill-side the very breath of health, enjoyment, and vigour. when they were about over-against the middle of the valley, mr. carleton suddenly made a pause and stood for some minutes silently looking. his two companions came to a halt on either side of him, one not a little pleased, the other a little impatient. "beautiful!" mr. carleton said at length. "yes," said fleda gravely, "i think it's a pretty place. i like it up here." "we sha'n't catch many woodcock among these pines," said young rossitur. "i wonder," said mr. carleton presently, "how any one should have called these 'melancholy days.'" "who has?" said rossitur. "a countryman of yours," said his friend glancing at him. "if he had been a countryman of mine there would have been less marvel. but here is none of the sadness of decay--none of the withering--if the tokens of old age are seen at all it is in the majestic honours that crown a glorious life--the graces of a matured and ripened character. this has nothing in common, rossitur, with those dull moralists who are always dinning decay and death into one's ears;--this speaks of life. instead of freezing all one's hopes and energies, it quickens the pulse with the desire to _do_.--'the saddest of the year'--bryant was wrong." "bryant?--oh!"--said young rossitur; "i didn't know who you were speaking of." "i believe, now i think of it, he was writing of a somewhat later time of the year,--i don't know, how all this will look in november." "i think it is very pleasant in november," said little fleda sedately. "don't you know bryant's 'death of the flowers,' rossitur?" said his friend smiling. "what have you been doing all your life?" "not studying the fine arts at west point, mr. carleton." "then sit down here and let me mend that place in your education. sit down! and i'll give you something better than woodcock. you keep a game-bag for thoughts, don't you?" mr. rossitur wished mr. carleton didn't. but he sat down, however, and listened with an unedified face; while his friend, more to please himself it must be confessed than for any other reason, and perhaps with half a notion to try fleda, repeated the beautiful words. he presently saw they were not lost upon one of his hearers; she listened intently. "it is very pretty," said rossitur when he had done. "i believe i have seen it before somewhere." "there is no 'smoky light' to day," said fleda. "no," said mr. carleton, smiling to himself. "nothing but that could improve the beauty of all this, miss fleda." "_i_ like it better as it is," said fleda. "i am surprised at that," said young rossitur. "i thought you lived on smoke." there was nothing in the words, but the tone was not exactly polite. fleda granted him neither smile nor look. "i am glad you like it up here," she went on, gravely doing the honours of the place. "i came this way because we shouldn't have so many fences to climb." "you are the best little guide possible, and i have no doubt would always lead one the right way," said mr. carleton. again the same gentle, kind, _appreciating_ look. fleda unconsciously drew a step nearer. there was a certain undefined confidence established between them. "there's a little brook down there in spring," said she pointing to a small grass grown water-course in the meadow, hardly discernible from the height,--"but there's no water in it now. it runs quite full for a while after the snow breaks up; but it dries away by june or july." "what are those trees so beautifully tinged with red and orange?--down there by the fence in the meadow." "i am not woodsman enough to inform you," replied rossitur. "those are maples," said fleda, "sugar maples. the one all orange is a hickory." "how do you know?" said mr. carleton, turning to her. "by your wit as a fairy?" "i know by the colour," said fleda modestly,--"and by the shape too." "fairy," said mr. rossitur, "if you have any of the stuff about you, i wish you would knock this gentleman over the head with your wand and put the spirit of moving into him. he is going to sit dreaming here all day." "not at all," said his friend springing up.--"i am ready for you--but i want other game than woodcock just now i confess." they walked along in silence, and had near reached the extremity of the table-land, which towards the end of the valley descended into ground of a lower level covered with woods; when mr. carleton who was a little ahead was startled by fleda's voice exclaiming in a tone of distress, "oh not the robins!"--and turning about perceived mr. rossitur standing still with levelled gun and just in the act to shoot. fleda had stopped her ears. in the same instant mr. carleton had thrown up the gun, demanding of rossitur with a singular change of expression--"what he meant!" "mean?" said the young gentleman, meeting with an astonished face the indignant fire of his companion's eyes,--"why i mean not to meddle with other people's guns, mr. carleton. what do _you_ mean?" "nothing but to protect myself." "protect yourself!" said rossitur, heating as the other cooled,--from what, in the name of wonder?" "only from having my word blown away by your fire," said carleton, smiling. "come, rossitur, recollect yourself--remember our compact." "compact! one isn't bound to keep compacts with unearthly personages," said rossitur, half sulkily and half angrily; "and besides i made none." mr. carleton turned from him very coolly and walked on. they left the table-land and the wood, entered the valley again, and passed through a large orchard, the last of the succession of fields which stretched along it. beyond this orchard the ground rose suddenly, and on the steep hill-side there had been a large plantation of indian corn. the corn was harvested, but the ground was still covered with numberless little stacks of the corn-stalks. half way up the hill stood three ancient chestnut trees; veritable patriarchs of the nut tribe they were, and respected and esteemed as patriarchs should be. "there are no 'dropping nuts' to-day, either," said fleda, to whom the sight of her forest friends in the distance probably suggested the thought, for she had not spoken for some time. "i suppose there hasn't been frost enough yet." "why you have a good memory, fairy," said mr. carleton. "do you give the nuts leave to fall of themselves?" "oh sometimes grandpa and i go a nutting," said the little girl getting lightly over the fence,--"but we haven't been this year." "then it is a pleasure to come yet?" "no," said fleda quietly, "the trees near the house have been stripped; and the only other nice place there is for us to go to, mr. didenhover let the shakers have the nuts. i sha'n't get any this year." "live in the woods and not get any nuts! that won't do, fairy. here are some fine chestnuts we are coming to--what would hinder our reaping a good harvest from them?" "i don't think there will be any on them," said fleda; "mr. didenhover has been here lately with the men getting in the coin,--i guess they have cleared the trees." "who is mr. didenhover?" "he is grandpa's man." "why didn't you bid mr. didenhover let the nuts alone?" "o he wouldn't mind if he was told," said fleda. "he does everything just as he has a mind to, and nobody can hinder him. yes--they've cleared the trees--i thought so." "don't you know of any other trees that are out of this mr. didenhover's way?" "yes," said fleda,--"i know a place where there used to be beautiful hickory trees, and some chestnuts too, i think; but it is too far off for grandpa, and i couldn't go there alone. this is the twenty-acre lot," said she, looking though she did not say it, "here i leave you." "i am glad to hear it," said her cousin. "now give us our directions, fleda, and thank you for your services." "stop a minute," said mr. carleton. "what if you and i should try to find those same hickory trees, miss fleda? will you take me with you?--or is it too long a walk?" "for me?--oh no!" said fleda with a face of awakening hope; "but," she added timidly, "you were going a shooting, sir?" "what on earth are you thinking of, carleton?" said young rossitur. "let the nuts and fleda alone, do!" "by your leave, mr. rossitur," said carleton. "my murderous intents have all left me, miss fleda,--i suppose your wand has been playing about me--and i should like nothing better than to go with you over the hills this morning. i have been a nutting many a time in my own woods at home, and i want to try it for once in the new world. will you take me?" "o thank you, sir!" said fleda,--"but we have passed the turning a long way--we must go back ever so far the same way we came to get to the place where we turn off to go up the mountain." "i don't wish for a prettier way,--if it isn't so far as to tire you, fairy?" "oh it won't tire me!" said fleda overjoyed. "carleton!" exclaimed young kossitur. "can you be so absurd! lose this splendid day for the woodcock when we may not have another while we are here!" "you are not a true sportsman, mr. rossitur," said the other coolly, "or you would know what it is to have some sympathy with the sports of others. but _you_ will have the day for the woodcock, and bring us home a great many i hope. miss fleda, suppose we give this impatient young gentleman his orders and despatch him." "i thought you were more of a sportsman," said the vexed west pointer,--"or your sympathy would be with me." "i tell you the sporting mania was never stronger on me," said the other carelessly. "something less than a rifle however will do to bring down the game i am after. we will rendezvous at the little village over yonder, unless i go home before you, which i think is more probable. au revoir!" with careless gracefulness he saluted his disconcerted companion, who moved off with ungraceful displeasure. fleda and mr. carleton then began to follow back the road they had come, in the highest good humour both. her sparkling face told him with even greater emphasis than her words, "i am so much obliged to you, sir." "how you go over fences!" said he,--"like a sprite, as you are." "o i have climbed a great many," said fleda, accepting however, again with that infallible instinct, the help which she did not need--"i shall be so glad to get some nuts, for i thought i wasn't going to have any this year; and it is so pleasant to have them to crack in the long winter evenings." "you must find them long evenings indeed, i should think." "o no we don't," said fleda. "i didn't mean they were long in _that_ way. grandpa cracks the nuts, and i pick them out, and he tells me stories; and then you know he likes to go to bed early. the evenings never seem long." "but you are not always cracking nuts." "o no, to be sure not; but there are plenty of other pleasant things to do. i dare say grandpa would have bought some nuts, but i had a great deal rather have those we get ourselves, and then the fun of getting them, besides, is the best part." fleda was tramping over the ground at a furious rate. "how many do you count upon securing to-day?" said mr. carleton gravely. "i don't know," said fleda with a business face,--"there are a good many trees, and fine large ones, and i don't believe anybody has found them out--they are so far out of the way; there ought to be a good parcel of nuts." "but," said mr. carleton with perfect gravity, "if we should be lucky enough to find a supply for your winter's store, it would be too much for you and me to bring home, miss fleda, unless you have a broomstick in the service of fairydom." "a broomstick!" said fleda. "yes,--did you never hear of the man who had a broomstick that would fetch pails of water at his bidding?" "no," said fleda laughing. "what a convenient broomstick! i wish we had one. but i know what i can do, mr. carleton,--if there should be too many nuts for us to bring home i can take cynthy afterwards and get the rest of them. cynthy and i could go--grandpa couldn't even if he was as well as usual, for the trees are in a hollow away over on the other side of the mountain. it's a beautiful place." "well," said mr. carleton smiling curiously to himself, "in that case i shall be even of more use than i had hoped. but sha'n't we want a basket, miss fleda?" "yes indeed," said fleda,--"a good large one--i am going to run down to the house for it as soon as we get to the turning-off place, if you'll be so good as to sit down and wait for me, sir,--i won't be long after it." "no," said he; "i will walk with you and leave my gun in safe quarters. you had better not travel so fast, or i am afraid you will never reach the hickory trees." fleda smiled and said there was no danger, but she slackened her pace, and they proceeded at a more reasonable rate till they reached the house. mr. carleton would not go in, placing his gun in an outer shelter. fleda dashed into the kitchen, and after a few minutes' delay came out again with a huge basket, which mr. carleton took from her without suffering his inward amusement to reach his face, and a little tin pail which she kept under her own guardianship. in vain mr. carleton offered to take it with the basket or even to put it in the basket, where he shewed her it would go very well; it must go nowhere but in fleda's own hand. fleda was in restless haste till they had passed over the already twice trodden ground and entered upon the mountain road. it was hardly a road; in some places a beaten track was visible, in others mr. carleton wondered how his little companion found her way, where nothing but fresh-fallen leaves and scattered rocks and stones could be seen, covering the whole surface. but her foot never faltered, her eye read way-marks where his saw none, she went on, he did not doubt unerringly, over the leaf-strewn and rock-strewn way, over ridge and hollow, with a steady light swiftness that he could not help admiring. once they came to a little brawling stream of spring water, hardly three inches deep anywhere but making quite a wide bed for itself in its bright way to the lowlands. mr. carleton was considering how he should contrive to get his little guide over it in safety, when quick,--over the little round stones which lifted their heads above the surface of the water, on the tips of her toes, fleda tripped across before he had done thinking about it. he told her he had no doubt now that she was a fairy and had powers of walking that did not belong to other people. fleda laughed, and on her little demure figure went picking out the way always with that little tin pail hanging at her side, like--mr. carleton busied himself in finding out similes for her. it wasn't very easy. for a long distance their way was through a thick woodland, clear of underbrush and very pleasant walking, but permitting no look at the distant country. they wound about, now uphill and now down, till at last they began to ascend in good earnest; the road became better marked, and mr. carleton came up with his guide again. both were obliged to walk more slowly. he had overcome a good deal of fleda's reserve and she talked to him now quite freely, without however losing the grace of a most exquisite modesty in everything she said or did. "what do you suppose i have been amusing myself with all this while, miss fleda?" said he, after walking for some time alongside of her in silence. "i have been trying to fancy what you looked like as you travelled on before me with that mysterious tin pail." "well what _did_ i look like?" said fleda laughing. "little red riding-hood, the first thing, carrying her grandmother the pot of butter." "ah but i haven't got any butter in this as it happens," said fleda, "and i hope you are not anything like the wolf, mr. carleton?" "i hope not," said he laughing. "well, then i thought you might be one of those young ladies the fairy-stories tell of, who set out over the world to seek their fortune. that might hold, you know, a little provision to last for a day or two till you found it." "no," said fleda,--"i should never go to seek my fortune." "why not, pray." "i don't think i should find it any the sooner." mr. carleton looked at her and could not make up his mind! whether or not she spoke wittingly. "well, but after all are we not seeking our fortune?" said he. "we are doing something very like it. now up here on the mountain top perhaps we shall find only empty trees--perhaps trees with a harvest of nuts on them." "yes, but that wouldn't be like finding a fortune," said fleda;--"if we were to come to a great heap of nuts all picked out ready for us to carry away, _that_ would be a fortune; but now if we find the trees full we have got to knock them down and gather them up and shuck them." "make our own fortunes, eh?" said mr. carleton smiling. "well people do say those are the sweetest nuts, i don't know how it may be. ha! that is fine. what an atmosphere!" they had reached a height of the mountain that cleared them a view, and over the tops of the trees they looked abroad to a very wide extent of country undulating with hill and vale,--hill and valley alike far below at their feet. fair and rich,--the gently swelling hills, one beyond another, in the patchwork dress of their many-coloured fields,--the gay hues of the woodland softened and melted into a rich autumn glow,--and far away, beyond even where this glow was sobered and lost in the distance, the faint blue line of the catskill; faint, but clear and distinct through the transparent air. such a sky!--of such etherealized purity as if made for spirits to travel in and tempting them to rise and free themselves from the soil; and the stillness,--like nature's hand laid upon the soul, bidding it think. in view of all that vastness and grandeur, man's littleness does bespeak itself. and yet, for every one, the voice of the scene is not more humbling to pride than rousing to all that is really noble and strong in character. not only "what thou art,"--but "what thou mayest be!" what place thou oughtest to fill,--what work thou hast to do,--in this magnificent world. a very extended landscape however genial is also sober in its effect on the mind. one seems to emerge from the narrowness of individual existence, and take a larger view of life as well as of creation. perhaps mr. carleton felt it so, for after his first expression of pleasure he stood silently and gravely looking for a long time. little fleda's eye loved it too, but she looked her fill and then sat down on a stone to await her companion's pleasure, glancing now and then up at his face which gave her no encouragement to interrupt him. it was gravely and even gloomily thoughtful. he stood so long without stirring that poor fleda began to have sad thoughts of the possibility of gathering all the nuts from the hickory trees, and she heaved a very gentle sigh once or twice; but the dark blue eye which she with reason admired remained fixed on the broad scene below, as if it were reading or trying to read there a difficult lesson. and when at last he turned and began to go up the path again he kept the same face, and went moodily swinging his arm up and down, as if in disturbed thought. fleda was too happy to be moving to care for her companion's silence; she would have compounded for no more conversation so they might but reach the nut trees. but before they had got quite so far mr. carleton broke the silence, speaking in precisely the same tone and manner he had used the last time. "look here, fairy," said he, pointing to a small heap of chestnut burs piled at the foot of a tree,--"here's a little fortune for you already." "that's a squirrel!" said fleda, looking at the place very attentively. "there has been nobody else here. he has put them together, ready to be carried off to his nest." "we'll save him that trouble," said mr. carleton. "little rascal! he's a didenhover in miniature." "oh no!" said fleda; "he had as good a right to the nuts i am sure as we have, poor fellow.--mr. carleton--" mr. carleton was throwing the nuts into the basket. at the anxious and undecided tone in which his name was pronounced he stopped and looked up, at a very wistful face. "mightn't we leave these nuts till we come back? if we find the trees over here full we sha'n't want them; and if we don't, these would be only a handful--" "and the squirrel would be disappointed?" said mr. carleton smiling. "you would rather we should leave them to him?" fleda said yes, with a relieved face, and mr. carleton still smiling emptied his basket of the few nuts he had put in, and they walked on. in a hollow, rather a deep hollow, behind the crest of the hill, as fleda had said, they came at last to a noble group of large hickory trees, with one or two chestnuts standing in attendance on the outskirts. and also as fleda had said, or hoped, the place was so far from convenient access that nobody had visited them; they were thick hung with fruit. if the spirit of the game had been wanting or failing in mr. carleton, it must have roused again into full life at the joyous heartiness of fleda's exclamations. at any rate no boy could have taken to the business better. he cut, with her permission, a stout long pole in the woods; and swinging himself lightly into one of the trees shewed that he was a master in the art of whipping them. fleda was delighted but not surprised; for from the first moment of mr. carleton's proposing to go with her she bad been privately sure that he would not prove an inactive or inefficient ally. by whatever slight tokens she might read this, in whatsoever fine characters of the eye, or speech, or manner, she knew it; and knew it just as well before they reached the hickory trees as she did afterwards. when one of the trees was well stripped the young gentleman mounted into another, while fleda set herself to hull and gather up the nuts under the one first beaten. she could make but little headway however compared with her companion; the nuts fell a great deal faster than she could put them in her basket. the trees were heavy laden and mr. carleton seemed determined to have the whole crop; from the second tree he went to the third. fleda was bewildered with her happiness; this was doing business in style. she tried to calculate what the whole quantity would be, but it went beyond her; one basketful would not take it, nor two, not three,--it wouldn't _begin to_, fleda said to herself. she went on hulling and gathering with all possible industry. after the third tree was finished mr. carleton threw down his pole, and resting himself upon the ground at the foot told fleda he would wait a few moments before he began again. fleda thereupon left off her work too, and going for her little tin pail presently offered it to him temptingly stocked with pieces of apple-pie. when he had smilingly taken one, she next brought him a sheet of white paper with slices of young cheese. "no, thank you," said he. "cheese is very good with apple-pie," said fleda competently. "is it?" said he laughing. "well--upon that--i think you would teach me a good many things, miss fleda, if i were to stay here long enough." "i wish you would stay and try, sir," said fleda, who did not know exactly what to make of the shade of seriousness which crossed his face. it was gone almost instantly. "i think anything is better eaten out in the woods than it is at home," said fleda. "well i don't know," said her friend. "i have no doubt that is the case with cheese and apple-pie, and especially under hickory trees which one has been contending with pretty sharply. if a touch of your wand, fairy, could transform one of these shells into a goblet of lafitte or amontillado we should have nothing to wish for." 'amontillado' was hebrew to fleda, but 'goblet' was intelligible. "i am sorry!" she said,--"i don't know where there is any spring up here,--but we shall come to one going down the mountain." "do you know where all the springs are?" "no, not all, i suppose," said fleda, "but i know a good many. i have gone about through the woods so much, and i always look for the springs." "and who roams about through the woods with you?" "oh nobody but grandpa," said fleda. "he used to be out with me a great deal, but he can't go much now,--this year or two." "don't you go to school?" "o no!" said fleda smiling. "then your grandfather teaches you at home?" "no,"--said fleda,--"father used to teach me,--grandpa doesn't teach me much." "what do you do with yourself all day long?" "o plenty of things," said fleda, smiling again. "i read, and talk to grandpa, and go riding, and do a great many things." "has your home always been here, fairy?" said mr. carleton after a few minutes' pause. fleda said "no sir," and there stopped; and then seeming to think that politeness called upon her to say more, she added, "i have lived with grandpa ever since father left me here when he was going away among the indians,--i used to be always with him before." "and how long ago is that?" "it is--four years, sir;--more, i believe. he was sick when he came back, and we never went away from queechy again." mr. carleton looked again silently at the child, who had given him these pieces of information with a singular grave propriety of manner, and even as it were reluctantly. "and what do you read, fairy?" he said after a minute;--"stories of fairy-land?" "no," said fleda, "i haven't any. we haven't a great many books--there are only a few up in the cupboard, and the encyclopædia; father had some books, but they are locked up in a chest. but there is a great deal in the encyclopædia." "the encyclopædia!" said mr. carleton;--"what do you read in that? what can you find to like there?" "i like all about the insects, and birds and animals; and about flowers,--and lives of people, and curious things. there are a great many in it." "and what are the other books in the cupboard, which you read?" "there's quentin durward," said fleda,--"and rob roy, and guy mannering in two little bits of volumes; and the knickerbocker, and the christian's magazine, and an odd volume of redgauntlet, and the beauties of scotland." "and have you read all these, miss fleda?" said her companion, commanding his countenance with difficulty. "i haven't read quite all of the christian's magazine, nor all of the beauties of scotland." "all the rest?" "o yes," said fleda,--"and two or three times over. and there are three great red volumes besides, robertson's history of something, i believe. i haven't read that either." "and which of them all do you like the best?" "i don't know," said fleda,--"i don't know but i like to read the encyclopædia as well as any of them. and then i have the newspapers to read too." "i think, miss fleda," said mr. carleton a minute after, "you had better let me take you with my mother over the sea, when we go back again,--to paris." "why, sir?" "you know," said he half smiling, "your aunt wants you, and has engaged my mother to bring you with her if she can." "i know it," said fleda. "but i am not going." it was spoken not rudely but in a tone of quiet determination. "aren't you too tired, sir?" said she gently, when she saw mr. carleton preparing to launch into the remaining hickory trees. "not i!" said he. "i am not tired till i have done, fairy. and besides, cheese is workingman's fare, you know, isn't it?" "no," said fleda gravely,--"i don't think it is." "what then?" said mr. carleton, stopping as he was about to spring into the tree, and looking at her with a face of comical amusement. "it isn't what _our_ men live on," said fleda, demurely eying the fallen nuts, with a head full of business. they set both to work again with renewed energy, and rested not till the treasures of the trees had been all brought to the ground, and as large a portion of them as could be coaxed and shaken into fleda's basket had been cleared from the hulls and bestowed there. but there remained a vast quantity. these with a good deal of labour mr. carleton and fleda gathered into a large heap in rather a sheltered place by the side of a rock, and took what measures they might to conceal them. this was entirely at fleda's instance. "you and your maid cynthia will have to make a good many journeys, miss fleda, to get all these home, unless you can muster a larger basket." "o _that's_ nothing," said fleda. "it will be all fun. i don't care how many times we have to come. you are _very_ good, mr. carleton." "do you think so?" said he. "i wish i did. i wish you would make your wand rest on me, fairy." "my wand?" said fleda. "yes--you know your grandfather says you are a fairy and carry a wand. what does he say that for, miss fleda?" fleda said she supposed it was because he loved her so much; but the rosy smile with which she said it would have let her hearer, if he had needed enlightening, far more into the secret than she was herself. and if the simplicity in her face had not been equal to the wit, mr. carleton would never have ventured the look of admiration he bestowed on her. he knew it was safe. _approbation_ she saw, and it made her smile the rosier; but the admiration was a step beyond her; fleda could make nothing of it. they descended the mountain now with a hasty step, for the day was wearing well on. at the spot where he had stood so long when they went up, mr. carleton paused again for a minute. in mountain scenery every hour makes a change. the sun was lower now, the lights and shadows more strongly contrasted, the sky of a yet calmer blue, cool and clear towards the horizon. the scene said still the same that it had said a few hours before, with a touch more of sadness; it seemed to whisper, "all things have an end--thy time may not be for ever--do what thou wouldest do--'while ye have light believe in the light that ye may be children of the light.'" whether mr. carleton read it so or not, he stood for a minute motionless and went down the mountain looking so grave that fleda did not venture to speak to him, till they reached the neighbourhood of the spring. "what are you searching for, miss fleda?" said her friend. she was making a busy quest here and there by the side of the little stream. "i was looking to see if i could find a mullein leaf," said fleda. "a mullein leaf? what do you want it for?" "i want it--to make a drinking cup of," said fleda, her intent bright eyes peering keenly about in every direction. "a mullein leaf! that is too rough; one of these golden leaves--what are they?--will do better, won't it?" "that is hickory," said fleda. "no; the mullein leaf is the best because it holds the water so nicely.--here it is!--" and folding up one of the largest leaves into a most artist-like cup, she presented it to mr. carleton. "for me, was all that trouble?" said he. "i don't deserve it." "you wanted something, sir," said fleda. "the water is very cold and nice." he stooped to the bright little stream and filled his rural goblet several times. "i never knew what it was to have a fairy for my cup-bearer before," said he. "that was better than anything bordeaux or xeres ever sent forth." he seemed to have swallowed his seriousness, or thrown it away with the mullein leaf. it was quite gone. "this is the best spring in all grandpa's ground," said fleda. "the water is as good as can be." "how came you to be such a wood and water spirit? you must live out of doors. do the trees ever talk to you? i sometimes think they do to me." "i don't know--i think _i_ talk to _them_," said fleda. "it's the same thing," said her companion smiling. "such beautiful woods!" "were you never in the country before in the fall, sir?" "not here--in my own country often enough--but the woods in england do not put on such a gay face, miss fleda, when they are going to be stripped of their summer dress--they look sober upon it--the leaves wither and grow brown and the woods have a dull russet colour. your trees are true yankees--they 'never say die!'" "why, are the americans more obstinate than the english?" said fleda. "it is difficult to compare unknown quantities," said mr. carleton laughing and shaking his head. "i see you have good ears for the key-note of patriotism." fleda looked a little hard at him, but he did not explain; and indeed they were hurrying along too much for talking, leaping from stone to stone, and running down the smooth orchard slope. when they reached the last fence, but a little way from the house, fleda made a resolute pause. "mr. carleton--" said she. mr. carleton put down his basket, and looked in some surprise at the hesitating anxious little face that looked up at him. "won't you please not say anything to grandpa about my going away?" "why not, fairy?" said he kindly. "because i don't think i ought to go." "but may it not be possible," said he, "that your grandfather can judge better in the matter than you can do?" "no," said fleda, "i don't think he can. he would do anything he thought would be most for my happiness; but it wouldn't be for my happiness," she said with an unsteady lip,--"i don't know what he would do if i went!" "you think he would have no sunshine if your wand didn't touch him?" said mr. carleton smiling. "no sir," said fleda gravely,--"i don't think that,--but won't you please, mr. carleton, not to speak about it?" "but are you sure," he said, sitting down on a stone hard by and taking one of her hands, "are you sure that you would not like to go with us? i wish you would change your mind about it. my mother will love you very much, and i will take the especial charge of you till we give you to your aunt in paris;--if the wind blows a little too rough i will always put myself between it and you," he added smiling. fleda smiled faintly, but immediately begged mr. carleton "not to say anything to put it into her grandfather's head." "it must be there already, i think, miss fleda; but at any rate you know my mother must perform her promise to your aunt mrs. rossitur; and she would not do that without letting your grandfather know how glad she would be to take you." fleda stood silent a moment, and then with a touching look of waiting patience in her sweet face suffered mr. carleton to help her over the fence; and they went home. to fleda's unspeakable surprise it was found to be past four o'clock, and cynthy had supper ready. mr. ringgan with great cordiality invited mr. carleton to stay with them, but he could not; his mother would expect him to dinner. "where is your mother?" "at montepoole, sir; we have been to niagara, and came this way on our return; partly that my mother might fulfil the promise she made mrs. rossitur--to let you know, sir, with how much pleasure she will take charge of your little granddaughter and convey her to her friends in paris, if you can think it best to let her go." "hum!--she is very kind." said mr. ringgan, with a look of grave and not unmoved consideration which fleda did not in the least like;--"how long will you stay at montepoole, sir?" it might be several days, mr. carleton said. "hum--you have given up this day to fleda, mr. carleton,--suppose you take to-morrow for the game, and come here and try our country fare when you have got through shooting?--you and young mr. rossitur?--and i'll think over this question and let you know about it." fleda was delighted to see that her friend accepted this invitation with apparent pleasure. "you will be kind enough to give my respects to your mother," mr. ringgan went on, "and thanks for her kind offer. i may perhaps--i don't know--avail myself of it. if anything should bring mrs. carleton this way we should like to see her. i am glad to see my friends," he said, shaking the young gentleman's hand,--"as long as i have a house to ask 'em to!" "that will be for many years, i trust," said mr. carleton respectfully, struck with something in the old gentleman's manner. "i don't know, sir!" said mr. ringgan, with again the dignified look of trouble;--"it may not be!--i wish you good day, sir." chapter iv. a mind that in a calm angelic mood of happy wisdom, meditating good, beholds, of all from her high powers required, much done, and much designed, and more desired. wordsworth. "i've had such a delicious day, dear grandpa,"--said little fleda as they sat at supper;--"you can't think how kind mr. carleton has been." "has he?--well dear--i'm glad on't,--he seems a very nice young man." "he's a smart-lookin' feller," said cynthy, who was pouring out the tea. "and we have got the greatest quantity of nuts!" fleda went on,--"enough for all winter. cynthy and i will have to make ever so many journeys to fetch 'em all; and they are splendid big ones. don't you say anything to mr. didenhover, cynthy." "i don't desire to meddle with mr. didenhover unless i've got to," said cynthy with an expression of considerable disgust. "you needn't give no charges to me." "but you'll go with me, cynthy?" "i s'pose i'll have to," said miss gall dryly, after a short interval of sipping tea and helping herself to sweetmeats. this lady had a pervading acidity of face and temper, but it was no more. to take her name as standing for a fair setting forth of her character would be highly injurious to a really respectable composition, which the world's neglect (there was no other imaginable cause) had soured a little. almost fleda's first thought on coming home had been about mr. jolly. but she knew very well, without asking, that he had not been there; she would not touch the subject. "i haven't had such a fine day of nutting in a great while, grandpa," she said again; "and you never saw such a good hand as mr. carleton is at whipping the trees." "how came he to go with you?" "i don't know,--i suppose it was to please me, in the first place; but i am sure he enjoyed it himself; and he liked the pie and cheese, too, cynthy." "where did your cousin go?" "o he went off after the woodcock. i hope he didn't find any." "what do you think of those two young men, fairy?" "in what way, grandpa?" "i mean, which of them do you like the best?" "mr. carleton." "but t'other one's your cousin," said mr. ringgan, bending forward and examining his little granddaughter's face with a curious pleased look, as he often did when expecting an answer from her. "yes," said fleda, "but he isn't so much of a gentleman." "how do you know that?" "i don't think he is," said fleda quietly. "but why. fairy?" "he doesn't know how to keep his word as well, grandpa." "ay, ay? let's hear about that," said mr. ringgan. a little reluctantly, for cynthia was present, fleda told the story of the robins, and how mr. carleton would not let the gun be fired. "wa'n't your cousin a little put out by that?" "they were both put out," said fleda, "mr. carleton was very angry for a minute, and then mr. rossitur was angry, but i think he could have been angrier if he had chosen." mr. ringgan laughed, and then seemed in a sort of amused triumph about something. "well dear!" he remarked after a while,--"you'll never buy wooden nutmegs, i expect." fleda laughed and hoped not, and asked him why he said so. but he didn't tell her. "mr. ringgan," said cynthy, "hadn't i better run up the hill after supper, and ask mis' plumfield to come down and help to-morrow? i suppose you'll want considerable of a set out; and if both them young men comes you'll want some more help to entertain 'em than i can give you, it's likely?" "do so--do so," said the old gentleman. "tell her who i expect, and ask her if she can come and help you, and me too." "o and i'll go with you, cynthy," said fleda. "i'll get aunt miriam to come, i know." "i should think you'd be run off your legs already, flidda," said miss cynthia; "what ails you to want to be going again?" but this remonstrance availed nothing. supper was hurried through, and leaving the table standing cynthia and fleda set off to "run up the hill." they were hardly a few steps from the gate when they heard the clatter of horses' hoofs behind them, and the two young gentlemen came riding hurriedly past, having joined company and taken their horses at queechy run. rossitur did not seem to see his little cousin and her companion; but the doffed cap and low inclination of the other rider as they flew by called up a smile and blush of pleasure to fleda's face; and the sound of their horses' hoofs had died away in the distance before the light had faded from her cheeks or she was quite at home to cynthia's observations. she was possessed with the feeling, what a delightful thing it was to have people do things in such a manner. "that was your cousin, wa'n't it?" said cynthy, when the spell was off. "no," said fleda, "the other one was my cousin." "well--i mean one of them fellers that went by. he's a soldier, ain't he?' "an officer," said fleda. "well, it does give a man an elegant look to be in the militie, don't it? i should admire to have a cousin like that. it's dreadful becoming to have that--what is it they call it?--to let the beard grow over the mouth. i s'pose they can't do that without they be in the army can they?" "i don't know," said fleda. "i hope not. i think it is very ugly." "do you? oh!--i admire it. it makes a man look so spry!" a few hundred yards from mr. ringgan's gate the road began to wind up a very long heavy hill. just at the hill's foot it crossed by a rude bridge the bed of a noisy brook that came roaring down from the higher grounds, turning sundry mill and factory wheels in its way. about half way up the hill one of these was placed, belonging to a mill for sawing boards. the little building stood alone, no other in sight, with a dark background of wood rising behind it on the other side of the brook; the stream itself running smoothly for a small space above the mill, and leaping down madly below, as if it disdained its bed and would clear at a bound every impediment in its way to the sea. when the mill was not going the quantity of water that found its way down the hill was indeed very small, enough only to keep up a pleasant chattering with the stones; but as soon as the stream was allowed to gather all its force and run free its loquacity was such that it would prevent a traveller from suspecting his approach to the mill, until, very near, the monotonous hum of its saw could be heard. this was a place fleda dearly loved. the wild sound of the waters and the lonely keeping of the scene, with the delicious smell of the new-sawn boards, and the fascination of seeing the great logs of wood walk up to the relentless, tireless up-and-down-going steel; as the generations of men in turn present themselves to the course of those sharp events which are the teeth of time's saw; until all of a sudden the master spirit, the man-regulator of this machinery, would perform some conjuration on lever and wheel,--and at once, as at the touch of an enchanter, the log would be still and the saw stay its work;--the business of life came to a stand, and the romance of the little brook sprang up again. fleda never tired of it--never. she would watch the saw play and stop, and go on again; she would have her ears dinned with the hoarse clang of the machinery, and then listen to the laugh of the mill-stream; she would see with untiring patience one board after another cut and cast aside, and log succeed to log; and never turned weary away from that mysterious image of time's doings. fleda had besides, without knowing it, the eye of a painter. in the lonely hillside, the odd-shaped little mill, with its accompaniments of wood and water, and the great logs of timber lying about the ground in all directions and varieties of position, there was a picturesque charm for her, where the country people saw nothing but business and a place fit for it. their hands grew hard where her mind was refining. where they made dollars and cents, she was growing rich in stores of thought and associations of beauty. how many purposes the same thing serves! [illustration: "who's got it now, cynthy?"] "that had ought to be your grandpa's mill this minute," observed cynthy. "i wish it was!" sighed fleda. "who's got it now, cynthy?" "o it's that chap mcgowan, i expect;--he's got pretty much the hull of everything. i told mr. ringgan i wouldn't let him have it if it was me, at the time. your grandpa'd be glad to get it back now, i guess." fleda guessed so too; but also guessed that miss gall was probably very far from being possessed of the whole rationale of the matter. so she made her no answer. after reaching the brow of the hill the road continued on a very gentle ascent towards a little settlement half a quarter of a mile off; passing now and then a few scattered cottages or an occasional mill or turner's shop. several mills and factories, with a store and a very few dwelling-houses were all the settlement; not enough to entitle it to the name of a village. beyond these and the mill-ponds, of which in the course of the road there were three or four, and with a brief intervening space of cultivated fields, a single farm house stood alone; just upon the borders of a large and very fair sheet of water from which all the others had their supply.--so large and fair that nobody cavilled at its taking the style of a lake and giving its own pretty name of deepwater both to the settlement and the farm that half embraced it. this farm was seth plumfield's. at the garden gate fleda quitted cynthy and rushed forward to meet her aunt, whom she saw coming round the corner of the house with her gown pinned up behind her from attending to some domestic concern among the pigs, the cows, or the poultry. "o aunt miriam," said fleda eagerly, "we are going to have company to tea to-morrow--won't you come and help us?" aunt miriam laid her hands upon fleda's shoulders and looked at cynthy. "i came up to see if you wouldn't come down to-morrow, mis' plumfield," said that personage, with her usual dry business tone, always a little on the wrong side of sweet;--"your brother has taken a notion to ask two young fellers from the pool to supper, and they're grand folks i s'pose, and have got to have a fuss made for 'em. i don't know what mr. ringgan was thinkin' of, or whether he thinks i have got anything to do or not; but anyhow they're a comin', i s'pose, and must have something to eat; and i thought the best thing i could do would be to come and get you into the works, if i could. i should feel a little queer to have nobody but me to say nothin' to them at the table." "ah do come, aunt miriam!" said fleda; "it will be twice as pleasant if you do; and besides, we want to have everything very nice, you know." aunt miriam smiled at fleda, and inquired of miss gall what she had in the house. "why i don't know, mis' plumfield," said the lady, while fleda threw her arms round her aunt and thanked her,--"there ain't nothin' particler--pork and beef and the old story. i've got some first-rate pickles. i calculated to make some sort o' cake in the morning." "any of those small hams left?" "not a bone of 'em--these six weeks, _i_ don't see how they've gone, for my part. i'd lay any wager there were two in the smoke-house when i took the last one out. if mr. didenhover was a little more like a weasel i should think he'd been in." "have you cooked that roaster i sent down?" "no, mis' plumfield, i ha'n't--it's such a plaguy sight of trouble!" said cynthy with a little apologetic giggle;--"i was keepin' it for some day when i hadn't much to do." "i'll take the trouble of it. i'll be down bright and early in the morning, and we'll see what's best to do. how's your last churning, cynthy?" "well--i guess it's pretty middlin,' mis' plumfield." "'tisn't anything very remarkable, aunt miriam," said fleda shaking her head. "well, well," said mrs. plumfield smiling, "run away down home now, and i'll come to-morrow, and i guess we'll fix it. but who is it that grandpa has asked?" fleda and cynthy both opened at once. "one of them is my cousin, aunt miriam, that was at west point, and the other is the nicest english gentleman you ever saw--you will like him very much--he has been with me getting nuts all to-day." "they're a smart enough couple of chaps," said cynthia; "they look as if they lived where money was plenty." "well i'll come to-morrow," repeated mrs. plumfield, "and we'll see about it. good night, dear!" she took fleda's head in both her hands and gave her a most affectionate kiss; and the two petitioners set off homewards again. aunt miriam was not at all like her brother, in feature, though the moral characteristics suited the relationship sufficiently well. there was the expression of strong sense and great benevolence; the unbending uprightness, of mind and body at once; and the dignity of an essentially noble character, not the same as mr. ringgan's, but such as well became his sister. she had been brought up among the quakers, and though now and for many years a staunch presbyterian, she still retained a tincture of the calm efficient gentleness of mind and manner that belongs so inexplicably to them. more womanly sweetness than was in mr. ringgan's blue eye a woman need not wish to have; and perhaps his sister's had not so much. there was no want of it in her heart, nor in her manner, but the many and singular excellencies of her character were a little overshadowed by super-excellent housekeeping. not a taint of the littleness that sometimes grows therefrom,--not a trace of the narrowness of mind that over-attention to such pursuits is too apt to bring;--on every important occasion aunt miriam would come out free and unshackled from all the cobweb entanglements of housewifery; she would have tossed housewifery to the winds if need were (but it never was, for in a new sense she always contrived to make both ends meet). it was only in the unbroken everyday course of affairs that aunt miriam's face shewed any tokens of that incessant train of _small cares_ which had never left their impertinent footprints upon the broad high brow of her brother. mr. ringgan had no affinity with small cares; deep serious matters received his deep and serious consideration; but he had as dignified a disdain of trifling annoyances or concernments as any great mastiff or newfoundlander ever had for the yelping of a little cur. chapter v. ynne london citye was i borne, of parents of grete note; my fadre dydd a nobile arms emblazon onne hys cote. chatterton. in the snuggest and best private room of the house at montepoole a party of ladies and gentlemen were gathered, awaiting the return of the sportsmen. the room had been made as comfortable as any place could be in a house built for "the season," after the season was past. a splendid fire of hickory logs was burning brilliantly and making amends for many deficiencies; the closed wooden shutters gave the reality if not the look of warmth, for though the days might be fine and mild the mornings and evenings were always very cool up there among the mountains; and a table stood at the last point of readiness for having dinner served. they only waited for the lingering woodcock-hunters. it was rather an elderly party, with the exception of one young man whose age might match that of the absent two. he was walking up and down the room with somewhat the air of having nothing to do with himself. another gentleman, much older, stood warming his back at the fire, feeling about his jaws and chin with one hand and looking at the dinner-table in a sort of expectant reverie. the rest, three ladies, sat quietly chatting. all these persons were extremely different from one another in individual characteristics, and all had the unmistakable mark of the habit of good society; as difficult to locate and as easy to recognize as the sense of _freshness_ which some ladies have the secret of diffusing around themselves;--no definable sweetness, nothing in particular, but making a very agreeable impression. one of these ladies, the mother of the perambulating young officer (he was a class-mate of rossitur's), was extremely plain in feature, even more than _ordinary_. this plainness was not however devoid of sense, and it was relieved by an uncommon amount of good-nature and kindness of heart. in her son the sense deepened into acuteness, and the kindness of heart retreated, it is to be hoped, into some hidden recess of his nature; for it very rarely shewed itself in open expression. that is, to an eye keen in reading the natural signs of emotion; for it cannot be said that his manner had any want of amenity or politeness. the second lady, the wife of the gentleman on the hearth-rug, or rather on the spot where the hearth-rug should have been, was a strong contrast to this mother and son; remarkably pretty, delicate and even lovely; with a black eye however that though in general soft could shew a mischievous sparkle upon occasion; still young, and one of those women who always were and always will be pretty and delicate at any age. the third had been very handsome, and was still a very elegant woman, but her face had seen more of the world's wear and tear. it had never known placidity of expression beyond what the habitual command of good-breeding imposed. she looked exactly what she was, a perfect woman of the world. a very good specimen,--for mrs. carleton had sense and cultivation and even feeling enough to play the part very gracefully; yet her mind was bound in the shackles of "the world's" tyrannical forging and had never been free; and her heart bowed submissively to the same authority. "here they are! welcome home," exclaimed this lady, as her son and his friend at length made their appearance;--"welcome home--we are all famishing; and i don't know why in the world we waited for you, for i am sure you don't deserve it. what success? what success, mr. rossitur?" "'faith ma'am, there's little enough to boast of, as far as i am concerned. mr. carleton may speak for himself." "i am very sorry, ma'am, you waited for me," said that gentleman. "i am a delinquent i acknowledge. the day came to an end before i was at all aware of it." "it would not do to flatter you so far as to tell you why we waited," said mrs. evelyn's soft voice. and then perceiving that the gentleman at whom she was looking gave her no answer she turned to the other. "how many woodcock, mr. rossitur?" "nothing to shew, ma'am," he replied. "didn't see a solitary one. i heard some partridges, but i didn't mean to have room in my bag for them." "did you find the right ground, rossitur?" "i had a confounded long tramp after it if i didn't," said the discomfited sportsman, who did not seem to have yet recovered his good humour. "were you not together?" said mrs. carleton. "where were you, guy?" "following the sport another way, ma'am; i had very good success too." "what's the total?" said mr. evelyn. "how much game did you bag?" "really, sir, i didn't count. i can only answer for a bag full." "ladies and gentlemen!" cried rossitur, bursting forth,--"what will you say when i tell you that mr. carleton deserted me and the sport in a most unceremonious manner, and that he,--the cynical philosopher, the reserved english gentleman, the gay man of the world,--you are all of 'em by turns, aren't you, carleton?--_he!_--has gone and made a very cavaliero servante of himself to a piece of rusticity, and spent all to-day in helping a little girl pick up chestnuts!" "mr. carleton would be a better man if he were to spend a good many more days in the same manner," said that gentleman, dryly enough. but the entrance of dinner put a stop to both laughter and questioning for a time, all of the party being well disposed to their meat. when the pickerel from the lakes, and the poultry and half-kept joints had had their share of attention, and a pair of fine wild ducks were set on the table, the tongues of the party found something to do besides eating. "we have had a very satisfactory day among the shakers, guy," said mrs. carleton; "and we have arranged to drive to kenton to-morrow--i suppose you will go with us?" "with pleasure, mother, but that i am engaged to dinner about five or six miles in the opposite direction." "engaged to dinner!--what with this old gentleman where you went last night? and you too, mr. rossitur?" "i have made no promise, ma'am, but i take it i must go." "vexatious! is the little girl going with us, guy?" "i don't know yet--i half apprehend, yes; there seems to be a doubt in her grandfather's mind, not whether he can let her go, but whether he can keep her, and that looks like it." "is it your little cousin who proved the successful rival of the woodcock to-day, carleton?" said mrs. evelyn. "what is she?" "i don't know, ma'am, upon my word. i presume carleton will tell you she is something uncommon and quite remarkable." "is she, mr. carleton?" "what, ma'am?" "uncommon?" "very." "come! that _is_ something, from _you_," said rossitur's brother officer, lieut. thorn. "what's the uncommonness?" said mrs. thorn, addressing herself rather to mr. rossitur as she saw mr. carleton's averted eye;--"is she handsome, mr. rossitur?" "i can't tell you, i am sure, ma'am. i saw nothing but a nice child enough in a calico frock, just such as one would see in any farm-house. she rushed into the room when she was first called to see us, from somewhere in distant regions, with an immense iron ladle a foot and a half long in her hand with which she had been performing unknown feats of housewifery; and they had left her head still encircled with a halo of kitchen-smoke. if as they say 'coming events cast their shadows before,' she was the shadow of supper." "oh carleton, carleton!" said mrs. evelyn, but in a tone of very gentle and laughing reproof,--"for shame! what a picture! and of your cousin!" "is she a pretty child, guy?" said mrs. carleton, who did not relish her son's grave face. "no ma'am--something more than that." "how old?" "about ten or eleven." "that's an ugly age." "she will never be at an ugly age." "what style of beauty?" "the highest--that degree of mould and finish which belongs only to the finest material." "that is hardly the kind of beauty one would expect to see in such a place," said mrs. carleton. "from one side of her family to be sure she has a right to it." "i have seen very few examples of it anywhere," said her son. "who were her parents?" said mrs. evelyn. "her mother was mrs. rossitur's sister,--her father--" "amy carleton!" exclaimed mrs. evelyn,--"o i knew her! was amy carleton her mother? o i didn't know whom you were talking of. she was one of my dearest friends. her daughter may well be handsome--she was one of the most lovely persons i ever knew; in body and mind both. o i loved amy carleton very much. i must see this child." "i don't know who her father was," mrs. carleton went on. "o her father was major ringgan," said mrs. evelyn. "i never saw him, but i have heard him spoken of in very high terms. i always heard that amy married very well." "major ringgan!" said mrs. thorn;--"his name is very well known; he was very distinguished." "he was a self-made man entirely," said mrs. evelyn, in a tone that conveyed a good deal more than the simple fact. "yes, he was a self made man," said mrs. thorn, "but i should never think of that where a man distinguishes himself so much; he was very distinguished." "yes, and for more than officer-like qualities," said mrs. evelyn. "i have heard his personal accomplishments as a gentleman highly praised." "so that little miss ringgan's right to be a beauty may be considered clearly made out," said mr. thorn. "it is one of those singular cases," said mr. carleton, "where purity of blood proves itself, and one has no need to go back to past generations to make any inquiry concerning it." "hear him!" cried rossitur;--"and for the life of me i could see nothing of all this wonder. her face is not at all striking." "the wonder is not so much in what it _is_ as in what it indicates," said mr. carleton. "what does it indicate?" said his mother. "suppose you were to ask me to count the shades of colour in a rainbow," answered he. "hear him!" cried thorn again. "well, i hope she will go with us and we shall have a chance of seeing her," said mrs. carleton. "if she were only a few years older it is my belief you would see enough of her, ma'am," said young rossitur. the haughty coldness of mr. carleton's look at this speech could not be surpassed. "but she has beauty of feature too, has she not?" mrs. carleton asked again of her son. "yes, in very high degree. the contour of the eye and brow i never saw finer." "it is a little odd," said mrs. evelyn with the slightest touch of a piqued air, (she had some daughters at home)--"that is a kind of beauty one is apt to associate with high breeding, and certainly you very rarely see it anywhere else; and major ringgan, however distinguished and estimable, as i have no doubt he was,--and this child must have been brought up with no advantages, here in the country." "my dear madam," said mr. carleton smiling a little, "this high breeding is a very fine thing, but it can neither be given nor bequeathed; and we cannot entail it." "but it can be taught, can't it?" "if it could be taught it is to be hoped it would be oftener learned," said the young man dryly. "but what do we mean, then, when we talk of the high breeding of certain classes--and families? and why are we not disappointed when we look to find it in connection with certain names and positions in society?" "i do not know," said mr. carleton. "you don't mean to say, i suppose, mr. carleton," said thorn bridling a little, "that it is a thing independent of circumstances, and that there is no value in blood?" "very nearly--answering the question as you understand it." "may i ask how you understand it?" "as you do, sir." "is there no high breeding then in the world?" asked good-natured mrs. thorn, who could be touched on this point of family. "there is very little of it. what is commonly current under the name is merely counterfeit notes which pass from hand to hand of those who are bankrupt in the article." "and to what serve then," said mrs. evelyn colouring, "the long lists of good old names which even you, mr. carleton, i know, do not disdain?" "to endorse the counterfeit notes," said mr. carleton smiling. "guy you are absurd!" said his mother. "i will not sit at the table and listen to you if you talk such stuff. what do you mean?" "i beg your pardon, mother, you have misunderstood me," said he seriously. "mind, i have been talking, not of ordinary conformity to what the world requires, but of that fine perfection of mental and moral constitution which in its own natural necessary acting leaves nothing to be desired, in every occasion or circumstance of life. it is the pure gold, and it knows no tarnish; it is the true coin, and it gives what it proffers to give; it is the living plant ever-blossoming, and not the cut and art-arranged flowers. it is a thing of the mind altogether; and where nature has not curiously prepared the soil it is in vain to try to make it grow. _this_ is not very often met with?" "no indeed," said mrs. carleton;--"but you are so fastidiously nice in all your notions!--at this rate nothing will ever satisfy you." "i don't think it is so very uncommon," said mrs. thorn. "it seems to me one sees as much of it as can be expected, mr. carleton." mr. carleton pared his apple with an engrossed air. "o no, mrs. thorn," said mrs. evelyn, "i don't agree with you--i don't think you often see such a combination as mr. carleton has been speaking of--very rarely!--but, mr. carleton, don't you think it is generally found in that class of society where the habits of life are constantly the most polished and refined?" "possibly," answered he, diving into the core of his apple. "no, but tell me;--i want to know what you think." "cultivation and refinement have taught people to recognize and analyze and imitate it; the counterfeits are most current in that society,--but as to the reality i don't know--it is nature's work and she is a little freaky about it." "but guy!" said his mother impatiently;--"this is not selling but giving away one's birthright. where is the advantage of birth if breeding is not supposed to go along with it. where the parents have had intelligence and refinement do we not constantly see them inherited by the children? and in an increasing degree from generation to generation?" "very extraordinary!" said mrs. thorn. "i do not undervalue the blessings of inheritance, mother, believe me, nor deny the general doctrine; though intelligence does not always descend, and manners die out, and that invaluable legacy, _a name_, may be thrown away. but this delicate thing we are speaking of is not intelligence nor refinement, but comes rather from a happy combination of qualities, together with a peculiarly fine nervous constitution;--the _essence_ of it may consist with an omission, even with an awkwardness, and with a sad ignorance of conventionalities." "but even if that be so, do you think it can ever reach its full development but in the circumstances that are favourable to it?" said mrs. evelyn. "probably not often; the diamond in some instances wants the graver;--but it is the diamond. nature seems now and then to have taken a princess's child and dropped it in some odd corner of the kingdom, while she has left the clown in the palace." "from all which i understand," said mr. thorn, "that this little chestnut girl is a princess in disguise." "really, carleton!"--rossitur began. mrs. evelyn leaned back in her chair and quietly eating a piece of apple eyed mr. carleton with a look half amused and half discontented, and behind all that, keenly attentive. "take for example those two miniatures you were looking at last night, mrs. evelyn," the young man went on;--"louis xvi. and marie antoinette--what would you have more unrefined, more heavy, more _animal_, than the face of that descendant of a line of kings?" mrs. evelyn bowed her head acquiescingly and seemed to enjoy her apple. "_he_ had a pretty bad lot of an inheritance sure enough, take it all together," said rossitur. "well," said thorn,--"is this little stray princess as well-looking as t'other miniature?" "better, in some respects," said mr. carleton coolly. "better!" cried mrs. carleton. "not in the brilliancy of her beauty, but in some of its characteristics;--better in its promise." "make yourself intelligible, for the sake of my nerves, guy," said his mother. "better looking than marie antoinette!" "my unhappy cousin is said to be a fairy, ma'am," said mr. rossitur; "and i presume all this may be referred to enchantment." "that face of marie antoinette's," said mr. carleton smiling, "is an undisciplined one--uneducated." "uneducated!" exclaimed mrs. carleton. "don't mistake me, mother,--i do not mean that it shows any want of reading or writing, but it does indicate an untrained character--a mind unprepared for the exigencies of life." "she met those exigencies indifferent well too," observed mr. thorn. "ay--but pride, and the dignity of rank, and undoubtedly some of the finer qualities of a woman's nature, might suffice for that, and yet leave her utterly unfitted to play wisely and gracefully a part in ordinary life." "well, she had no such part to play," said mrs. carleton. "certainly, mother--but i am comparing faces." "well--the other face?" "it has the same style of refined beauty of feature, but--to compare them in a word, marie antoinette looks to me like a superb exotic that has come to its brilliant perfection of bloom in a hot-house--it would lose its beauty in the strong free air--it would change and droop if it lacked careful waiting upon and constant artificial excitement;--the other," said mr. carleton musingly,--is a flower of the woods, raising its head above frost and snow and the rugged soil where fortune has placed it, with an air of quiet patient endurance;--a storm wind may bring it to the ground, easily--but if its gentle nature be not broken, it will look up again, unchanged, and bide its time in unrequited beauty and sweetness to the end." "the exotic for me!" cried rossitur,--"if i only had a place for her. i don't like pale elegancies." "i'd make a piece of poetry of that if i was you, carleton," said mr. thorn. "mr. carleton has done that already," said mrs. evelyn smoothly. "i never heard you talk so before, guy," said his mother looking at him. his eyes had grown dark with intensity of expression while he was speaking, gazing at visionary flowers or beauties through the dinner-table mahogany. he looked up and laughed as she addressed him, and rising turned off lightly with his usual sir. "i congratulate you, mrs. carleton," mrs. evelyn whispered as they went from the table, "that this little beauty is not a few years older." "why?" said mrs. carleton. "if she is all that guy says, i would give anything in the world to see him married." "time enough," said mrs. evelyn with a knowing smile. "i don't know," said mrs. carleton,--"i think he would be happier. he is a restless spirit--nothing satisfies him--nothing fixes him. he cannot rest at home--he abhors politics--he flits way from country to country and doesn't remain long anywhere." "and you with him." "and i with him. i should like to see if a wife could not persuade him to stay at home." "i guess you have petted him too much," said mrs. evelyn slyly. "i cannot have petted him too much, for he has never disappointed me." "no--of course not; but it seems you find it difficult to lead him." "no one ever succeeded in doing that," said mrs. carleton, with a smile that was anything but an ungratified one. "he never wanted driving, and to lead him is impossible. you may try it, and while you think you are going to gain your end, if he thinks it worth while, you will suddenly find that he is leading you. it is so with everybody--in some inexplicable way." mrs. evelyn thought the mystery was very easily explicable as far as the mother was concerned; and changed the conversation. chapter vi. to them life was a simple art of duties to be done, a game where each man took his part, a race where all must run; a battle whose great scheme and scope they little cared to know, content, as men-at-arms, to cope each with his fronting foe. milnes. on so great and uncommon an occasion as mr. ringgan's giving a dinner-party the disused front parlour was opened and set in order; the women-folks, as he called them, wanting the whole back part of the house for their operations. so when the visitors arrived, in good time, they were ushered into a large square bare-looking room--a strong contrast even to their dining-room at the poolwhich gave them nothing of the welcome of the pleasant farmhouse kitchen, and where nothing of the comfort of the kitchen found its way but a very strong smell of roast pig. there was the cheerless air of a place where nobody lives, or thinks of living. the very chairs looked as if they had made up their minds to be forsaken for a term of months; it was impossible to imagine that a cheerful supper had ever been laid upon the stiff cold-looking table that stood with its leaves down so primly against the wall. all that a blazing fire could do to make amends for deficiencies, it did; but the wintry wind that swept round the house shook the paper window-shades in a remorseless way; and the utmost efforts of said fire could not prevent it from coming in and giving disagreeable impertinent whispers at the ears of everybody. mr. ringgan's welcome, however, was and would have been the same thing anywhere--genial, frank, and dignified; neither he nor it could be changed by circumstances. mr. carleton admired anew, as he came forward, the fine presence and noble look of his old host; a look that it was plain had never needed to seek the ground; a brow that in large or small things had never been crossed by a shadow of shame. and to a discerning eye the face was not a surer index of a lofty than of a peaceful and pure mind; too peace-loving and pure perhaps for the best good of his affairs in the conflict with a selfish and unscrupulous world. at least now, in the time of his old age and infirmity; in former days his straightforward wisdom backed by an indomitable courage and strength had made mr. ringgan no safe subject for either braving or overreaching. fleda's keen-sighted affection was heartily gratified by the manner in which her grandfather was greeted by at least one of his guests, and that the one about whose opinion she cared the most. mr. carleton seemed as little sensible of the cold room as mr. ringgan himself. fleda felt sure that her grandfather was appreciated; and she would have sat delightedly listening to what the one and the other were presently saying, if she had not taken notice that her cousin looked _astray_. he was eying the fire with a profound air and she fancied he thought it poor amusement. little as fleda in secret really cared about that, with an instant sacrifice of her own pleasure she quietly changed her position for one from which she could more readily bring to bear upon mr. rossitur's distraction the very light artillery of her conversation; and attacked him on the subject of the game he had brought home. her motive and her manner both must have been lost upon the young gentleman. he forthwith set about amusing himself in a way his little entertainer had not counted upon, namely, with giving a chase to her wits; partly to pass away the time, and partly to gratify his curiosity, as he said, "to see what fleda was made of." by a curious system of involved, startling, or absurd questions, he endeavoured to puzzle or confound or entrap her. fleda however steadily presented a grave front to the enemy, and would every now and then surprise him with an unexpected turn or clever doubling, and sometimes, when he thought he had her in a corner, jump over the fence and laugh at him from the other side. mr. rossitur's respect for his little adversary gradually increased, and finding that she had rather the best of the game he at last gave it up, just as mr. ringgan was asking mr. carleton if he was a judge of stock? mr. carleton saying with a smile "no, but he hoped mr. ringgan would give him his first lesson,"--the old gentleman immediately arose with that alacrity of manner he always wore when he had a visitor that pleased him, and taking his hat and cane led the way out; choosing, with a man's true carelessness of housewifery etiquette, the kitchen route, of all others. not even admonished by the sight of the bright dutch oven before the fire that he was introducing his visitors somewhat too early to the pig, he led the whole party through, cynthia scuttling away in haste across the kitchen with something that must not be seen, while aunt miriam looked out at the company through the crack of the pantry door, at which fleda ventured a sly glance of intelligence. it was a fine though a windy and cold afternoon; the lights and shadows were driving across the broad upland and meadows. "this is a fine arable country," remarked mr. carleton. "capital, sir,--capital, for many miles round, if we were not so far from a market. i was one of the first that broke ground in this township,--one of the very first settlers--i've seen the rough and the smooth of it, and i never had but one mind about it from the first. all this--as far as you can see--i cleared myself; most of it with my own hand." "that recollection must attach you strongly to the place, i should think, sir." "hum--perhaps i cared too much for it," he replied, "for it is taken away from me. well--it don't matter now." "is it not yours?" "no sir!--it _was_ mine, a great many years; but i was obliged to part with it, two years ago, to a scoundrel of a fellow--mcgowan up here--he got an advantage over me. i can't take care of myself any more as i used to do, and i don't find that other people deal by me just as i could wish--" he was silent for a moment and then went on,-- "yes sir! when i first set myself down here, or a little further that way my first house was,--a pretty rough house, too,--there wa'n't two settlers beside within something like ten miles round.--i've seen the whole of it cleared, from the cutting of the first forest trees till this day." "you have seen the nation itself spring up within that time," remarked his guest. "not exactly--that question of our nationality was settled a little before i came here. i was born rather too late to see the whole of that play--i saw the best of it though--boys were men in those days. my father was in the thick of it from beginning to end." "in the army, was he?" "ho yes, sir! he and every child he had that wasn't a girl--there wasn't a man of the name that wa'n't on the right side. i was in the army myself when i was fifteen. i was nothing but a fifer--but i tell you sir! there wasn't a general officer in the country that played his part with a prouder heart than i did mine!" "and was that the general spirit of the ranks?" "not altogether," replied the old gentleman, passing his hand several times abstractedly over his white hair, a favourite gesture with him,--"not exactly that--there was a good deal of mixture of different materials, especially in this state; and where the feeling wasn't pretty strong it was no wonder if it got tired out; but the real stuff, the true yankee blood, was pretty firm! ay, and some of the rest! there was a good deal to try men in those days. sir, i have seen many a time when i had nothing to dine upon but my fife, and it was more than that could do to keep me from feeling very empty!" "but was this a common case? did this happen often?" said mr. carleton. "pretty often--pretty often, sometimes," answered the old gentleman. "things were very much out of order, you see, and in some parts of the country it was almost impossible to get the supplies the men needed. nothing would have kept them together,--nothing under heaven--but the love and confidence they had in one name. their love of right and independence wouldn't have been strong enough, and besides a good many of them got disheartened. a hungry stomach is a pretty stout arguer against abstract questions. i have seen my father crying like a child for the wants and sufferings he was obliged to see and couldn't relieve." "and then you used to relieve yourselves, grandpa," said fleda. "how was that, fairy?" fleda looked at her grandfather, who gave a little preparatory laugh and passed his hand over his head again. "why yes," said he,--"we used to think the tories, king george's men you know, were fair game; and when we happened to be in the neighbourhood of some of them that we knew were giving all the help they could to the enemy, we used to let them cook our dinners for us once in a while." "how did you manage that, sir?" "why, they used to have little bake-ovens to cook their meats and so on, standing some way out from the house,--did you never gee one of them?--raised on four little heaps of stone; the bottom of the oven is one large flat stone, and the arch built over it;--they look like a great bee-hive. well--we used to watch till we saw the good woman of the house get her oven cleverly heated, and put in her batch of bread, or her meat pie, or her pumpkin and apple pies!--whichever it was--there didn't any of 'em come much amiss--and when we guessed they were pretty nigh done, three or four of us would creep in and whip off the whole--oven and all!--to a safe place. i tell you," said he with a knowing nod of his head at the laughing fleda,--"those were first-rate pies!" "and then did you put the oven back again afterwards, grandpa?" "i guess not often, dear!" replied the old gentleman. "what do you think of such lawless proceedings, miss fleda?" said mr. carleton, laughing at or with her. "o i like it," said fleda. "you liked those pies all the better, didn't you, grandpa, because you had got them from the tories?" "that we did! if we hadn't got them maybe king george's men would, in some shape. but we weren't always so lucky as to get hold of an oven full. i remember one time several of us had been out on a foraging expedition---- there, sir, what do you think of that for a two and a half year old?" they had come up with the chief favourite of his barn-yard, a fine deep-coloured devon bull. "i don't know what one might see in devonshire," he remarked presently, "but i know _this_ country can't shew the like of him!" a discussion followed of the various beauties and excellencies of the animal; a discussion in which mr. carleton certainly took little part, while mr. ringgan descanted enthusiastically upon 'hide' and 'brisket' and 'bone,' and rossitur stood in an abstraction, it might be scornful, it might be mazed. little fleda quietly listening and looking at the beautiful creature, which from being such a treasure to her grandfather was in a sort one to her, more than half understood them all; but mr. ringgan was too well satisfied with the attention of one of his guests to miss that of the other. "that fellow don't look as if _he_ had ever known short commons," was rossitur's single remark as they turned away. "you did not give us the result of your foraging expedition, sir," said mr. carleton in a different manner. "do, grandpa," said fleda softly. "ha!--oh it is not worth telling," said the old gentleman, look ing gratified;--"fleda has heard my stories till she knows them by heart--she could tell it as well herself. what was it?--about the pig?--we had been out, several of us, one afternoon to try to get up a supper--or a dinner, for we had had none--and we had caught a pig. it happened that i was the only one of the party that had a cloak, and so the pig was given to me to carry home, because i could hide it the best. well sir!--we were coming home, and had set our mouths for a prime supper, when just as we were within a few rods of our shanty who should come along but our captain! my heart sank as it never has done at the thought of a supper before or since, i believe! i held my cloak together as well as i could, and kept myself back a little, so that if the pig shewed a cloven foot behind me, the captain might not see it. but i almost gave up all for lost when i saw the captain going into the hut with us. there was a kind of a rude bedstead standing there; and i set myself down upon the side of it, and gently worked and eased my pig off under my cloak till i got him to roll down behind the bed. i knew," said mr. ringgan laughing, "i knew by the captain's eye as well as i knew anything, that he smelt a rat; but he kept our counsel, as well as his own; and when he was gone we took the pig out into the woods behind the shanty and roasted him finely, and we sent and asked capt. sears to supper; and he came and helped us eat the pig with a great deal of appetite, and never asked no questions how we came by him!" "i wonder your stout-heartedness did not fail, in the course of so long a time," said mr. carleton. "never sir!" said the old gentleman. "i never doubted for a moment what the end would be. my father never doubted for a moment. we trusted in god and in washington!" "did you see actual service yourself?" "no sir--i never did. i wish i had. i should like to have had the honour of striking one blow at the rascals. however they were hit pretty well. i ought to be contented. my father saw enough of fighting--he was colonel of a regiment--he was at the affair of burgoyne. _that_ gave us a lift in good time. what rejoicing there was everywhere when that news came! i could have fifed all day upon an empty stomach and felt satisfied. people reckoned everywhere that the matter was settled when that great piece of good fortune was given us. and so it was!--wa'n't it, dear?" said the old gentleman, with one of those fond, pleased, sympathetic looks to fleda with which he often brought up what he was saying. "general gates commanded there?" said mr. carleton. "yes sir--gates was a poor stick--i never thought much of him. that fellow arnold distinguished himself in the actions before burgoyne's surrender. he fought like a brave man. it seems strange that so mean a scamp should have had so much blood in him?" "why, are great fighters generally good men, grandpa?" said fleda. "not exactly, dear!" replied her grandfather;--"but such little-minded rascality is not just the vice one would expect to find in a gallant soldier." "those were times that made men," said mr. carleton musingly. "yes," answered the old gentleman gravely,--"they were times that called for men, and god raised them up. but washington was the soul of the country, sir!" "well, the time made him," said mr. carleton. "i beg your pardon," said the old gentleman with a very decided little turn of his head,--"i think he made the time. i don't know what it would have been, sir, or what it would have come to, but for him. after all, it is rather that the things which try people shew what is in them;--i hope there are men enough in the country yet, though they haven't as good a chance to shew what they are." "either way," said his guest smiling; "it is a happiness, mr. ringgan, to have lived at a time when there was something worth living for." "well--i don't know--" said the old gentleman;--"those times would make the prettiest figure in a story or a romance, i suppose; but i've tried both, and on the whole," said he with another of his looks at fleda,--"i think i like these times the best!" fleda smiled her acquiescence. his guest could not help thinking to himself that however pacific might be mr. ringgan's temper, no man in those days that tried men could have brought to the issue more stern inflexibility and gallant fortitude of bearing. his frame bore evidence of great personal strength, and his eye, with all its mildness, had an unflinching dignity that _could_ never have quailed before danger or duty. and now, while he was recalling with great animation and pleasure the scenes of his more active life, and his blue eye was shining with the fire of other days, his manner had the self-possession and quiet sedateness of triumph that bespeak a man always more ready to do than to say. perhaps the contemplation of the noble roman-like old figure before him did not tend to lessen the feeling, even the sigh of regret, with which the young man said, "there was something then for a man to do!" "there is always that," said the old gentleman quietly. "god has given every man his work to do; and 'tain't difficult for him to find out what. no man is put here to be idle." "but," said his companion, with a look in which not a little haughty reserve was mingled with a desire to speak out his thoughts, "half the world are busy about hum-drum concerns and the other half doing nothing, or worse." "i don't know about that," said mr. ringgan;--"that depends upon the way you take things. 'tain't always the men that make the most noise that are the most good in the world. hum-drum affairs needn't be hum-drum in the doing of 'em. it is my maxim," said the old gentleman looking at his companion with a singularly open pleasant smile,--"that a man may be great about a'most anything--chopping wood, if he happens to be in that line. i used to go upon that plan, sir. whatever i have set my hand to do, i have done it as well as i knew how to; and if you follow that rule out you'll not be idle, nor hum-drum neither. many's the time that i have mowed what would be a day's work for another man, before breakfast." rossitur's smile was not meant to be seen. but mr. carleton's, to the credit of his politeness and his understanding both, was frank as the old gentleman's own, as he answered with a good-humoured shake of his head, "i can readily believe it, sir, and honour both your maxim and your practice. but i am not exactly in that line." "why don't you try the army?" said mr. ringgan with a look of interest. "there is not a cause worth fighting for," said the young man, his brow changing again. "it is only to add weight to the oppressor's hand, or throw away life in the vain endeavour to avert it. i will do neither." "but all the world is open before such a young man as you," said mr. ringgan. "a large world," said mr. carleton with his former mixture of expression,--"but there isn't much in it." "politics?" said mr. ringgan. "it is to lose oneself in a seething-pot, where the scum is the most apparent thing." "but there is society?" said rossitur. "nothing better or more noble than the succession of motes that flit through a sunbeam into oblivion." "well, why not then sit down quietly on one's estates and enjoy them, one who has enough?" "and be a worm in the heart of an apple." "well then," said rossitur laughing, though not knowing exactly how far he might venture, "there is nothing left for you, as i don't suppose you would take to any of the learned professions, but to strike out some new path for yourself--hit upon some grand invention for benefiting the human race and distinguishing your own name at once." but while he spoke his companion's face had gone back to its usual look of imperturbable coolness; the dark eye was even haughtily unmoved, till it met fleda's inquiring and somewhat anxious glance. he smiled. "the nearest approach i ever made to that," said he, "was when i went chestnuting the other day. can't you find some more work for me, fairy?" taking fleda's hand with his wonted graceful lightness of manner he walked on with her, leaving the other two to follow together. "you would like to know, perhaps," observed mr. rossitur in rather a low tone,--"that mr. carleton is an englishman." "ay, ay?" said mr. ringgan. "an englishman, is he?--well sir,--what is it that i would like to know?" "_that"_ said rossitur. "i would have told you before if i could. i supposed you might not choose to speak quite so freely, perhaps, on american affairs before him." "i haven't two ways of speaking, sir, on anything," said the old gentleman a little dryly. "is your friend very tender on that chapter?" "o not that i know of at all," said rossitur; "but you know there is a great deal of feeling still among the english about it--they have never forgiven us heartily for whipping them; and i know carleton is related to the nobility and all that, you know; so i thought--" "ah well!" said the old gentleman,--"we don't know much about nobility and such gimcracks in this country. i'm not much of a courtier. i am pretty much accustomed to speak my mind as i think it.--he's wealthy, i suppose?" "he's more than that, sir. enormous estates! he's the finest fellow in the world--one of the first young men in england." "you have been there yourself and know?" said mr. ringgan, glancing at his companion. "if i have not, sir, others have told me that do." "ah well," said mr. ringgan placidly,--"we sha'n't quarrel, i guess. what did he come out here for, eh?" "only to amuse himself. they are going back again in a few weeks, and i intend accompanying them to join my mother in paris. will my little cousin be of the party?" they were sauntering along towards the house. a loud calling of her name the minute before had summoned fleda thither at the top of her speed; and mr. carleton turned to repeat the same question. the old gentleman stopped, and striking his stick two or three times against the ground looked sorrowfully undetermined. "well, i don't know!--" he said at last,--"it's a pretty hard matter--she'd break her heart about it, i suppose,--" "i dare urge nothing, sir," said mr. carleton. "i will only assure you that if you entrust your treasure to us she shall be cherished as you would wish, till we place her in the hands of her aunt." "i know that, sir,--i do not doubt it," said mr. ringgan, "but--i'll tell you by and by what i conclude upon," he said with evident relief of manner as fleda came bounding back to them. "mr. rossitur, have you made your peace with fleda?" "i was not aware that i had any to make, sir," replied the young gentleman. "i will do it with pleasure if my little cousin will tell me how. but she looks as if she needed enlightening as much as myself." "she has something against you, i can tell you," said the old gentleman, looking amused, and speaking as if fleda were a curious little piece of human mechanism which could hear its performances talked of with all the insensibility of any other toy. "she gives it as her judgment that mr. carleton is the most of a gentleman, because he keeps his promise." "oh grandpa!"-- poor fleda's cheek was hot with a distressful blush. rossitur coloured with anger. mr. carleton's smile had a very different expression. "if fleda will have the goodness to recollect," said rossitur, "i cannot be charged with breaking a promise, for i made none." "but mr. carleton did," said fleda. "she is right, mr. rossitur, she is right," said that gentleman; "a fallacy might as well elude ithuriel's spear as the sense of a pure spirit--there is no need of written codes. make your apologies, man, and confess yourself in the wrong." "pho, pho," said the old gentleman,--"she don't take it very much to heart. i guess _i_ ought to be the one to make the apologies," he added, looking at fleda's face. but fleda commanded herself, with difficulty, and announced that dinner was ready. "mr. rossitur tells me, mr. carleton, you are an englishman," said his host. "i have some notion of that's passing through my head before, but somehow i had entirely lost sight of it when i was speaking so freely to you a little while ago--about our national quarrel--i know some of your countrymen owe us a grudge yet." "not i, i assure you," said the young englishman. "i am ashamed of them for it. i congratulate you on being washington's countryman and a sharer in his grand struggle for the right against the wrong." mr. ringgan shook his guest's hand, looking very much pleased; and having by this time arrived at the house the young gentlemen were formally introduced at once to the kitchen, their dinner, and aunt miriam. it is not too much to say that the entertainment gave perfect satisfaction to everybody--better fate than attends most entertainments. even mr. rossitur's ruffled spirit felt the soothing influence of good cheer, to which he happened to be peculiarly sensible, and came back to its average condition of amenity. doubtless that was a most informal table, spread according to no rules that for many generations at least have been known in the refined world; an anomaly in the eyes of certainly one of the company. yet the board had a character of its own, very far removed from vulgarity, and suiting remarkably well with the condition and demeanour of those who presided over it--a comfortable, well-to-do, substantial look, that could afford to dispense with minor graces; a self-respect that was not afraid of criticism. aunt miriam's successful efforts deserve to be celebrated. in the middle of the table the polished amber of the pig's arched back elevated itself,--a striking object,--but worthy of the place he filled, as the honours paid him by everybody abundantly testified. aunt miriam had sent down a basket of her own bread, made out of the new flour, brown and white, both as sweet and fine as it is possible for bread to be; the piled-up slices were really beautiful. the superb butter had come from aunt miriam's dairy too, for on such an occasion she would not trust to the very doubtful excellence of miss cynthia's doings. every spare place on the table was filled with dishes of potatoes and pickles and sweetmeats, that left nothing to be desired in their respective kinds; the cake was a delicious presentment of the finest of material; and the pies, pumpkin pies, such as only aunt miriam could make, rich compounds of everything _but_ pumpkin, with enough of that to give them a name--fleda smiled to think how pleased aunt miriam must secretly be to see the homage paid her through them. and most happily mrs. plumfield had discovered that the last tea mr. ringgan had brought from the little queechy store was not very good, and there was no time to send up on "the hill" for more, so she made coffee. verily it was not mocha, but the thick yellow cream with which the cups were filled readily made up the difference. the most curious palate found no want. everybody was in a high state of satisfaction, even to miss cynthia grail; who, having some lurking suspicion that mrs. plumfield might design to cut her out of her post of tea-making, had slipped herself into her usual chair behind the tea-tray before anybody else was ready to sit down. no one at table bestowed a thought upon miss cynthia, but as she thought of nothing else she may be said to have had her fair share of attention. the most unqualified satisfaction however was no doubt little fleda's. forgetting with a child's happy readiness the fears and doubts which had lately troubled her, she was full of the present, enjoying with a most unselfish enjoyment everything that pleased anybody else. _she_ was glad that the supper was a fine one, and so approved, because it was her grandfather's hospitality and her aunt miriam's housekeeping; little beside was her care for pies or coffee. she saw with secret glee the expression of both her aunt's and mr. ringgan's face; partly from pure sympathy, and partly because, as she knew, the cause of it was mr. carleton, whom privately fleda liked very much. and after all perhaps he had directly more to do with her enjoyment than all other causes together. certainly that was true of him with respect to the rest of the dinner-table. none at that dinner-table had ever seen the like. with all the graceful charm of manner with which he would have delighted a courtly circle, he came out from his reserve and was brilliant, gay, sensible, entertaining, and witty, to a degree that assuredly has very rarely been thrown away upon an old farmer in the country and his un-polite sister. they appreciated him though, as well as any courtly circle could have done, and he knew it. in aunt miriam's strong sensible face, when not full of some hospitable care, he could see the reflection of every play of his own; the grave practical eye twinkled and brightened, giving a ready answer to every turn of sense or humour in what he was saying. mr. ringgan, as much of a child for the moment as fleda herself, had lost everything disagreeable and was in the full genial enjoyment of talk, rather listening than talking, with his cheeks in a perpetual dimple of gratification, and a low laugh of hearty amusement now and then rewarding the conversational and kind efforts of his guest with a complete triumph. even the subtle charm which they could not quite recognise wrought fascination. miss cynthia declared afterwards, half admiring and half vexed, that he spoiled her supper, for she forgot to think how it tasted. rossitur--his good humour was entirely restored; but whether even mr. carleton's power could have achieved that without the perfect seasoning of the pig and the smooth persuasion of the richly-creamed coffee, it may perhaps be doubted. he stared, mentally, for he had never known his friend condescend to bring himself out in the same manner before; and he wondered what he could see in the present occasion to make it worth while. but mr. carleton did not think his efforts thrown away. he understood and admired his fine old host and hostess; and with all their ignorance of conventionalities and absence of what is called _polish_ of manner, he could enjoy the sterling sense, the good feeling, the true hearty hospitality, and the dignified courtesy which both of them shewed. no matter of the outside; this was in the grain. if mind had lacked much opportunity it had also made good use of a little; his host, mr. carleton found, had been a great reader, was well acquainted with history and a very intelligent reasoner upon it; and both he and his sister shewed a strong and quick aptitude for intellectual subjects of conversation. no doubt aunt miriam's courtesy had not been taught by a dancing master, and her brown-satin gown had seen many a fashion come and go since it was made, but a _lady_ was in both; and while rossitur covertly smiled, mr. carleton paid his sincere respect where he felt it was due. little fleda's quick eye hardly saw, but more than half felt, the difference. mr. carleton had no more eager listener now than she, and perhaps none whose unaffected interest and sympathy gave him more pleasure. [illustration: fleda coloured and looked at her grandfather.] when they rose from the table mr. ringgan would not be _insinuated_ into the cold front room again. "no, no," said he,--"what's the matter?--the table? push the table back, and let it take care of itself,--come, gentlemen, sit down--draw up your chairs round the fire, and a fig for ceremony! comfort, sister miriam, against politeness, any day in the year;--don't you say so too, fairy? come here by me." "miss fleda," said mr. carleton, "will you take a ride with me to montepoole to-morrow? i should like to make you acquainted with my mother." fleda coloured and looked at her grandfather. "what do you say, deary?" he inquired fondly; "will you go?--i believe, sir, your proposal will prove a very acceptable one. you will go, won't you, fleda?" fleda would very much rather not! but she was always exceedingly afraid of hurting people's feelings; she could not bear that mr. carleton should think she disliked to go with him, so she answered yes, in her usual sober manner. just then the door opened and a man unceremoniously walked in, his entrance immediately following a little sullen knock that had made a mockery of asking permission. an ill-looking man, in the worst sense; his face being a mixture of cunning, meanness, and insolence. he shut the door and came with a slow leisurely step into the middle of the room without speaking a word. mr. carleton saw the blank change in fleda's face. she knew him. "do you wish to see me, mr. mcgowan?" said mr. ringgan, not without something of the same change. "i guess i ha'n't come here for nothing," was the gruff retort. "wouldn't another time answer as well?" "i don't mean to find you here another time," said the man chuckling,--"i have given you notice to quit, and now i have come to tell you you'll clear out. i ain't a going to be kept out of my property for ever. if i can't get my money from you, elzevir ringgan, i'll see you don't get no more of it in your hands." "very well, sir," said the old gentleman;--"you have said all that is necessary." "you have got to hear a little more, though," returned the other, "i've an idea that there's a satisfaction in speaking one's mind. i'll have that much out of you! mr. ringgan, a man hadn't ought to make an agreement to pay what he doesn't _mean_ to pay, and what he has made an agreement to pay he ought to meet and be up to, if he sold his soul for it! you call yourself a christian, do you, to stay in another man's house, month after month, when you know you ha'n't got the means to give him the rent for it! that's what _i_ call stealing, and it's what i'd live in the county house before i'd demean myself to do i and so ought you." "well, well! neighbour," said mr. ringgan, with patient dignity,--"it's no use calling names. you know as well as i do how all this came about. i hoped to be able to pay you, but i haven't been able to make it out, without having more time." "time!" said the other. "time to cheat me out of a little more houseroom. if i was agoing to live on charity, mr. ringgan, i'd come out and say so, and not put my hand in a man's pocket this way. you'll quit the house by the day after to morrow, or if you don't i'll let you hear a little more of me that you won't like!" he stalked out, shutting the door after him with a bang. mr. carleton had quitted the room a moment before him. nobody moved or spoke at first, when the man was gone, except miss cynthia, who as she was taking something from the table to the pantry remarked, probably for mr. rossitur's benefit, that "mr. ringgan had to have that man punished for something he did a few years ago when he was justice of the peace, and she guessed likely that was the reason he had a grudge agin him ever since." beyond this piece of dubious information nothing was said. little fleda stood beside her grandfather with a face of quiet distress; the tears silently running over her flushed cheeks, and her eyes fixed upon mr. ringgan with a tender touching look of sympathy, most pure from self-recollection. mr. carleton presently came in to take leave of the disturbed family. the old gentleman rose and returned his shake of the hand with even a degree more than usual of his manly dignity, or mr. carleton thought so. "good day to you, sir!" he said heartily. "we have had a great deal of pleasure in your society, and i shall always be very happy to see you--wherever i am." and then following him to the door and wringing his hand with a force he was not at all aware of, the old gentleman added in a lower tone, "i shall let her go with you!" mr. carleton read his whole story in the stern self-command of brow, and the slight convulsion of feature which all the self-command could not prevent. he returned warmly the grasp of the hand answering merely, "i will see you again." fleda wound her arms round her grandfather's neck when they were gone, and did her best to comfort him, assuring him that "they would be just as happy somewhere else." and aunt miriam earnestly proffered her own home. but fleda knew that her grandfather was not comforted. he stroked her head with the same look of stern gravity and troubled emotion which had grieved her so much the other day. she could not win him to a smile, and went to bed at last feeling desolate. she had no heart to look out at the night. the wind was sweeping by in wintry gusts; and fleda cried herself to sleep thinking how it would whistle round the dear old house when their ears would not be there to hear it. chapter vii. he from his old hereditary nook must part; the summons came,--our final leave we took. wordsworth. mr. carleton came the next day, but not early, to take fleda to montepoole. she had told her grandfather that she did not think he would come, because after last night he must know that she would not want to go. about twelve o'clock however he was there, with a little wagon, and fleda was fain to get her sun bonnet and let him put her in. happily it was her maxim never to trust to uncertainties, so she was quite ready when he came and they had not to wait a minute. though fleda had a little dread of being introduced to a party of strangers and was a good deal disappointed at being obliged to keep her promise, she very soon began to be glad. she found her fear gradually falling away before mr. carleton's quiet kind reassuring manner; he took such nice care of her; and she presently made up her mind that he would manage the matter so that it would not be awkward. they had so much pleasant talk too. fleda had found before that she could talk to mr. carleton, nay she could not help talking to him; and she forgot to think about it. and besides, it was a pleasant day, and they drove fast, and fleda's particular delight was driving; and though the horse was a little gay she had a kind of intuitive perception that mr. carleton knew how to manage him. so she gave up every care and was very happy. when mr. carleton asked after her grandfather, fleda answered with great animation, "o he's very well! and such a happy thing--you heard what that man said last night, mr. carleton, didn't you?" "yes." "well it is all arranged;--this morning mr. jolly--he's a friend of grandpa's that lives over at queechy run and knew about all this--he's a lawyer--he came this morning and told grandpa that he had found some one that could lend him the money he wanted and there was no trouble about it; and we are so happy, for we thought we should have to go away from where we live now, and i know grandpa would have felt it dreadfully. if it hadn't been for that,--i mean, for mr. jolly's coming--i couldn't have gone to montepoole to-day." "then i am very glad mr. jolly made his appearance," said mr. carleton. "so am i," said fleda;--"but i think it was a little strange that mr. jolly wouldn't tell us who it was that he had got the money from. grandpa said he never saw mr. jolly so curious." when they got to the pool fleda's nervousness returned a little; but she went through the dreaded introduction with great demureness and perfect propriety. and throughout the day mr. carleton had no reason to fear rebuke for the judgment which he had pronounced upon his little paragon. all the flattering attention which was shewn her, and it was a good deal, could not draw fleda a line beyond the dignified simplicity which seemed natural to her; any more than the witty attempts at raillery and endeavours to amuse themselves at her expense, in which some of the gentlemen shewed their wisdom, could move her from her modest self-possession. _very_ quiet, _very_ modest, as she invariably was, awkwardness could not fasten upon her; her colour might come and her timid eye fall; it often did; but fleda's wits were always in their place and within call. she would shrink from a stranger's eye, and yet when spoken to her answers were as ready and acute as they were marked for simplicity and gentleness. she was kept to dinner; and though the arrangement and manner of the service must have been strange to little fleda, it was impossible to guess from word or look that it was the first time within her recollection that she had ever seen the like. her native instincts took it all as quietly as any old liberalized traveller looks upon the customs of a new country. mr. carleton smiled as he now and then saw a glance of intelligence or admiration pass between one and another of the company; and a little knowing nod from mrs. evelyn and many a look from his mother confessed he had been quite right. those two, mrs. evelyn and mrs. carleton, were by far the most kind and eager in their attention to fleda. mrs. thorn did little else but look at her. the gentlemen amused themselves with her. but mr. carleton, true to the hopes fleda had founded upon his good-nature, had stood her friend all the day, coming to her help if she needed any, and placing himself easily and quietly between her and anything that threatened to try or annoy her too much. fleda felt it with grateful admiration. yet she noticed, too, that he was a very different person at this dinner-table from what he had been the other day at her grandfather's. easy and graceful, always, he filled his own place, but did not seem to care to do more; there was even something bordering on haughtiness in his air of grave reserve. he was not the life of the company here; he contented himself with being all that the company could possibly require of him. on the whole fleda was exceedingly well pleased with her day, and thought all the people in general very kind. it was quite late before she set out to go home again; and then mrs. evelyn and mrs. carleton were extremely afraid lest she should take cold, and mr. carleton without saying one word about it wrapped her up so very nicely after she got into the wagon, in a warm cloak of his mother's. the drive home, through the gathering shades of twilight, was to little fleda thoroughly charming. it was almost in perfect silence, but she liked that; and all the way home her mind was full of a shadowy beautiful world that seemed to lie before and around her. it was a happy child that mr. carleton lifted from the wagon when they reached queechy. he read it in the utter lightheartedness of brow and voice, and the spring to the ground which hardly needed the help of his hands. "thank you, mr. carleton," she said when she had reached her own door; (he would not go in) "i have had a very nice time!" he smiled. "good night," said he. "tell your grandfather i will come to-morrow to see him about some business." fleda ran gayly into the kitchen. only cynthia was there. "where is grandpa, cynthy?" "he went off into his room a half an hour ago. i believe he's laying down. he ain't right well, i s'pect. what's made you so late?" "o they kept me," said fleda. her gayety suddenly sobered, she took off her bonnet and coat and throwing them down in the kitchen stole softly along the passage to her grandfather's room. she stopped a minute at the door and held her breath to see if she could hear any movement which might tell her he was not asleep. it was all still, and pulling the iron latch with her gentlest hand fleda went on tiptoe into the room. he was lying on the bed, but awake, for she had made no noise and the blue eyes opened and looked upon her as she came near. "are you not well, dear grandpa?" said the little girl. nothing made of flesh and blood ever spoke words of more spirit-like sweetness,--not the beauty of a fine organ, but such as the sweetness of angel-speech might be; a whisper of love and tenderness that was hushed by its own intensity. he did not answer, or did not notice her first question; she repeated it. "don't you feel well?" "not exactly, dear!" he replied. there was the shadow of somewhat in his tone, that fell upon his little granddaughter's heart and brow at once. her voice next time, though not suffered to be anything but clear and cheerful still, had in part the clearness of apprehension. "what is the matter?" "oh--i don't know, dear!" she felt the shadow again, and he seemed to say that time would shew her the meaning of it. she put her little hand in one of his which lay outside the coverlets, and stood looking at him; and presently said, but in a very different key from the same speech to mr. carleton, "i have had a very nice time, dear grandpa." her grandfather made her no answer. he brought the dear little hand to his lips and kissed it twice, so earnestly that it was almost passionately; then laid it on the side of the bed again, with his own upon it, and patted it slowly and fondly and with an inexpressible kind of sadness in the manner. fleda's lip trembled and her heart was fluttering, but she stood so that he could not see her face in the dusk, and kept still till the rebel features were calm again and she had schooled the heart to be silent. mr. ringgan had closed his eyes, and perhaps was asleep, and his little granddaughter sat quietly down on a chair by the bedside to watch by him, in that gentle sorrowful patience which women often know but which hardly belongs to childhood. her eye and thoughts, as she sat there in the dusky twilight, fell upon the hand of her grandfather which still fondly held one of her own; and fancy travelled fast and far, from what it was to what it had been. rough, discoloured, stiff, as it lay there now, she thought how it had once had the hue and the freshness and the grace of youth, when it had been the instrument of uncommon strength and wielded an authority that none could stand against. her fancy wandered over the scenes it had known; when it had felled trees in the wild forest, and those fingers, then supple and slight, had played the fife to the struggling men of the revolution; how its activity had outdone the activity of all other hands in clearing and cultivating those very fields where her feet loved to run; how in its pride of strength it had handled the scythe and the sickle and the flail, with a grace and efficiency that no other could attain; and how in happy manhood that strong hand had fondled and sheltered and led the little children that now had grown up and were gone!--strength and activity, ay, and the fruits of them, were passed away;--his children were dead;--his race was run;--the shock of corn was in full season, ready to be gathered. poor little fleda! her thought had travelled but a very little way before the sense of these things entirely overcame her; her head bowed on her knees, and she wept tears that all the fine springs of her nature were moving to feed--many, many,--but poured forth as quietly as bitterly; she smothered every sound. that beautiful shadowy world with which she had been so busy a little while ago,--alas! she had left the fair outlines and the dreamy light and had been tracking one solitary path through the wilderness, and she saw how the traveller foot-sore and weather-beaten comes to the end of his way. and after all, he comes to _the end_.--"yes, and i must travel through life and come to the end, too," thought little fleda,--"life is but a passing through the world; my hand must wither and grow old too, if i live long enough, and whether or no, i must come to _the end_.--oh, there is only one thing that ought to be very much minded in this world!" that thought, sober though it was, brought sweet consolation. fleda's tears, if they fell as fast, grew brighter, as she remembered with singular tender joy that her mother and her father had been ready to see the end of their journey, and were not afraid of it, that her grandfather and her aunt miriam were happy in the same quiet confidence and she believed she herself was a lamb of the good shepherd's flock. "and he will let none of his lambs be lost," she thought. "how happy i am! how happy we all are!" her grandfather still lay quiet as if asleep, and gently drawing her hand from under his, fleda went and got a candle and sat down by him again to read, carefully shading the light so that it might not awake him. he presently spoke to her, and more cheerfully. "are you reading, dear?" "yes, grandpa!" said the little girl looking up brightly. "does the candle disturb you?" "no, dear!--what have you got there?" "i just took up this volume of newton that has the hymns in it." "read out." fleda read mr. newton's long beautiful hymn, "the lord will provide;" but with her late thoughts fresh in her mind it was hard to get through the last verses;-- "no strength of our own, or goodness we claim; but since we have known the saviour's great name, in this, our strong tower, for safety we hide: the lord is our power, the lord will provide. "when life sinks apace, and death is in view, this word of his grace shall comfort us through. no fearing nor doubting,-- with christ on our side, we hope to die shouting, the lord will provide." the little reader's voice changed, almost broke, but she struggled through, and then was quietly crying behind her hand. "read it again," said the old gentleman after a pause. there is no 'cannot' in the vocabulary of affection. fleda waited a minute or two to rally her forces, and then went through it again, more steadily than the first time. "yes--" said mr. ringgan calmly, folding his hands,--"that will do! that trust won't fail, for it is founded upon a rock. 'he is a rock; and he knoweth them that put their trust in him!' i have been a fool to doubt ever that he would make all things work well--the lord will provide!" "grandpa," said fleda, but in an unsteady voice, and shading her face with her hand still,--"i can remember reading this hymn to my mother once when i was so little that 'suggestions' was a hard word to me." "ay, ay,--i dare say," said the old gentleman,--"your mother knew that rock and rested her hope upon it,--where mine stands now. if ever there was a creature that might have trusted to her own doings, i believe she was one, for i never saw her do anything wrong,--as i know. but she knew christ was all. will you follow him as she did, dear?" fleda tried in vain to give an answer. "do you know what her last prayer for you was, fleda?" "no, grandpa." "it was that you might be kept 'unspotted from the world.' i heard her make that prayer myself." and stretching out his hand the old gentleman laid it tenderly upon fleda's bowed head, saying with strong earnestness and affection, even _his_ voice somewhat shaken, "god grant that prayer!--whatever else he do with her, keep my child from the evil!--and bring her to join her father and mother in heaven!--and me!" he said no more;--but fleda's sobs said a great deal. and when the sobs were hushed, she still sat shedding quiet tears, sorrowed and disturbed by her grandfather's manner. she had never known it so grave, so solemn; but there was that shadow of something else in it besides, and she would have feared if she had known what to fear. he told her at last that she had better go to bed, and to say to cynthy that he wanted to see her. she was going, and had near reached the door, when he said, "elfleda!" she hastened back to the bedside. "kiss me." he let her do so twice, without moving, and then holding her to his breast he pressed one long earnest passionate kiss upon her lips, and released her, fleda told cynthy that her grandfather wished her to come to him, and then mounted the stairs to her little bedroom. she went to the window and opening it looked out at the soft moonlit sky; the weather was mild again and a little hazy, and the landscape was beautiful. but little fleda was tasting realities, and she could not go off upon dream-journeys to seek the light food of fancy through the air. she did not think to-night about the people the moon was shining on; she only thought of one little sad anxious heart,--and of another down stairs, more sad and anxious still, she feared;--what could it be about? now that mr. jolly had settled all that troublesome business with mcgowan?-- as she stood there at the window, gazing out aimlessly into the still night,--it was very quiet,--she heard cynthy at the back of the house calling out, but as if she were afraid of making too much noise, "watkins!--watkins!" the sound had business, if not anxiety, in it. fleda instinctively held her breath to listen. presently she heard watkins reply; but they were round the corner, she could not easily make out what they said. it was only by straining her ears that she caught the words, "watkins, mr. ringgan wants you to go right up on the hill to mis' plumfield's and tell her he wants her to come right down--he thinks"--the voice of the speaker fell, and fleda could only make out the last words,--"dr. james." more was said, but so thick and low that she could understand nothing. she had heard enough. she shut the window, trembling, and fastened again the parts of her dress she had loosened; and softly and hastily went down the stairs into the kitchen. "cynthy!--what is the matter with grandpa?" "why ain't you in bed, flidda?" said cynthy with some sharpness. "that's what you had ought to be. i am sure your grandpa wants you to be abed." "but tell me," said fleda anxiously. "i don't know as there's anything the matter with him," said cynthy. "nothing much, i suppose. what makes you think anything is the matter?" "because i heard you telling watkins to go for aunt miriam." fleda could not say,--"and the doctor." "well your grandpa thought he'd like to have her come down, and he don't feet right well,--so i sent watkins up; but you'd better go to bed, flidda; you'll catch cold if you sit up o'night." fleda was unsatisfied, the more because cynthy would not meet the keen searching look with which the little girl tried to read her face. she was not to be sent to bed, and all cynthy's endeavours to make her change her mind were of no avail. fleda saw in them but fresh reason for staying, and saw besides, what cynthy could not hide, a somewhat of wandering and uneasiness in her manner which strengthened her resolution. she sat down in the chimney corner, resolved to wait till her aunt miriam came; there would be satisfaction in her, for aunt miriam always told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. it was a miserable three-quarters of an hour. the kitchen seemed to wear a strange desolate look, though seen in its wonted bright light of fire and candles, and in itself nice and cheerful as usual. fleda looked at it also through that vague fear which casts its own lurid colour upon everything. the very flickering of the candle blaze seemed of ill omen, and her grandfather's empty chair stood a signal of pain to little fleda whenever she looked at it. she sat still, in submissive patience, her cheek pale with the working of a heart too big for that little body. cynthia was going in and out of her grandfather's room, but fleda would not ask her any more questions, to be disappointed with word-answers; she waited, but the minutes seemed very long,--and very sad. the characteristic outward calm which fleda had kept, and which belonged to a nature uncommonly moulded to patience and fortitude, had yet perhaps heightened the pressure of excited fear within. when at last she saw the cloak and hood of aunt miriam coming through the moonlight to the kitchen door, she rushed to open it, and quite overcome for the moment threw her arms around her and was speechless. aunt miriam's tender and quiet voice comforted her. "you up yet, fleda! hadn't you better go to bed? 'tisn't good for you." "that's what i've been a telling her," said cynthy, "but she wa'n't a mind to listen to me." but the two little arms embraced aunt miriam's cloak and wrappers and the little face was hid there still, and fleda's answer was a half smothered ejaculation. "i am _so_ glad you are come, dear aunt miriam!" aunt miriam kissed her again, and again repeated her request. "o no--i can't go to bed," said fleda crying;--"i can't till i know--i am _sure_ something is the matter, or cynthy wouldn't look so. _do_ tell me, aunt miriam!" "i can't tell you anything, dear, except that grandpa is not well--that is all i know--i am going in to see him. i will tell you in the morning how he is." "no," said fleda, "i will wait here till you come out. i couldn't sleep." mrs. plumfield made no more efforts to persuade her, but rid herself of cloak and hood and went into mr. ringgan's room. fleda placed herself again in her chimney corner. burying her face in her hands, she sat waiting more quietly; and cynthy, having finished all her business, took a chair on the hearth opposite to her. both were silent and motionless, except when cynthy once in a while got up to readjust the sticks of wood on the fire. they sat there waiting so long that fleda's anxiety began to quicken again. "don't you think the doctor is a long time coming, cynthy?" said she raising her head at last. her question, breaking that forced silence, sounded fearful. "it seems kind o' long," said cynthy. "i guess watkins ha'n't found him to hum." watkins indeed presently came in and reported as much, and that the wind was changing and it was coming off cold; and then his heavy boots were heard going up the stairs to his room overhead; but fleda listened in vain for the sound of the latch of her grandfather's door, or aunt miriam's quiet foot-fall in the passage; listened and longed, till the minutes seemed like the links of a heavy chain which she was obliged to pass over from hand to hand, and the last link could not be found. the noise of watkins' feet ceased overhead, and nothing stirred or moved but the crackling flames and cynthia's elbows, which took turns each in resting upon the opposite arm, and now and then a tell-tale gust of wind in the trees. if mr. ringgan was asleep, why did not aunt miriam come out and see them,--if he was better, why not come and tell them so. he had been asleep when she first went into his room, and she had come back for a minute then to try again to get fleda to bed; why could she not come out for a minute once more. two hours of watching and trouble had quite changed little fleda; the dark ring of anxiety had come under each eye in her little pale face; she looked herself almost ill. aunt miriam's grave step was heard coming out of the room at last,--it did not sound cheerfully in fleda's ears. she came in, and stopping to give some direction to cynthy, walked up to fleda. her face encouraged no questions. she took the child's head tenderly in both her hands, and told her gently, but it was in vain that she tried to make her voice quite as usual, that she had better go to bed--that she would be sick. fleda looked up anxiously in her face. "how is he?" but her next word was the wailing cry of sorrow,--"oh grandpa!--" the old lady took the little child in her arms and they both sat there by the fire until the morning dawned. chapter viii. patience and sorrow strove who should express her goodliest. king lear. when mr. carleton knocked at the front door the next day about two o'clock it was opened to him by cynthy. he asked for his late host. "mr. ringgan is dead." "dead!" exclaimed the young man much shocked;--"when? how?" "won't you come in, sir?" said cynthy;--"maybe you'll see mis' plumfield." "no, certainly," replied the visitor. "only tell me about mr. ringgan." "he died last night." "what was the matter with him?" "i don't know," said cynthy in a business-like tone of voice,--"i s'pose the doctor knows, but he didn't say nothing about it. he died very sudden." "was he alone?" "no--his sister was with him; he had been complaining all the evening that he didn't feel right, but i didn't think nothing of it and i didn't know as he did; and towards evening he went and laid down, and flidda was with him a spell, talking to him; and at last he sent her to bed and called me in and said he felt mighty strange and he didn't know what it was going to be, and that he had as lieve i should send up and ask mis' plumfield to come down, and perhaps i might as well send for the doctor too. and i sent right off, but the doctor wa'n't to hum, and didn't get here till long after. mis' plumfield, she come; and mr. ringgan was asleep then, and i didn't know as it was going to be anything more after all than just a turn, such as anybody might take; and mis' plumfield went in and sot by him; and there wa'n't no one else in the room; and after a while he come to, and talked to her, she said, a spell; but he seemed to think it was something more than common ailed him; and all of a sudden he just riz up half way in bed and then fell back and died,--with no more warning than that." "and how is the little girl?" "why," said cynthy, looking off at right angles from her visitor, "she's middling now, i s'pose, but she won't be before long, or else she must be harder to make sick than other folks.--we can't get her out of the room," she added, bringing her eyes to bear, for an instant, upon the young gentleman,--"she stays in there the hull time since morning--i've tried, and mis' plumfield's tried, and everybody has tried, and there can't none of us manage it; she will stay in there and it's an awful cold room when there ain't no fire." cynthy and her visitor were both taking the benefit of the chill blast which rushed in at the open door. "_the room_?" said mr. carleton. "the room where the body lies?" "yes--it's dreadful chill in there when the stove ain't heated, and she sits there the hull time. and she ha'n't 'got much to boast of now: she looks as if a feather would blow her away." the door at the further end of the hall opened about two inches and a voice called out through the crack, "cynthy!--mis' plumfield wants to know if that is mr. carleton?" "yes." "well she'd like to see him. ask him to walk into the front room, she says." cynthy upon this shewed the way, and mr. carleton walked into the same room where a very few days before he had been so kindly welcomed by his fine old host. cold indeed it was now, as was the welcome he would have given. there was no fire in the chimney, and even all the signs of the fire of the other day had been carefully cleared away; the clean empty fireplace looked a mournful assurance that its cheerfulness would not soon come back again. it was a raw disagreeable day, the paper window shades fluttered uncomfortably in the wind, which had its way now; and the very chairs and tables seemed as if they had taken leave of life and society for ever. mr. carleton walked slowly up and down, his thoughts running perhaps somewhat in the train where poor little fleda's had been so busy last night, and wrapped up in broadcloth as he was to the chin, he shivered when he heard the chill wind moaning round the house and rustling the paper hangings and thought of little fleda's delicate frame, exposed as cynthia had described it. he made up his mind it must not be. mrs. plumfield presently came in, and met him with the calm dignity of that sorrow which needs no parade and that truth and meekness of character which can make none. yet there was nothing like stoicism, no affected or proud repression of feeling; her manner was simply the dictate of good sense borne out by a firm and quiet spirit. mr. carleton was struck with it, it was a display of character different from any he had ever before met with; it was something he could not quite understand. for he wanted the key. but all the high respect he had felt for this lady from the first was confirmed and strengthened. after quietly receiving mr. carleton's silent grasp of the hand, aunt miriam said, "i troubled you to stop, sir, that i might ask you how much longer you expect to stop at montepoole." not more than two or three days, he said. "i understood," said aunt miriam after a minute's pause, "that mrs. carleton was so kind as to say she would take care of elfleda to france and put her in the hands of her aunt." "she would have great pleasure in doing it," said mr. carleton. "i can promise for your little niece that she shall have a mother's care so long as my mother can render it." aunt miriam was silent, and he saw her eyes fill. "you should not have had the pain of seeing me to-day," said he gently, "if i could have known it would give you any; but since i am here, may i ask, whether it is your determination that fleda shall go with us?" "it was my brother's," said aunt miriam, sighing;--"he told me--last night--that he wished her to go with mrs. carleton--if she would still be so good as to take her." "i have just heard about her, from the housekeeper," said mr, carleton, "what has disturbed me a good deal. will you forgive me, if i venture to propose that she should come to us at once. of course we will not leave the place for several days--till you are ready to part with her." aunt miriam hesitated, and again the tears flushed to her eyes. "i believe it would be best," she said,--"since it must be--i cannot get the child away from her grandfather--i am afraid i want firmness to do it--and she ought not to be there--she is a tender little creature--" for once self-command failed her--she was obliged to cover her face. "a stranger's hands cannot be more tender of her than ours will be," said mr. carleton, his warm pressure of aunt miriam's hand repeating the promise. "my mother will bring a carriage for her this afternoon, if you will permit." "if you please, sir,--since it must be, it does not matter a day sooner or later," repeated aunt miriam,--"if she can be got away.--i don't know whether it will be possible." mr. carleton had his own private opinion on that point. he merely promised to be there again in a few hours and took his leave. he came, with his mother, about five o'clock in the afternoon. they were shewn this time into the kitchen, where they found two or three neighbours and friends with aunt miriam and cynthy. the former received them with the same calm simplicity that mr. carleton had admired in the morning, but said she was afraid their coming would be in vain; she had talked with fleda about the proposed plan and could not get her to listen to it. she doubted whether it would be possible to persuade her. and yet-- aunt miriam's self-possession seemed to be shaken when she thought of fleda; she could not speak of her without watering eyes. "she's fixing to be sick as fast as ever she can," remarked cynthia dryly, in a kind of aside meant for the audience;--"there wa'n't a grain of colour in her face when i went in to try to get her out a little while ago; and mis' plumfield ha'n't the heart to do anything with her, nor nobody else." "mother, will you see what you can do?" said mr. carleton. mrs. carleton went, with an expression of face that her son, nobody else, knew meant that she thought it a particularly disagreeable piece of business. she came back after the lapse of a few minutes, in tears. "i can do nothing with her," she said hurriedly;--"i don't know what to say to her; and she looks like death. go yourself, guy; you can manage her if any one can." mr. carleton went immediately. the room into which a short passage admitted him was cheerless indeed. on a fair afternoon the sun's rays came in there pleasantly, but this was a true november day; a grey sky and a chill raw wind that found its way in between the loose window-sashes and frames. one corner of the room was sadly tenanted by the bed which held the remains of its late master and owner. at a little table between the windows, with her back turned towards the bed, fleda was sitting, her face bowed in her hands, upon the old quarto bible that lay there open; a shawl round her shoulders. mr. carleton went up to the side of the table and softly spoke her name. fleda looked up at him for an instant, and then buried her face in her hands on the book as before. that look might have staggered him, but that mr. carleton rarely was staggered in any purpose when he had once made up his mind. it did move him,--so much that he was obliged to wait a minute or two before he could muster firmness to speak to her again. such a look,--so pitiful in its sorrow, so appealing in its helplessness, so imposing in its purity,--he had never seen, and it absolutely awed him. many a child's face is lovely to look upon for its innocent purity, but more commonly it is not like this; it is the purity of snow, unsullied, but not unsullyable; there is another kind more ethereal, like that of light, which you feel is from another sphere and will not know soil. but there were other signs in the face that would have nerved mr. carleton's resolution if he had needed it. twenty-four hours had wrought a sad change. the child looked as if she had been ill for weeks. her cheeks were colourless; the delicate brow would have seemed pencilled on marble but for the dark lines which weeping and watching, and still more sorrow, had drawn underneath; and the beautiful moulding of the features shewed under the transparent skin like the work of the sculptor. she was not crying then, but the open pages of the great bible had been wet with very many tears since her head had rested there. [illustration: fleda was sitting, her face bowed in her hands.] "fleda," said mr. carleton after a moment,--"you must come with me." the words were gently and tenderly spoken, yet they had that tone which young and old instinctively know it is vain to dispute. fleda glanced up again, a touching imploring look it was very difficult to bear, and her "oh no--i cannot,"--went to his heart. it was not resistance but entreaty, and all the arguments she would have urged seemed to lie in the mere tone of her voice. she had no power of urging them in any other way, for even as she spoke her head went down again on the bible with a burst of sorrow. mr. carleton was moved, but not shaken in his purpose. he was silent a moment, drawing back the hair that fell over fleda's forehead with a gentle caressing touch; and then he said, still lower and more tenderly than before, but without flinching, "you must come with me, fleda." "mayn't i stay," said fleda, sobbing, while he could see in the tension of the muscles a violent effort at self-control which he did not like to see,--"mayn't i stay till--till--the day after to-morrow?" "no, dear fleda," said he, still stroking her head kindly,--"i will bring you back, but you must go with me now, your aunt wishes it and we all think it is best. i will bring you back."-- she sobbed bitterly for a few minutes. then she begged in smothered words that he would leave her alone a little while. he went immediately. she checked her sobs when she heard the door close upon him, or as soon as she could, and rising went and knelt down by the side of the bed. it was not to cry, though what she did could not be done without many tears,--it was to repeat with equal earnestness and solemnity her mother's prayer, that she might be kept pure from the world's contact. there beside the remains of her last dear earthly friend, as it were before going out of his sight forever, little fleda knelt down to set the seal of faith and hope to his wishes, and to lay the constraining hand of memory upon her conscience. it was soon done,--and then there was but one thing more to do. but oh, the tears that fell as she stood there before she could go on; how the little hands were pressed to the bowed face, as if _they_ would have borne up the load they could not reach; the convulsive struggle, before the last look could be taken, the last good-by said! but the sobs were forced back, the hands wiped off the tears, the quivering features were bidden into some degree of calmness; and she leaned forward, over the loved face that in death had kept all its wonted look of mildness and placid dignity. it was in vain to try to look through fleda's blinded eyes; the hot tears dropped fast, while her trembling lips kissed--and kissed,--those cold and silent that could make no return; and then feeling that it was the last, that the parting was over, she stood again by the side of the bed as she had done a few minutes before, in a convulsion of grief, her face bowed down and her little frame racked with feeling too strong for it; shaken visibly, as if too frail to bear the trial to which it was put. mr. carleton had waited and waited, as he thought long enough, and now at last came in again, guessing how it was with her. he put his arm round the child and gently drew her away, and sitting down took her on his knee; and endeavoured rather with actions than with words to soothe and comfort her; for he did not know what to say. but his gentle delicate way, the soft touch with which he again stroked back her hair or took her hand, speaking kindness and sympathy, the loving pressure of his lips once or twice to her brow, the low tones in which he told her that she was making herself sick,--that she must not do so,--that she must let him take care of her,--were powerful to soothe or quiet a sensitive mind, and fleda felt them. it was a very difficult task, and if undertaken by any one else would have been more likely to disgust and distress her. but his spirit had taken the measure of hers, and he knew precisely how to temper every word and tone so as just to meet the nice sensibilities of her nature. he had said hardly anything, but she had understood all he meant to say, and when he told her at last, softly, that it was getting late and she must let him take her away, she made no more difficulty; rose up and let him lead her out of the room without once turning her head to look back. mrs. carleton looked relieved that there was a prospect of getting away, and rose up with a happy adjusting of her shawl round her shoulders. aunt miriam came forward to say good-by, but it was very quietly said. fleda clasped her round the neck convulsively for an instant, kissed her as if a kiss could speak a whole heartful, and then turned submissively to mr. carleton and let him lead her to the carriage. there was no fault to be found with mrs. carleton's kindness when they were on the way. she held the forlorn little child tenderly in her arm, and told her how glad she was to have her with them, how glad she should be if she were going to keep her always; but her saying so only made fleda cry, and she soon thought it best to say nothing. all the rest of the way fleda was a picture of resignation; transparently pale, meek and pure, and fragile seemingly, as the delicatest wood-flower that grows. mr. carleton looked grieved, and leaning forward he took one of her hands in his own and held it affectionately till they got to the end of their journey. it marked fleda's feeling towards him that she let it lie there without making a motion to draw it away. she was so still for the last few miles that her friends thought she had fallen asleep; but when the carriage stopped and the light of the lantern was flung inside, they saw the grave hazel eyes broad open and gazing intently out of the window. "you will order tea for us in your dressing-room, mother?" said mr. carleton. "_us_--who is _us?_" "fleda and me,--unless you will please to make one of the party." "certainly i will, but perhaps fleda might like it better down stairs. wouldn't you, dear?" "if you please, ma'am," said fleda. "wherever you please." "but which would you rather, fleda?" said mr. carleton. "i would _rather_ have it up-stairs," said fleda gently, "but it's no matter." "we will have it up-stairs," said mrs. carleton. "we will be a nice little party up there by ourselves. you shall not come down till you like." "you are hardly able to walk up," said mr. carleton tenderly. "shall i carry you?" the tears rushed to fleda's eyes, but she said no, and managed to mount the stairs, though it was evidently an exertion. mrs. carleton's dressing-room, as her son had called it, looked very pleasant when they got there. it was well lighted and warmed and something answering to curtains had been summoned from its obscurity in store-room or garret and hung up at the windows,--"them air fussy english folks had made such a pint of it," the landlord said. truth was, that mr. carleton as well as his mother wanted this room as a retreat for the quiet and privacy which travelling in company as they did they could have nowhere else. everything the hotel could furnish in the shape of comfort had been drawn together to give this room as little the look of a public house as possible. easy chairs, as mrs. carleton remarked with a disgusted face, one could not expect to find in a country inn; there were instead as many as half a dozen of "those miserable substitutes" as she called rocking-chairs, and sundry fashions of couches and sofas, in various degrees of elegance and convenience. the best of these, a great chintz-covered thing, full of pillows, stood invitingly near the bright fire. there mr. carleton placed little fleda, took off her bonnet and things, and piled the cushions about her just in the way that would make her most easy and comfortable. he said little, and she nothing, but her eyes watered again at the kind tenderness of his manner. and then he left her in peace till the tea came. the tea was made in that room for those three alone. fleda knew that mr. and mrs. carleton staid up there only for her sake, and it troubled her, but she could not help it. neither could she be very sorry so far as one of them was concerned. mr. carleton was too good to be wished away. all that evening his care of her never ceased. at tea, which the poor child would hardly have shared but for him, and after tea, when in the absence of bustle she had leisure to feel more fully her strange circumstances and position, he hardly permitted her to feel either, doing everything for her ease and pleasure and quietly managing at the same time to keep back his mother's more forward and less happily adapted tokens of kind feeling. though she knew he was constantly occupied with her fleda could not feel oppressed; his kindness was as pervading and as unobtrusive as the summer air itself; she felt as if she was in somebody's hands that knew her wants before she did, and quietly supplied or prevented them, in a way she could not tell how. it was very rarely that she even got a chance to utter the quiet and touching "thank you," which invariably answered every token of kindness or thoughtfulness that permitted an answer. how greatly that harsh and sad day was softened to little fleda'a heart by the good feeling and fine breeding of one person. she thought when she went to bed that night, thought seriously and gratefully, that since she must go over the ocean and take that long journey to her aunt, how glad she was, how thankful she ought to be, that she had so very kind and pleasant people to go with. kind and pleasant she counted them both; but what more she thought of mr. carleton it would be hard to say. her admiration of him was very high, appreciating as she did to the full all that charm of manner which she could neither analyze nor describe. her last words to him that night, spoken with a most wistful anxious glance into his face, were, "you will take me back again, mr. carleton?" he knew what she meant. "certainly i will. i promised you, fleda." "whatever guy promises you may be very sure he will do," said his mother with a smile. fleda believed it. but the next morning it was very plain that this promise he would not be called upon to perform; fleda would not be well enough to go to the funeral. she was able indeed to get up, but she lay all day upon the sofa in the dressing-room. mr. carleton had bargained for no company last night; to-day female curiosity could stand it no longer; and mrs. thorn and mrs. evelyn came up to look and gossip openly and to admire and comment privately, when they had a chance. fleda lay perfectly quiet and still, seeming not much to notice or care for their presence; they thought she was tolerably easy in body and mind, perhaps tired and sleepy, and like to do well enough after a few days. how little they knew! how little they could imagine the assembly of thought which was holding in that child's mind; how little they deemed of the deep, sad, serious look into life which that little spirit was taking. how far they were from fancying while they were discussing all manner of trifles before her, sometimes when they thought her sleeping, that in the intervals between sadder and weighter things her nice instincts were taking the gauge of all their characters; unconsciously, but surely; how they might have been ashamed if they had known that while they were busy with all affairs in the universe but those which most nearly concerned them, the little child at their side whom they had almost forgotten was secretly looking up to her father in heaven, and asking to be kept pure from the world! "not unto the wise and prudent;"--how strange it may seem in one view of the subject,--in another, how natural, how beautiful, how reasonable! fleda did not ask again to be taken to queechy. but as the afternoon drew on she turned her face away from the company and shielded it from view among the cushions, and lay in that utterly motionless state of body which betrays a concentrated movement of the spirits in some hidden direction. to her companions it betrayed nothing. they only lowered their tones a little lest they should disturb her. it had grown dark, and she was sitting up again, leaning against the pillows and in her usual quietude, when mr. carleton came in. they had not seen him since before dinner. he came to her side and taking her hand made some gentle inquiry how she was. "she has had a fine rest," said mrs. evelyn. "she has been sleeping all the afternoon," said mrs. carleton,--"she lay as quiet as a mouse, without stirring;--you were sleeping, weren't you, dear?" fleda's lips hardly formed the word "no," and her features were quivering sadly. mr. carleton's were impenetrable. "dear fleda," said he, stooping down and speaking with equal gravity and kindliness of manner,--"you were not able to go." fleda's shake of the head gave a meek acquiescence. but her face was covered, and the gay talkers around her were silenced and sobered by the heaving of her little frame with sobs that she could not keep back. mr. carleton secured the permanence of their silence for that evening. he dismissed them the room again and would have nobody there but himself and his mother. instead of being better the next day fleda was not able to get up; she was somewhat feverish and exceedingly weak. she lay like a baby, mrs. carleton said, and gave as little trouble. gentle and patient always, she made no complaint, and even uttered no wish, and whatever they did made no objection. though many a tear that day and the following paid its faithful tribute to the memory of what she had lost, no one knew it; she was never seen to weep; and the very grave composure of her face and her passive unconcern as to what was done or doing around her alone gave her friends reason to suspect that the mind was not as quiet as the body. mr. carleton was the only one who saw deeper; the only one that guessed why the little hand often covered the eyes so carefully, and read the very, very grave lines of the mouth that it could not hide. as soon as she could bear it he had her brought out to the dressing-room again, and laid on the sofa; and it was several days before she could be got any further. but there he could be more with her and devote himself more to her pleasure; and it was not long before he had made himself necessary to the poor child's comfort in a way beyond what he was aware of. he was not the only one who shewed her kindness. unwearied care and most affectionate attention were lavished upon her by his mother and both her friends; they all thought they could not do enough to mark their feeling and regard for her. mrs. carleton and mrs. evelyn nursed her by night and by day. mrs. evelyn read to her. mrs. thorn would come often to look and smile at her and say a few words of heart-felt pity and sympathy. yet fleda could not feel quite at home with any one of them. they did not see it. her manner was affectionate and grateful, to the utmost of their wish; her simple natural politeness, her nice sense of propriety, were at every call; she seemed after a few days to be as cheerful and to enter as much into what was going on about her as they had any reason to expect she could; and they were satisfied. but while moving thus smoothly among her new companions, in secret her spirit stood aloof; there was not one of them that could touch her, that could understand her, that could meet the want of her nature. mrs. carleton was incapacitated for it by education; mrs. evelyn by character; mrs. thorn by natural constitution. of them all, though by far the least winning and agreeable in personal qualifications, fleda would soonest have relied on mrs. thorn, could soonest have loved her. her homely sympathy and kindness made their way to the child's heart; fleda felt them and trusted them. but there were too few points of contact. fleda thanked her, and did not wish to see her again. with mrs. carleton fleda had almost nothing at all in common. and that notwithstanding all this lady's politeness, intelligence, cultivation, and real kindness towards herself. fleda would readily have given her credit for them all; and yet, the nautilus may as soon compare notes with the navigator, the canary might as well study maelzel's metronome, as a child of nature and a woman of the world comprehend and suit each other. the nature of the one must change or the two must remain the world wide apart. fleda felt it, she did not know why. mrs. carleton was very kind, and perfectly polite; but fleda had no pleasure in her kindness, no trust in her politeness; or if that be saying too much, at least she felt that for some inexplicable reason both were unsatisfactory. even the tact which each possessed in an exquisite degree was not the same in each; in one it was the self-graduating power of a clever machine,--in the other, the delicateness of the sensitive plant. mrs. carleton herself was not without some sense of this distinction; she confessed, secretly, that there was something in fleda out of the reach of her discernment, and consequently beyond the walk of her skill; and felt, rather uneasily, that more delicate hands were needed to guide so delicate a nature. mrs. evelyn came nearer the point. she was very pleasant, and she knew how to do things in a charming way; and there were times, frequently, when fleda thought she was everything lovely. but yet, now and then a mere word, or look, would contradict this fair promise, a something of _hardness_ which fleda could not reconcile with the soft gentleness of other times; and on the whole mrs. evelyn was unsure ground to her; she could not adventure her confidence there. with mr. carleton alone fleda felt at home. he only, she knew, completely understood and appreciated her. yet she saw also that with others he was not the same as with her. whether grave or gay there was about him an air of cool indifference, very often reserved and not seldom haughty; and the eye which could melt and glow when turned upon her, was sometimes as bright and cold as a winter sky. fleda felt sure however that she might trust him entirely so far as she herself was concerned; of the rest she stood in doubt. she was quite right in both cases. whatever else there might be in that blue eye, there was truth in it when it met hers; she gave that truth her full confidence and was willing to honour every draught made upon her charity for the other parts of his character. he never seemed to lose sight of her. he was always doing something for which fleda loved him, but so quietly and happily that she could neither help his taking the trouble nor thank him for it. it might have been matter of surprise that a gay young man of fashion should concern himself like a brother about the wants of a little child; the young gentlemen down stairs who were not of the society in the dressing-room did make themselves very merry upon the subject, and rallied mr. carleton with the common amount of wit and wisdom about his little sweetheart; a raillery which met the most flinty indifference. but none of those who saw fleda ever thought strange of anything that was done for her; and mrs. carleton was rejoiced to have her son take up the task she was fain to lay down. so he really, more than any one else, had the management of her; and fleda invariably greeted his entrance into the room with a faint smile, which even the ladies who saw agreed was well worth working for. chapter ix. if large possessions, pompous titles, honourable charges, and profitable commissions, could have made this proud man happy, there would have been nothing wanting.--l'estrange. several days had passed. fleda'a cheeks had gained no colour, but she had grown a little stronger, and it was thought the party might proceed on their way without any more tarrying; trusting that change and the motion of travelling would do better things for fleda than could be hoped from any further stay at montepoole. the matter was talked over in an evening consultation in the dressing-room, and it was decided that they would set off on the second day thereafter. fleda was lying quietly on her sofa, with her eyes closed, having had nothing to say during the discussion. they thought she had perhaps not heard it. mr. carleton's sharper eyes, however, saw that one or two tears were glimmering just under the eyelash. he bent down over her and whispered, "i know what you are thinking of fleda, do i not?" "i was thinking of aunt miriam," fleda said in an answering whisper, without opening her eyes. "i will take care of that." fleda looked up and smiled most expressively her thanks, and in five minutes was asleep. mr. carleton stood watching her, querying how long those clear eyes would have nothing to hide,--how long that bright purity could resist the corrosion of the world's breath; and half thinking that it would be better for the spirit to pass away, with its lustre upon it, than stay till self-interest should sharpen the eye, and the lines of diplomacy write themselves on that fair brow. "better so; better so." "what are you thinking of so gloomily, guy?" said his mother. "that is a tender little creature to struggle with a rough world." "she won't have to struggle with it," said mrs. carleton. "she will do very well," said mrs. evelyn. "i don't think she'd find it a rough world, where _you_ were, mr. carleton," said mrs. thorn. "thank you ma'am," he said smiling. "but unhappily my power reaches very little way." "perhaps," said mrs. evelyn with a sly smile,--"that might be arranged differently--mrs. rossitur--i have no doubt--would desire nothing better than a smooth world for her little niece--and mr. carleton's power might be unlimited in its extent." there was no answer, and the absolute repose of all the lines of the young gentleman's face bordered too nearly on contempt to encourage the lady to pursue her jest any further. the next day fleda was well enough to bear moving. mr. carleton had her carefully bundled up, and then carried her down stairs and placed her in the little light wagon which had once before brought her to the pool. luckily it was a mild day, for no close carriage was to be had for love or money. the stage coach in which fleda had been fetched from her grandfather's was in use, away somewhere. mr. carleton drove her down to aunt miriam's, and leaving her there he went off again; and whatever he did with himself it was a good two hours before he came back. all too little yet they were for the tears and the sympathy which went to so many things both in the past and in the future. aunt miriam had not said half she wished to say, when the wagon was at the gate again, and mr. carleton came to take his little charge away. he found her sitting happily in aunt miriam's lap. fleda was very grateful to him for leaving her such a nice long time, and welcomed him with even a brighter smile than usual. but her head rested wistfully on her aunt's bosom after that; and when he asked her if she was almost ready to go, she hid her face there and put her arms about her neck. the old lady held her close for a few minutes, in silence. "elfleda," said aunt miriam gravely and tenderly,--"do you know what was your mother's prayer for you?" "yes,"--she whispered. "what was it?" "that i--might be kept--" "unspotted from the world!" repeated aunt miriam, in a tone of tender and deep feeling;--"my sweet blossom!--how wilt thou keep so? will you remember always your mother's prayer?" "i will try." "how will you try, fleda? "i will pray." aunt miriam kissed her again and again, fondly repeating, "the lord hear thee!--the lord bless thee!--the lord keep thee!--as a lily among thorns, my precious little babe;--though in the world, not of it.--" "do you think that is possible?" said mr. carleton significantly, when a few moments after they had risen and were about to separate. aunt miriam looked at him in surprise and asked, "what, sir?" "to live in the world and not be like the world?" she cast her eyes upon fleda, fondly smoothing down her soft hair with both hands for a minute or two before she answered, "by the help of one thing sir, yes!" "and what is that?" said he quickly. "the blessing of god, with whom all things are possible." his eyes fell, and there was a kind of incredulous sadness in his half smile which aunt miriam understood better than he did. she sighed as she folded fleda again to her breast and whisperingly bade her "remember!" but fleda knew nothing of it; and when she had finally parted from aunt miriam and was seated in the little wagon on her way home, to her fancy the best friend she had in the world was sitting beside her. neither was her judgment wrong, so far as it went. she saw true where she saw at all. but there was a great deal she could not see. mr. carleton was an unbeliever. not maliciously,--not wilfully,--not stupidly;--rather the fool of circumstance. his skepticism might be traced to the joint workings of a very fine nature and a very bad education. that is, education in the broad sense of the term; of course none of the means and appliances of mental culture had been wanting to him. he was an uncommonly fine example of what nature alone can do for a man. a character of nature's building is at best a very ragged affair, without religion's finishing hand; at the utmost a fine ruin--no more. and if that be the _utmost_, of nature's handiwork, what is at the other end of the scale?--alas! the rubble stones of the ruin; what of good and fair nature had reared there was not strong enough to stand alone. but religion cannot work alike on every foundation; and the varieties are as many as the individuals. sometimes she must build the whole, from the very ground; and there are cases where nature's work stands so strong and fair that religion's strength may be expended in perfecting and enriching and carrying it to an uncommon height of grace and beauty, and dedicating the fair temple to a new use. of religion mr. carleton had nothing at all, and a true christian character had never crossed his path near enough for him to become acquainted with it. his mother was a woman of the world; his father had been a man of the world; and what is more, so deep-dyed a politician that to all intents and purposes, except as to bare natural affection, he was nothing to his son and his son was nothing to him. both mother and father thought the son a piece of perfection, and mothers and fathers have very often indeed thought so on less grounds. mr. carleton saw, whenever he took time to look at him, that guy had no lack either of quick wit or manly bearing; that he had pride enough to keep him from low company and make him abhor low pursuits; if anything more than pride and better than pride mingled with it, the father's discernment could not reach so far. he had a love for knowledge too, that from a child made him eager in seeking it, in ways both regular and desultory; and tastes which his mother laughingly said would give him all the elegance of a woman, joined to the strong manly character which no one ever doubted he possessed. _she_ looked mostly at the outside, willing if that pleased her to take everything else upon trust; and the grace of manner which a warm heart and fine sensibilities and a mind entirely frank and above board had given him, from his earliest years had more than met all her wishes. no one suspected the stubbornness and energy of will which was in fact the back-bone of his character. nothing tried it. his father's death early left little guy to his mother's guardianship. contradicting him was the last thing she thought of, and of course it was attempted by no one else. if she would ever have allowed that he had a fault, which she never would, it was one that grew out of his greatest virtue, an unmanageable truth of character; and if she ever unwillingly recognised its companion virtue, firmness of will, it was when she endeavoured to combat certain troublesome demonstrations of the other. in spite of all the grace and charm of manner in which he was allowed to be a model, and which was as natural to him as it was universal, if ever the interests of truth came in conflict with the dictates of society he flung minor considerations behind his back and came out with some startling piece of bluntness at which his mother was utterly confounded. these occasions were very rare; he never sought them. always where it was possible he chose either to speak or be silent in an unexceptionable manner. but sometimes the barrier of conventionalities, or his mother's unwise policy, pressed too hard upon his integrity or his indignation; and he would then free the barrier and present the shut-out truth in its full size and proportions before his mother's shocked eyes. it was in vain to try to coax or blind him; a marble statue is not more unruffled by the soft air of summer; and mrs. carleton was fain to console herself with the reflection that guy's very next act after one of these breaks would be one of such happy fascination that the former would be forgotten; and that in this world of discordancies it was impossible on the whole for any one to come nearer perfection. and if there was inconvenience there were also great comforts about this character of truthfulness. so nearly up to the time of his leaving the university the young heir lived a life of as free and uncontrolled enjoyment as the deer on his grounds, happily led by his own fine instincts to seek that enjoyment in pure and natural sources. his tutor was proud of his success; his dependants loved his frank and high bearing; his mother rejoiced in his personal accomplishments, and was secretly well pleased that his tastes led him another way from the more common and less safe indulgences of other young men. he had not escaped the temptations of opportunity and example. but gambling was not intellectual enough, jockeying was too undignified, and drinking too coarse a pleasure for him. even hunting and coursing charmed him but for a few times; when he found he could out-ride and out leap all his companions, he hunted no more; telling his mother, when she attacked him on the subject, that he thought the hare the worthier animal of the two upon a chase; and that the fox deserved an easier death. his friends twitted him with his want of spirit and want of manliness; but such light shafts bounded back from the buff suit of cool indifference in which their object was cased; and his companions very soon gave over the attempt either to persuade or annoy him, with the conclusion that "nothing could be done with carleton." the same wants that had displeased him in the sports soon led him to decline the company of those who indulged in them. from the low-minded, from the uncultivated, from the unrefined in mind and manner, and such there are in the highest class of society as well as in the less-favoured, he shrank away in secret disgust or weariness. there was no affinity. to his books, to his grounds, which he took endless delight in overseeing, to the fine arts in general, for which he had a great love and for one or two of them a great talent,--he went with restless energy and no want of companionship; and at one or the other, always pushing eagerly forward after some point of excellence or some new attainment not yet reached, and which sprang up after one another as fast as ever "alps on alps," he was happily and constantly busy. too solitary, his mother thought,--caring less for society than she wished to see him; but that she trusted would mend itself. he would be through the university and come of age and go into the world as a matter of necessity. but years brought a change--not the change his mother looked for. that restless active energy which had made the years of his youth so happy, became, in connection with one or two other qualities, a troublesome companion when he had reached the age of manhood and obeying manhood's law had "put away childish things." on what should it spend itself? it had lost none of its strength; while his fastidious notions of excellence and a far-reaching clear-sightedness which belonged to his truth of nature, greatly narrowed the sphere of its possible action. he could not delude himself into the belief that the oversight of his plantations and the perfecting his park scenery could be a worthy end of existence; or that painting and music were meant to be the stamina of life; or even that books were their own final cause. these things had refined and enriched him;--they might go on doing so to the end of his days;--but _for what_? for what? it is said that everybody has his niche, failing to find which nobody fills his place or acts his part in society. mr. carleton could not find his niche, and he consequently grew dissatisfied everywhere. his mother's hopes from the university and the world, were sadly disappointed. at the university he had not lost his time. the pride of character which joined with less estimable pride of birth was a marked feature in his composition, made him look with scorn upon the ephemeral pursuits of one set of young men; while his strong intellectual tastes drew him in the other direction; and the energetic activity which drove him to do everything well that he once took in hand, carried him to high distinction. being there he would have disdained to be anywhere but at the top of the tree. but out of the university and in possession of his estates, what should he do with himself and them? a question easy to settle by most young men! very easy to settle by guy, if he had had the clue of christian truth to guide him through the labyrinth. but the clue was wanting, and the world seemed to him a world of confusion. a certain clearness of judgment is apt to be the blessed handmaid of uncommon truth of character; the mind that knows not what it is to play tricks upon its neighbours is rewarded by a comparative freedom from self-deception. guy could not sit down upon his estates and lead an insect life like that recommended by rossitur. his energies wanted room to expend themselves. but the world offered no sphere that would satisfy him; even had his circumstances and position laid all equally open. it was a busy world, but to him people seemed to be busy upon trifles, or working in a circle, or working mischief; and his nice notions of what _ought to be_ were shocked by what he saw _was_, in every direction around him. he was disgusted with what he called the drivelling of some unhappy specimens of the church which had come in his way; he disbelieved the truth of what such men professed. if there had been truth in it, he thought, they would deserve to be drummed out of the profession. he detested the crooked involvments and double-dealing of the law. he despised the butterfly life of a soldier; and as to the other side of a soldier's life, again he thought, what is it for?--to humour the arrogance of the proud,--to pamper the appetite of the full,--to tighten the grip of the iron hand of power;--and though it be sometimes for better ends, yet the soldier cannot choose what letters of the alphabet of obedience he will learn. politics was the very shaking of the government sieve, where if there were any solid result it was accompanied with a very great flying about of chaff indeed. society was nothing but whip syllabub,--a mere conglomeration of bubbles,--as hollow and as unsatisfying. and in lower departments of human life, as far as he knew, he saw evils yet more deplorable. the church played at shuttlecock with men's credulousness, the law with their purses, the medical profession with their lives, the military with their liberties and hopes. he acknowledged that in all these lines of action there was much talent, much good intention, much admirable diligence and acuteness brought out--but to what great general end? he saw in short that the machinery of the human mind, both at large and in particular, was out of order. he did not know what was the broken wheel the want of which set all the rest to running wrong. this was a strange train of thought for a very young man, but guy had lived much alone, and in solitude one is like a person who has climbed a high mountain; the air is purer about him, his vision is freer; the eye goes straight and clear to the distant view which below on the plain a thousand things would come between to intercept. but there was some morbidness about it too. disappointment in two or three instances where he had given his full confidence and been obliged to take it back had quickened him to generalize unfavourably upon human character, both in the mass and in individuals. and a restless dissatisfaction with himself and the world did not tend to a healthy view of things. yet truth was at the bottom; truth rarely arrived at without the help of revelation. he discerned a want he did not know how to supply. his fine perceptions felt the jar of the machinery which other men are too busy or too deaf to hear. it seemed to him hopelessly disordered. this habit of thinking wrought a change very unlike what his mother had looked for. he mingled more in society, but mrs. carleton saw that the eye with which he looked upon it was yet colder than it wont to be. a cloud came over the light gay spirited manner he had used to wear. the charm of his address was as great as ever where he pleased to shew it, but much more generally now he contented himself with a cool reserve, as impossible to disturb as to find fault with. his temper suffered the same eclipse. it was naturally excellent. his passions were not hastily moved. he had never been easy to offend; his careless good-humour and an unbounded proud self-respect made him look rather with contempt than anger upon the things that fire most men; though when once moved to displeasure it was stern and abiding in proportion to the depth of his character. the same good-humour and cool self-respect forbade him even then to be eager in shewing resentment; the offender fell off from his esteem and apparently from the sphere of his notice as easily as a drop of water from a duck's wing, and could with as much ease regain his lost lodgment, but unless there were wrong to be righted or truth to be vindicated he was in general safe from any further tokens of displeasure. in those cases mr. carleton was an adversary to be dreaded. as cool, as unwavering, as persevering there as in other things, he there as in other things no more failed of his end. and at bottom these characteristics remained the same; it was rather his humour than his temper that suffered a change. that grew more gloomy and less gentle. he was more easily irritated and would shew it more freely than in the old happy times had ever been. mrs. carleton would have been glad to have those times back again. it could not be. guy could not be content any longer in the happy valley of amhara. life had something for him to do beyond his park palings. he had carried manly exercises and personal accomplishments to an uncommon point of perfection; he knew his library well and his grounds thoroughly, and had made excellent improvement of both; it was in vain to try to persuade him that seed-time and harvest were the same thing, and that he had nothing to do but to rest in what he had done; shew his bright colours and flutter like a moth in the sunshine, or sit down like a degenerate bee in the summer time and eat his own honey. the power of action which he knew in himself could not rest without something to act upon. it longed to be doing. but what? conscience is often morbidly far-sighted. mr. carleton had a very large tenantry around him and depending upon him, in bettering whose condition, if he had but known it, all those energies might have found full play. it never entered into his head. he abhorred _business_,--the detail of business; and his fastidious taste especially shrank from having anything to do among those whose business was literally their life. the eye sensitively fond of elegance, the extreme of elegance, in everything, and permitting no other around or about him, could not bear the tokens of mental and bodily wretchedness among the ignorant poor; he escaped from them as soon as possible; thought that poverty was one of the irregularities of this wrong-working machine of a world, and something utterly beyond his power to do away or alleviate; and left to his steward all the responsibility that of right rested on his own shoulders. and at last unable to content himself in the old routine of things he quitted home and england, even before he was of age, and roved from place to place, trying, and trying in vain, to soothe the vague restlessness that called for a very different remedy. "on change de ciel,--l'on ne change point du sol." chapter x. faire christabelle, that ladye bright, was had forth of the towre: but ever she droopeth in her minde, as, nipt by an ungentle winde, doth some faire lillye flowre. syr cauline that evening, the last of their stay at montepoole, fleda was thought well enough to take her tea in company. so mr. carleton carried her down, though she could have walked, and placed her on the sofa in the parlour. whatever disposition the young officers might have felt to renew their pleasantry on the occasion, it was shamed into silence. there was a pure dignity about that little pale face which protected itself. they were quite struck, and fleda had no reason to complain of want of attention from any of the party. mr. evelyn kissed her. mr. thorn brought a little table to the side of the sofa for her cup of tea to stand on, and handed her the toast most dutifully; and her cousin rossitur went back and forth between her and the tea-urn. all of the ladies seemed to take immense satisfaction in looking at her, they did it so much; standing about the hearth-rug with their cups in their hands, sipping their tea. fleda was quite touched with everybody's kindness, but somebody at the back of the sofa whom she did not see was the greatest comfort of all. "you must let me carry you up-stairs when you go, fleda," said her cousin. "i shall grow quite jealous of your friend mr. carleton." "no," said fleda smiling a little,--"i shall not let any one but him carry me up,--if he will." "we shall all grow jealous of mr. carleton," said thorn "he means to monopolize you, keeping you shut up there up-stairs." "he didn't keep me shut up," said fleda. mr. carleton was welcome to monopolize her, if it depended on her vote. "not fair play, carleton," continued the young officer, wisely shaking his head,--"all start alike, or there's no fun in the race. you've fairly distanced us--left us nowhere." he might have talked chinese and been as intelligible to fleda, and as interesting to guy, for all that appeared. "how are we going to proceed to-morrow, mr. evelyn?" said mrs. carleton. "has the missing stage-coach returned yet? or will it be forthcoming in the morning?" "promised, mrs. carleton. the landlord's faith stands pledged for it." "then it won't disappoint us, of course. what a dismal way of travelling!" "this young country hasn't grown up to post-coaches yet," said mrs. evelyn. "how many will it hold?" inquired mrs. carleton. "hum!--nine inside, i suppose." "and we number ten, with the servants. "just take us," said mr. evelyn. "there's room on the box for one." "it will not take me," said mr. carleton. "how will you go? ride?" said his mother "i should think you would, since you have found a horse you like so well." "by george! i wish there was another that _i_ liked," said rossitur, "and i'd go on horseback too. such weather. the landlord says it's the beginning of indian summer." "it's too early for that," said thorn. "well, eight inside will do very well for one day," said mrs. carleton. "that will give little fleda a little more space to lie at her ease." "you may put fleda out of your calculations too, mother," said mr. carleton. "i will take care of her." "how in the world," exclaimed his mother,--"if you are on horseback?" and fleda twisted herself round so as to give a look of bright inquiry at his face. she got no answer beyond a smile, which however completely satisfied her. as to the rest he told his mother that he had arranged it and they should see in the morning. mrs. carleton was far from being at ease on the subject of his arrangements, but she let the matter drop. fleda was secretly very much pleased. she thought she would a great deal rather go with mr. carleton in the little wagon than in the stage-coach with the rest of the people. privately she did not at all admire mr. thorn or her cousin rossitur. they amused her though; and feeling very much better and stronger in body, and at least quiet in mind, she sat in tolerable comfort on her sofa, looking and listening to the people who were gayly talking around her. in the gaps of talk she sometimes thought she heard a distressed sound in the hall. the buzz of tongues covered it up,--then again she heard it,--and she was sure at last that it was the voice of a dog. never came an appeal in vain from any four-footed creature to fleda's heart. all the rest being busy with their own affairs, she quietly got up and opened the door and looked out, and finding that she was right went softly into the hall. in one corner lay her cousin rossitur's beautiful black pointer, which she well remembered and had greatly admired several times. the poor creature was every now and then uttering short cries, in a manner as if he would not, but they were forced from him. "what is the matter with him?" asked fleda, stepping fearfully towards the dog, and speaking to mr. carleton who had come out to look after her. as she spoke the dog rose and came crouching and wagging his tail to meet them. "o mr. carleton!" fleda almost screamed,--"look at him! o what is the matter with him! he's all over bloody! poor creature!"-- "you must ask your cousin, fleda," said mr. carleton, with as much cold disgust in his countenance as it often expressed; and that is saying a good deal. fleda could speak in the cause of a dog, where she would have been silent in her own. she went back to the parlour and begged her cousin with a face of distress to come out into the hall,--she did not say for what. both he and thorn followed her. rossitur's face darkened as fleda repeated her inquiry, her heart so full by this time as hardly to allow her to make any. "why the dog didn't do his duty and has been punished," he said gloomily. "punished?" said fleda. "shot," said mr. carleton coolly. "shot!" exclaimed fleda, bursting into heart-wrung tears,--"shot!--o how _could_ any one do it! oh how could you, how could you, cousin charlton?" it was a picture. the child was crying bitterly, her fingers stroking the poor dog's head with a touch in which lay, o what tender healing, if the will had but had magnetic power. carleton's eye glanced significantly from her to the young officers. rossitur looked at thorn. "it was not charlton--it was i, miss fleda," said the latter. "charlton lent him to me to-day, and he disobeyed me, and so i was angry with him and punished him a little severely; but he'll soon get over it." but all fleda's answer was, "i am very sorry!--i am very sorry!--poor dog!!"--and to weep such tears as made the young gentlemen for once ashamed of themselves. it almost did the child a mischief. she did not get over it all the evening. and she never got over it as far as mr. thorn was concerned. mrs. carleton hoped, faintly, that guy would come to reason by the next morning and let fleda go in the stage-coach with the rest of the people. but he was as unreasonable as ever, and stuck to his purpose. she had supposed however, with fleda, that the difference would be only an open vehicle and his company instead of a covered one and her own. both of them were sadly discomfited when on coming to the hall door to take their carriages it was found that mr. carleton's meaning was no less than to take fleda before him on horseback. he was busy even then in arranging a cushion on the pommel of the saddle for her to sit upon. mrs. carleton burst into indignant remonstrances; fleda silently trembled. but mr. carleton had his own notions on the subject, and they were not moved by anything his mother could say. he quietly went on with his preparations; taking very slight notice of the raillery of the young officers, answering mrs. evelyn with polite words, and silencing his mother as he came up with one of those looks out of his dark eyes to which she always forgave the wilfulness for the sake of the beauty and the winning power. she was completely conquered, and stepped back with even a smile. "but, carleton!" cried rossitur impatiently,--"you can't ride so! you'll find it deucedly inconvenient." "possibly," said mr. carleton. "fleda would be a great deal better off in the stage-coach." "have you studied medicine, mr. rossitur?" said the young man. "because i am persuaded of the contrary." "i don't believe your horse will like it," said thorn. "my horse is always of my mind, sir; or if he be not i generally succeed in convincing him." "but there is somebody else that deserves to be consulted," said mrs. thorn. "i wonder how little fleda will like it." "i will ask her when we get to our first stopping-place," said mr. carleton smiling. "come, fleda!" fleda would hardly have said a word if his purpose had been to put her under the horse's feet instead of on his back. but she came forward with great unwillingness and a very tremulous little heart. he must have understood the want of alacrity in her face and manner, though he took no notice of it otherwise than by the gentle kindness with which he led her to the horse-block and placed her upon it. then mounting, and riding the horse up close to the block, he took fleda in both hands and bidding her spring, in a moment she was safely seated before him. at first it seemed dreadful to fleda to have that great horse's head so near her, and she was afraid that her feet touching him would excite his most serious disapprobation. however a minute or so went by and she could not see that his tranquillity seemed to be at all ruffled, or even that he was sensible of her being upon his shoulders. they waited to see the stage-coach off, and then gently set forward. fleda feared very much again when she felt the horse moving under her, easy as his gait was, and looking after the stagecoach in the distance, now beyond call, she felt a little as if she was a great way from help and dry land, cast away on a horse's back. but mr. carleton's arm was gently passed round her, and she knew it held her safely and would not let her fall, and he bent down his face to her and asked her so kindly and tenderly, and with such a look too, that seemed to laugh at her fears, whether she felt afraid?--and with such a kind little pressure of his arm that promised to take care of her,--that fleda's courage mounted twenty degrees at once. and it rose higher every minute; the horse went very easily, and mr. carleton held her so that she could not be tired, and made her lean against him; and before they had gone a mile fleda began to be delighted. such a charming way of travelling! such a free view of the country!--and in this pleasant weather too, neither hot nor cold, and when all nature's features were softened by the light veil of haze that hung over them and kept off the sun's glare. mr. carleton was right. in the stage-coach fleda would have sat quiet in a corner and moped the time sadly away, now she was roused, excited, interested, even cheerful; forgetting herself, which was the very thing of all others to be desired for her. she lost her fears; she was willing to have the horse trot or canter as fast as his rider pleased; but the trotting was too rough for her, so they cantered or paced along most of the time, when the hills did not oblige them to walk quietly up and down, which happened pretty often. for several miles the country was not very familiar to fleda. it was however extremely picturesque; and she sat silently and gravely looking at it, her head lying upon mr. carleton's breast, her little mind very full of thoughts and musings, curious, deep, sometimes sorrowful, but not unhappy. "i am afraid i tire you, mr. carleton!" said she in a sudden fit of recollection, starting up. his look answered her, and his arm drew her back to her place again. "are _you_ not tired, elfie?" "oh no!----you have got a new name for me, mr. carleton,' said she a moment after, looking up and smiling. "do you like it?" "yes." "you are my good genius," said he,--"so i must have a peculiar title for you, different from what other people know you by." "what is a genius, sir?" said fleda. "well a sprite then," said he smiling. "a sprite!" said fleda. "i have read a story of a lady, elfie, who had a great many little unearthly creatures, a kind of sprites, to attend upon her. some sat in the ringlets of her hair and took charge of them; some hid in the folds of her dress and made them lie gracefully; another lodged in a dimple in her cheek, and another perched on her eyebrows, and so on." "to take care of her eyebrows?" said fleda laughing. "yes--to smooth out all the ill-humoured wrinkles and frowns, i suppose." "but am i such a sprite?" said fleda. "something like it." "why what do i do?" said fleda, rousing herself in a mixture of gratification and amusement that was pleasant to behold. "what office would you choose, elfie? what good would you like to do me?" it was a curious wistful look with which fleda answered his question, an innocent look, in which mr. carleton read perfectly that she felt something was wanting in him, and did not know exactly what. his smile almost made her think she had been mistaken. "you are just the sprite you would wish to be, elfie," he said. fleda's head took its former position, and she sat for some time musing over his question and answer, till a familiar waymark put all such thoughts to flight. they were passing deepwater lake, and would presently be at aunt miriam's. fleda looked now with a beating heart. every foot of ground was known to her. she was seeing it perhaps for the last time. it was with even an intensity of eagerness that she watched every point and turn of the landscape, endeavouring to lose nothing in her farewell view, to give her farewell look at every favourite clump of trees and old rock, and at the very mill-wheels, which for years whether working or at rest had had such interest for her. if tears came to bid their good-by too, they were hastily thrown off, or suffered to roll quietly down; _they_ might bide their time; but eyes must look now or never. how pleasant, how pleasant, the quiet old country seemed to fleda as they went long!--in that most quiet light and colouring; the brightness of the autumn glory gone, and the sober warm hue which the hills still wore seen under that hazy veil. all the home-like peace of the place was spread out to make it hard going away. would she ever see any other so pleasant again? those dear old hills and fields, among which she had been so happy,--they were not to be her home any more; would she ever have the same sweet happiness anywhere else?--"the lord will provide!" thought little fleda with swimming eyes. it was hard to go by aunt miriam's. fleda eagerly looked, as well as she could, but no one was to be seen about the house. it was just as well. a sad gush of tears must come then, but she got rid of them as soon as possible, that she might not lose the rest of the way, promising them another time. the little settlement on "the hill" was passed,--the factories and mills and mill-ponds, one after the other; they made fleda feel very badly, for here she remembered going with her grandfather to see the work, and there she had stopped with him at the turner's shop to get a wooden bowl turned, and there she had been with cynthy when she went to visit an acquaintance; and there never was a happier little girl than fleda had been in those old times. all gone!--it was no use trying to help it; fleda put her two hands to her face and cried at last a silent but not the less bitter leave-taking of the shadows of the past. she forced herself into quiet again, resolved to look to the last. as they were going down the hill past the saw-mill mr. carleton noticed that her head was stretched out to look back at it, with an expression of face he could not withstand. he wheeled about immediately and went back and stood opposite to it. the mill was not working to-day. the saw was standing still, though there were plenty of huge trunks of trees lying about in all directions waiting to be cut up. there was a desolate look of the place. no one was there; the little brook, most of its waters cut oft', did not go roaring and laughing down the hill, but trickled softly and plaintively over the stones. it seemed exceeding sad to fleda. "thank you, mr. carleton," she said after a little earnest fond looking at her old haunt;--"you needn't stay any longer." but as soon as they had crossed the little rude bridge at the foot of the hill they could see the poplar trees which skirted the courtyard fence before her grandfather's house. poor fleda's eyes could hardly serve her. she managed to keep them open till the horse had made a few steps more and she had caught the well-known face of the old house looking at her through the poplars. her fortitude failed, and bowing her little head she wept so exceedingly that mr. carleton was fain to draw bridle and try to comfort her. "my dear elfie!--do not weep so," he said tenderly. "is there anything you would like?--can i do anything for you?" he had to wait a little. he repeated his first query. "o--it's no matter," said fleda, striving to conquer her tears, which found their way again,--"if i only could have gone into the house once more!--but it's no matter--you needn't wait, mr. carleton--" the horse however remained motionless. "do you think you would feel better, elfie, if you had seen it again?" "oh yes!--but never mind, mr. carleton,--you may go on." mr. carleton ordered his servant to open the gate, and rode up to the back of the house. "i am afraid there is nobody here, elfie," he said; "the house seems all shut up." "i know how i can get in," said fleda,--"there's a window down stairs--i don't believe it is fastened,--if you wouldn't mind waiting, mr. carleton,--i won't keep you long?" the child had dried her tears, and there was the eagerness of something like hope in her face. mr. carleton dismounted and took her off. "i must find a way to get in too, elfie,--i cannot let you go alone." "o i can open the door when i get in," said fleda. "but you have not the key." "there's no key--it's only hoi ted on the inside, that door. i can open it." she found the window unfastened, as she had expected; mr. carleton held it open while she crawled in and then she undid the door for him. he more than half questioned the wisdom of his proceeding. the house had a dismal look; cold, empty, deserted,--it was a dreary reminder of fleda's loss, and he feared the effect of it would be anything but good. he followed and watched her, as with an eager business step she went through the hall and up the stairs, putting her head into every room and giving an earnest wistful look all round it. here and there she went in and stood a moment, where associations were more thick and strong; sometimes taking a look out of a particular window, and even opening a cupboard door, to give that same kind and sorrowful glance of recognition at the old often resorted to hiding place of her own or her grandfather's treasures and trumpery. those old corners seemed to touch fleda more than all the rest; and she turned away from one of them with a face of such extreme sorrow that mr. carleton very much regretted he had brought her into the house. for her sake,--for his own, it was a curious show of character. though tears were sometimes streaming, she made no delay and gave him no trouble; with the calm steadiness of a woman she went regularly through the house, leaving no place unvisited, but never obliging him to hasten her away. she said not a word during the whole time; her very crying; was still; the light tread of her little feet was the only sound in the silent empty rooms; and the noise of their footsteps in the halls and of the opening and shutting doors echoed mournfully through the house. she had left her grandfather's room for the last. mr. carleton did not follow her in there, guessing that she would rather be alone. but she did not come back, and he was forced to go to fetch her. the chill desolateness of that room had been too much for poor little fleda. the empty bedstead, the cold stove, the table bare of books, only one or two lay upon the old bible,--the forlorn order of the place that bespoke the master far away, the very sunbeams that stole in at the little windows and met now no answering look of gladness or gratitude,--it had struck the child's heart too heavily, and she was standing crying by the window. a second time in that room mr. carleton sat down and drew his little charge to his breast and spoke words of soothing and sympathy. "i am very sorry i brought you here, dear elfie," he said kindly. "it was too hard for you." "o no!"--even through her tears fleda said,--"she was very glad." "hadn't we better try to overtake our friends?" he whispered after another pause. she immediately, almost immediately, put away her tears, and with a quiet obedience that touched him went with him from the room; fastened the door and got out again at the little window. "o mr. carleton!" she said with great earnestness when they had almost reached the horses, "won't you wait for me _one_ minute more?--i just want a piece of the burning bush "-- [illustration: she stood back and watched.] drawing her hand from him she rushed round to the front of the house. a little more slowly mr. carleton followed, and found her under the burning bush, tugging furiously at a branch beyond her strength to break off. "that's too much for you, elfie," said he, gently taking her hand from the tree,--"let my hand try." she stood back and watched, tears running down her face, while he got a knife from his pocket and cut off the piece she had been trying for, nicely, and gave it to her. the first movement of fleda's head was down, bent over the pretty spray of red berries; but by the time she stood at the horse's side she looked up at mr. carleton and thanked him with a face of more than thankfulness. she was crying however, constantly till they had gone several miles on their way again, and mr. carleton doubted he had done wrong. it passed away, and she had been sitting quite peacefully for some time, when he told her they were near the place where they were to stop and join their friends. she looked up most gratefully in his face. "i am very much obliged to you, mr. carleton, for what you did!" "i was afraid i had made a mistake, elfie." "oh, no, you didn't." "do you think you feel any easier after it, elfie?" "oh yes!--indeed i do," said she looking up again,--"thank you, mr. carleton." a gentle kind pressure of his arm answered her thanks. "i ought to be a good sprite to you, mr. carleton," fleda said after musing a little while,--"you are so very good to me!" perhaps mr. carleton felt too much pleasure at this speech to make any answer, for he made none. "it is only selfishness, elfie," said he presently, looking down to the quiet sweet little face which seemed to him, and was, more pure than anything of earth's mould he had ever seen.--"you know i must take care of you for my own sake." fleda laughed a little. "but what will you do when we get to paris?" "i don't know. i should like to have you always, elfie." "you'll have to get aunt lucy to give me to you," said fleda. "mr. carleton," said she a few minutes after, "is that story in a book?" "what story?" "about the lady and the little sprites that waited on her." "yes, it is in a book; you shall see it, elfie.--here we are!" and here it was proposed to stay till the next day, lest fleda might not be able to bear so much travelling at first. but the country inn was not found inviting; the dinner was bad and the rooms were worse; uninhabitable, the ladies said; and about the middle of the afternoon they began to cast about for the means of reaching albany that night. none very comfortable could be had; however it was thought better to push on at any rate than wear out the night in such a place. the weather was very mild; the moon at the full. "how is fleda to go this afternoon?" said mrs. evelyn. "she shall decide herself," said mrs. carleton. "how will you go, my sweet fleda?" fleda was lying upon a sort of rude couch which had been spread for her, where she had been sleeping incessantly ever since she arrived, the hour of dinner alone excepted. mrs. carleton repeated her question. "i am afraid mr. carleton must be tired," said fleda, without opening her eyes. "that means that you are, don't it?" said rossitur. "no," said fleda gently. mr. carleton smiled and went out to press forward the arrangements. in spite of good words and good money there was some delay. it was rather late before the cavalcade left the inn; and a journey of several hours was before them. mr. carleton rode rather slowly too, for fleda's sake, so the evening had fallen while they were yet a mile or two from the city. his little charge had borne the fatigue well, thanks partly to his admirable care, and partly to her quiet pleasure in being with him. she had been so perfectly still for some distance that he thought she had dropped asleep. looking down closer however to make sure about it he saw her thoughtful clear eyes most unsleepily fixed upon the sky. "what are you gazing at, elfie?" the look of thought changed to a look of affection as the eyes were brought to bear upon him, and she answered with a smile, "nothing,--i was looking at the stars." "what are you dreaming about?" "i wasn't dreaming," said fleda,--"i was thinking." "thinking of what?" "o of pleasant things." "mayn't i know them?--i like to hear of pleasant things." "i was thinking,--" said fleda, looking up again at the stars, which shone with no purer ray than those grave eyes sent back to them,--"i was thinking--of being ready to die." the words, and the calm thoughtful manner in which they were said, thrilled upon mr. carleton with a disagreeable shock. "how came you to think of such a thing?" said he lightly. "i don't know,"--said fleda, still looking at the stars,--"i suppose--i was thinking--" "what?" said mr. carleton, inexpressibly curious to get at the workings of the child's mind, which was not easy, for fleda was never very forward to talk of herself;--"what were you thinking? i want to know how you could get such a thing into your head." "it wasn't very strange," said fleda. "the stars made me think of heaven, and grandpa's being there, and then i thought how he was ready to go there and that made him ready to die--" "i wouldn't think of such things, elfie," said mr. carleton after a few minutes. "why not, sir?" said fleda quickly. "i don't think they are good for you." "but mr. carleton," said fleda gently,--"if i don't think about it, how shall _i_ ever be ready to die?" "it is not fit for you," said he, evading the question,--"it is not necessary now,--there's time enough. you are a little body and should have none but gay thoughts." "but mr. carleton," said fleda with timid earnestness,--"don't you think one could have gay thoughts better if one knew one was ready to die?" "what makes a person ready to die, elfie?" said her friend, disliking to ask the question, but yet more unable to answer hers, and curious to hear what she would say. "o--to be a christian," said fleda. "but i have seen christians," said mr. carleton, "who were no more ready to die than other people." "then they were make-believe christians," said fleda decidedly. "what makes you think so?" said her friend, carefully guarding his countenance from anything like a smile. "because," said fleda, "grandpa was ready, and my father was ready, and my mother too; and i know it was because they were christians." "perhaps your kind of christians are different from my kind," said mr. carleton, carrying on the conversation half in spite of himself. "what do you mean by a christian, elfie?" "why, what the bible means," said fleda, looking at him with innocent earnestness. mr. carleton was ashamed to tell her he did not know what that was, or he was unwilling to say what he felt would trouble the happy confidence she had in him. he was silent; but as they rode on, a bitter wish crossed his mind that he could have the simple purity of the little child in his arms; and he thought he would give his broad acres supposing it possible that religion could be true,--in exchange for that free happy spirit that looks up to all its possessions in heaven. chapter xi. starres are poore books and oftentimes do misse; this book of starres lights to eternall blisse. george herber. the voyage across the atlantic was not, in itself, at all notable. the first half of the passage was extremely unquiet, and most of the passengers uncomfortable to match. then the weather cleared; and the rest of the way, though lengthened out a good deal by the tricks of the wind, was very fair and pleasant. fifteen days of tossing and sea-sickness had brought little fleda to look like the ghost of herself. so soon as the weather changed and sky and sea were looking gentle again, mr. carleton had a mattress and cushions laid in a sheltered corner of the deck for her, and carried her up. she had hardly any more strength than a baby. "what are you looking at me so for, mr. carleton?" said she, a little while after he had carried her up, with a sweet serious smile that seemed to know the answer to her question. he stooped down and clasped her little thin hand, as reverentially as if she really had not belonged to the earth. "you are more like a sprite than i like to see you just now," said he, unconsciously fastening the child's heart to himself with the magnetism of those deep eyes.--"i must get some of the sailors' salt beef and sea biscuit for you--they say that is the best thing to make people well." "o i feel better already," said fleda, and settling her little face upon the cushion and closing her eyes, she added,--"thank you, mr. carleton!" the fresh air began to restore her immediately; she was no more sick, her appetite came back; and from that time, without the help of beef and sea-biscuit, she mended rapidly. mr. carleton proved himself as good a nurse on the sea as on land. she seemed to be never far from his thoughts. he was constantly finding out something that would do her good or please her; and fleda could not discover that he took any trouble about it; she could not feel that she was a burden to him; the things seemed to come as a matter of course. mrs. carleton was not wanting in any shew of kindness or care, and yet, when fleda looked back upon the day, it somehow was guy that had done everything for her; she thought little of thanking anybody but him. there were other passengers that petted her a great deal, or would have done so, if fleda's very timid retiring nature had not stood in the way. she was never bashful, nor awkward; but yet it was only a very peculiar, sympathetic, style of address that could get within the wall of reserve which in general hid her from other people. hid, what it could; for through that reserve a singular modesty, sweetness, and gracefulness of spirit would shew themselves. but there was much more behind. there were no eyes however on board that did not look kindly on little fleda, excepting only two pair. the captain shewed her a great deal of flattering attention, and said she was a pattern of a passenger; even the sailors noticed and spoke of her and let slip no occasion of shewing the respect and interest she had raised. but there were two pair of eyes, and one of them fleda thought most remarkably ugly, that were an exception to the rest; these belonged to her cousin rossitur and lieut. thorn. rossitur had never forgiven her remarks upon his character as a gentleman and declared preference of mr. carleton in that capacity; and thorn was mortified at the invincible childish reserve which she opposed to all his advances; and both, absurd as it seems, were jealous of the young englishman's advantage over them. both not the less, because their sole reason for making her a person of consequence was that he had thought fit to do so. fleda would permit neither of them to do anything for her that she could help. they took their revenge in raillery, which was not always good-natured. mr. carleton never answered it in any other way than by his look of cold disdain,--not always by that; little fleda could not be quite so unmoved. many a time her nice sense of delicacy confessed itself hurt, by the deep and abiding colour her cheeks would wear after one of their ill mannered flings at her. she bore them with a grave dignity peculiar to herself, but the same nice delicacy forbade her to mention the subject to any one; and the young gentlemen contrived to give the little child in the course of the voyage a good deal of pain. she shunned them at last as she would the plague. as to the rest fleda liked her life on board ship amazingly. in her quiet way she took all the good that offered and seemed not to recognise the ill. mr. carleton had bought for her a copy of the rape of the lock, and bryant's poems. with these, sitting or lying among her cushions, fleda amused herself a great deal; and it was an especial pleasure when he would sit down by her and read and talk about them. still a greater was to watch the sea, in its changes of colour and varieties of agitation, and to get from mr. carleton, bit by bit, all the pieces of knowledge concerning it that he had ever made his own. even when fleda feared it she was fascinated; and while the fear went off the fascination grew deeper. daintily nestling among her cushions she watched with charmed eyes the long rollers that came up in detachments of three to attack the good ship, that like a slandered character rode patiently over them; or the crested green billows, or sometimes the little rippling waves that shewed old ocean's placidest face; while with ears as charmed as if he had been delivering a fairy tale she listened to all mr. carleton could tell her of the green water where the whales feed, or the blue water where neptune sits in his own solitude, the furtherest from land, and the pavement under his feet outdoes the very canopy overhead in its deep colouring; of the transparent seas where the curious mysterious marine plants and animals may be clearly seen many feet down, and in the north where hundreds of feet of depth do not hide the bottom; of the icebergs; and whirling great fields of ice, between which if a ship gets she had as good be an almond in a pair of strong nut crackers. how the water grows colder and murkier as it is nearer the shore; how the mountain waves are piled together; and how old ocean, like a wise man, however roughened and tumbled outwardly by the currents of life, is always calm at heart. of the signs of the weather; the out-riders of the winds, and the use the seaman makes of the tidings they bring; and before mr. carleton knew where he was he found himself deep in the science of navigation, and making a star-gazer of little fleda. sometimes kneeling beside him as he sat on her mattress, with her hand leaning on his shoulder, fleda asked, listened, and looked; as engaged, as rapt, as interested, as another child would be in robinson crusoe, gravely drinking in knowledge with a fresh healthy taste for it that never had enough. mr. carleton was about as amused and as interested as she. there is a second taste of knowledge that some minds get in imparting it, almost as sweet as the first relish. at any rate fleda never felt that she had any reason to fear tiring him; and his mother complaining of his want of sociableness said she believed guy did not like to talk to anybody but that little pet of his and one or two of the old sailors. if left to her own resources fleda was never at a loss; she amused herself with her books, or watching the sailors, or watching the sea, or with some fanciful manufacture she had learned from one of the ladies on board, or with what the company about her were saying and doing. one evening she had been some time alone, looking out upon the restless little waves that were tossing and tumbling in every direction. she had been afraid of them at first and they were still rather fearful to her imagination. this evening as her musing eye watched them rise and fall her childish fancy likened them to the up-springing chances of life,--uncertain, unstable, alike too much for her skill and her strength to manage. she was not more helpless before the attacks of the one than of the other. but then--that calm blue heaven that hung over the sea. it was like the heaven of power and love above her destinies; only this was far higher and more pure and abiding. "he knoweth them that trust in him." "there shall not a hair of your head perish." not these words perhaps, but something like the sense of them was in little fleda's head. mr. carleton coming up saw her gazing out upon the water with an eye that seemed to see nothing. "elfie!--are you looking into futurity?" "no,--yes,--not exactly," said fleda smiling. "no, yes, and not exactly!" said he throwing himself down beside her.--" what does all that mean?" "i wasn't exactly looking into futurity," said fleda. "what then?--don't tell me you were 'thinking;' i know that dready. what?" fleda was always rather shy of opening her cabinet of thoughts. she glanced at him, and hesitated, and then yielded to a fascination of eye and smile that rarely failed of its end. looking off to the sea again, as if she had left her thoughts there, she said, "i was only thinking of that beautiful hymn of mr. newton's." "what hymn?" "that long one, 'the lord will provide.'" "do you know it?--tell it to me, elfie--let us see whether i shall think it beautiful." fleda knew the whole and repeated it. "though troubles assail, and dangers affright, though friends should all fall, and foes all unite; yet one thing secures us whatever betide, the scripture assures us 'the lord will provide.' "the birds without barn or storehouse are fed; from them let us learn to trust for our bread. his saints what is fitting shall ne'er be denied, so long as 'tis written, 'the lord will provide.' "his call we obey, like abraham of old, not knowing our way, but faith makes us bold. and though we are strangers, we have a good guide, and trust in all dangers 'the lord will provide.' "we may like the ships in tempests be tossed on perilous deeps, but cannot be lost. though satan enrages the wind and the tide, the promise engages 'the lord will provide.' "when satan appears to stop up our path, and fills us with fears, we triumph by faith. he cannot take from us, though oft he has tried, this heart-cheering promise, 'the lord will provide.' "he tells us we're weak, our hope is in vain, the good that we seek we ne'er shall obtain; but when such suggestions our spirits have tried, this answers all questions. 'the lord will provide.' "no strength of our own, or goodness we claim; but since we have known the saviour's great name in this, our strong tower, for safety we hide; the lord is our power! 'the lord will provide.' "when life sinks apace, and death is in view, this word of his grace shall comfort us through. no fearing nor doubting, with christ on our side, we hope to die shouting, 'the lord will provide.'" guy listened very attentively to the whole. he was very far from understanding the meaning of several of the verses, but the bounding expression of confidence and hope he did understand, and did feel. "happy to be so deluded!" he thought.--"i almost wish i could share the delusion!" he was gloomily silent when she had done, and little fleda's eyes were so full that it was a little while before she could look towards him and ask in her gentle way, "do you like it, mr. carleton?" she was gratified by his grave, "yes!" "but, elfie," said he smiling again, "you have not told me your thoughts yet. what had these verses to do with the sea you were looking at so hard?" "nothing--i was thinking," said fleda slowly,--"that the sea seemed something like the world,--i don't mean it was like, but it made me think of it; and i thought how pleasant it is to know that god takes care of his people." "don't he take care of everybody?" "yes--in one sort of way," said fleda; "but then it is only his children that he has promised to keep from everything that will hurt them." "i don't see how that promise is kept, elfie. i think those who call themselves so meet with as many troubles as the rest of the world, and perhaps more." "yes," said fleda quickly, "they have troubles, but then god won't let the troubles do them any harm." a subtle evasion, thought mr. carleton.--"where did you learn that, elfie?" "the bible says so," said fleda. "well, how do you know it from that?" aid mr. carleton, impelled, he hardly knew whether by his bad or his good angel, to carry on the conversation. "why," said fleda, looking as if it were a very simple question and mr. carleton were catechising her,--"you know, mr. carleton, the bible was written by men who were taught by god exactly what to say, so there could be nothing in it that is not true." "how do you know those men were so taught?" "the bible says so." a child's answer!--but with a child's wisdom in it, not learnt of the schools. "he that is of god heareth god's words." to little fleda, as to every simple and humble intelligence, the bible proved itself; she had no need to go further. mr. carleton did not smile, for nothing would have tempted him to hurt her feelings; but he said, though conscience did not let him do it without a twinge, "but don't you know, elfie, there are some people who do not believe the bible?" "ah but those are bad people," replied fleda quickly;--"all good people believe it." a child's reason again, but hitting the mark this time. unconsciously, little fleda had brought forward a strong argument for her cause. mr. carleton felt it, and rising up that he might not be obliged to say anything more, he began to pace slowly up and down the deck, turning the matter over. was it so? that there were hardly any good men (he thought there might be a few) who did not believe in the bible and uphold its authority? and that all the worst portion of society was comprehended in the other class?--and if so, how had he overlooked it? he had reasoned most unphilosophically from a few solitary instances that had come under his own eye; but applying the broad principle of induction it could not be doubted that the bible was on the side of all that is sound, healthful, and hopeful, in this disordered world. and whatever might be the character of a few exceptions, it was not supposable that a wide system of hypocrisy should tell universally for the best interests of mankind. summoning history to produce her witnesses, as he went on with his walk up and down, he saw with increasing interest, what he had never seen before, that the bible had come like the breath of spring upon the moral waste of mind; that the ice-bound intellect and cold heart of the world had waked into life under its kindly influence and that all the rich growth of the one and the other had come forth at its bidding. and except in that sun-lightened tract, the world was and had been a waste indeed. doubtless in that waste, intellect had at different times put forth sundry barren shoots, such as a vigorous plant can make in the absence of the sun, but also like them immature, unsound, and groping vainly after the light in which alone they could expand and perfect themselves; ripening no seed for a future and richer growth. and flowers the wilderness had none. the affections were stunted and overgrown. all this was so,--how had he overlooked it? his unbelief had come from a thoughtless, ignorant, one-sided view of life and human things. the disorder and ruin which he saw, where he did not also see the adjusting hand at work, had led him to refuse his credit to the supreme fabricator. he thought the waste would never be reclaimed, and did not know how much it already owed to the sun of revelation; but what was the waste where that light had not been!--mr. carleton was staggered. he did not know what to think. he began to think he had been a fool. poor little fleda was meditating less agreeably the while. with the sure tact of truth she had discerned that there was more than jest in the questions that had been put to her. she almost feared that mr. carleton shared himself the doubts he had so lightly spoken of, and the thought gave her great distress. however, when he came to take her down to tea, with all his usual manner, fleda's earnest look at him ended in the conviction that there was nothing very wrong under that face. for several days mr. carleton pondered the matter of this evening's conversation, characteristically restless till he had made up his mind. he wished very much to draw fleda to speak further upon the subject, but it was not easy; she never led to it. he sought in vain an opportunity to bring it in easily, and at last resolved to make one. "elfie," said he one morning when all the rest of the passengers were happily engaged at a distance with the letter-bags,--"i wish you would let me hear that favourite hymn of yours again,--i like it very much." fleda was much gratified, and immediately with great satisfaction repeated the hymn. its peculiar beauty struck him yet more the second time than the first. "do you understand those two last verses?" said he when she had done. fleda said "yes!" rather surprised. "i do not," he said gravely. fleda paused a minute or two, and then finding that it depended on her to enlighten him, said in her modest way, "why it means that we have no goodness of our own, and only expect to be forgiven and taken to heaven for the saviour's sake." mr. carleton asked, "how_for his sake_?" "why you know, mr. carleton, we don't deserve to go there, and if we are forgiven at all it must be for what he has done." "and what is that, elfie?" "he died for us," said fleda, with a look of some anxiety into mr. carleton's face. "died for us!--and what end was that to serve, elfie?" said he, partly willing to hear the full statement of the matter, and partly willing to see how far her intelligence could give it. "because we are sinners," said fleda, "and god has said that sinners shall die." "then how can he keep his word and forgive at all?" "because christ has died _for us_," said fleda eagerly;--"instead of us." "do you understand the justice of letting one take the place of others?" "he was willing, mr. carleton," said fleda, with a singular wistful expression that touched him. "still, elfie," said he after a minute's silence,--"how could the ends of justice be answered by the death of one man in the place of millions?" "no, mr. carleton, but he was god as well as man," fleda said, with a sparkle in her eye which perhaps delayed her companion's rejoinder. "what should induce him, elfie," he said gently, "to do such a thing for people who had displeased him?" "because he loved us, mr. carleton." she answered with so evident a strong and clear appreciation of what she was saying that it half made its way into mr. carleton's mind by the force of sheer sympathy. her words came almost as something new. certainly mr. carleton had heard these things before, though perhaps never in a way that appealed so directly to his intelligence and his candour. he was again silent an instant, pondering, and so was fleda. "do you know, elfie," said mr. carleton, "there are some people who do not believe that the saviour was anything more than a man?" "yes i know it," said fleda;--"it is very strange!" "why is it strange?" "because the bible says it so plainly." "but those people hold i believe that the bible does not say it?" "i don't see how they could have read the bible," said fleda. "why he said so himself." "who said so?" "jesus christ. don't _you_ believe it, mr. carleton?" she saw he did not, and the shade that had come over her face was reflected in his before he said "no." "but perhaps i shall believe it yet, elfie," he said kindly. "can you shew me the place in your bible where jesus says this of himself?" fleda looked in despair. she hastily turned over the leaves of her bible to find the passages he had asked for, and mr. carleton was cut to the heart to see that she twice was obliged to turn her face from him and brush her hand over her eyes, before she could find them. she turned to matt. xxvi. , , , and without speaking gave him the book, pointing to the passage. he read it with great care, and several times over. "you are right, elfie," he said. "i do not see how those who honour the authority of the bible and the character of jesus christ can deny the truth of his own declaration. if that is false so must those be." fleda took the bible and hurriedly sought out another passage. "grandpa shewed me these places," she said, "once when we were talking about mr. didenhover--_he_ didn't believe that. there are a great many other places, grandpa said; but one is enough;"-- she gave him the latter part of the twentieth chapter of john.-- "you see, mr. carleton, he let thomas fall down and worship him and call him god; and if he had _not_ been, you know----god is more displeased with that than with any thing.' "with what, elfie?" "with men's worshipping any other than himself. he says he 'will not give his glory to another.'" "where is that?" "i am afraid i can't find it," said fleda,--"it is somewhere in isaiah, i know"-- she tried in vain; and failing, then looked up in mr. carleton's face to see what impression had been made. "you see thomas believed when he _saw_" said he, answering her;--"i will believe too when i see." "ah if you wait for that--" said fleda. her voice suddenly checked, she bent her face down again to her little bible, and there was a moment's struggle with herself. "are you looking for something more to shew me?" said mr. carleton kindly, stooping his face down to hers. "not much," said fleda hurriedly; and then making a great effort she raised her head and gave him the book again. "look here, mr. carleton,--jesus said, 'blessed are they that have _not_ seen and yet have believed.'" mr. carleton was profoundly struck, and the thought recurred to him afterwards and was dwelt upon.--"blessed are they that have _not_ seen, and yet have believed." it was strange at first, and then he wondered that it should ever have been so. his was a mind peculiarly open to conviction, peculiarly accessible to truth; and his attention being called to it he saw faintly now what he had never seen before, the beauty of the principle of _faith_;--how natural, how reasonable, how _necessary_, how honourable to the supreme being, how happy even for man, that the grounds of his trust in god being established, his acceptance of many other things should rest on that trust alone. mr. carleton now became more reserved and unsociable than ever. he wearied himself with thinking. if be could have got at the books, he would have spent his days and nights in studying the evidences of christianity, but the ship was bare of any such books, and he never thought of turning to the most obvious of all, the bible itself. his unbelief was shaken; it was within an ace of falling in pieces to the very foundation; or rather he began to suspect how foundationless it had been. it came at last to one point with him;--if there were a god, he would not have left the world without a revelation,--no more would he have suffered that revelation to defeat its own end by becoming corrupted or alloyed, if there was such a revelation it could be no other than the bible;--and his acceptance of the whole scheme of christianity now hung upon the turn of a hair. yet he could not resolve himself. he balanced the counter-doubts and arguments, on one side and on the other, and strained his mind to the task;--he could not weigh them nicely enough. he was in a maze; and seeking to clear and calm his judgment that he might see the way out, it was in vain that he tried to shake his dizzied head from the effect of the turns it had made. by dint of anxiety to find the right path reason had lost herself in the wilderness. fleda was not, as mr. carleton had feared she would be, at all alienated from him by the discovery that had given her so much pain. it wrought in another way, rather to add a touch of tender and anxious interest to the affection she had for him. it gave her however much more pain than he thought. if he had seen the secret tears that fell on his account he would have been grieved; and if he had known of the many petitions that little heart made for him--he could hardly have loved her more than he did. one evening mr. carleton had been a long while pacing up and down the deck in front of little fleda's nest, thinking and thinking, without coming to any end. it was a most fair evening, near sunset, the sky without a cloud except two or three little dainty strips which set off its blue. the ocean was very quiet, only broken into cheerful mites of waves that seemed to have nothing to do but sparkle. the sun's rays were almost level now, and a long path of glory across the sea led off towards his sinking disk. fleda sat watching and enjoying it all in her happy fashion, which always made the most of everything good, and was especially quick in catching any form of natural beauty. mr. carleton's thoughts were elsewhere; too busy to take note of things around him. fleda looked now and then as he passed at his gloomy brow, wondering what he was thinking of, and wishing that he could have the same reason to be happy that she had. in one of his turns his eye met her gentle glance; and vexed and bewildered as he was with study there was something in that calm bright face that impelled him irresistibly to ask the little child to set the proud scholar right. placing himself beside her, he said, "elfie, how do you know there is a god?--what reason have you for thinking so, out of the bible?" it was a strange look little fleda gave him. he felt it at the time, and he never forgot it. such a look of reproach, sorrow, and _pity_, he afterwards thought, as an angel's face might have worn. the _question_ did not seem to occupy her a moment. after this answering look she suddenly pointed to the sinking sun and said, "who made that, mr. carleton?" mr. carleton's eyes, following the direction of hers, met the long bright rays whose still witness-bearing was almost too powerful to be borne. the sun was just dipping majestically into the sea, and its calm self-assertion seemed to him at that instant hardly stronger than its vindication of its author. a slight arrow may find the joint in the armour before which many weightier shafts have fallen powerless. mr. carleton was an unbeliever no more from that time. chapter xii he borrowed a box of the ear of the englishman, and swore he would pay him again when he was able.--merchant of venice. one other incident alone in the course of the voyage deserves to be mentioned; both because it served to bring out the characters of several people, and because it was not,--what is?--without its lingering consequences. thorn and rossitur had kept up indefatigably the game of teasing fleda about her "english admirer," as they sometimes styled him. poor fleda grew more and more sore on the subject. she thought it was very strange that two grown men could not find enough to do to amuse themselves without making sport of the comfort of a little child. she wondered they could take pleasure in what gave her so much pain; but so it was; and they had it up so often that at last others caught it from them; and though not in malevolence yet in thoughtless folly many a light remark was made and question asked of her that set little fleda's sensitive nerves a quivering. she was only too happy that they were never said before mr. carleton; that would have been a thousand times worse. as it was, her gentle nature was constantly suffering from the pain or the fear of these attacks. "where's mr. carleton?" said her cousin coming up one day. "i don't know," said fleda,--"i don't know but he is gone up into one of the tops." "your humble servant leaves you to yourself a great while this morning, it seems to me. he is growing very inattentive." "i wouldn't permit it, miss fleda, if i were you," said thorn maliciously. "you let him have his own way too much." "i wish you wouldn't talk so, cousin charlton!" said fleda. "but seriously," said charlton, "i think you had better call him to account. he is very suspicious lately. i have observed him walking by himself and looking very glum indeed. i am afraid he has taken some fancy into his head that would not suit you. i advise you to enquire into it." "i wouldn't give myself any concern about it!" said thorn lightly, enjoying the child's confusion and his own fanciful style of backbiting,--"i'd let him go if he has a mind to, miss fleda. he's no such great catch. he's neither lord nor knight--nothing in the world but a private gentleman, with plenty of money i dare say, but you don't care for that;--and there's as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it. i don't think much of him!" he is wonderfully better than _you_, thought fleda as she looked in the young gentleman's face for a second, but she said nothing. "why, fleda," said charlton laughing, "it wouldn't be a killing affair, would it? how has this english admirer of yours got so far in your fancy?--praising your pretty eyes, eh?--eh?" he repeated, as fleda kept a dignified silence. "no," said fleda in displeasure,--"he never says such things." "no?" said charlton. "what then? what does he say? i wouldn't let him make a fool of me if i were you. fleda!--did he ever ask you for a kiss?" "no!" exclaimed fleda half beside herself and bursting into tears;--"i wish you wouldn't talk so! how can you?" they had carried the game pretty far that time, and thought best to leave it. fleda stopped crying as soon as she could, lest somebody should see her; and was sitting quietly again, alone as before, when one of the sailors whom she had never spoken to came by, and leaning over towards her with a leer as he passed, said, "is this the young english gentleman's little sweetheart?" poor fleda! she had got more than she could bear. she jumped up and ran down into the cabin; and in her berth mrs. carleton found her some time afterwards, quietly crying, and most sorry to be discovered. she was exceeding unwilling to tell what had troubled her. mrs. carleton, really distressed, tried coaxing, soothing, reasoning, promising, in a way the most gentle and kind that she could use. "oh it's nothing--it's nothing," fleda said at last eagerly,--"it's because i am foolish--it's only something they said to me." "who, love?" again was fleda most unwilling to answer, and it was after repeated urging that she at last said, "cousin charlton and mr. thorn." "charlton and mr. thorn!--what did they say? what did they say, darling fleda?" "o it's only that they tease me," said fleda, trying hard to put an end to the tears which caused all this questioning, and to speak as if they were about a trifle. but mrs. carleton persisted. "what do they say to tease you, love? what is it about?--guy, come in here and help me to find out what is the matter with fleda." fleda hid her face in mrs. carleton's neck, resolved to keep her lips sealed. mr. carleton came in, but to her great relief his question was directed not to her but his mother. "fleda has been annoyed by something those young men, her cousin and mr. thorn, have said to her;--they tease her, she says, and she will not tell me what it is." mr. carleton did not ask, and he presently left the state-room. "o i am afraid he will speak to them!" exclaimed fleda as soon as he was gone.--"o i oughtn't to have said that!"-- mrs. carleton tried to soothe her and asked what she was afraid of. but fleda would not say any more. her anxious fear that she had done mischief helped to dry her tears, and she sorrowfully resolved she would keep her griefs to herself next time. rossitur and thorn were in company with a brother officer and friend of the latter when mr. carleton approached them. "mr. rossitur and mr. thorn," said he, "you have indulged yourselves in a style of conversation extremely displeasing to the little girl under my mother's care. you will oblige me by abandoning it for the future." there was certainly in mr. carleton's manner a sufficient degree of the cold haughtiness with which he usually expressed displeasure; though his words gave no other cause of offence. thorn retorted rather insolently, "i shall oblige myself in the matter, and do as i think proper." "i have a right to speak as i please to my own cousin," said rossitur sulkily,--"without asking anybody's leave. i don't see what you have to do with it." "simply that she is under my protection and that i will not permit her to be annoyed." "i don't see how she is under your protection," said rossitur. "and i do not see how the potency of it will avail in this case,' said his companion. "neither position is to be made out in words," said mr. carleton calmly. "you see that i desire there be no repetition of the offence. the rest i will endeavour to make clear if i am compelled to it." "stop, sir!" said thorn, as the young englishman was turning away, adding with an oath,--"i won't bear this! you shall answer this to me, sir!" "easily," said the other. "and me too," said rossitur. "you have an account to settle with me, carleton." "i will answer what you please," said carleton carelessly,--"and as soon as we get to land--provided you do not in the mean time induce me to refuse you the honour." however incensed, the young men endeavoured to carry it off with the same coolness that their adversary shewed. no more words passed. but mrs. carleton, possibly quickened by fleda's fears, was not satisfied with the carriage of all parties, and resolved to sound her son, happy in knowing that nothing but truth was to be had from him. she found an opportunity that very afternoon when he was sitting alone on the deck. the neighbourhood of little fleda she hardly noticed. fleda was curled up among her cushions, luxuriously bending over a little old black bible which was very often in her hand at times when she was quiet and had no observation to fear. "reading!--always reading?" said mrs. carleton, as she came up and took a place by her son. "by no means!" he said, closing his book with a smile;--"not enough to tire any one's eyes on this voyage, mother." "i wish you liked intercourse with living society," said mrs. carleton, leaning her arm on his shoulder and looking at him rather wistfully. "you need not wish that,--when it suits me," he answered. "but none suits you. is there any on board?" "a small proportion," he said, with the slight play of feature which always effected a diversion of his mother's thoughts, no matter in what channel they had been flowing. "but those young men," she said, returning to the charge,--"you hold yourself very much aloof from them?" he did not answer, even by a look, but to his mother the perfectly quiet composure of his face was sufficiently expressive. "i know what you think, but guy, you always had the same opinion of them?" "i have never shewn any other." "guy," she said speaking low and rather anxiously,--"have you got into trouble with those young men?" "_i_ am in no trouble, mother," he answered somewhat haughtily; "i cannot speak for them." mrs. carleton waited a moment. "you have done something to displease them, have you not?" "they have displeased me, which is somewhat more to the purpose. "but their folly is nothing to you?" "no,--not their folly." "guy," said his mother, again pausing a minute, and pressing her hand more heavily upon his shoulder, "you will not suffer this to alter the friendly terms you have been on?--whatever it be,--let it pass." "certainly--if they choose to apologize and behave themselves." "what, about fleda?" "yes." "i have no idea they meant to trouble her--i suppose they did not at all know what they were doing,--thoughtless nonsense,--and they could have had no design to offend you. promise me that you will not take any further notice of this!" he shook off her beseeching hand as he rose up, and answered haughtily, and not without something like an oath, that he _would_. mrs. carleton knew him better than to press the matter any further; and her fondness easily forgave the offence against herself, especially as her son almost immediately resumed his ordinary manner. it had well nigh passed from the minds of both parties, when in the middle of the next day mr. carleton asked what had become of fleda?--he had not seen her except at the breakfast table. mrs. carleton said she was not well. "what's the matter?" "she complained of some headache--i think she made herself sick yesterday--she was crying all the afternoon, and i could not get her to tell me what for. i tried every means i could think of, but she would not give me the least clue--she said 'no' to everything i guessed--i can't bear to see her do so--it makes it all the worse she does it so quietly--it was only by a mere chance i found she was crying at all, but i think she cried herself ill before she stopped. she could not eat a mouthful of breakfast." mr. carleton said nothing and with a changed countenance went directly down to the cabin. the stewardess, whom he sent in to see how she was, brought back word that fleda was not asleep but was too ill to speak to her. mr. carleton went immediately into the little crib of a state-room. there he found his little charge, sitting bolt upright, her feet on the rung of a chair and her hands grasping the top to support herself. her eyes were closed, her face without a particle of colour, except the dark shade round the eyes which bespoke illness and pain. she made no attempt to answer his shocked questions and words of tender concern, not even by the raising of an eyelid, and he saw that the intensity of pain at the moment was such as to render breathing itself difficult. he sent off the stewardess with all despatch after iced water and vinegar and brandy, and himself went on an earnest quest of restoratives among the lady passengers in the cabin, which resulted in sundry supplies of salts and cologne; and also offers of service, in greater plenty still, which he all refused. most tenderly and judiciously he himself applied various remedies to the suffering child, who could not direct him otherwise than by gently putting away the things which she felt would not avail her. several were in vain. but there was one bottle of strong aromatic vinegar which was destined to immortalize its owner in fleda's remembrance. before she had taken three whiffs of it her colour changed. mr. carleton watched the effect of a few whiffs more, and then bade the stewardess take away all the other things and bring him a cup of fresh strong coffee. by the time it came fleda was ready for it, and by the time mr. carleton had administered the coffee he saw it would do to throw his mother's shawl round her and carry her up on deck, which he did without asking any questions. all this while fleda had not spoken a word, except once when he asked her if she felt better. but she had given him, on finishing the coffee, a full look and half smile of such pure affectionate gratitude that the young gentleman's tongue was tied for some time after. with happy skill, when he had safely bestowed fleda among her cushions on deck, mr. carleton managed to keep off the crowd of busy inquirers after her well-doing, and even presently to turn his mother's attention another way, leaving fleda to enjoy all the comfort of quiet and fresh air at once. he himself, seeming occupied with other things, did no more but keep watch over her, till he saw that she was able to bear conversation again. then he seated himself beside her and said softly, [illustration: then he seated himself beside her.] "elfie,--what were you crying about all yesterday afternoon?" fleda changed colour, for soft and gentle as the tone was she heard in it a determination to have the answer; and looking up beseechingly into his face she saw in the steady full blue eye that it was a determination she could not escape from. her answer was an imploring request that he would not ask her. but taking one of her little hands and carrying it to his lips, he in the same tone repeated his question. fleda snatched away her hand and burst into very frank tears; mr. carleton was silent, but she knew through silence that he was only quietly waiting for her to answer him. "i wish you wouldn't ask me, sir," said poor fleda, who still could not turn her face to meet his eye;--"it was only something that happened yesterday." "what was it, elfie?--you need not be afraid to tell me." "it was only--what you said to mrs. carleton yesterday,--when she was talking--" "about my difficulty with those gentlemen?" "yes," said fleda, with a new gush of tears, as if her grief stirred afresh at the thought. mr. carleton was silent a moment; and when he spoke there was no displeasure and more tenderness than usual in his voice. "what troubled you in that, elfie? tell me the whole." "i was sorry, because,--it wasn't right," said fleda, with a grave truthfulness which yet lacked none of her universal gentleness and modesty. "what wasn't right?" "to speak--i am afraid you won't like me to say it, mr. carleton." "i will, elfie,--for i ask you." "to speak to mrs. carleton so, and besides,--you know what you said, mr. carleton--" "it was _not_ right," said he after a minute,--"and i very seldom use such an expression, but you know one cannot always be on one's guard, elfie?" "but," said fleda with gentle persistence, "one can always do what is right." the deuce one can!--thought mr, carleton to himself. "elfie,--was that all that troubled you?--that i had said what was not right?" "it wasn't quite that only," said fleda hesitating,--"what else?" she stooped her face from his sight and he could but just understand her words. "i was disappointed--" "what, in me!" her tears gave the answer; she could add to them nothing but an assenting nod of her head. they would have flowed in double measure if she had guessed the pain she had given. her questioner heard her with a keen pang which did not leave him for days. there was some hurt pride in it, though other and more generous feelings had a far larger share. he, who had been admired, lauded, followed, cited, and envied, by all ranks of his countrymen and countrywomen;--in whom nobody found a fault that could be dwelt upon amid the lustre of his perfections and advantages;--one of the first young men in england, thought so by himself as well as by others;--this little pure being had been _disappointed_ in him. he could not get over it. he reckoned the one judgment worth all the others. those whose direct or indirect flatteries had been poured at his feet were the proud, the worldly, the ambitious, the interested, the corrupted;--their praise was given to what they esteemed, and that, his candour said, was the least estimable part of him. beneath all that, this truth-loving, truth-discerning little spirit had found enough to weep for. she was right and they were wrong. the sense of this was so keen upon him that it was tea or fifteen minutes before he could recover himself to speak to his little reprover. he paced up and down the deck, while fleda wept more and more from the fear of having offended or grieved him. but she was soon reassured on the former point. she was just wiping away her tears, with the quiet expression of patience her face often wore, when mr. carleton sat down beside her and took one of her hands. "elfie," said he,--"i promise you i will never say such a thing again." he might well call her his good angel, for it was an angelic look the child gave him. so purely humble, grateful, glad,--so rosy with joyful hope,--the eyes were absolutely sparkling through tears. but when she saw that his were not dry, her own overflowed. she clasped her other hand to his hand and bending down her face affectionately upon it, she wept,--if ever angels weep,--such tears as they. "elfie," said mr. carleton, as soon as he could,--"i want you to go down stairs with me; so dry those eyes, or my mother will be asking all sorts of difficult questions." happiness is a quick restorative. elfie was soon ready to go where he would. they found mrs. carleton fortunately wrapped up in a new novel, some distance apart from the other persons in the cabin. the novel was immediately laid aside to take fleda on her lap and praise guy's nursing. "but she looks more like a wax figure yet than anything else, don't she, guy?" "not like any that ever i saw," said mr. carleton gravely. "hardly substantial enough. mother, i have come to tell you i am ashamed of myself for having given you such cause of offence yesterday." mrs. carleton's quick look, as she laid her hand on her son's arm, said sufficiently well that she would have excused him from making any apology rather than have him humble himself in the presence of a third person. "fleda heard me yesterday," said he; "it was right she should hear me to-day." "then my dear guy," said his mother with a secret eagerness which she did not allow to appear,--"if i may make a condition for my forgiveness, which you had before you asked for it,--will you grant me one favour?" "certainly, mother,--if i can." "you promise me?" "as well in one word as in two." "promise me that you will never, by any circumstances, allow yourself to be drawn into--what is called _an affair of honour_." mr. carleton's brow changed, and without making any reply, perhaps to avoid his mother's questioning gaze, he rose up and walked two or three times the length of the cabin. his mother and fleda watched him doubtfully. "do you see how you have got me into trouble, elfie?" said he, stopping before them. fleda looked wonderingly, and mrs. carleton exclaimed, "what trouble?" "elfie," said he, without immediately answering his mother, "what would your conscience do with two promises both of which cannot be kept?" "what such promises have you made?" said mrs carleton eagerly. "let me hear first what fleda says to my question." "why," said fleda, looking a little bewildered,--"i would keep the right one." "not the one first made?" said he smiling. "no," said fleda,--"not unless it was the right one." "but don't you think one ought to keep one's word, in any event?" "i don't think anything can make it right to do wrong," fleda said gravely, and not without a secret trembling consciousness to what point she was speaking. he left them and again took several turns up and down the cabin before he sat down. "you have not given me your promise yet, guy," said his mother, whose eye had not once quitted him. "you said you would." "i said, if i could." "well?--you can?" "i have two honourable meetings of the proscribed kind now on hand, to which i stand pledged." fleda hid her face in an agony. mrs. carleton's agony was in every line of hers as she grasped her son's wrist exclaiming, "guy, promise me!" she had words for nothing else. he hesitated still a moment, and then meeting his mother's look he said gravely and steadily, "i promise you, mother, i never will." his mother threw herself upon his breast and hid her face there, too much excited to have any thought of her customary regard to appearances; sobbing out thanks and blessings even audibly. fleda's gentle head was bowed in almost equal agitation; and mr. carleton at that moment had no doubt that he had chosen well which promise to keep. there remained however a less agreeable part of the business to manage. after seeing his mother and fleda quite happy again, though without satisfying in any degree the curiosity of the former, guy went in search of the two young west point officers. they were together, but without thorn's friend, capt. beebee. him carleton next sought and brought to the forward deck where the others were enjoying their cigars; or rather charlton rossitur was enjoying his, with the happy self satisfaction of a pair of epaulettes off duty. thorn had too busy a brain to be much of a smoker. now, however, when it was plain that mr. carleton had something to say to them, charlton's cigar gave way to his attention; it was displaced from his mouth and held in abeyance; while thorn puffed away more intently than ever. "gentlemen," carleton began,--"i gave you yesterday reason to expect that so soon as circumstances permitted, you should have the opportunity which offended honour desires of trying sounder arguments than those of reason upon the offender. i have to tell you to-day that i will not give it you. i have thought further of it." "is it a new insult that you mean by this, sir?" exclaimed rossitur in astonishment. thorn's cigar did not stir. "neither new nor old. i mean simply that i have changed my mind." "but this is very extraordinary!" said rossitur. "what reason do you give?" "i give none, sir." "in that case," said capt. beebee, "perhaps mr. carleton will not object to explain or unsay the things which gave offence yesterday." "i apprehend there is nothing to explain, sir,--i think i must have been understood; and i never take back my words, for i am in the habit of speaking the truth." "then we are to consider this as a further, unprovoked, unmitigated insult for which you will give neither reason nor satisfaction!" cried rossitur. "i have already disclaimed that, mr. rossitur." "are we, on mature deliberation, considered unworthy of tha _honour_ you so condescendingly awarded to us yesterday?" "my reasons have nothing to do with you, sir, nor with your friend; they are entirely personal to myself." "mr. carleton must be aware," said capt. beebee, "that his conduct, if unexplained, will bear a very strange construction." mr. carleton was coldly silent. "it never was heard of," the captain went on,--"that a gentleman declined both to explain and to give satisfaction for any part of his conduct which had called for it." "it never was heard that a _gentleman_ did," said thorn, removing his cigar a moment for the purpose of supplying the emphasis which his friend had carefully omitted to make. "will you say, mr. carleton," said rossitur, "that you did not mean to offend us yesterday in what you said?" "no, mr. rossitur." "you will not!" cried the captain. "no, sir; for your friends had given me, as i conceived, just cause of displeasure; and i was, and am, careless of offending those who have done so." "you consider yourself aggrieved, then, in the first place?" said beebee. "i have said so, sir." "then," said the captain, after a puzzled look out to sea, "supposing that my friends disclaim all intention to offend you in that case--" "in that case i should be glad, capt. beebee, that they had changed their line of tactics--there is nothing to change in my own." "then what are we to understand by this strange refusal of a meeting, mr. carleton? what does it mean?" "it means one thing in my own mind, sir, and probably another in yours; but the outward expression i choose to give it is that i will not reward uncalled-for rudeness with an opportunity of self-vindication." "you are," said thorn sneeringly, "probably careless as to the figure your own name will cut in connection with this story?" "entirely so," said mr. carleton, eying him steadily. "you are aware that your character is at our mercy?" a slight bow seemed to leave at their disposal the very small portion of his character he conceived to lie in that predicament. "you will expect to hear yourself spoken of in terms that befit a man who has cowed out of an engagement he dared not fulfil?" "of course," said carleton haughtily, "by my present refusal i give you leave to say all that, and as much more as your ingenuity can furnish in the same style; but not in my hearing, sir." "you can't help yourself," said thorn, with the same sneer. "you have rid yourself of a gentleman's means of protection,--what others will you use? "i will leave that to the suggestion of the moment. i do not doubt it will be found fruitful." nobody doubted it who looked just then on his steady sparkling eye. "i consider the championship of yesterday given up of course," thorn went on in a kind of aside, not looking at anybody, and striking his cigar against the guards to clear it of ashes;--"the champion has quitted the field; and the little princess but lately so walled in with defences must now listen to whatever knight and squire may please to address to her. nothing remains to be seen of her defender but his spurs." "they may serve for the heels of whoever is disposed to annoy her," said mr. carleton. "he will need them." he left the group with the same air of imperturbable self-possession which he had maintained during the conference. but presently rossitur, who had his private reasons for wishing to keep friends with an acquaintance who might be of service in more ways than one, followed him and declared himself to have been, in all his nonsense to fleda, most undesirous of giving displeasure to her temporary guardian, and sorry that it had fallen out so. he spoke frankly, and mr. carleton, with the same cool gracefulness with which he had carried on the quarrel, waived his displeasure, and admitted the young gentleman apparently to stand as before in his favour. their reconciliation was not an hour old when capt. beebee joined them. "i am sorry i must trouble you with a word more on this disagreeable subject, mr. carleton," he began, after a ceremonious salutation,--"my friend, lieut. thorn, considers himself greatly outraged by your determination not to meet him. he begs to ask, by me, whether it is your purpose to abide by it at all hazards?" "yes, sir." "there is some misunderstanding here, which i greatly regret.--i hope you will see and excuse the disagreeable necessity i am under of delivering the rest of my friend's message." "say on, sir." "mr. thorn declares that if you deny him the common courtesy which no gentleman refuses to another, he will proclaim your name with the most opprobrious adjuncts to all the world, and in place of his former regard he will hold you in the most unlimited contempt, which he will have no scruple about shewing on all occasions." mr. carleton coloured a little, but replied coolly, "i have not lived in mr. thorn's favour. as to the rest, i forgive him!--except indeed he provoke me to measures for which i never will forgive him." "measures!" said the captain. "i hope not! for my own self-respect would be more grievously hurt than his. but there is an unruly spring somewhere about my composition that when it gets wound up is once in a while too much for me." "but," said rossitur, "pardon me,--have you no regard to the effect of his misrepresentations?" "you are mistaken, mr. rossitur," said carleton slightly;--this is but the blast of a bellows,--not the simoom." "then what answer shall i have the honour of carrying back to my friend?" said capt. beebee, after a sort of astounded pause of a few minutes. "none, of my sending, sir." capt. beebee touched his cap, and went back to mr. thorn, to whom he reported that the young englishman was thoroughly impracticable, and that there was nothing to be gained by dealing with him; and the vexed conclusion of thorn's own mind, in the end, was in favour of the wisdom of letting him alone. in a very different mood, saddened and disgusted, mr. carleton shook himself free of rossitur and went and stood alone by the guards looking out upon the sea. he did not at all regret his promise to his mother, nor wish to take other ground than that he had taken. both the theory and the practice of duelling he heartily despised, and he was not weak enough to fancy that he had brought any discredit upon either his sense or his honour by refusing to comply with an unwarrantable and barbarous custom. and he valued mankind too little to be at all concerned about their judgment in the matter. his own opinion was at all times enough for him. but the miserable folly and puerility of such an altercation as that in which he had just been engaged, the poor display of human character, the little low passions which bad been called up, even in himself, alike destitute of worthy cause and aim, and which had perhaps but just missed ending in the death of some and the living death of others,--it all wrought to bring him back to his old wearying of human nature and despondent eying of the everywhere jarrings, confusions, and discordances in the moral world. the fresh sea-breeze that swept by the ship, roughening the play of the waves, and brushing his own cheek with its health-bearing wing, brought with it a sad feeling of contrast. free, and pure, and steadily directed, it sped on its way, to do its work. and like it all the rest of the natural world, faithful to the law of its maker, was stamped with the same signet of perfection. only man, in all the universe, seemed to be at cross purposes with the end of his being. only man, of all animate or inanimate things, lived an aimless, fruitless, broken life,--or fruitful only in evil. how was this? and whence? and when would be the end? and would this confused mass of warring elements ever be at peace? would this disordered machinery ever work smoothly, without let or stop any more, and work out the beautiful something for which sure it was designed? and could any hand but its first maker mend the broken wheel or supply the spring that was wanting? has not the desire of all nations been often sought of eyes that were never taught where to look for him. mr. carleton was standing still by the guards, looking thoughtfully out to windward to meet the fresh breeze, as if the spirit of the wilderness were in it and could teach him the truth that the spirit of the world knew not and had not to give, when he became sensible of something close beside him; and looking down met little fleda's upturned face, with such a look of purity, freshness, and peace, it said as plainly as ever the dial-plate of a clock that _that_ little piece of machinery was working right. there was a sunlight upon it, too, of happy confidence and affection. mr. carleton's mind experienced a sudden revulsion. fleda might see the reflection of her own light in his face as he helped her up to a stand where she could be more on a level with him; putting his arm round her to guard against any sudden roll of the ship. "what makes you wear such a happy face?" said he, with an expression half envious, half regretful. "i don't know!" said fleda innocently. "you, i suppose." he looked as bright as she did, for a minute. "were you ever angry, elfie?" "i don't know--" said fleda. "i don't know but i have." he smiled to see that although evidently her memory could not bring the charge, her modesty would not deny it. "were you not angry yesterday with your cousin and that unmannerly friend of his?" "no," said fleda, a shade crossing her face,--"i was not _angry_ "-- and as she spoke her hand was softly put upon mr. carleton's; as if partly in the fear of what might have grown out of _his_ anger, and partly in thankfulness to him that he had rendered it unnecessary. there was a singular delicate timidity and tenderness in the action. "i wish i had your secret, elfie," said mr. carleton, looking wistfully into the clear eyes that met his. "what secret?" said fleda smiling. "you say one can always do right--is that the reason you are happy?--because you follow that out?" "no," said fleda seriously. "but i think it is a great deal pleasanter." "i have no doubt at all of that, neither, i dare say, have the rest of the world; only somehow when it comes to the point they find it is easier to do wrong. what's your secret, elfie?" "i haven't any secret," said fleda. but presently, seeming to bethink herself, she added gently and gravely, "aunt miriam says--" "what?" "she says that when we love jesus christ it is easy to please him." "and do you love him, elfie?" mr carleton asked after a minute. her answer was a very quiet and sober "yes." he doubted still whether she were not unconsciously using a form of speech the spirit of which she did not quite realize. that one might "not see and yet believe," he could understand; but for _affection_ to go forth towards an unseen object was another matter. his question was grave and acute. "by what do you judge that you do, elfie?" "why, mr. carleton," said fleda, with an instant look of appeal, "who else _should_ i love?" "if not him "--her eye and her voice made sufficiently plain. mr. carleton was obliged to confess to himself that she spoke intelligently, with deeper intelligence than he could follow. he asked no more questions. yet truth shines by its own light, like the sun. he had not perfectly comprehended her answers, but they struck him as something that deserved to be understood, and he resolved to make the truth of them his own. the rest of the voyage was perfectly quiet. following the earnest advice of his friend capt. beebee, thorn had given up trying to push mr. carleton to extremity; who on his part did not seem conscious of thorn's existence. chapter xiii. there the most daintie paradise on ground itselfe doth offer to his sober eye,-- -----the painted flowres, the trees upshooting hye, the dales for shade, the hills for breathing space, the trembling groves, the christall running by; and that, which all faire works doth most aggrace, the art which all that wrought appeared in no place. færy queene. they had taken ship for london, as mr. and mrs. carleton wished to visit home for a day or two before going on to paris. so leaving charlton to carry news of them to the french capital, so soon as he could persuade himself to leave the english one, they with little fleda in company posted down to carleton, in ----shire. it was a time of great delight to fleda, that is, as soon as mr. carleton had made her feel at home in england; and somehow he had contrived to do that and to scatter some clouds of remembrance that seemed to gather about her, before they had reached the end of their first day's journey. to be out of the ship was itself a comfort, and to be alone with kind friends was much more. with great joy fleda put her cousin charlton and mr. thorn at once out of sight and out of mind; and gave herself with even more than her usual happy readiness to everything the way and the end of the way had for her. those days were to be painted days in fleda's memory. she thought carleton was a very odd place. that is, the house, not the village which went by the same name. if the manner of her two companions had not been such as to put her entirely at her ease she would have felt strange and shy. as it was she felt half afraid of losing herself in the house, to fleda's unaccustomed eyes it was a labyrinth of halls and staircases, set with the most unaccountable number and variety of rooms; old and new, quaint and comfortable, gloomy and magnificent; some with stern old-fashioned massiveness of style and garniture; others absolutely bewitching (to fleda's eyes and understanding) in the rich beauty and luxuriousness of their arrangements. mr. carleton's own particular haunts were of these; his private room, the little library as it was called, the library, and the music-room, which was indeed rather a gallery of fine arts, so many treasures of art were gathered there. to an older and nice-judging person these rooms would have given no slight indications of their owner's mind--it had been at work on every corner of them. no particular fashion had been followed in anything, nor any model consulted but that which fancy had built to the mind's order. the wealth of years had drawn together an enormous assemblage of matters, great and small, every one of which was fitted either to excite fancy, or suggest thought, or to satisfy the eye by its nice adaptation. and if pride had had the ordering of them, all these might have been but a costly museum, a literary alphabet that its possessor could not put together, an ungainly confession of ignorance on the part of the intellect that could do nothing with this rich heap of material. but pride was not the genius of the place. a most refined taste and curious fastidiousness had arranged and harmonized all the heterogeneous items; the mental hieroglyphics had been ordered by one to whom the reading of them was no mystery. nothing struck a stranger at first entering, except the very rich effect and faultless air of the whole, and perhaps the delicious facilities for every kind of intellectual cultivation which appeared on every hand; facilities which it must be allowed do seem in general _not_ to facilitate the work they are meant to speed. in this case however it was different. the mind that wanted them bad brought them together to satisfy its own craving. these rooms were guy's peculiar domain. in other parts of the house, where his mother reigned conjointly with him, their joint tastes had struck out another style of adornment which might be called a style of superb elegance. not superb alone, for taste had not permitted so heavy a characteristic to be predominant; not merely elegant, for the fineness of all the details would warrant an ampler word. a larger part of the house than both these together had been left as generations past had left it, in various stages of, refinement, comfort and comeliness. it was a day or two before fleda found out that it was all one; she thought at first that it was a collection of several houses that had somehow inexplicably sat down there with their backs to each other; it was so straggling and irregular a pile of building, covering so much ground, and looking so very unlike the different parts to each other. one portion was quite old; the other parts ranged variously between the present and the far past. after she once understood this it was a piece of delicious wonderment and musing and great admiration to fleda; she never grew weary of wandering round it and thinking about it, for from a child fanciful meditation was one of her delights. within doors she best liked mr. carleton's favourite rooms. their rich colouring and moderated light and endless stores of beauty and curiosity made them a place of fascination. out of doors she found still more to delight her. morning, noon, and night she might be seen near the house gazing, taking in pictures of natural beauty which were for ever after to hang in fleda's memory as standards of excellence in that sort. nature's hand had been very kind to the place, moulding the ground in beautiful style. art had made happy use of the advantage thus given her; and now what appeared was neither art nor nature, but a perfection that can only spring from the hands of both. fleda's eyes were bewitched. she stood watching the rolling slopes of green turf, _so_ soft and lovely, and the magnificent trees, that had kept their ground for ages and seen generations rise and fall before their growing strength and grandeur. they were scattered here and there on the lawn, and further back stood on the heights and stretched along the ridges of the undulating ground, the outposts of a wood of the same growth still beyond them. "how do you like it, elfie?" mr. carleton asked her the evening of the first day, as he saw her for a length of time looking out gravely and intently from before the hall door. "i think it is beautiful!" said fleda. "the ground is a great deal smoother here than it was at home." "i'll take you to ride to-morrow," said he smiling, "and shew you rough ground enough." "as you did when we came from montepoole?" raid fleda rather eagerly. "would you like that?" "yes, very much,--if _you_ would like it, mr. carleton." "very well," said he. "so it shall be." and not a day passed during their short stay that he did not give her one of those rides. he shewed her rough ground, according to his promise, but fleda still thought it did not look much like the mountains "at home." and indeed unsightly roughnesses had been skilfully covered or removed; and though a large part of the park, which was a very extensive one, was wildly broken and had apparently been left as nature left it, the hand of taste had been there; and many an unsuspected touch instead of hindering had heightened both the wild and the beautiful character. landscape gardening had long been a great hobby of its owner. "how far does your ground come, mr carleton?" inquired fleda on one of these rides, when they had travelled a good distance from home. "further than you can see, elfie." "further than i can see!--it must be a very large farm!" "this is not a farm where we are now," said he;--"did you mean that?--this is the park; we are almost at the edge of it on this side." "what is the difference between a farm and a park?" said fleda. "the grounds of a farm are tilled for profit; a park is an uncultivated enclosure kept merely for men and women and deer to take pleasure in." "_i_ have taken a good deal of pleasure in it," said fleda. "and have you a farm besides, mr. carleton?" "a good many, elfie." fleda looked surprised, and then remarked that it must be very nice to have such a beautiful piece of ground just for pleasure. she enjoyed it to the full during the few days she was there. and one thing more, the grand piano in the music-room. the first evening of their arrival she was drawn by the far-off sounds, and mrs. carleton seeing it went immediately to the music-room with her. the room had no light, except from the moonbeams that stole in through two glass doors which opened upon a particularly private and cherished part of the grounds, in summer-time full of flowers; for in the very refinement of luxury delights had been crowded about this favourite apartment. mr. carleton was at the instrument, playing. fleda sat down quietly in one corner and listened,--in a rapture of pleasure she had hardly ever known from any like source. she did not think it could be greater, till after a time, in a pause of the music, mrs. carleton asked her son to sing a particular ballad, and that one was followed by two or three more. fleda left her corner, she could not contain herself, and favoured by the darkness came forward and stood quite near; and if the performer bad bad light to see by, he would have been gratified with the tribute paid to his power by the unfeigned tears that ran down her cheeks. this pleasure was also repeated from evening to evening. "do you know we set off for paris to-morrow?" said mrs. carleton the last evening of their stay, as fleda came up to the door after a prolonged ramble in the park, leaving mr. carleton with one or two gardeners at a little distance. "yes!" said fleda, with a sigh that was more than half audible. "are you sorry?" said mrs. carleton smiling. "i cannot be glad," said fleda, giving a sober look over the lawn. "then you like carleton?" "very much!--it is a prettier place than queechy." "but we shall have you here again, dear fleda," said mrs. carleton restraining her smile at this, to her, very moderate complement. "perhaps not," said fleda quietly.--"mr. carleton said," she added a minute after with more animation, "that a park was a place for men and women and deer to take pleasure in. i am sure it is for children too!" "did you have a pleasant ride this morning?" "o very!--i always do. there isn't anything i like so well." "what, as to ride on horseback with guy?" said mrs. carleton looking exceedingly benignant. "yes,--unless--" "unless what, my dear fleda?" "unless, perhaps,--i don't know,--i was going to say, unless perhaps to hear him sing." mrs. carleton's delight was unequivocally expressed; and she promised fleda that she should have both rides and songs there in plenty another time; a promise upon which fleda built no trust at all. the short journey to pans was soon made. the next morning mrs. carleton making an excuse of her fatigue left guy to end the care he had rather taken upon himself by delivering his little charge into the hands of her friends. so they drove to the hotel------, rue------, where mr. rossitur had apartments in very handsome style. the found him alone in the saloon. "ha! carleton--come back again. just in time--very glad to see you. and who is this?--ah, another little daughter for aunt lucy." mr. rossitur, who gave them this greeting very cordially, was rather a fine looking man, decidedly agreeable both in person and manner. fleda was pleasantly disappointed after what her grandfather had led her to expect. there might be something of sternness in his expression; people gave him credit for a peremptory, not to say imperious temper; but if truly, it could not often meet with opposition. the sense and gentlemanly character which marked his face and bearing had an air of smooth politeness which seemed habitual. there was no want of kindness nor even of tenderness in the way he drew fleda within his arm and held her there, while he went on talking to mr. carleton; now and then stooping his face to look in at her bonnet and kiss her, which was his only welcome. he said nothing to her after his first question. he was too busy talking to guy. he seemed to have a great deal to tell him. there was this for him to see, and that for him to hear, and charming new things which had been done or doing since mr. carleton left paris. the impression upon fleda's mind after listening awhile was that the french capital was a great gallery of the fine arts, with a magnified likeness of mr. carleton's music room at one end of it. she thought her uncle must be most extraordinarily fond of pictures and works of art in general, and must have a great love for seeing company and hearing people sing. this latter taste fleda was disposed to allow might be a very reasonable one. mr. carleton, she observed, seemed much more cool on the whole subject. but meanwhile where was aunt lucy?--and had mr. rossitur forgotten the little armful that he held so fast and so perseveringly? no, for here was another kiss, and another look into her face, so kind that fleda gave him a piece of her heart from that time. "hugh!" said mr. rossitur suddenly to somebody she had not seen before,--"hugh!--here is your little cousin. take her off to your mother." a child came forward at this bidding hardly larger than herself. he was a slender graceful little figure, with nothing of the boy in his face or manner; delicate as a girl, and with something almost melancholy in the gentle sweetness of his countenance. fleda's confidence was given to it on the instant, which had not been the case with anything in her uncle, and she yielded without reluctance the hand he took to obey his father's command. before two steps had been taken however, she suddenly broke away from him and springing to mr. carleton's side silently laid her hand in his. she made no answer whatever to a ligit word or two of kindness that he spoke just for her ear. she listened with downcast eyes and a lip that he saw was too unsteady to be trusted, and then after a moment more, without looking, pulled away her hand and followed her cousin. hugh did not once get a sight of her face on the way to his mother's room, but owing to her exceeding efforts and quiet generalship he never guessed the cause. there was nothing in her face to raise suspicion when he reached the door and opening it announced her with, "mother, here's cousin fleda come." fleda had seen her aunt before, though several years back, and not long enough to get acquainted with her. but no matter;--it was her mother's sister sitting there, whose face gave her so lovely a welcome at that speech of hugh's, whose arms were stretched out so eagerly towards her; and springing to them as to a very haven of rest fleda wept on her bosom those delicious tears that are only shed where the heart is at home. and even before they were dried the ties were knit that bound her to her new sphere. "who came with you, dear fleda?" said mrs. rossitur then. "is mrs. carleton here? i must go and thank her for bringing you to me." "_mr_. carleton is here," said hugh. "i must go and thank him then. jump down, dear fleda--i'll be back in a minute." fleda got off her lap, and stood looking in a kind of enchanted maze, while her aunt hastily arranged her hair at the glass. looking, while fancy and memory were making strong the net in which her heart was caught. she was trying to see something of her mother in one who had shared her blood and her affection so nearly. a miniature of that mother was left to fleda, and she had studied it till she could hardly persuade herself that she had not some recollection of the original; and now she thought she caught a precious shadow of something like it in her aunt lucy. not in those pretty bright eyes which had looked through kind tears so lovingly upon her; but in the graceful ringlets about the temples, the delicate contour of the face, and a something, fleda could only have said it was "a something," about the mouth _when at rest_, the shadow of her mother's image rejoiced her heart. rather that faint shadow of the loved lost one for little fleda, than any other form or combination of beauty on earth. as she stood fascinated, watching the movements of her aunt's light figure, fleda drew a long breath with which went off the whole burden of doubt and anxiety that had lain upon her mind ever since the journey began. she had not known it was there, but she felt it go. yet even when that sigh of relief was breathed, and while fancy and feeling were weaving their rich embroidery into the very tissue of fleda's happiness, most persons would have seen merely that the child looked very sober, and have thought probably that she felt very tired and strange. perhaps mrs. rossitur thought so, for again tenderly kissing her before she left the room she told hugh to take off her things and make her feel at home. hugh upon this made fleda sit down and proceeded to untie her tippet strings and take off her coat with an air of delicate tenderness which shewed he had great pleasure in his task, and which made fleda take a good deal of pleasure in it too. "are you tired, cousin fleda?" said he gently. "no," said fleda. "o no." "charlton said you were tired on board ship." "i wasn't tired," said fleda, in not a little surprise; "i liked it very much." "then maybe i mistook. i know charlton said _he_ was tired, and i thought he said you were too. you know my brother charlton, don't you?" "yes." "are you glad to come to paris?" "i am glad now," said fleda. "i wasn't glad before." "i am very glad," said hugh. "i think you will like it. we didn't know you were coming till two or three days ago when charlton got here. do you like to take walks?" "yes, very much." "father and mother will take us delightful walks in the tuileries, the gardens you know, and the champs elysées, and versailles, and the boulevards, and ever so many places; and it will be a great deal pleasanter now you are here. do you know french?" "no." "then you'll have to learn. i'll help you if you will let me. it is very easy. did you get my last letter?" "i don't know," said fleda,--"the last one i had came with one of aunt lucy's, telling me about mrs. carleton--i got it just before "-- alas! before what? fleda suddenly remembered, and was stopped short. from all the strange scenes and interests which lately had whirled her along, her spirit leaped back with strong yearning recollection to her old home and her old ties; and such a rain of tears witnessed the dearness of what she had lost and the tenderness of the memory that had let them slip for a moment, that hugh was as much distressed as startled. with great tenderness and touching delicacy he tried to soothe her and at the same time, though guessing to find out what was the matter, lest he should make a mistake. "just before what?" said he, laying his hand caressingly on his little cousin's shoulder;--"don't grieve so, dear fleda!" "it was only just before grandpa died," said fleda. hugh had known of that before, though like her he had forgotten it for a moment. a little while his feeling was too strong to permit any further attempt at condolence; but as he saw fleda grow quiet he took courage to speak again. "was he a good man?" he asked softly. "oh yes!" "then," said hugh, "you know he is happy now, fleda. if he loved jesus christ he is gone to be with him. that ought to make you glad as well as sorry." fleda looked up, though tears were streaming yet, to give that full happy answer of the eye that no words could do. this was consolation and sympathy. the two children had a perfect understanding of each other from that time forward; a fellowship that never knew a break nor a weakening. mrs. rossitur found on her return that hugh had obeyed her charge to the letter. he had made fleda feel at home. they were sitting close together, hugh's hand affectionately clasping hers, and he was holding forth on some subject with a gracious politeness that many of his elders might have copied; while fleda listened and assented with entire satisfaction. the rest of the morning she passed in her aunt's arms; drinking draughts of pleasure from those dear bright eyes; taking in the balm of gentlest words of love, and soft kisses, every one of which was felt at the bottom of fleda's heart, and the pleasure of talking over her young sorrows with one who could feel them all and answer with tears as well as words of sympathy. and hugh stood by the while looking at his little orphan cousin as if she might have dropped from the clouds into his mother's lap, a rare jewel or delicate flower, but much more delicate and precious than they or any other possible gift. hugh and fleda dined alone. for as he informed her his father never would have children at the dinner-table when he had company; and mr. and mrs. carleton and other people were to be there to-day, fleda made no remark on the subject, by word or look, but she thought none the less. she thought it was a very mean fashion. _she_ not come to the table when strangers were there! and who would enjoy them more? when mr. rossitur and mr carleton had dined with her grandfather, had she not taken as much pleasure in their society, and in the whole thing, as any other one of the party? and at carleton, had she not several times dined with a tableful, and been unspeakably amused to watch the different manners and characteristics of people who were strange to her? however, mr. rossitur had other notions. so she and hugh had their dinner in aunt lucy's dressing-room, by themselves; and a very nice dinner it was, fleda thought; and rosaline, mrs. rossitur's french maid, was well affected and took admirable care of them. indeed before the close of the day rosaline privately informed her mistress, "qu'elle serait entêtée sûrement de cet enfant dans trois jours;" and "que son regard vraiment lui serrait le coeur." and hugh was excellent company, failing all other, and did the honours of the table with the utmost thoughtfulness, and amused fleda the whole time with accounts of paris and what they would do and what she should see; and how his sister marion was at school at a convent, and what kind of a place a convent was; and how he himself always staid at home and learned of his mother and his father; "or by himself," he said, "just as it happened;" and he hoped they would keep fleda at home too. so fleda hoped exceedingly, but this stern rule about the dining had made her feel a little shy of her uncle; she thought perhaps he was not kind and indulgent to children like her aunt lucy; and if he said she must go to a convent she would not dare to ask him to let her stay. the next time she saw him however, she was obliged to change her opinion again, in part; for he was very kind and indulgent, both to her and hugh; and more than that he was very amusing. he shewed her pictures, and told her new and interesting things; and finding that she listened eagerly he seemed pleased to prolong her pleasure, even at the expense of a good deal of his own time. mr. rossitur was a man of cultivated mind and very refined and fastidious taste. he lived for the pleasures of art and literature and the society where these are valued. for this, and not without some secret love of display, he lived in paris; not extravagant in his pleasures, nor silly in his ostentation, but leading, like a gentleman, as worthy and rational a life as a man can lead who lives only to himself, with no further thought than to enjoy the passing hours. mr. rossitur enjoyed them elegantly, and for a man of the world, moderately, bestowing however few of those precious hours upon his children. it was his maxim that they should be kept out of the way whenever their presence might by any chance interfere with the amusements of their elders; and this maxim, a good one certainly in some hands, was in his reading of it a very broad one. still when he did take time to give his family he was a delightful companion to those of them who could understand him. if they shewed no taste for sensible pleasure he had no patience with them nor desire of their company. report had done him no wrong in giving him a stern temper; but this almost never came out in actual exercise; fleda knew it only from an occasional hint now and then, and by her childish intuitive reading of the lines it had drawn round the mouth and brow. it had no disagreeable bearing on his everyday life and manner; and the quiet fact probably served but to heighten the love and reverence in which his family held him very high. mr. rossitur did once moot the question whether fleda should not join marion at her convent. but his wife looked very grave and said that she was too tender and delicate a little thing to be trusted to the hands of strangers; hugh pleaded, and argued that she might share all his lessons; and fleda's own face pleaded more powerfully. there was something appealing in its extreme delicacy and purity which seemed to call for shelter and protection from every rough breath of the world; and mr. rossitur was easily persuaded to let her remain in the stronghold of home. hugh had never quitted it. neither father nor mother ever thought of such a thing. he was the cherished idol of the whole family. always a delicate child, always blameless in life and behaviour, his loveliness of mind and person, his affectionateness, the winning sweetness that was about him like a halo, and the slight tenure by which they seemed to hold him, had wrought to bind the hearts of father and mother to this child, as it were, with the very life-strings of both. not his mother was more gentle with hugh than his much sterner father. and now little fleda, sharing somewhat of hugh's peculiar claims upon their tenderness and adding another of her own, was admitted, not to the same place in their hearts,--that could not be,--but to their honour be it spoken, to the same place in all outward shew of thought and feeling. hugh had nothing that fleda did not have, even to the time, care, and caresses of his parents. and not hugh rendered them a more faithful return of devoted affection. [illustration: the children were always together.] once made easy on the question of school, which was never seriously stirred again, fleda's life became very happy. it was easy to make her happy; affection and sympathy would have done it almost anywhere; but in paris she had much more; and after time had softened the sorrow she brought with her, no bird ever found existence less of a burden, nor sang more light-heartedly along its life. in her aunt she had all but the name of a mother; in her uncle, with kindness and affection, she had amusement, interest, and improvement; in hugh everything;--love, confidence, sympathy, society, help; their tastes, opinions, pursuits, went hand in hand. the two children were always together. fleda's spirits were brighter than hugh's, and her intellectual tastes stronger and more universal. that might be as much from difference of physical as of mental constitution. hugh's temperament led him somewhat to melancholy, and to those studies and pleasures which best side with subdued feeling and delicate nerves. fleda's nervous system was of the finest too, but, in short, she was as like a bird as possible. perfect health, which yet a slight thing was enough to shake to the foundation;--joyous spirits, which a look could quell;--happy energies, which a harsh hand might easily crush for ever. well for little fleda that so tender a plant was permitted to unfold in so nicely tempered an atmosphere. a cold wind would soon have killed it. besides all this there were charming studies to be gone through every day with hugh; some for aunt lucy to hear, some for masters and mistresses. there were amusing walks in the boulevards, and delicious pleasure taking in the gardens of paris, and a new world of people and manners and things and histories for the little american. and despite her early rustic experience fleda had from nature an indefeasible taste for the elegancies of life; it suited her well to see all about her, in dress, in furniture, in various appliances, as commodious and tasteful as wealth and refinement could contrive it; and she very soon knew what was right in each kind. there were now and then most gleeful excursions in the environs of paris, when she and hugh found in earth and air a world of delights more than they could tell anybody but each other. and at home, what peaceful times they two had,--what endless conversations, discussions, schemes, air-journeys of memory and fancy, backward and forward; what sociable dinners alone, and delightful evenings with mr. and mrs. rossitur in the saloon when nobody or only a very few people were there; how pleasantly in those evenings the foundations were laid of a strong and enduring love for the works of art, painted, sculptured, or engraven, what a multitude of curious and excellent bits of knowledge fleda's ears picked up from the talk of different people. they were capital ears; what they caught they never let fall. in the course of the year her gleanings amounted to more than many another person's harvest. chapter xiv. heav'n bless thee; thou hast the sweetest face i ever look'd on. shakspeare. one of the greatest of fleda's pleasures was when mr. carleton came to take her out with him. he did that often. fleda only wished he would have taken hugh too, but somehow he never did. nothing but that was wanting to make the pleasure of those times perfect. knowing that she saw the _common things_ in other company, guy was at the pains to vary the amusement when she went with him. instead of going to versailles or st. cloud, he would take her long delightful drives into the country and shew her some old or interesting place that nobody else went to see. often there was a history belonging to the spot, which fleda listened to with the delight of eye and fancy at once. in the city, where they more frequently walked, still he shewed her what she would perhaps have seen under no other guidance. he made it his business to give her pleasure; and understanding the inquisitive active little spirit he had to do with he went where his own tastes would hardly have led him. the quai aux fleurs was often visited, but also the halle aux blés, the great halle aux vins, the jardin des plantes, and the marché des innocens. guy even took the trouble, more for her sake than his own, to go to the latter place once very early in the morning, when the market-bell had not two hours sounded, while the interest and prettiness of the scene were yet in their full life. hugh was in company this time, and the delight of both children was beyond words, as it would have been beyond anybody's patience that had not a strong motive to back it. they never discovered that mr. carleton was in a hurry, as indeed he was not. they bargained for fruit with any number of people, upon all sorts of inducements, and to an extent of which they had no competent notion, but hugh had his mother's purse, and fleda was skilfully commissioned to purchase what she pleased for mrs. carleton. verily the two children that morning bought pleasure, not peaches. fancy and benevolence held the purse strings, and economy did not even look on. they revelled too, fleda especially, amidst the bright pictures of the odd, the new, and the picturesque, and the varieties of character and incident, that were displayed around them; even till the country people began to go away and the scene to lose its charm. it never lost it in memory; and many a time in after life hugh and fleda recurred to something that was seen or done "that morning when we bought fruit at the innocens." besides these scenes of everyday life, which interested and amused fleda to the last degree, mr. carleton shewed her many an obscure part of paris where deeds of daring and of blood had been, and thrilled the little listener's ear with histories of the past. he judged her rightly. she would rather at any time have gone to walk with him, than with anybody else to see any show that could be devised. his object in all this was in the first place to give her pleasure, and in the second place to draw out her mind into free communion with his own, which he knew could only be done by talking sense to her. he succeeded as he wished. lost in the interest of the scenes he presented to her eye and mind, she forgot everything else and shewed him herself; precisely what he wanted to see. it was strange that a young man, an admired man of fashion, a flattered favourite of the gay and great world, and furthermore a reserved and proud repeller of almost all who sought his intimacy, should seek and delight in the society of a little child. his mother would have wondered if she had known it. mrs. rossitur did marvel that even fleda should have so won upon the cold and haughty young englishman; and her husband said he probably chose to have fleda with him because he could make up his mind to like nobody else. a remark which perhaps arose from the utter failure of every attempt to draw him and charlton nearer together. but mr. rossitur was only half right. the reason lay deeper. mr. carleton had admitted the truth of christianity, upon what he considered sufficient grounds, and would now have steadily fought for it, as he would for anything else that he believed to be truth. but there he stopped. he had not discovered nor tried to discover whether the truth of christianity imposed any obligation upon him. he had cast off his unbelief, and looked upon it now as a singular folly. but his belief was almost as vague and as fruitless as his infidelity had been. perhaps, a little, his bitter dissatisfaction with the world and human things, or rather his despondent view of them, was mitigated. if there was, as he now held, a supreme orderer of events, it might be, and it was rational to suppose there would be, in the issues of time, an entire change wrought in the disordered and dishonoured state of his handiwork. there might be a remedial system somewhere,--nay, it might be in the bible; he meant to look some day. but that _he_ had anything to do with that change--that the working of the remedial system called for hands--that _his_ had any charge in the matter had never entered into his imagination or stirred his conscience. he was living his old life at paris, with his old dissatisfaction, perhaps a trifle less bitter. he was seeking pleasure in whatever art, learning, literature, refinement, and luxury can do for a man who has them all at command; but there was something within him that spurned this ignoble existence and called for higher aims and worthier exertion. he was not vicious, he never had been vicious, or, as somebody else said, his vices were all refined vices; but a life of mere self-indulgence although pursued without self-satisfaction, is constantly lowering the standard and weakening the forces of virtue,--lessening the whole man. he felt it so; and to leave his ordinary scenes and occupations and lose a morning with little fleda was a freshening of his better nature; it was like breathing pure air after the fever heat of a sick room; it was like hearing the birds sing after the meaningless jabber of bedlam. mr. carleton indeed did not put the matter quite so strongly to himself. he called fleda his good angel. he did not exactly know that the office this good angel performed was simply to hold a candle to his conscience. for conscience was not by any means dead in him; it only wanted light to see by. when he turned from the gay and corrupt world in which he lived, where the changes were rung incessantly upon self-interest, falsehood, pride, and the various more or less refined forms of sensuality, and when he looked upon that pure bright little face, so free from selfishness, those clear eyes so innocent of evil, the peaceful brow under which a thought of double-dealing had never hid, mr. carleton felt himself in a healthier region. here as elsewhere, he honoured and loved the image of truth; in the broad sense of truth;--that which suits the perfect standard of right. but his pleasure in this case was invariably mixed with a slight feeling of self-reproach; and it was this hardly recognised stir of his better nature, this clearing of his mental eye-sight under the light of a bright example, that made him call the little torch-bearer his good angel. if this were truth, this purity, uprightness, and singleness of mind, as conscience said it was, where was he? how far wandering from his beloved idol! one other feeling saddened the pleasure he had in her society--a belief that the ground of it could not last. "if she could grow up so!"--he said to himself. "but it is impossible. a very few years, and all that clear sunshine of the mind will be overcast;--there is not a cloud now!"-- under the working of these thoughts mr. carleton sometimes forgot to talk to his little charge, and would walk for a length of way by her side wrapped up in sombre musings. fleda never disturbed him then, but waited contentedly and patiently for him to come out of them, with her old feeling wondering what he could be thinking of and wishing he were as happy as she. but he never left her very long; he was sure to waive his own humour and give her all the graceful kind attention which nobody else could bestow so well. nobody understood and appreciated it better than fleda. one day, some months after they had been in paris, they were sitting in the place de la concorde, mr. carleton was in one of these thinking fits. he had been giving fleda a long detail of the scenes that had taken place in that spot--a history of it from the time when it had lain an unsightly waste;--such a graphic lively account as he knew well how to give. the absorbed interest with which she had lost everything else in what he was saying had given him at once reward and motive enough as he went on. standing by his side, with one little hand confidingly resting on his knee, she gazed alternately into his face and towards the broad highly-adorned square by the side of which they had placed themselves, and where it was hard to realize that the ground had once been soaked in blood while madness and death filled the air; and her changing face like a mirror gave him back the reflection of the times he held up to her view. and still standing there in the same attitude after he had done she had been looking out towards the square in a fit of deep meditation. mr. carleton had forgotten her for awhile in his own thoughts, and then the sight of the little gloved hand upon his knee brought him back again. "what are you musing about, elfie, dear?" he said cheerfully, taking the hand in one of his. fleda gave a swift glance into his face, as if to see whether it would be safe for her to answer his question; a kind of exploring look, in which her eyes often acted as scouts for her tongue. those she met pledged their faith for her security; yet fleda's look went back to the square and then again to his face in silence. "how do you like living in paris?" said he. "you should know by this time." "i like it very much indeed," said fleda. "i thought you would." "i like queechy better though," she went on gravely, her eyes turning again to the square. "like queechy better! were you thinking of queechy just now when i spoke to you?" "oh no!"--with a smile. "were you going over all those horrors i have been distressing you with?" "no," said fleda;--"i _was_ thinking of them, awhile ago." "what then?" said he pleasantly. "you were looking so sober i should like to know how near your thoughts were to mine." "i was thinking," said fleda, gravely, and a little unwillingly, but guy's manner was not to be withstood,--"i was wishing i could be like the disciple whom jesus loved." mr. carleton let her see none of the surprise he felt at this answer. "was there one more loved than the rest?" "yes--the bible calls him 'the disciple whom jesus loved.' that was john." "why was he preferred above the others?" "i don't know. i suppose he was more gentle and good than the others, and loved jesus more. i think aunt miriam said so when i asked her once." mr. carleton thought fleda had not far to seek for the fulfilment of her wish. "but how in the world, elfie, did you work round to this gentle and good disciple from those scenes of blood you set out with?" "why," said elfie,--"i was thinking how unhappy and bad people are, especially people here, i think; and how much must be done before they will all be brought right;--and then i was thinking of the work jesus gave his disciples to do; and so i wished i could be like _that_ disciple.--hugh and i were talking about it this morning." "what is the work he gave them to do?" said mr. carleton, more and more interested. "why," said fleda, lifting her gentle wistful eyes to his and then looking away,--"to bring everybody to be good and happy." "and how in the world are they to do that?" said mr. carleton, astonished to see his own problem quietly handled by this child. "by telling them about jesus christ, and getting them to believe and love him," said fleda, glancing at him again,--"and living so beautifully that people cannot help believing them." "that last is an important clause," said mr. carleton thoughtfully. "but suppose people will not hear when they are spoken to, elfie?" "some will, at any rate," said fleda,--"and by and by everybody will." "how do you know?" "because the bible says so." "are you sure of that, elfie?" "why yes, mr. carleton--god has promised that the world shall be full of good people, and then they will be all happy. i wish it was now." "but if that be so, elfie, god can make them all good without our help?" "yes, but i suppose he chooses to do it with our help, mr. carleton," said fleda with equal naïveté and gravity. "but is not this you speak of," said he, half smiling,--"rather the business of clergymen? you have nothing to do with it?" "no," said fleda,--"everybody has something to do with it, the bible says so; ministers must do it in their way and other people in other ways; everybody has his own work. don't you remember the parable of the ten talents, mr. carleton?" mr. carleton was silent for a minute. "i do not know the bible quite as well as you do, elfie," he said then,--"nor as i ought to do." elfie's only answer was by a look somewhat like that he well remembered on shipboard he had thought was angel-like,--a look of gentle sorrowful wistfulness which she did not venture to put into words. it had not for that the less power. but he did not choose to prolong the conversation. they rose up and began to walk homeward, elfie thinking with all the warmth of her little heart that she wished very much mr. carleton knew the bible better; divided between him and "that disciple" whom she and hugh had been talking about. "i suppose you are very busy now, elfie," observed her companion, when they had walked the length of several squares in silence. "o yes!" said fleda. "hugh and i are as busy as we can be. we are busy every minute." "except when you are on some chase after pleasure?" "well," said fleda laughing,--"that is a kind of business; and all the business is pleasure too. i didn't mean that we were always busy about _work_. o mr. carleton we had such a nice time the day before yesterday!"--and she went on to give him the history of a very successful chase after pleasure which they had made to st. cloud. "and yet you like queechy better?" "yes," said fleda, with a gentle steadiness peculiar to herself,--if i had aunt lucy and hugh and uncle rolf there and everybody that i care for, i should like it a great deal better." "unspotted" yet, he thought. "mr. carleton," said fleda presently,--"do you play and sing every day here in paris?" "yes," said he smiling,--"about every day. why?" "i was thinking how pleasant it was at your house, in england." "has carleton the honour of rivalling queechy in your liking?" "i haven't lived there so long, you know," said fleda. "i dare say it would if i had. i think it is quite as pretty a place." mr. carleton smiled with a very pleased expression. truth and politeness had joined hands in her answer with a child's grace. he brought fleda to her own door and there was leaving her. "stop!--o mr. carleton," cried fleda, "come in just for one minute--i want to shew you something." he made no resistance to that. she led him to the saloon, where it happened that nobody was, and repeating "one minute!"--rushed out of the room. in less than that time she came running back with a beautiful half-blown bud of a monthly rose in her hand, and in her face such a bloom of pleasure and eagerness as more than rivalled it. the rose was fairly eclipsed. she put the bud quietly but with a most satisfied air of affection into mr. carleton's hand. it had come from a little tree which he had given her on one of their first visits to the quai aux fleurs. she had had the choice of what she liked best, and had characteristically taken a flourishing little rose-bush that as yet shewed nothing but leaves and green buds; partly because she would have the pleasure of seeing its beauties come forward, and partly because she thought having no flowers it would not cost much. the former reason however was all that she had given to mr. carleton's remonstrances. "what is all this, elfie?" said he. "have you been robbing your rose tree?" "no," said elfie;--"there are plenty more buds! isn't it lovely? this is the first one. they've been a great while coming out." his eye went from the rose to her; he thought the one was a mere emblem of the other. fleda was usually very quiet in her demonstrations; it was as if a little green bud had suddenly burst into a flush of loveliness; and he saw, it was as plain as possible, that good-will to him had been the moving power. he was so much struck and moved that his thanks, though as usual perfect in their kind, were far shorter and graver than he would have given if he had felt less. he turned away from the house, his mind full of the bright unsullied purity and single-hearted good-will that had looked out of that beaming little face; he seemed to see them again in the flower held in his hand, and he saw nothing else as he went. mr. carleton preached to himself all the way home, and his text was a rose. laugh who will. to many it may seem ridiculous, and to most minds it would have been impossible, but to a nature very finely wrought and highly trained, many a voice that grosser senses cannot hear comes with an utterance as clear as it is sweet-spoken; many a touch that coarser nerves cannot heed reaches the springs of the deeper life; many a truth that duller eyes have no skill to see shews its fair features, hid away among the petals of a rose, or peering out between the wings of a butterfly, or reflected in a bright drop of dew. the material is but a veil for the spiritual; but then eyes must be quickened, or the veil becomes an impassable cloud. that particular rose was to mr. carleton's eye a most perfect emblem and representative of its little giver. he traced out the points of resemblance as he went along. the delicacy and character of refinement for which that kind of rose is remarkable above many of its more superb kindred; a refinement essential and unalterable by decay or otherwise, as true a characteristic of the child as of the flower; a delicacy that called for gentle handling and tender cherishing;--the sweetness, rare indeed, but asserting itself as it were timidly, at least with equally rare modesty,--the very style of the beauty, that with all its loveliness would not startle nor even catch the eye among its more showy neighbours; and the breath of purity that seemed to own no kindred with earth, nor liability to infection. as he went on with his musing, and drawing out this fair character from the type before him, the feeling of _contrast_, that he had known before, pressed upon mr. carleton's mind, the feeling of self-reproach, and the bitter wish that he could be again what he once had been, something like this. how changed now he seemed to himself--not a point of likeness left. how much less honourable, how much less worth, how much less dignified, than that fair innocent child. how much better a part she was acting in life--what an influence she was exerting,--as pure, as sweet-breathed, and as unobtrusive, as the very rose in his hand. and he--doing no good to an earthly creature and losing himself by inches. he reached his room, put the flower in a glass on the table, and walked up and down before it. it had come to a struggle between the sense of what was and the passionate wish for what might have been. "it is late, sir," said his servant opening the door,--"and you were--" "i am not going out." "this evening, sir?" "no--not at all to-day. spenser!--i don't wish to see any body--let no one come near me." the servant retired and guy went on with his walk and his meditations, looking back over his life and reviewing, with a wiser ken now, the steps by which he had come. he compared the selfish disgust with which he had cast off the world with the very different spirit of little fleda's look upon it that morning, the useless, self-pleasing, vain life he was leading, with her wish to be like the beloved disciple and do something to heal the troubles of those less happy than herself. he did not very well comprehend the grounds of her feeling or reasoning, but he began to see, mistily, that his own had been mistaken and wild. his steps grew slower, his eye more intent, his brow quiet. "she is right and i am wrong," he thought. "she is by far the nobler creature--worth, many such as i. _like her_ i cannot be--i cannot regain what i have lost,--i cannot undo what years have done. but i can be something other than i am! if there be a system of remedy, as there well may, it may as well take effect on myself first. she says everybody has his work, i believe her. it must in the nature of things be so. i will make it my business to find out what mine is, and when i have made that sure i will give myself to the doing of it. an allwise governor must look for service of me. he shall have it. whatever my life be, it shall be to some end. if not what i would, what i can. if not the purity of the rose, that of tempered steel!" mr. carleton walked his room for three hours; then rung for his servant and ordered him to prepare everything for leaving paris the second day thereafter. the next morning over their coffee he told his mother of his purpose. "leave paris!--to-morrow!--my dear guy, that is rather a sudden notice." "no mother--for i am going alone." his mother immediately bent an anxious and somewhat terrified look upon him. the frank smile she met put half her suspicions out of her head at once. "what is the matter?" "nothing at all--if by 'matter' you mean mischief." "you are not in difficulty with those young men again?" "no mother," said he coolly. "i am in difficulty with no one but myself." "with yourself! but why will you not let me go with you?" "my business will go on better if i am quite alone." "what business?" "only to settle this question with myself," said he smiling. "but guy! you are enigmatical this morning. is it the question that of all others i wish to see settled?" "no mother," said he laughing and colouring a little,--"i don't want another half to take care of till i have this one under management." "i don't understand you," said mrs. carleton "there is no hidden reason under all this that you are keeping from me?" "i won't say that. but there is none that need give you the least uneasiness. there are one or two matters i want to study out--i cannot do it here, so i am going where i shall be free." "where?" "i think i shall pass the summer between switzerland and germany." "and when and where shall i meet you again?" "i think at home;--i cannot say when." "at home!" said his mother with a brightening face. "then you are beginning to be tired of wandering at last?" "not precisely, mother,--rather out of humour." "i shall be glad of anything," said his mother, gazing at him admiringly, "that brings you home again, guy." "bring me home a better man, i hope, mother," said he kissing her as he left the room. "i will see you again by and by." "'a better man!'" thought mrs. carleton, as she sat with full eyes, the image of her son filling the place where his presence had been;--"i would be willing never to see him better and be sure of his never being worse!" mr. carleton's farewell visit found mr. and mrs. rossitur not at home. they had driven out early into the country to fetch marion from her convent for some holiday. fleda came alone into the saloon to receive him. "i have your rose in safe keeping, elfie," he said. "it has done me more good than ever a rose did before." fleda smiled an innocently pleased smile. but her look changed when he added, "i have come to tell you so and to bid you good-bye." "are you going away, mr. carleton?" "yes." "but you will be back soon?" "no, elfie,--i do not know that i shall ever come back." he spoke gravely, more gravely than he was used; and fleda's acuteness saw that there was some solid reason for this sudden determination. her face changed sadly, but she was silent, her eyes never wavering from those that read hers with such gentle intelligence. "you will be satisfied to have me go, elfie, when i tell you that i am going on business which i believe to be duty. nothing else takes me away. i am going to try to do right," said he smiling. elfie could not answer the smile. she wanted to ask whether she should never see him again, and there was another thought upon her tongue too; but her lip trembled and she said nothing. "i shall miss my good fairy," mr. carleton went on lightly;--"i don't know how i shall do without her. if your wand was long enough to reach so far i would ask you to touch me now and then, elfie." poor elfie could not stand it. her head sank. she knew she had a wand that could touch him, and well and gratefully she resolved that its light blessing should "now and then" rest on his head; but he did not understand that; he was talking, whether lightly or seriously, and elfie knew it was a little of both,--he was talking of wanting her help, and was ignorant of the help that alone could avail him. "oh that he knew but that!"--what with this feeling and sorrow together the child's distress was exceeding great; and the tokens of grief in one so accustomed to hide them were the more painful to see. mr. carleton drew the sorrowing little creature within his arm and endeavoured with a mixture of kindness and lightness in his tone to cheer her. "i shall often remember you, dear elfie," he said;--"i shall keep your rose always and take it with me wherever i go.--you must not make it too hard for me to quit paris--you are glad to have me go on such an errand, are you not?" she presently commanded herself, bade her tears wait till another time as usual, and trying to get rid of those that covered her face, asked him, "what errand?" he hesitated. "i have been thinking of what we were talking of yesterday, elfie," he said at length. "i am going to try to discover my duty, and then to do it." but fleda at that clasped his hand, and squeezing it in both hers bent down her little head over it to hide her face and the tears that streamed again. he hardly knew how to understand or what to say to her. he half suspected that there were depths in that childish mind beyond his fathoming. he was not however left to wait long. fleda, though she might now and then be surprised into shewing it, never allowed her sorrow of any kind to press upon the notice or the time of others. she again checked herself and dried her face. "there is nobody else in paris that will be so sorry for my leaving it," said mr. carleton, half tenderly and half pleasantly. "there is nobody else that has so much cause," said elfie, near bursting out again, but she restrained herself. "and you will not come here again, mr. carleton?" she said after a few minutes. "i do not say that--it is possible--if i do, it will be to see you, elfie." a shadow of a smile passed over her face at that. it was gone instantly. "my mother will not leave paris yet," he went on,--"you will see her often." but he saw that fleda was thinking of something else; she scarce seemed to hear him. she was thinking of something that troubled her. "mr. carleton--" she began, and her colour changed. "speak, elfie." her colour changed again. "mr. carleton--will you be displeased if i say something?" "don't you know me better than to ask me that, elfie?" he said gently. "i want to ask you something,--if you won't mind my saying it." "what is it?" said he, reading in her face that a request was behind. "i will do it." her eyes sparkled, but she seemed to have some difficulty in going on. "i will do it, whatever it is," he said watching her. "will you wait for one moment, mr. carleton?" "half an hour." she sprang away, her face absolutely flashing pleasure through her tears. it was much soberer, and again doubtful and changing colour, when a few minutes afterwards she came back with a book in her hand. with a striking mixture of timidity, modesty, and eagerness in her countenance she came forward, and putting the little volume, which was her own bible, into mr. carleton's hands said under her breath, "please read it." she did not venture to look up. he saw what the book was; and then taking the gentle hand which had given it, he kissed it two or three times. if it had been a princess's he could not with more respect. "you have my promise, elfie," he said. "i need not repeat it?" she raised her eyes and gave him a look so grateful, so loving, so happy, that it dwelt for ever in his remembrance. a moment after it had faded, and she stood still where he had left her, listening to his footsteps as they went down the stairs. she heard the last of them, and then sank upon her knees by a chair and burst into a passion of tears. their time was now and she let them come. it was not only the losing a loved and pleasant friend, it was not only the stirring of sudden and disagreeable excitement;--poor elfie was crying for her bible. it had been her father's own--it was filled with his marks--it was precious to her above price--and elfie cried with all her heart for the loss of it. she had done what she had on the spur of the emergency--she was satisfied she had done right; she would not take it back if she could; but not the less her bible was gone, and the pages that loved eyes had looked upon were for hers to look upon no more. her very heart was wrung that she should have parted with it,--and yet,--what could she do?--it was as bad as the parting with mr. carleton. that agony was over, and even that was shortened, for "hugh would find out that she had been crying." hours had passed, and the tears were dried, and the little face was bending over the wonted tasks with a shadow upon its wonted cheerfulness,--when rosaline came to tell her that victor said there was somebody in the passage who wanted to see her and would not come in. it was mr. carleton himself. he gave her a parcel, smiled at her without saying a word, kissed her hand earnestly, and was gone again. fleda ran to her own room, and took the wrappers off such a beauty of a bible as she had never seen; bound in blue velvet, with clasps of gold and her initials in letters of gold upon the cover. fleda hardly knew whether to be most pleased or sorry; for to have its place so supplied seemed to put her lost treasure further away than ever. the result was another flood of very tender tears; in the very shedding of which however the new little bible was bound to her heart with cords of association as bright and as incorruptible as its gold mountings. chapter xv. her sports were such as carried riches of knowledge upon the stream of light.--sidney. fleda had not been a year in paris when her uncle suddenly made up his mind to quit it and go home. some trouble in money affairs, felt or feared, brought him to this step, which a month before he had no definite purpose of ever taking. there was cloudy weather in the financial world of new york and he wisely judged it best that his own eyes should be on the spot to see to his own interests. nobody was sorry for this determination. mrs. rossitur always liked what her husband liked, but she had at the same time a decided predilection for home. marion was glad to leave her convent for the gay world, which her parents promised she should immediately enter. and hugh and fleda had too lively a spring of happiness within themselves to care where its outgoings should be. so home they came, in good mood, bringing with them all manner of parisian delights that paris could part with. furniture, that at home at least they might forget where they were; dresses, that at home or abroad nobody might forget where they had been; pictures and statuary and engravings and books, to satisfy a taste really strong and well cultivated. and indeed the other items were quite as much for this purpose as for any other. a french cook for mr. rossitur, and even rosaline for his wife, who declared she was worth all the rest of paris. hugh cared little for any of these things; he brought home a treasure of books and a flute, to which he was devoted. fleda cared for them all, even monsieur emile and rosaline, for her uncle's and aunt's sake; but her special joy was a beautiful little king charles which had been sent her by mr. carleton a few weeks before. it came with the kindest of letters, saying that some matters had made it inexpedient for him to pass through paris on his way home, but that he hoped nevertheless to see her soon. that intimation was the only thing that made fleda sorry to leave paris. the little dog was a beauty, allowed to be so not only by his mistress but by every one else; of the true black and tan colours; and fleda's dearly loved and constant companion. the life she and hugh led was little changed by the change of place. they went out and came in as they had done in paris, and took the same quiet but intense happiness in the same quiet occupations and pleasures; only the tuileries and champs elysées had a miserable substitute in the battery, and no substitute at all anywhere else. and the pleasant drives in the environs of paris were missed too and had nothing in new york to supply their place. mrs. rossitur always said it was impossible to get out of new york by land, and not worth the trouble to do it by water. but then in the house fleda thought there was a great gain. the dirty parisian hotel was well exchanged for the bright, clean, well-appointed house in state street. and if broadway was disagreeable, and the park a weariness to the eyes, after the dressed gardens of the french capital, hugh and fleda made it up in the delights of the luxuriously furnished library and the dear at-home feeling of having the whole house their own. they were left, those two children, quite as much to themselves as ever. marion was going into company, and she and her mother were swallowed up in the consequent necessary calls upon their time. marion never had been anything to fleda. she was a fine handsome girl, outwardly, but seemed to have more of her father than her mother in her composition, though colder-natured and more wrapped up in self than mr. rossitur would be called by anybody that knew him. she had never done anything to draw fleda towards her, and even hugh had very little of her attention. they did not miss it. they were everything to each other. everything,--for now morning and night there was a sort of whirlwind in the house which carried the mother and daughter round and round and permitted no rest; and mr. rossitur himself was drawn in. it was worse than it had been in paris. there, with marion in her convent, there were often evenings when they did not go abroad nor receive company and spent the time quietly and happily in each other's society. no such evenings now; if by chance there were an unoccupied one mrs. rossitur and her daughter were sure to be tired and mr. rossitur busy. hugh and fleda in those bustling times retreated to the library; mr. rossitur would rarely have that invaded; and while the net was so eagerly cast for pleasure among the gay company below, pleasure had often slipped away and hid herself among the things on the library table, and was dancing on every page of hugh's book and minding each stroke of fleda's pencil and cocking the spaniel's ears whenever his mistress looked at him. king, the spaniel, lay on a silk cushion on the library table, his nose just touching fleda's fingers. fleda's drawing was mere amusement; she and hugh were not so burthened with studies that they had not always their evenings free, and to tell truth, much more than their evenings. masters indeed they had; but the heads of the house were busy with the interests of their grown-up child, and perhaps with other interests; and took it for granted that all was going right with the young ones. "haven't we a great deal better time than they have down stairs, fleda?" said hugh one of these evenings. "hum--yes--" answered fleda abstractedly, stroking into order some old man in her drawing with great intentness.--"king!--you rascal--keep back and be quiet, sir!--" nothing could be conceived more gentle and loving than fleda's tone of fault-finding, and her repulse only fell short of a caress. "what's he doing?" "wants to get into my lap." "why don't you let him?" "because i don't choose to--a silk cushion is good enough for his majesty. king!--" (laying her soft cheek against the little dog's soft head and forsaking her drawing for the purpose.) "how you do love that dog!" said hugh. "very well--why shouldn't i?--provided he steals no love from anybody else," said fleda, still caressing him. "what a noise somebody is making down stairs!" said hugh. "i don't think i should ever want to go to large parties, fleda, do you?" "i don't know," said fleda, whose natural taste for society was strongly developed;--"it would depend upon what kind of parties they were." "i shouldn't like them, i know, of whatever kind," said hugh. "what are you smiling at?" "only mr. pickwick's face, that i am drawing here." hugh came round to look and laugh, and then began again. "i can't think of anything pleasanter than this room as we are now." "you should have seen mr. carleton's library," said fleda in a musing tone, going on with her drawing. "was it so much better than this?" fleda's eyes gave a slight glance at the room and then looked down again with a little shake of her head sufficiently expressive. "well," said hugh, "you and i do not want any better than this, do we, fleda?" fleda's smile, a most satisfactory one, was divided between him and king. "i don't believe," said hugh, "you would have loved that dog near so well if anybody else had given him to you." "i don't believe i should!--not a quarter," said fleda with sufficient distinctness. "i never liked that mr. carleton as well as you did." "that is because you did not know him," said fleda quietly. "do you think he was a good man, fleda?" "he was very good to me," said fleda, "always. what rides i did have on that great black horse of his!"-- "a black horse?" "yes, a great black horse, strong, but so gentle, and he went so delightfully. his name was harold. oh i should like to see that horse!--when i wasn't with him, mr. carleton used to ride another, the greatest beauty of a horse, hugh; a brown arabian--so slender and delicate--her name was zephyr, ind she used to go like the wind, to be sure. mr. carleton said he wouldn't trust me on such a fly-away thing." "but you didn't use to ride alone?" said hugh. "oh no!--and _i_ wouldn't have been afraid if he had chosen to take me on any one." "but do you think, fleda, he was a _good_ man? as i mean?" "i am sure he was better than a great many others," answered fleda evasively;--"the worst of him was infinitely better than the best of half the people down stairs,--mr. sweden included." "sweden"--you don't call his name right." "the worse it is called the better, in my opinion," said fleda. "well, i don't like him; but what makes you dislike him so much?" "i don't know--partly because uncle rolf and marion like him so much, i believe--i don't think there is any moral expression in his face." "i wonder why they like him," said hugh. it was a somewhat irregular and desultory education that the two children gathered under this system of things. the masters they had were rather for accomplishments and languages than for anything solid; the rest they worked out for themselves. fortunately they both loved books, and rational books; and hours and hours, when mrs. rossitur and her daughter were paying or receiving visits, they, always together, were stowed away behind the book-cases or in the library window poring patiently over pages of various complexion; the soft turning of the leaves or fleda's frequent attentions to king the only sound in the room. they walked together, talking of what they had read, though indeed they ranged beyond that into nameless and numberless fields of speculation, where if they sometimes found fruit they as often lost their way. however the habit of ranging was something. then when they joined the rest of the family at the dinner-table, especially if others were present, and most especially if a certain german gentleman happened to be there who the second winter after their return fleda thought came very often, she and hugh would be sure to find the strange talk of the world that was going on unsuited and wearisome to them, and they would make their escape up stairs again to handle the pencil and to play the flute and to read, and to draw plans for the future, while king crept upon the skirts of his mistress's gown and laid his little head on her feet. nobody ever thought of sending them to school. hugh was a child of frail health, and though not often very ill was often near it; and as for fleda, she and hugh were inseparable; and besides by this time her uncle and aunt would almost as soon have thought of taking the mats off their delicate shrubs in winter as of exposing her to any atmosphere less genial than that of home. for fleda this doubtful course of mental training wrought singularly well. an uncommonly quick eye and strong memory and clear head, which she had even in childhood, passed over no field of truth or fancy without making their quiet gleanings; and the stores thus gathered, though somewhat miscellaneous and unarranged, were both rich and uncommon, and more than any one or she herself knew. perhaps such a mind thus left to itself knew a more free and luxuriant growth than could ever have flourished within the confinement of rules. perhaps a plant at once so strong and so delicate was safest without the hand of the dresser. at all events it was permitted to spring and to put forth all its native gracefulness alike unhindered and unknown. cherished as little fleda dearly was, her mind kept company with no one but herself,--and hugh. as to externals,--music was uncommonly loved by both the children, and by both cultivated with great success. so much came under mrs. rossitur's knowledge. also every foreign signor and madame that came into the house to teach them spoke with enthusiasm of the apt minds and flexile tongues that honoured their instructions. in private and in public the gentle, docile, and affectionate children answered every wish both of taste and judgment. and perhaps, in a world where education is _not_ understood, their guardians might be pardoned for taking it for granted that all was right where nothing appeared that was wrong; certainly they took no pains to make sure of the fact. in this case, one of a thousand, their neglect was not punished with disappointment. they never found out that hugh's mind wanted the strengthening that early skilful training might have given it. his intellectual tastes were not so strong as fleda's; his reading was more superficial; his gleanings not so sound and in far fewer fields, and they went rather to nourish sentiment and fancy than to stimulate thought or lay up food for it. but his parents saw nothing of this. the third winter had not passed, when fleda's discernment saw that mr. sweden, as she called him, the german gentleman, would not cease coming to the house till he had carried off marion with him. her opinion on the subject was delivered to no one but hugh. that winter introduced them to a better acquaintance. one evening dr. gregory, an uncle of mrs. rossitur's, had been dining with her and was in the drawing-room. mr. schweden had been there too, and he and marion and one or two other young people had gone out to some popular entertainment. the children knew little of dr. gregory but that he was a very respectable-looking elderly gentleman, a little rough in his manners; the doctor had not long been returned from a stay of some years in europe where he had been collecting rare books for a fine public library, the charge of which was now entrusted to him. after talking some time with mr. and mrs. rossitur the doctor pushed round his chair to take a look at the children. "so that's amy's child," said he. "come here, amy." "that is not my name," said the little girl coming forward. "isn't it? it ought to be. what is then?" "elfleda." "elfleda!--where in the name of all that is auricular did you get such an outlandish name?" "my father gave it to me, sir," said fleda, with a dignified sobriety which amused the old gentleman. "your father!--hum--i understand. and couldn't your father find a cap that fitted you without going back to the old-fashioned days of king alfred?" "yes sir; it was my grandmother's cap." "i am afraid your grandmother's cap isn't all of her that's come down to you," said he, tapping his snuff-box and looking at her with a curious twinkle in his eyes. "what do you call yourself? haven't you some variations of this tongue-twisting appellative to serve for every day and save trouble?" "they call me fleda," said the little girl, who could not help laughing. "nothing better than that?" fleda remembered two prettier nick-names which had been hers; but one had been given by dear lips long ago, and she was not going to have it profaned by common use; and "elfie" belonged to mr. carleton. she would own to nothing but fleda. "well, miss fleda," said the doctor, "are you going to school?" "no sir." "you intend to live without such a vulgar thing as learning?" "no sir--hugh and i have our lessons at home." "teaching each other, i suppose?" "o no, sir," said fleda laughing;--"mme. lascelles and mr. schweppenhesser and signor barytone come to teach us, besides our music masters." "do you ever talk german with this mr. what's-his-name who has just gone out with your cousin marion?" "i never talk to him at all, sir." "don't you? why not? don't you like him?" fleda said "not particularly," and seemed to wish to let the subject pass, but the doctor was amused and pressed it. "why, why don't you like him?" said he; "i am sure he's a fine looking dashing gentleman,--dresses as well as anybody, and talks as much as most people,--why don't you like him? isn't he a handsome fellow, eh?" "i dare say he is, to many people," said fleda. "she said she didn't think there was any moral expression in his face," said hugh, by way of settling the matter. "moral expression!" cried the doctor,--"moral expression!--and what if there isn't, you elf!--what if there isn't?" "i shouldn't care what other kind of expression it had," said fleda, colouring a little. mr. rossitur 'pished' rather impatiently. the doctor glanced at his niece, and changed the subject. "well who teaches you english, miss fleda? you haven't told me that yet." "o that we teach ourselves," said fleda, smiling as if it was a very innocent question. "hum! you do! pray how do you teach yourselves?" "by reading, sir." "reading! and what do you read? what have you read in the last twelve months, now?" "i don't think i could remember all exactly," said fleda. "but you have got a list of them all," said hugh, who chanced to have been looking over said list of a day or two before and felt quite proud of it. "let's have it--let's have it," said the doctor. and mrs. rossitur laughing said "let's have it;" and even her husband commanded hugh to go and fetch it; so poor fleda, though not a little unwilling, was obliged to let the list be forthcoming. hugh brought it, in a neat little book covered with pink blotting paper. "now for it," said the doctor;--"let us see what this english amounts to. can you stand fire, elfleda?" 'jan. . robinson crusoe.' [footnote: a true list made by a child of that age.] "hum--that sounds reasonable, at all events." "i had it for a new year present," remarked fleda, who stood by with down-cast eyes, like a person undergoing an examination. 'jan. . histoire de france.' "what history of france is this?" fleda hesitated and then said it was by lacretelle. "lacretelle?--what, of the revolution?" "no sir, it is before that; it is in five or six large volumes." "what, louis xv's time!" said the doctor muttering to himself. 'jan. . . ditto, ditto.' "'two' means the second volume i suppose?" "yes sir." "hum--if you were a mouse you would gnaw through the wall in time at that rate. this is in the original?" "yes sir." 'feb. . paris. l. e. k.' "what do these hieroglyphics mean?" "that stands for the 'library of entertaining knowledge,'" said fleda. "but how is this?--do you go hop, skip, and jump through these books, or read a little and then throw them away? here it is only seven days since you began the second volume of lacretelle--not time enough to get through it." "o no, sir," said fleda smiling,--"i like to have several books that i am reading in at once,--i mean--at the same time, you know; and then if i am not in the mood of one i take up another." "she reads them all through," said hugh,--"always, though she reads them very quick." "hum--i understand," said the old doctor with a humorous expression, going on with the list. 'march . hist. de france.' "but you finish one of these volumes, i suppose, before you begin another; or do you dip into different parts of the same work at once?" "o no, sir;--of course not!" 'mar. . modern egyptians. l. e. k. ap. .' "what are these dates on the right as well as on the left?" "those on the right shew when i finished the volume." "well i wonder what you were cut out for?" said the doctor. "a quaker!--you aren't a quaker, are you?" "no sir," said fleda laughing. "you look like it," said he. 'feb. . five penny magazines, finished mar. ,' "they are in paper numbers, you know, sir." 'april . hist. de f.' "let us see--the third volume was finished march --i declare you keep it up pretty well." 'ap. . incidents of travel' "whose is that?" "it is by mr. stephens." "how did you like it?" "o very much indeed." "ay, i see you did; you finished it by the first of may. 'tour to the hebrides'--what? johnson's?" "yes sir." "read it all fairly through?" "yes sir, certainly." he smiled and went on. 'may . peter simple!' there was quite a shout at the heterogeneous character of fleda's reading, which she, not knowing exactly what to make of it, heard rather abashed. "' peter simple'!" said the doctor, settling himself to go on with his list;--"well, let us see.--' world without souls.' why you elf! read in two days." "it is very short, you know, sir." "what did you think of it?" "i liked parts of it very much." he went on, still smiling. 'june . goldsmith's animated nature.' 'june . life of washington.' "what life of washington?" "marshall's." "hum.--'july . goldsmith's an. na.' as i live, begun the very day the first volume was finished, did you read the whole of that?" "o yes, sir. i liked that book very much." ' july . hist, de france.' "two histories on hand at once! out of all rule, miss fleda! we must look after you." "yes sir; sometimes i wanted to read one, and sometimes i wanted to read the other." "and you always do what you want to do, i suppose?" "i think the reading does me more good in that way." 'july . paley's natural theology!' there was another shout. poor fleda's eyes filled with tears. "what in the world put that book into your head, or before your eyes?" said the doctor. "i don't know, sir,--i thought i should like to read it," said fleda, drooping her eyelids that the bright drops under them might not be seen. "and finished in eleven days, as i live!" said the doctor wagging his head. 'july . goldsmith's a. n.' 'aug. . do. do.'" "that is one of fleda's favourite books," put in hugh. "so it seems. ' hist. de france.'--what does this little cross mean?" "that shews when the book is finished," said fleda, looking on the page,--"the last volume, i mean." "'retrospect of western travel'--'goldsmith's a. n., last vol.'--'memoirs de sully'--in the french?" "yes sir." "'life of newton'--what's this?--'sep. . fairy queen!'--not spenser's?" "yes sir, i believe so--the fairy queen, in five volumes." the doctor looked up comically at his niece and her husband, who were both sitting or standing close by. "'sep. . paolo e virginia.'--in what language?" "italian, sir; i was just beginning, and i haven't finished it yet." "'sep. . milner's church history'!--what the deuce!--'vol. . fairy queen.'--why this must have been a favourite book too." "that's one of the books fleda loves best," said hugh;--"she went through that very fast." "_over_ it, you mean, i reckon; how much did you skip, fleda?" "i didn't skip at all," said fleda; "i read every word of it." "'sep. . mem. de sully.'--well, you're an industrious mouse, i'll say that for you.--what's this--'don quixotte!'--'life of howard.'--'nov. . fairy queen.'--'nov. . fairy queen.'--'dec. . goldsmith's england.'--well if this list of books is a fair exhibit of your taste and capacity, you have a most happily proportioned set of intellectuals. let us see--history, fun, facts, nature, theology, poetry and divinity!--upon my soul!--and poetry and history the leading features!--a little fun,--as much as you could lay your hand on i'll warrant, by that pinch in the corner of your eye. and here, the eleventh of december, you finished the fairy queen;--and ever since, i suppose, you have been imagining yourself the 'faire una,' with hugh standing for prince arthur or the red-cross knight,--haven't you?" "no sir. i didn't imagine anything about it." "don't tell me! what did you read it for?" "only because i liked it, sir. i liked it better than any other book i read last year." "you did! well, the year ends, i see, with another volume of sully. i won't enter upon this year's list. pray how much of all these volumes do you suppose you remember? i'll try and find out, next time i come to see you. i can give a guess, if you study with that little pug in your lap." "he is not a pug!" said fleda, in whose arms king was lying luxuriously,--"and he never gets into my lap besides." [illustration: "he is not a pug."] "don't he! why not?" "because i don't like it, sir. i don't like to see dogs in laps." "but all the ladies in the land do it, you little saxon! it is universally considered a mark of distinction." "i can't help what all the ladies in the land do," said fleda. "that won't alter my liking, and i don't think a lady's lap is a place for a dog." "i wish you were _my_ daughter!" said the old doctor, shaking his head at her with a comic fierce expression of countenance, which fleda perfectly understood and laughed at accordingly. then as the two children with the dog went off into the other room, he said, turning to his niece and mr. rossitur, "if that girl ever takes a wrong turn with the bit in her teeth, you'll be puzzled to hold her. what stuff will you make the reins of?" "i don't think she ever will take a wrong turn," said mr. rossitur. "a look is enough to manage her, if she did," said his wife. "hugh is not more gentle." "i should be inclined rather to fear her not having stability of character enough," said mr. rossitur. "she is so very meek and yielding, i almost doubt whether anything would give her courage to take ground of her own and keep it." "hum------well, well!" said the old doctor, walking off after the children. "prince arthur, will you bring this damsel up to my den some of these days?--the 'faire una' is safe from the wild beasts, you know;--and i'll shew her books enough to build herself a house with, if she likes." the acceptance of this invitation led to some of the pleasantest hours of fleda's city life. the visits to the great library became very frequent. dr. gregory and the children were little while in growing fond of each other; he loved to see them and taught them to come at such times as the library was free of visitors and his hands of engagements. then he delighted himself with giving them pleasure, especially fleda, whose quick curiosity and intelligence were a constant amusement to him. he would establish the children in some corner of the large apartments, out of the way behind a screen of books and tables; and there shut out from the world they would enjoy a kind of fairyland pleasure over some volume or set of engravings that they could not see at home. hours and hours were spent so. fleda would stand clasping her hands before audubon, or rapt over a finely illustrated book of travels, or going through and through with hugh the works of the best masters of the pencil and the graver. the doctor found he could trust them, and then all the treasures of the library were at their disposal. very often he put chosen pieces of reading into their hands; and it was pleasantest of all when he was not busy and came and sat down with them; for with all his odd manner he was extremely kind and could and did put them in the way to profit greatly by their opportunities. the doctor and the children had nice times there together. they lasted for many months, and grew more and more worth. mr. schweden carried off marion, as fleda had foreseen he would, before the end of spring; and after she was gone something like the old pleasant paris life was taken up again. they had no more company now than was agreeable, and it was picked not to suit marion's taste but her father's,--a very different matter. fleda and hugh were not forbidden the dinner-table, and so had the good of hearing much useful conversation from which the former, according to custom, made her steady precious gleanings. the pleasant evenings in the family were still better enjoyed than they used to he; fleda was older; and the snug handsome american house had a home-feeling to her that the wide parisian saloons never knew. she had become bound to her uncle and aunt by all but the ties of blood; nobody in the house ever remembered that she was not born their daughter; except indeed fleda herself, who remembered everything, and with whom the forming of any new affections or relations somehow never blotted out or even faded the register of the old. it lived in all its brightness; the writing of past loves and friendships was as plain as ever in her heart; and often, often, the eye and the kiss of memory fell upon it. in the secret of her heart's core; for still, as at the first, no one had a suspicion of the movings of thought that were beneath that childish brow. no one guessed how clear a judgment weighed and decided upon many things. no one dreamed, amid their busy, hustling, thoughtless life, how often, in the street, in her bed, in company and alone, her mother's last prayer was in fleda's heart; well cherished; never forgotten. her education and hugh's meanwhile went on after the old fashion. if mr. rossitur had more time he seemed to have no more thought for the matter; and mrs. rossitur, fine-natured as she was, had never been trained to self-exertion, and of course was entirely out of the way of training others. her children were pieces of perfection, and needed no oversight; her house was a piece of perfection too. if either had not been, mrs. rossitur would have been utterly at a loss how to mend matters,--except in the latter instance by getting a new housekeeper; and as mrs. renney, the good woman who held that station, was in everybody's opinion another treasure, mrs. rossitur's mind was uncrossed by the shadow of such a dilemma. with mrs. renney as with every one else fleda was held in highest regard; always welcome to her premises and to those mysteries of her trade which were sacred from other intrusion. fleda's natural inquisitiveness carried her often to the housekeeper's room, and made her there the same curious and careful observer that she had been in the library or at the louvre. "come," said hugh one day when he had sought and found her in mrs. renney's precincts,--"come away, fleda! what do you want to stand here and see mrs. renney roll butter and sugar for?" "my dear mr. rossitur!" said fleda,--"you don't understand quelquechoses. how do you know but i may have to get my living by making them, some day." "by making what?" said hugh. "quelquechoses,--anglicé, kickshaws,--alias, sweet trifles denominated merrings." "pshaw, fleda!" "miss fleda is more likely to get her living by eating them, mr. hugh, isn't she?" said the housekeeper. "i hope to decline both lines of life," said fleda laughingly as she followed hugh out of the room. but her chance remark had grazed the truth sufficiently near. those years in new york were a happy time for little fleda, a time when mind and body flourished under the sun of prosperity. luxury did not spoil her; and any one that saw her in the soft furs of her winter wrappings would have said that delicate cheek and frame were never made to know the unkindliness of harsher things. chapter xvi. whereunto is money good? who has it not wants hardihood, who has it has much trouble and care, who once has had it has despair. longfellow. _from the german_. it was the middle of winter. one day hugh and fleda had come home from their walk. they dashed into the parlour, complaining that it was bitterly cold, and began unrobing before the glowing grate, which was a mass of living fire from end to end. mrs. rossitur was there in an easy chair, alone and doing nothing. that was not a thing absolutely unheard of, but fleda had not pulled off her second glove before she bent down towards her and in a changed tone tenderly asked if she did not feel well? mrs. rossitur looked up in her face a minute, and then drawing her down kissed the blooming cheeks one and the other several times. but as she looked off to the fire again fleda saw that it was through watering eyes. she dropped on her knees by the side of the easy chair that she might have a better sight of that face, and tried to read it as she asked again what was the matter; and hugh coming to the other side repeated her question. his mother passed an arm round each, looking wistfully from one to the other and kissing them earnestly, but she said only, with a very heart-felt emphasis, "poor children!" fleda was now afraid to speak, but hugh pressed his inquiry. "why 'poor' mamma? what makes you say so?" "because you are poor really, dear hugh. we have lost everything we have in the world." "mamma! what do you mean?" "your father has failed." "failed!--but, mamma, i thought he wasn't in business?" "so i thought," said mrs. rossitur;--"i didn't know people could fail that were not in business; but it seems they can. he was a partner in some concern or other, and it's all broken to pieces, and your father with it, he says." mrs. rossitur's face was distressful. they were all silent for a little; hugh kissing his mother's wet cheeks. fleda had softly nestled her head in her bosom. but mrs. rossitur soon recovered herself. "how bad is it, mother?" said hugh. "as bad as can possibly be." "is _everything_ gone?" "everything." "you don't mean the house, mamma?" "the house, and all that is in it." the children's hearts were struck, and they were silent again, only a trembling touch of fleda's lips spoke sympathy and patience if ever a kiss did. "but mamma," said hugh, after he had gathered breath for it,--"do you mean to say that _everything_, literally _everything_, is gone? is there nothing left?" "nothing in the world--not a sou." "then what are we going to do?" mrs. rossitur shook her head, and had no words. fleda _looked_ across to hugh to ask no more, and putting her arms round her aunt's neck and laying cheek to cheek, she spoke what comfort she could. "don't, dear aunt lucy!--there will be some way--things always turn out better than at first--i dare say we shall find out it isn't so bad by and by. don't you mind it, and then we won't. we can be happy anywhere together." if there was not much in the reasoning there was something in the tone of the words to bid mrs. rossitur bear herself well. its tremulous sweetness, its anxious love, was without a taint of self-recollection; its sorrow was for _her_. mrs. rossitur felt that she must not shew herself overcome. she again kissed and blessed and pressed closer in her arms her little comforter, while her other hand was given to hugh. "i have only heard about it this morning. your uncle was here telling me just now,--a little while before you came. don't say anything about it before him." why not? the words struck fleda disagreeably. "what will be done with the house, mamma?" said hugh. "sold--sold, and everything in it." "papa's books, mamma! and all the things in the library!" exclaimed hugh, looking terrified. mrs. rossitur's face gave the answer; do it in words she could not. the children were a long time silent, trying hard to swallow this bitter pill; and still hugh's hand was in his mother's and fleda's head lay on her bosom. thought was busy, going up and down, and breaking the companionship they had so long held with the pleasant drawing-room and the tasteful arrangements among which fleda was so much at home;--the easy chairs in whose comfortable arms she had had so many an hour of nice reading; the soft rug where in the very wantonness of frolic she had stretched herself to play with king; that very luxurious, bright grateful of fire, which had given her so often the same warm welcome home, an apt introduction to the other stores of comfort which awaited her above and below stairs; the rich-coloured curtains and carpet, the beauty of which had been such a constant gratification to fleda's eye; and the exquisite french table and lamps they had brought out with them, in which her uncle and aunt had so much pride and which could nowhere be matched for elegance;--they must all be said 'good-bye' to; and as yet fancy had nothing to furnish the future with; it looked very bare. king had come in and wagged himself up close to his mistress, but even he could obtain nothing but the touch of most abstracted finger ends. yet, though keenly recognized, these thoughts were only passing compared with the anxious and sorrowful ones that went to her aunt and uncle; for hugh and her, she judged, it was less matter. and mrs. rossitur's care was most for her husband; and hugh's was for them all. his associations were less quick and his tastes less keen than fleda's and less a part of himself. hugh lived in his affections; with a salvo to them, he could bear to lose anything and go anywhere. "mamma," said he after a long time,--"will anything be done with fleda's books?" a question that had been in fleda's mind before, but which she had patiently forborne just then to ask. "no indeed!" said mrs. rossitur, pressing fleda more closely and kissing in a kind of rapture the sweet thoughtful face;--"not yours, my darling; they can't touch anything that belongs to you--i wish it was more--and i don't suppose they will take anything of mine either." "ah, well!" said fleda raising her head, "you have got quite a parcel of books, aunt lucy, and i have a good many--how well it is i have had so many given me since i have been here!--that will make quite a nice little library, both together, and hugh has some; i thought perhaps we shouldn't have one at all left, and that would have been rather bad." 'rather bad'! mrs. rossitur looked at her, and was dumb. "only don't you wear a sad face for anything!" fleda went on earnestly;--"we shall be perfectly happy if you and uncle rolf only will be." "my dear children!" said mrs. rossitur wiping her eyes,--"it is for you i am unhappy--you and your uncle;--i do not think of myself." "and we do not think of ourselves, mamma," said hugh. "i know it--but having good children don't make one care less about them," said mrs. rossitur, the tears fairly raining over her fingers. hugh pulled the fingers down and again tried the efficacy of his lips. "and you know papa thinks most of you, mamma." "ah, your father!"--said mrs. rossitur shaking her head,--"i am afraid it will go hard with him!--but i will be happy as long as i have you two, or else i should be a very wicked woman. it only grieves me to think of your education and prospects--" "fleda's piano, mamma!" said hugh with sudden dismay. mrs. rossitur shook her head again and covered her eyes, while fleda stretching across to hugh gave him by look and touch an earnest admonition to let that subject alone. and then with a sweetness and gentleness like nothing but the breath of the south wind, she wooed her aunt to hope and resignation. hugh held back, feeling, or thinking, that fleda could do it better than he, and watching her progress, as mrs. rossitur took her hand from her face, and smiled, at first mournfully and then really mirthfully in fleda's face, at some sally that nobody but a nice observer would have seen was got up for the occasion. and it was hardly that, so completely had the child forgotten her own sorrow in ministering to that of another. "blessed are the peacemakers"! it is always so. "you are a witch or a fairy," said mrs. rossitur, catching her again in her arms,--"nothing else! you must try your powers of charming upon your uncle." fleda laughed, without any effort; but as to trying her slight wand upon mr. rossitur she had serious doubts. and the doubts became certainty when they met at dinner; he looked so grave that she dared not attack him. it was a gloomy meal, for the face that should have lighted the whole table cast a shadow there. without at all comprehending the whole of her husband's character the sure magnetism of affection had enabled mrs. rossitur to divine his thoughts. pride was his ruling passion; not such pride as mr. carleton's, which was rather like exaggerated self-respect, but wider and more indiscriminate in its choice of objects. it was pride in his family name; pride in his own talents, which were considerable; pride in his family, wife and children and all of which he thought did him honour,--if they had not his love for them assuredly would have known some diminishing; pride in his wealth and in the attractions with which it surrounded him; and lastly, pride in the skill, taste and connoisseurship which enabled him to bring those attractions together. furthermore, his love for both literature and art was true and strong; and for many years he had accustomed himself to lead a life of great luxuriousness; catering for body and mind in every taste that could be elegantly enjoyed; and again proud of the elegance of every enjoyment. the change of circumstances which touched his pride wounded him at every point where he was vulnerable at all. fleda had never felt so afraid of him. she was glad to see dr. gregory come in to tea. mr. rossitur was not there. the doctor did not touch upon affairs, if he had heard of their misfortune; he went on as usual in a rambling cheerful way all tea-time, talking mostly to fleda and hugh. but after tea he talked no more but sat still and waited till the master of the house came in. fleda thought mr. rossitur did not look glad to see him. but how could he look glad about anything? he did not sit down, and for a few minutes there was a kind of meaning silence. fleda sat in the corner with the heartache, to see her uncle's gloomy tramp up and down the rich apartment, and her aunt lucy gaze at him. "humph!--well--so!" said the doctor at last,--"you've all gone overboard with a smash, i understand?" the walker gave him no regard. "true, is it?" said the doctor. mr. rossitur made no answer, unless a smothered grunt might be taken for one. "how came it about?" "folly and devilry." "humph!--bad capital to work upon. i hope the principal is gone with the interest. what's the amount of your loss?" "ruin." "humph.--french ruin, or american ruin? because there's a difference. what do you mean?" "i am not so happy as to understand you sir, but we shall not pay seventy cents on the dollar." the old gentleman got up and stood before the fire with his back to mr. rossitur, saying "that was rather bad." "what are you going to do?" mr. rossitur hesitated a few moments for an answer and then said, "pay the seventy cents and begin the world anew with nothing." "of course!" said the doctor. "i understand that; but where and how? what end of the world will you take up first?" mr. rossitur writhed in impatience or disgust, and after again hesitating answered dryly that he had not determined. "have you thought of anything in particular?" "zounds! no sir, except my misfortune. that's enough for one day." "and too much," said the old doctor, "unless you can mix some other thought with it. that's what i came for. will you go into business?" fleda was startled by the vehemence with which her uncle said, "no, never!"--and he presently added, "i'll do nothing here." "well,--well," said the doctor to himself;--"will you go into the country?" "yes!--anywhere!--the further the better." mrs. rossitur startled, but her husband's face did not encourage her to open her lips. "ay but on a farm, i mean?" "on anything, that will give me a standing." "i thought that too," said dr. gregory, now whirling about. "i have a fine piece of land that wants a tenant. you may take it at an easy rate, and pay me when the crops come in. i shouldn't expect so young a farmer, you know, to keep any closer terms." "how far is it?" "far enough--up in wyandot county." "how large?" "a matter of two or three hundred acres or so. it is very fine, they say. it came into a fellow's hands that owed me what i thought was a bad debt, so for fear he would never pay me i thought best to take it and pay him; whether the place will ever fill my pockets again remains to be seen; doubtful, i think." "i'll take it, dr. gregory, and see if i cannot bring that about." "pooh, pooh! fill your own. i am not careful about it; the less money one has the more it jingles, unless it gets _too_ low indeed." "i will take it, dr. gregory, and feel myself under obligation to you." "no, i told you, not till the crops come in. no obligation is binding till the term is up. well, i'll see you further about it." "but rolf!" said mrs. rossitur,--"stop a minute, uncle, don't go yet,--rolf don't know anything in the world about the management of a farm, neither do i." "the 'faire una' can enlighten you," said the doctor, waving his hand towards his little favourite in the corner,--"but i forgot!--well, if you don't know, the crops won't come in--that's all the difference." but mrs. rossitur looked anxiously at her husband. "do you know exactly what you are undertaking, rolf?" she said. "if i do not, i presume i shall discover in time." "but it may be too late," said mrs rossitur, in the tone of sad remonstrance that had gone all the length it dared. "it _can not_ be too late!" said her husband impatiently. "if i do not know what i am taking up, i know very well what i am laying down; and it does not signify a straw what comes after--if it was a snail-shell, that would cover my head!" "hum--" said the old doctor,--"the snail is very well in his way, but i have no idea that he was ever cut out for a farmer." "do you think you will find it a business you would like, mr. rossitur?" said his wife timidly. "i tell you," said he facing about, "it is not a question of liking. i will like anything that will bury me out of the world!" poor mrs. rossitur. she had not yet come to wishing herself buried alive, and she had small faith in the permanence of her husband's taste for it. she looked desponding. "you don't suppose," said mr. rossitur stopping again in the middle of the floor after another turn and a half,--"you do not suppose that i am going to take the labouring of the farm upon myself? i shall employ some one of course, who understands the matter, to take all that off my hands." the doctor thought of the old proverb and the alternative the plough presents to those who would thrive by it; fleda thought of mr. didenhover; mrs. rossitur would fain have suggested that such an important person must be well paid; but neither of them spoke. "of course," said mr. rossitur haughtily as he went on with his walk, "i do not expect any more than you to live in the back-woods the life we have been leading here. that is at an end." "is it a very wild country?" asked mrs. rossitur of the doctor. "no wild beasts, my dear, if that is your meaning,--and i do not suppose there are even many snakes left by this time." "no, but dear uncle, i mean, is it in an unsettled state?" "no my dear, not at all,--perfectly quiet." "ah but do not play with me," exclaimed poor mrs. rossitur between laughing and crying;--"i mean is it far from any town and not among neighbours?" "far enough to be out of the way of morning calls," said the doctor;--"and when your neighbours come to see you they will expect tea by four o'clock. there are not a great many near by, but they don't mind coming from five or six miles off." mrs. rossitur looked chilled and horrified. to her he had described a very wild country indeed. fleda would have laughed if it had not been for her aunt's face; but that settled down into a doubtful anxious look that pained her. it pained the old doctor too. "come," said he touching her pretty chin with his forefinger,--"what are you thinking of? folks may be good folks and yet have tea at four o'clock, mayn't they?" "when do they have dinner!" said mrs. rossitur. "i really don't know. when you get settled up there i'll come and see." "hardly," said mrs. rossitur. "i don't believe it would be possible for emile to get dinner before the tea-time; and i am sure i shouldn't like to propose such a thing to mrs. renney." the doctor fidgeted about a little on the hearth-rug and looked comical, perfectly understood by one acute observer in the corner. "are you wise enough to imagine, lucy," said mr. rossitur sternly, "that you can carry your whole establishment with you? what do you suppose emile and mrs. renney would do in a farmhouse?" "i can do without whatever you can," said mrs. rossitur meekly. "i did not know that you would be willing to part with emile, and i do not think mrs. renney would like to leave us." "i told you before, it is no more a question of liking," answered he. "and if it were," said the doctor, "i have no idea that monsieur emile and madame renney would be satisfied with the style of a country kitchen, or think the interior of yankee land a hopeful sphere for their energies." "what sort of a house is it?" said mrs. rossitur. "a wooden frame house, i believe." "no but, dear uncle, do tell me." "what sort of a house?--humph--large enough, i am told. it will accommodate you, in one way." "comfortable?" "i don't know," said the doctor shaking his head;--"depends on who's in it. no house is that per se. but i reckon there isn't much plate glass. i suppose you'll find the doors all painted blue, and every fireplace with a crane in it." "a crane!" said mrs. rossitur, to whose imagination the word suggested nothing but a large water-bird with a long neck. "ay!" said the doctor. "but it's just as well. you won't want hanging lamps there,--and candelabra would hardly be in place either, to hold tallow candles." "tallow candles!" exclaimed mrs. rossitur. her husband winced, but said nothing. "ay," said the doctor again,--"and make them yourself if you are a good housewife. come, lucy," said he taking her hand, "do you know how the wild fowl do on the chesapeake?--duck and swim under water till they can shew their heads with safety? o spoil your eyes to see by a tallow candle." mrs. rossitur half smiled, but looked anxiously towards her husband. "pooh, pooh! rolf won't care what the light burns that lights him to independence,--and when you get there you may illuminate with a whole whale if you like. by the way, rolf, there is a fine water power up yonder, and a saw-mill in good order, they tell me, but a short way from the house. hugh might learn to manage it, and it would be fine employment for him." "hugh!" said his mother disconsolately. mr. rossitur neither spoke nor looked an answer. fleda sprang forward. "a saw-mill!--uncle orrin!--where is it?" "just a little way from the house, they say. _you_ can't manage it, fair saxon!--though you look as if you would undertake all the mills in creation, for a trifle." "no but the place, uncle orrin;--where is the place?" "the place? hum--why it's up in wyandot county--some five or six miles from the montepoole spring--what's this they call it?--queechy!--by the way!" said he, reading fleda's countenance, "it is the very place where your father was born!--it is! i didn't think of that before." fleda's hands were clasped. "o i am very glad!" she said. "it's my old home. it is the most lovely place, aunt lucy!--most lovely--and we shall have some good neighbours there too. o i am very glad!--the dear old saw-mill!--" "dear old saw-mill!" said the doctor looking at her. "rolf, i'll tell you what, you shall give me this girl. i want her. i can take better care of her, perhaps, now than you can. let her come to me when you leave the city--it will be better for her than to help work the saw-mill; and i have as good a right to her as anybody, for amy before her was like my own child." the doctor spoke not with his usual light jesting manner but very seriously. hugh's lips parted,--mrs. rossitur looked with a sad thoughtful look at fleda,--mr. rossitur walked up and down looking at nobody. fleda watched him. "what does fleda herself say?" said he stopping short suddenly. his face softened and his eye changed as it fell upon her, for the first time that day. fleda saw her opening; she came to him, within his arms, and laid her head upon his breast. "what does fleda say?" said he, softly kissing her. fleda's tears said a good deal, that needed no interpreter. she felt her uncle's hand passed more and more tenderly over her head, so tenderly that it made it all the more difficult for her to govern herself and stop her tears. but she did stop them, and looked up at him then with such a face--so glowing through smiles and tears--it was like a very rainbow of hope upon the cloud of their prospects. mr. rossitur felt the power of the sunbeam wand, it reached his heart; it was even with a smile that he said as he looked at her, "will you go to your uncle orrin, fleda?" "not if uncle rolf will keep me." "keep you!" said mr. rossitur;--"i should like to see who wouldn't keep you!--there, dr. gregory, you have your answer." "hum!--i might have known," said the doctor, "that the 'faire una' would abjure cities.--come here, you elf!"--and he wrapped her in his arms so tight she could not stir,--"i have a spite against you for this. what amends will you make me for such an affront?" "let me take breath," said fleda laughing, "and i'll tell you. you don't want any amends, uncle orrin." "well," said he, gazing with more feeling than he cared to shew into that sweet face, so innocent of apology-making,--"you shall promise me that you will not forget uncle orrin and the old house in bleecker street." fleda's eyes grew more wistful. "and will you promise me that if ever you want anything you will come or send straight there?" "if ever i want anything i can't get nor do without," said fleda. "pshaw!" said the doctor letting her go, but laughing at the same time. "mind my words, mr. and mrs. rossitur;--if ever that girl takes the wrong bit in her mouth--well, well! i'll go home." home he went. the rest drew together particularly near, round the fire; hugh at his father's shoulder, and fleda kneeling on the rug between her uncle and aunt with a hand on each; and there was not one of them whose gloom was not lightened by her bright face and cheerful words of hope that in the new scenes they were going to, "they would all be so happy." the days that followed were gloomy; but fleda's ministry was unceasing. hugh seconded her well, though more passively. feeling less pain himself, he perhaps for that very reason was less acutely alive to it in others; not so quick to foresee and ward off, not so skilful to allay it. fleda seemed to have intuition for the one and a charm for the other. to her there was pain in every parting; her sympathies clung to whatever wore the livery of habit. there was hardly any piece of furniture, there was no book or marble or picture, that she could take leave of without a pang. but it was kept to herself; her sorrowful good-byes were said in secret; before others, in all those weeks she was a very euphrosyne; light, bright, cheerful, of eye and foot and hand; a shield between her aunt and every annoyance that _she_ could take instead; a good little fairy, that sent her sunbeam wand, quick as a flash, where any eye rested gloomily. people did not always find out where the light came from, but it was her witchery. the creditors would touch none of mrs. rossitur's things, her husband's honourable behaviour had been so thorough. they even presented him with one or two pictures which he sold for a considerable sum; and to mrs. rossitur they gave up all the plate in daily use; a matter of great rejoicing to fleda who knew well how sorely it would have been missed. she and her aunt had quite a little library too, of their own private store; a little one it was indeed, but the worth of every volume was now trebled in her eyes. their furniture was all left behind; and in its stead went some of neat light painted wood which looked to fleda deliciously countryfied. a promising cook and housemaid were engaged to go with them to the wilds; and about the first of april they turned their backs upon the city. chapter xvii the thresher's weary flingin-tree the lee-lang day had tired me: and whan the day bad closed his e'e, far i' the west, ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, i 'gaed to rest. burns. queechy was reached at night. fleda had promised herself to be off almost with the dawn of light the next morning to see aunt miriam, but a heavy rain kept her fast at home the whole day. it was very well; she was wanted there. despite the rain and her disappointment it was impossible for fleda to lie abed from the time the first grey light began to break in at her windows,--those old windows that had rattled their welcome to her all night. she was up and dressed and had had a long consultation with herself over matters and prospects, before anybody else had thought of leaving the indubitable comfort of a feather bed for the doubtful contingency of happiness that awaited them down stairs. fleda took in the whole length and breadth of it, half wittingly and half through some finer sense than that of the understanding. the first view of things could not strike them pleasantly; it was not to be looked for. the doors did not happen to be painted blue; they were a deep chocolate colour; doors and wainscot. the fireplaces were not all furnished with cranes, but they were all uncouthly wide and deep. nobody would have thought them so indeed in the winter, when piled up with blazing hickory logs, but in summer they yawned uncomfortably upon the eye. the ceilings were low; the walls rough papered or rougher white-washed; the sashes not hung; the rooms, otherwise well enough proportioned, stuck with little cupboards, in recesses and corners and out of the way places, in a style impertinently suggestive of housekeeping, and fitted to shock any symmetrical set of nerves. the old house had undergone a thorough putting in order, it is true; the chocolate paint was just dry, and the paper hangings freshly put up; and the bulk of the new furniture had been sent on before and unpacked, though not a single article of it was in its right place. the house was clean and tight, that is, as tight as it ever was. but the colour had been unfortunately chosen--perhaps there was no help for that;--the paper was _very_ coarse and countryfied; the big windows were startling, they looked so bare, without any manner of drapery; and the long reaches of wall were unbroken by mirror or picture-frame. and this to eyes trained to eschew ungracefulness and that abhorred a vacuum as much as nature is said to do! even fleda felt there was something disagreeable in the change, though it reached her more through the channel of other people's sensitiveness than her own. to her it was the dear old house still, though her eyes had seen better things since they loved it. no corner or recess had a pleasanter filling, to her fancy, than the old brown cupboard or shelves which had always been there. but what _would_ her uncle say to them! and to that dismal paper! and what would aunt lucy think of those rattling window sashes! this cool raw day too, for the first!-- think as she might fleda did not stand still to think. she had gone softly all over the house, taking a strange look at the old places and the images with which memory filled them, thinking of the last time, and many a time before that;--and she had at last come back to the sitting-room, long before anybody else was down stairs; the two tired servants were just rubbing their eyes open in the kitchen and speculating themselves awake. leaving them, at their peril, to get ready a decent breakfast, (by the way she grudged them the old kitchen) fleda set about trying what her wand could do towards brightening the face of affairs in the other part of the house. it was quite cold enough for a fire, luckily. she ordered one made, and meanwhile busied herself with the various stray packages and articles of wearing apparel that lay scattered about giving the whole place a look of discomfort. fleda gathered them up and bestowed them in one or two of the impertinent cupboards, and then undertook the labour of carrying out all the wrong furniture that had got into the breakfast-room and bringing in that which really belonged there from the hall and the parlour beyond; moving like a mouse that she might not disturb the people up stairs. a quarter of an hour was spent in arranging to the best advantage these various pieces of furniture in the room; it was the very same in which mr. carleton and charlton rossitur had been received the memorable day of the roast pig dinner, but that was not the uppermost association in fleda's mind. satisfied at last that a happier effect could not be produced with the given materials, and well pleased too with her success, fleda turned to the fire. it was made, but not by any means doing its part to encourage the other portions of the room to look their best. fleda knew something of wood fires from old times; she laid hold of the tongs, and touched and loosened and coaxed a stick here and there, with a delicate hand, till, seeing the very opening it had wanted,--without which neither fire nor hope can keep its activity,--the blaze sprang up energetically, crackling through all the piled oak and hickory and driving the smoke clean out of sight. fleda had done her work. it would have been a misanthropical person indeed that could have come into the room then and not felt his face brighten. one other thing remained,--setting the breakfast table; and fleda would let no hands but hers do it this morning; she was curious about the setting of tables. how she remembered or divined where everything had been stowed; how quietly and efficiently her little fingers unfastened hampers and pried into baskets, without making any noise; till all the breakfast paraphernalia of silver, china, and table-linen was found, gathered from various receptacles, and laid in most exquisite order on the table. state street never saw better. fleda stood and looked at it then, in immense satisfaction, seeing that her uncle's eye would miss nothing of its accustomed gratification. to her the old room, shining with firelight and new furniture, was perfectly charming. if those great windows were staringly bright, health and cheerfulness seemed to look in at them. and what other images of association, with "nods and becks and wreathed smiles," looked at her out of the curling flames in the old wide fireplace! and one other angel stood there unseen,--the one whose errand it is to see fulfilled the promise, "give and it shall be given to you; full measure, and pressed down, and heaped up, and running over." a little while fleda sat contentedly eying her work; then a new idea struck her and she sprang up. in the next meadow, only one fence between, a little spring of purest water ran through from the woodland; water cresses used to grow there. uncle rolf was very fond of them. it was pouring with rain, but no matter. her heart beating between haste and delight, fleda slipped her feet into galoches and put an old cloak of hugh's over her head, and ran out through the kitchen, the old accustomed way. the servants exclaimed and entreated, but fleda only flashed a bright look at them from under her cloak as she opened the door, and ran off, over the wet grass, under the fence, and over half the meadow, till she came to the stream. she was getting a delicious taste of old times, and though the spring water was very cold and with it and the rain one-half of each sleeve was soon thoroughly wetted, she gathered her cresses and scampered back with a pair of eyes and cheeks that might have struck any city belle chill with envy. "then but that's a sweet girl!" said mary the cook to jane the housemaid. "a lovely countenance she has," answered jane, who was refined in her speech. "take her away and you've taken the best of the house, i'm a thinking." "mrs. rossitur is a lady," said jane in a low voice. "ay, and a very proper-behaved one she is, and him the same, that is, for a gentleman i maan; but jane! i say, i'm thinking he'll have eat too much sour bread lately! i wish i knowed how they'd have their eggs boiled, till i'd have 'em ready." "sure it's on the table itself they'll do 'em," said jane. "they've an elegant little fixture in there for the purpose." "is that it!" nobody found out how busy fleda's wand had been in the old breakfast room. but she was not disappointed; she had not worked for praise. her cresses were appreciated; that was enough. she enjoyed her breakfast, the only one of the party that did. mr. rossitur looked moody; his wife looked anxious; and hugh's face was the reflection of theirs. if fleda's face reflected anything it was the sunlight of heaven. "how sweet the air is after new york!" said she. they looked at her. there was a fresh sweetness of another kind about that breakfast-table. they all felt it, and breathed more freely. "delicious cresses!" said mrs. rossitur. "yes, i wonder where they came from," said her husband. "who got them?" "i guess fleda knows," said hugh. "they grow in a little stream of spring water over here in the meadow," said fleda demurely. "yes, but you don't answer my question," said her uncle, putting his hand under her chin and smiling at the blushing face he brought round to view;--"who got them?" "i did." "you have been out in the rain?" "o queechy rain don't hurt me, uncle rolf." "and don't it wet you either?" "yes sir--a little." "how much?" "my sleeves,--o i dried them long ago." "don't you repeat that experiment, fleda," said he seriously, but with a look that was a good reward to her nevertheless. "it is a raw day!" said mrs. rossitur, drawing her shoulders together as an ill-disposed window sash gave one of its admonitory shakes. "what little panes of glass for such big windows!" said hugh. "but what a pleasant prospect through them," said fleda,--"look, hugh!--worth all the batteries and parks in the world." "in the world!--in new york you mean," said her uncle. "not better than the champs elysées?" "better to me," said fleda. "for to-day i must attend to the prospect in-doors," said mrs. rossitur. "now aunt lucy," said fleda, "you are just going to put yourself down in the corner, in the rocking-chair there, with your book, and make yourself comfortable; and hugh and i will see to all these things. hugh and i and mary and jane,--that makes quite an army of us, and we can do everything without you, and you must just keep quiet. i'll build you up a fine fire, and then when i don't know what to do i will come to you for orders. uncle rolf, would you be so good as just to open that box of books in the hall? because i am afraid hugh isn't strong enough. i'll take care of you, aunt lucy." fleda's plans were not entirely carried out, but she contrived pretty well to take the brunt of the business on her own shoulders. she was as busy as a bee the whole day. to her all the ins and outs of the house, its advantages and disadvantages, were much better known than to anybody else; nothing could be done but by her advice; and more than that, she contrived by some sweet management to baffle mrs. rossitur's desire to spare her, and to bear the larger half of every burden that should have come upon her aunt. what she had done in the breakfast room she did or helped to do in the other parts of the house; she unpacked boxes and put away clothes and linen, in which hugh was her excellent helper; she arranged her uncle's dressing-table with a scrupulosity that left nothing uncared-for;--and the last thing before tea she and hugh dived into the book-box to get out some favourite volumes to lay upon the table in the evening, that the room might not look to her uncle quite so dismally bare. he had been abroad notwithstanding the rain near the whole day. it was a weary party that gathered round the supper-table that night, weary it seemed as much in mind as in body; and the meal exerted its cheering influence over only two of them; mr. and mrs. rossitur sipped their cups of tea abstractedly. "i don't believe that fellow donohan knows much about his business," remarked the former at length. "why don't you get somebody else, then?" said his wife. "i happen to have engaged him, unfortunately." a pause.-- "what doesn't he know?" mr. rossitur laughed, not a pleasant laugh. "it would take too long to enumerate. if you had asked me what part of his business he _does_ understand, i could have told you shortly that i don't know." "but you do not understand it very well yourself. are you sure?" "am i sure of what?" "that this man does not know his business?" "no further sure than i can have confidence in my own common sense." "what will you do?" said mrs. rossitur after a moment a question men are not fond of answering, especially when they have not made up their minds. mr. rossitur was silent, and his wife too, after that. "if i could get some long-headed yankee to go along with him"--he remarked again, balancing his spoon on the edge of his cup in curious illustration of his own mental position at the moment; donohan being the only fixed point and all the rest wavering in uncertainty. there were a few silent minutes before anybody answered. "if you want one and don't know of one, uncle rolf," said fleda, "i dare say cousin seth might." that gentle modest speech brought his attention round upon her. his face softened. "cousin seth? who is cousin seth?" "he is aunt miriam's son," said fleda. "seth plumfield. he's a very good farmer, i know; grandpa used to say he was; and he knows everybody." "mrs. plumfield," said mrs. rossitur, as her husband's eyes went inquiringly to her,--"mrs. plumfield was mr. ringgan's sister, you remember. this is her son." "cousin seth, eh?" said mr. rossitur dubiously. "well--why fleda, your sweet air don't seem to agree with you, as far as i see; i have not known you look so--so _triste_--since we left paris. what have you been doing, my child?" "she has been doing everything, father," said hugh. "o! it's nothing," said fleda, answering mr. rossitur's look and tone of affection with a bright smile. "i'm a little tired, that's all." 'a little tired!' she went to sleep on the sofa directly after supper and slept like a baby all the evening; but her power did not sleep with her; for that quiet, sweet, tired face, tired in their service, seemed to bear witness against the indulgence of anything harsh or unlovely in the same atmosphere. a gentle witness-bearing, but strong in its gentleness. they sat close together round the fire, talked softly, and from time to time cast loving glances at the quiet little sleeper by their side. they did not know that she was a fairy, and that though her wand had fallen out of her hand it was still resting upon them. chapter xviii. _gon_. here is everything advantageous to lift. _ant_. true; save means to live. tempest. fleda's fatigue did not prevent her being up before sunrise the next day. fatigue was forgotten, for the light of a fair spring morning was shining in at her windows and she meant to see aunt miriam before breakfast. she ran out to find hugh, and her merry shout reached him before she did, and brought him to meet her. "come, hugh!--i'm going off up to aunt miriam's, and i want you. come! isn't this delicious?" "hush!--" said hugh. "father's just here in the barn. i can't go, fleda." fleda's countenance clouded. "can't go! what's the matter?--can't you go, hugh?" he shook his head and went off into the barn. a chill came upon fleda. she turned away with a very sober step. what if her uncle was in the barn, why should she hush? he never had been a check upon her merriment, never; what was coming now? hugh too looked disturbed. it was a spring morning no longer. fleda forgot the glittering wet grass that had set her own eyes a sparkling but a minute ago; she walked along, cogitating, swinging her bonnet by the strings in thoughtful vibration,--till by the help of sunlight and sweet air, and the loved scenes, her spirits again made head and swept over the sudden hindrance they had met. there were the blessed old sugar maples, seven in number, that fringed the side of the road,--how well fleda knew them. only skeletons now, but she remembered how beautiful they looked after the october frosts; and presently they would be putting out their new green leaves and be beautiful in another way. how different in their free-born luxuriance from the dusty and city-prisoned elms and willows she had left. she came to the bridge then, and stopped with a thrill of pleasure and pain to look and listen, unchanged!--all but herself. the mill was not going; the little brook went by quietly chattering to itself, just as it had done the last time she saw it, when she rode past on mr. carleton's horse. four and a half years ago!--and now how strange that she had come to live there again. drawing a long breath, and swinging her bonnet again, fleda softly went on up the hill; past the saw-mill, the ponds, the factories, the houses of the settlement. the same, and not the same!--bright with the morning sun, and yet somehow a little browner and homelier than of old they used to be. fleda did not care for that; she would hardly acknowledge it to herself; her affection never made any discount for infirmity. leaving the little settlement behind her thoughts as behind her back, she ran on now towards aunt miriam's, breathlessly, till field after field was passed and her eye caught a bit of the smooth lake and the old farmhouse in its old place. very brown it looked, but fleda dashed on, through the garden and in at the front door. nobody at all was in the entrance room, the common sitting-room of the family. with trembling delight fleda opened the well-known door and stole noiselessly through the little passage-way to the kitchen. the door of that was only on the latch and a gentle movement of it gave to fleda's eye the tall figure of aunt miriam, just before her, stooping down to look in at the open mouth of the oven which she was at that moment engaged in supplying with more work to do. it was a huge one, and beyond her aunt's head fleda could see in the far end the great loaves of bread, half baked, and more near a perfect squad of pies and pans of gingerbread just going in to take the benefit of the oven's milder mood. fleda saw all this as it were without seeing it; she stood still as a mouse and breathless till her aunt turned; and then, a spring and a half shout of joy, and she had clasped her in her arms and was crying with her whole heart. aunt miriam was taken all aback; she could do nothing but sit down and cry too and forget her oven door. "ain't breakfast ready yet, mother?" said a manly voice coming in. "i must be off to see after them ploughs. hollo!--why mother!--" the first exclamation was uttered as the speaker put the door to the oven's mouth; the second as he turned in quest of the hand that should have done it. he stood wondering, while his mother and fleda between laughing and crying tried to rouse themselves and look up. "what is all this?" "don't you see, seth?" "i see somebody that had like to have spoiled your whole baking--i don't know who it is, yet." "don't you now, cousin seth?" said fleda shaking away her tears and getting up. "i ha'n't quite lost my recollection. cousin, you must give me a kiss.--how do you do? you ha'n't forgot how to colour, i see, for all you've been so long among the pale city-folks." "i haven't forgotten any thing, cousin seth," said fleda, blushing indeed but laughing and shaking his hand with as hearty good-will. "i don't believe you have,--anything that is good," said he. "where have you been all this while?" "o part of the time in new york, and part of the time in paris, and some other places." "well you ha'n't seen anything better than queechy, or queechy bread and butter, have you?" "no indeed!" "come, you shall give me another kiss for that," said he, suiting the action to the word;--"and now sit down and eat as much bread and butter as you can. it's just as good as it used to be. come mother!--i guess breakfast is ready by the looks of that coffee-pot." "breakfast ready!" said fleda. "ay indeed; it's a good half hour since it ought to ha' been ready. if it ain't i can't stop for it. them boys will be running their furrows like sarpents 'f i ain't there to start them." "which like serpents," said fleda,--"the furrows or the men?" "well, i was thinking of the furrows," said he glancing at her;--"i guess there ain't cunning enough in the others to trouble them. come sit down, and let me see whether you have forgotten a queechy appetite." "i don't know," said fleda doubtfully,--"they will expect me at home." "i don't care who expects you--sit down! you ain't going to eat any bread and butter this morning but my mother's--you haven't got any like it at your house. mother, give her a cup of coffee, will you, and set her to work." fleda was too willing to comply with the invitation, were it only for the charm of old times. she had not seen such a table for years, and little as the conventionalities of delicate taste were known there, it was not without a comeliness of its own in its air of wholesome abundance and the extreme purity of all its arrangements. if but a piece of cold pork were on aunt miriam's table, it was served with a nicety that would not have offended the most fastidious; and amid irregularities that the fastidious would scorn, there was a sound excellence of material and preparation that they very often fail to know. fleda made up her mind she would be wanted at home; all the rather perhaps for hugh's mysterious "hush"; and there was something in the hearty kindness and truth of these friends that she felt particularly genial. and if there was a lack of silver at the board its place was more than filled with the pure gold of association. they sat down to table, but aunt miriam's eyes devoured fleda. mr. plum field set about his more material breakfast with all despatch. [illustration: "they will expect me at home."] "so mr. rossitur has left the city for good," said aunt miriam. "how does he like it?" "he hasn't been here but a day, you know, aunt miriam," said fleda evasively. "is he anything of a farmer?" asked her cousin. "not much," said fleda. "is he going to work the farm himself?" "how do you mean?" "i mean, is he going to work the farm himself, or hire it out, or let somebody else work it on shares?" "i don't know," said fleda;--"i think he is going to have a farmer and oversee things himself." "he'll get sick o' that," said seth; "unless he's the luck to get hold of just the right hand." "has he hired anybody yet?" said aunt miriam, after a little interval of supplying fleda with 'bread and butter.' "yes ma'am, i believe so." "what's his name?" "donohan,--an irishman, i believe; uncle rolf hired him in new york." "for his head man?" said seth, with a sufficiently intelligible look. "yes," said fleda. "why?" but he did not immediately answer her. "the land's in poor heart now," said he, "a good deal of it; it has been wasted; it wants first-rate management to bring it in order and make much of it for two or three years to come. i never see an irishman's head yet that was worth more than a joke. their hands are all of 'em that's good for anything." "i believe uncle rolf wants to have an american to go with this man," said fleda. seth said nothing, but fleda understood the shake of his head as he reached over after a pickle. "are you going to keep a dairy, fleda?" said her aunt. "i don't know, ma'am;--i haven't heard anything about it." "does mrs. rossitur know anything about country affairs?" "no--nothing," fleda said, her heart sinking perceptibly with every new question. "she hasn't any cows yet?" _she_!--any cows!--but fleda only said they had not come; she believed they were coming. "what help has she got?" "two women--irishwomen," said fleda. "mother you'll have to take hold and learn her," said mr. plumfield. "teach _her_?" cried fleda, repelling the idea;--"aunt lucy? she cannot do anything--she isn't strong enough;--not anything of that kind." "what did she come here for?" said seth. "you know," said his mother, "that mr. rossitur's circumstances obliged him to quit new york." "ay, but that ain't my question. a man had better keep his fingers off anything he can't live by. a farm's one thing or t'other, just as it's worked. the land won't grow specie--it must be fetched out of it. is mr. rossitur a smart man?" "very," fleda said, "about everything but farming." "well if he'll put himself to school maybe, he'll learn," seth concluded as he finished his breakfast and went off. fleda rose too, and was standing thoughtfully by the fire, when aunt miriam came up and put her arms round her. fleda's eyes sparkled again. "you're not changed--you're the same little fleda," she said. "not quite so little," said fleda smiling. "not quite so little, but my own darling. the world hasn't spoiled thee yet." "i hope not, aunt miriam." "you have remembered your mother's prayer, fleda?" "always!"-- how tenderly aunt miriam's hand was passed over the bowed head,--how fondly she pressed her. and fleda's answer was as fond. "i wanted to bring hugh up to see you, aunt miriam, with me, but he couldn't come. you will like hugh. he is so good!" "i will come down and see him," said aunt miriam; and then she went to look after her oven's doings. fleda stood by, amused to see the quantities of nice things that were rummaged out of it. they did not look like mrs. renney's work, but she knew from old experience that they were good. "how early you must have been up, to put these things in," said fleda. "put them in! yes, and make them. these were all made this morning, fleda." "this morning!--before breakfast! why the sun was only just rising when i set out to come up the hill; and i wasn't long coming, aunt miriam." "to be sure; that's the way to get things done. before breakfast!--what time do you breakfast, fleda?" "not till eight or nine o'clock." "eight or nine!--_here?_" "there hasn't been any change made yet, and i don't suppose there will be. uncle rolf is always up early, but he can't bear to have breakfast early." aunt miriam's face showed what she thought; and fleda went away with all its gravity and doubt settled like lead upon her heart. though she had one of the identical apple pies in her hands, which aunt miriam had quietly said was "for her and hugh," and though a pleasant savour of old times was about it, fleda could not get up again the bright feeling with which she had come up the hill. there was a miserable misgiving at heart. it would work off in time. it had begun to work off, when at the foot of the hill she met her uncle. he was coming after her to ask mr. plumfield about the desideratum of a yankee. fleda put her pie in safety behind a rock, and turned back with him, and aunt miriam told them the way to seth's ploughing ground. a pleasant word or two had get fleda's spirits a bounding again, and the walk was delightful. truly the leaves were not on the trees, but it was april, and they soon would be; there was promise in the light, and hope in the air, and everything smelt of the country and spring-time. the soft tread of the sod, that her foot had not felt for so long,--the fresh look of the newly-turned earth,--here and there the brilliance of a field of winter grain,--and that nameless beauty of the budding trees, that the full luxuriance of summer can never equal,--fleda's heart was springing for sympathy. and to her, with whom association was everywhere so strong, there was in it all a shadowy presence of her grandfather, with whom she had so often seen the spring-time bless those same hills and fields long ago. she walked on in silence, as her manner commonly was when deeply pleased; there were hardly two persons to whom she would speak her mind freely then. mr. kossitur had his own thoughts. "can anything equal the spring-time!" she burst forth at length. her uncle looked at her and smiled. "perhaps not; but it is one thing," said he sighing, "for taste to enjoy and another thing for calculation to improve." "but one can do both, can't one?" said fleda brightly. "i don't know," said he sighing again. "hardly." fleda knew he was mistaken and thought the sighs out of place. but they reached her; and she had hardly condemned them before they set her off upon a long train of excuses for him, and she had wrought herself into quite a fit of tenderness by the time they reached her cousin. they found him on a gentle side-hill, with two other men and teams, both of whom were stepping away in different parts of the field. mr. plumfield was just about setting off to work his way to the other side of the lot when they came up with him. fleda was not ashamed of her aunt miriam's son, even before such critical eyes as those of her uncle. farmer-like as were his dress and air, they shewed him nevertheless a well-built, fine-looking man, with the independent bearing of one who has never recognised any but mental or moral superiority. his face might have been called handsome; there was at least manliness in every line of it; and his excellent dark eye shewed an equal mingling of kindness and acute common sense. let mr. plumfield wear what clothes he would one felt obliged to follow burns' notable example and pay respect to the _man_ that was in them. "a fine day, sir," he remarked to mr. rossitur after they had shaken hands. "yes, and i will not interrupt you but a minute. mr. plumfield, i am in want of hands,--hands for this very business you are about, ploughing,--and fleda says you know everybody; so i have come to ask if you can direct me." "heads or hands, do you want?" said seth, clearing his boot-sole from some superfluous soil upon the share of his plough. "why both, to tell you the truth. i want hands, and teams, for that matter, for i have only two, and i suppose there is no time to be lost. and i want very much to get a person thoroughly acquainted with the business to go along with my man. he is an irishman, and i am afraid not very well accustomed to the ways of doing things here." "like enough," said seth;--"and the worst of 'em is you can't learn 'em." "well!--can you help me?" "mr. douglass!"--said seth, raising his voice to speak to one of his assistants who was approaching them,--"mr. douglass!--you're holding that 'ere plough a little too obleekly for my grounds." "very good, mr. plumfield!" said the person called upon, with a quick accent that intimated, "if you don't know what is best it is not my affair!"--the voice very peculiar, seeming to come from no lower than the top of his throat, with a guttural roll of the words. "is that earl douglass?" said fleda. "you remember him?" said her cousin smiling. "he's just where he was, and his wife too.--well mr. rossitur, 'tain't very easy to find what you want just at this season, when most folks have their hands full and help is all taken up. i'll see if i can't come down and give you a lift myself with the ploughing, for a day or two, as i'm pretty beforehand with the spring, but you'll want more than that. i ain't sure--i haven't more hands than i'll want myself, but i think it is possible squire springer may spare you one of his'n. he ain't taking in any new land this year, and he's got things pretty snug; i guess he don't care to do any more than common--anyhow you might try. you know where uncle joshua lives, fleda? well philetus--what now?" they had been slowly walking along the fence towards the furthest of mr. plumfield's coadjutors, upon whom his eye had been curiously fixed as he was speaking; a young man who was an excellent sample of what is called "the raw material." he had just come to a sudden stop in the midst of the furrow when his employer called to him; and he answered somewhat lack-a-daisically, "why i've broke this here clevis--i ha'n't touched anything nor nothing, and it broke right in teu!" "what do you s'pose'll be done now?" said mr. plumfield gravely going up to examine the fracture. "well 'twa'n't none of my doings," said the young man. "i ha'n't touched anything nor nothing--and the mean thing broke right in teu. 'tain't so handy as the old kind o' plough, by a long jump." "you go 'long down to the house and ask my mother for a new clevis; and talk about ploughs when you know how to hold 'em," said mr. plumfield. "it don't look so difficult a matter," said mr. rossitur,--"but i am a novice myself. what is the principal thing to be attended to in ploughing, mr. plumfield?" there was a twinkle in seth's eye, as he looked down upon a piece of straw he was breaking to bits, which fleda, who could see, interpreted thoroughly. "well," said he, looking up,--"the breadth of the stitches and the width and depth of the farrow must be regulated according to the nature of the soil and the lay of the ground, and what you're ploughing for;--there's stubble ploughing, and breaking up old lays, and ploughing for fallow crops, and ribbing, where the land has been some years in grass,--and so on; and the plough must be geared accordingly, and so as not to take too much land nor go out of the land; and after that the best part of the work is to guide the plough right and run the furrows straight and even." he spoke with the most impenetrable gravity, while mr. rossitur looked blank and puzzled. fleda could hardly keep her countenance. "that row of poles," said mr. rossitur presently,--"are they to guide you in running the furrow straight?" "yes sir--they are to mark out the crown of the stitch. i keep 'em right between the horses and plough 'em down one after another. it's a kind of way country folks play at ninepins," said seth, with a glance half inquisitive, half sly, at his questioner. mr. rossitur asked no more. fleda felt a little uneasy again. it was rather a longish walk to uncle joshua's, and hardly a word spoken on either side. the old gentleman was "to hum;" and while fleda went back into some remote part of the house to see "aunt syra," mr. rossitur set forth his errand. "well,--and so you're looking for help, eh?" said uncle joshua when he had heard him through. "yes sir,--i want help." "and a team too?" "so i have said, sir," mr. rossitur answered rather shortly. "can you supply me?" "well,--i don't know as i can," said the old man, rubbing his hands slowly over his knees.--"you ha'n't got much done yet, i s'pose?" "nothing. i came the day before yesterday." "land's in rather poor condition in some parts, ain't it?" "i really am not able to say, sir,--till i have seen it." "it ought to be," said the old gentleman shaking his head,--the fellow that was there last didn't do right by it--he worked the land too hard, and didn't put on it anywhere near what he had ought to--i guess you'll find it pretty poor in some places. he was trying to get all he could out of it, i s'pose. there's a good deal of fencing to be done too, ain't there?" "all that there was, sir,--i have done none since i came." "seth plumfield got through ploughing yet?" "we found him at it." "ay, he's a smart man. what are you going to do, mr. rossitur, with that piece of marsh land that lies off to the south-east of the barn, beyond the meadow, between the hills? i had just sich another, and i"-- "before i do anything with the wet land, mr. ---- i am so unhappy as to have forgotten your name?--" "springer, sir," said the old gentleman,--"springer--joshua springer. that is my name, sir." "mr. springer, before i do anything with the wet land i should like to have something growing on the dry; and as that is the present matter in hand will you be so good as to let me know whether i can have your assistance." "well i don't know,--" said the old gentleman; "there ain't anybody to send but my boy lucas, and i don't know whether he would make up his mind to go or not." "well sir!"--said mr. rossitur rising,--"in that case i will bid you good morning. i am sorry to have given you the trouble." "stop," said the old man,--"stop a bit. just sit down--i'll go in and see about it." mr. rossitur sat down, and uncle joshua left him to go into the kitchen and consult his wife, without whose counsel, of late years especially, he rarely did anything. they never varied in opinion, but aunt syra's wits supplied the steel edge to his heavy metal. "i don't know but lucas would as leave go as not," the old gentleman remarked on coming back from this sharpening process,--"and i can make out to spare him, i guess. you calculate to keep him, i s'pose?" "until this press is over; and perhaps longer, if i find he can do what i want." "you'll find him pretty handy at a' most anything; but i mean,--i s'pose he'll get his victuals with you." "i have made no arrangements of the kind," said mr. rossitur controlling with some effort his rebelling muscles. "donohan is boarded somewhere else, and for the present it will be best for all in my employ to follow the same plan." "very good," said uncle joshua, "it makes no difference,--only of course in that case it is worth more, when a man has to find himself and his team." "whatever it is worth i am quite ready to pay, sir." "very good! you and lucas can agree about that. he'll be along in the morning." so they parted; and fleda understood the impatient quick step with which her uncle got over the ground. "is that man a brother of your grandfather?" "no sir--oh no! only his brother-in-law. my grandmother was his sister, but they weren't in the least like each other." "i should think they could not," said mr. rossitur. "oh they were not!" fleda repeated. "i have always heard that." after paying her respects to aunt syra in the kitchen she had come back time enough to hear the end of the discourse in the parlour, and had felt its full teaching. doubts returned, and her spirits were sobered again. not another word was spoken till they reached home; when fleda seized upon hugh and went off to the rock after her forsaken pie. "have you succeeded!' asked mrs. rossitur while they were gone. "yes--that is, a cousin has kindly consented to come and help me." "a cousin!" said mrs. rossitur. "ay,--we're in a nest of cousins." "in a _what_, mr. rossitur?" "in a nest of cousins; and i had rather be in a nest of rooks. i wonder if i shall be expected to ask my ploughmen to dinner! every second man is a cousin, and the rest are uncles." chapter xix. whilst skies are blue and bright. whilst flowers are gay, whilst eyes that change ere night make glad the day; whilst yet the calm hours creep, dream thou--and from thy sleep then wake to weep. shelley. the days of summer flew by, for the most part lightly, over the heads of hugh and fleda. the farm was little to them but a place of pretty and picturesque doings and the scene of nameless delights by wood and stream, in all which, all that summer, fleda rejoiced; pulling hugh along with her even when sometimes he would rather have been poring over his books at home. she laughingly said it was good for him; and one half at least of every fine day their feet were abroad. they knew nothing practically of the dairy but that it was an inexhaustible source of the sweetest milk and butter, and indirectly of the richest custards and syllabubs. the flock of sheep that now and then came in sight running over the hill-side, were to them only an image of pastoral beauty and a soft link with the beauty of the past. the two children took the very cream of country life. the books they had left were read with greater eagerness than ever. when the weather was "too lovely to stay in the house," shakspeare or massillon or sully or the "curiosities of literature" or "corinne" or milner's church history, for fleda's reading was as miscellaneous as ever, was enjoyed under the flutter of leaves and along with the rippling of the mountain spring; whilst king curled himself up on the skirt of his mistress's gown and slept for company; hardly more thoughtless and fearless of harm than his two companions. now and then fleda opened her eyes to see that her uncle was moody and not like himself, and that her aunt's gentle face was clouded in consequence; and she could not sometimes help the suspicion that he was not making a farmer of himself; but the next summer wind would blow these thoughts away, or the next look of her flowers would put them out of her head. the whole courtyard in front of the house had been given up to her peculiar use as a flower-garden, and there she and hugh made themselves very busy. but the summer-time came to an end. it was a november morning, and fleda had been doing some of the last jobs in her flower-beds. she was coming in with spirits as bright as her cheeks, when her aunt's attitude and look, more than usually spiritless, suddenly checked them. fleda gave her a hopeful kiss and asked for the explanation. "how bright you look, darling!" said her aunt, stroking her cheek. "yes, but you don't, aunt lucy. what has happened?" "mary and jane are going away." "going away!--what for?" "they are tired of the place--don't like it, i suppose." "very foolish of them! well, aunt lucy, what matter? we can get plenty more in their room." "not from the city--not possible; they would not come at this time of year." "sure?--well, then here we can at any rate." "here! but what sort of persons shall we get here? and your uncle--just think!"-- "o but i think we can manage," said fleda. "when do mary and jane want to go?" "immediately!--to-morrow--they are not willing to wait till we can get somebody. think of it!" "well let them go," said fleda,--"the sooner the better." "yes, and i am sure i don't want to keep them; but--" and mrs. rossitur wrung her hands--"i haven't money enough to pay them quite,--and they won't go without it." fleda felt shocked--so much that she could not help looking it. "but can't uncle rolf give it you?" mrs. rossitur shook her head. "i have asked him." "how much is wanting?" "twenty-five. think of his not being able to give me that!"--mrs. rossitur burst into tears. "now don't, aunt lucy!"--said fleda, guarding well her own composure;--"you know he has had a great deal to spend upon the farm and paying men, and all, and it is no wonder that he should be a little short just now,--now cheer up!--we can get along with this anyhow." "i asked him," said mrs. rossitur through her tears, "when he would be able to give it to me; and he told me he didn't know!--" fleda ventured no reply but some of the tenderest caresses that lips and arms could give; and then sprang away and in three minutes was at her aunt's side again. "look here, aunt lucy," said she gently,--"here is twenty dollars, if you can manage the five." "where did you get this?" mrs. rossitur exclaimed. "i got it honestly. it is mine, aunt lucy," said fleda smiling. "uncle orrin gave me some money just before we came away, to do what i liked with; and i haven't wanted to do anything with it till now." but this seemed to hurt mrs. rossitur more than all the rest. leaning her head forward upon fleda's breast and clasping her arms about her she cried worse tears than fleda had seen her shed. if it had not been for the emergency fleda would have broken down utterly too. "that it should have come to this!--i can't take it, dear fleda!"-- "yes you must, aunt lucy," said fleda soothingly. "i couldn't do anything else with it that would give me so much pleasure. i don't want it--it would lie in my drawer till i don't know when. we'll let these people be off as soon as they please. don't take it so--uncle rolf will have money again--only just now he is out, i suppose--and we'll get somebody else in the kitchen that will do nicely--you see if we don't." mrs. rossitur's embrace said what words were powerless to say. "but i don't know how we're to find any one here in the country--i don't know who'll go to look--i am sure your uncle won't want to,--and hugh wouldn't know--" "i'll go," said fleda cheerfully;--"hugh and i. we can do famously--if you'll trust me. i won't promise to bring home a french cook." "no indeed--we must take what we can get. but you can get no one to-day, and they will be off by the morning's coach--what shall we do to-morrow,--for dinner? your uncle--" "i'll get dinner," said fleda caressing her;--"i'll take all that on myself. it sha'n't be a bad dinner either. uncle rolf will like what i do for him i dare say. now cheer up, aunt lucy!--do--that's all i ask of you. won't you?--for me?" she longed to speak a word of that quiet hope with which in every trouble she secretly comforted herself--she wanted to whisper the words that were that moment in her own mind, "truly i know that it shall be well with them that fear god;"--but her natural reserve and timidity kept her lips shut; to her grief. the women were paid off and dismissed and departed in the next day's coach from montepoole. fleda stood at the front door to see them go, with a curious sense that there was an empty house at her back, and indeed upon her back. and in spite of all the cheeriness of her tone to her aunt, she was not without some shadowy feeling that soberer times might be coming upon them. "what is to be done now?" said hugh close beside her. "o we are going to get somebody else," said fleda. "where?" "i don't know!--you and i are going to find out." "you and i!--" "yes. we are going out after dinner, hugh dear," said she turning her bright merry face towards him,--"to pick up somebody." linking her arm within his she went back to the deserted kitchen premises to see how her promise about taking mary's place was to be fulfilled. "do you know where to look?" said hugh. "i've a notion;--but the first thing is dinner, that uncle rolf mayn't think the world is turning topsy turvy. there is nothing at all here, hugh!--nothing in the world but bread--it's a blessing there is that. uncle rolf will have to be satisfied with a coffee dinner to-day, and i'll make him the most superb omelette--that my skill is equal to! hugh dear, you shall set the table.--you don't know how?--then you shall make the toast, and i will set it the first thing of all. you perceive it is well to know how to do everything, mr. hugh rossitur." "where did you learn to make omelettes?" said hugh with laughing admiration, as fleda bared two pretty arms and ran about the very impersonation of good-humoured activity. the table was set; the coffee was making; and she had him established at the fire with two great plates, a pile of slices of bread, and a toasting-iron. "where? oh don't you remember the days of mrs. renney? i have seen emile make them. and by dint of trying to teach mary this summer i have taught myself. there is no knowing, you see, what a person may come to." "i wonder what father would say if he knew you had made all the coffee this summer!" "that is an unnecessary speculation, my dear hugh, as i have no intention of telling him. but see!--that is the way with speculators! 'while they go on refining'--the toast burns!" the coffee and the omelette and the toast and mr. rossitur's favourite french salad, were served with beautiful accuracy; and he was quite satisfied. but aunt lucy looked sadly at fleda's flushed face and saw that her appetite seemed to have gone off in the steam of her preparations. fleda had a kind of heart-feast however which answered as well. hugh harnessed the little wagon, for no one was at hand to do it, and he and fleda set off as early as possible after dinner. fleda's thoughts had turned to her old acquaintance cynthia gall, who she knew was out of employment and staying at home somewhere near montepoole. they got the exact direction from aunt miriam who approved of her plan. it was a pleasant peaceful drive they had. they never were alone together, they two, but vexations seemed to lose their power or be forgotten; and an atmosphere of quietness gather about them, the natural element of both hearts. it might refuse its presence to one, but the attraction of both together was too strong to be resisted. miss cynthia's present abode was in an out of the way place, and a good distance off; they were some time in reaching it. the barest-looking and dingiest of houses, set plump in a green field, without one softening or home-like touch from any home-feeling within; not a flower, not a shrub, not an out-house, not a tree near. one would have thought it a deserted house, but that a thin wreath of smoke lazily stole up from one of the brown chimneys; and graceful as that was it took nothing from the hard stern barrenness below which told of a worse poverty than that of paint and glazing. "can this be the place?" said hugh. "it must be. you stay here with the horse, and i'll go in and seek my fortune.--don't promise much," said fleda shaking her head. the house stood back from the road. fleda picked her way to it along a little footpath which seemed to be the equal property of the geese. her knock brought an invitation to "come in." an elderly woman was sitting there whose appearance did not mend the general impression. she had the same dull and unhopeful look that her house had. "does mrs. gall live here?" "i do," said this person. "is cynthia at home?" the woman upon this raised her voice and directed it at an inner door. "lucindy!" said she in a diversity of tones,--"lucindy!--tell cynthy here's somebody wants to see her."--but no one answered, and throwing the work from her lap the woman muttered she would go and see, and left fleda with a cold invitation to sit down. dismal work! fleda wished herself out of it. the house did not look poverty-stricken within, but poverty must have struck to the very heart, fleda thought, where there was no apparent cherishing of anything. there was no absolute distress visible, neither was there a sign of real comfort or of a happy home. she could not fancy it was one. she waited so long that she was sure cynthia did not hold herself in readiness to see company. and when the lady at last came in it was with very evident marks of "smarting up" about her. "why it's flidda ringgan!" said miss gall after a dubious look or two at her visitor. "how _do_ you do? i didn't 'spect to see _you_. how much you have growed!" she looked really pleased and gave fleda's hand a very strong grasp as she shook it. "there ain't no fire here to-day," pursued cynthy, paying her attentions to the fireplace,--"we let it go down on account of our being all busy out at the back of the house. i guess you're cold, ain't you?" fleda said no, and remembered that the woman she had first seen was certainly not busy at the back of the house nor anywhere else but in that very room, where she had found her deep in a pile of patchwork. "i heerd you had come to the old place. were you glad to be back again?" cynthy asked with a smile that might be taken to express some doubt upon the subject. "i was very glad to see it again." "i hain't seen it in a great while. i've been staying to hum this year or two. i got tired o' going out," cynthy remarked, with again a smile very peculiar and fleda thought a little sardonical. she did not know how to answer. "well, how do you come along down yonder?" cynthy went on, making a great fuss with the shovel and tongs to very little purpose. "ha' you come all the way from queechy?" "yes. i came on purpose to see you, cynthy." without staying to ask what for, miss gall now went out to "the back of the house" and came running in again with a live brand pinched in the tongs, and a long tail of smoke running after it. fleda would have compounded for no fire and no choking. the choking was only useful to give her time to think. she was uncertain how to bring in her errand. "and how is mis' plumfield?" said cynthy, in an interval of blowing the brand. "she is quite well; but cynthy, you need not have taken all that trouble for me. i cannot stay but a few minutes." "there is wood enough!" cynthia remarked with one of her grim smiles; an assertion fleda could not help doubting. indeed she thought miss gall had grown altogether more disagreeable than she used to be in old times. why, she could not divine, unless the souring effect had gone on with the years. "and what's become of earl douglass and mis' douglass? i hain't heerd nothin' of 'em this great while. i always told your grandpa he'd ha' saved himself a great deal o' trouble if he'd ha' let earl douglass take hold of things. you ha'n't got mr. didenhover into the works again i guess, have you? he was there a good spell after your grandpa died." "i haven't seen mrs. douglass," said fleda. "but cynthy, what do you think i have come here for?" "i don't know," said cynthy, with another of her peculiar looks directed at the fire. "i s'pose you want someh'n nother of me." "i have come to see if you wouldn't come and live with my aunt, mrs. rossitur. we are left alone and want somebody very much; and i thought i would find you out and see if we couldn't have you, first of all,--before i looked for anybody else." cynthy was absolutely silent. she sat before the fire, her feet stretched out towards it as far as they would go and her arms crossed, and not moving her steady gaze at the smoking wood, or the chimney-back, whichever it might be; but there was in the corners of her mouth the threatening of a smile that fleda did not at all like. "what do you say to it, cynthy?" "i reckon you'd best get somebody else," said miss gall with a kind of condescending dryness, and the smile shewing a little more. "why?" said fleda, "i would a great deal rather have an old friend than a stranger." "be you the housekeeper?" said cynthy a little abruptly. "o i am a little of everything," said fleda;--"cook and housekeeper and whatever comes first. i want you to come and be housekeeper, cynthy." "i reckon mis' rossitur don't have much to do with her help, does she?" said cynthy after a pause, during which the corners of her mouth never changed. the tone of piqued independence let some light into fleda's mind. "she is not strong enough to do much herself, and she wants some one that will take all the trouble from her. you'd have the field all to yourself, cynthy." "your aunt sets two tables i calculate, don't she?" "yes--my uncle doesn't like to have any but his own family around him." "i guess i shouldn't suit!" said miss gall, after another little pause, and stooping very diligently to pick up some scattered shreds from the floor. but fleda could see the flushed face and the smile which pride and a touch of spiteful pleasure in the revenge she was taking made particularly hateful. she needed no more convincing that miss gall "wouldn't suit;" but she was sorry at the same time for the perverseness that had so needlessly disappointed her; and went rather pensively back again down the little foot-path to the waiting wagon. "this is hardly the romance of life, dear hugh," she said as she seated herself. "haven't you succeeded?" fleda shook her head. "what's the matter?" "o--pride,--injured pride of station! the wrong of not coming to our table and putting her knife into our butter." "and living in such a place!" said hugh. "you don't know what a place. they are miserably poor, i am sure; and yet--i suppose that the less people have to be proud of the more they make of what is left. poor people!--" "poor fleda!" said hugh looking at her. "what will you do now?" "o we'll do somehow," said she cheerfully. "perhaps it is just as well after all, for cynthy isn't the smartest woman in the world. i remember grandpa used to say he didn't believe she could get a bean into the middle of her bread." "a bean into the middle of her bread!" said hugh. but fleda's sobriety was quite banished by his mystified look, and her laugh rang along over the fields before she answered him. that laugh had blown away all the vapours, for the present at least, and they jogged on again very sociably. "do you know," said fleda, after a while of silent enjoyment in the changes of scene and the mild autumn weather,--"i am not sure that it wasn't very well for me that we came away from new york." "i dare say it was," said hugh,--"since we came; but what makes you say so?" "i don't mean that it was for anybody else, but for me. i think i was a little proud of our nice things there." "_you,_ fleda!" said hugh with a look of appreciating affection. "yes i was, a little. it didn't make the greatest part of my love for them, i am sure; but i think i had a little, undefined, sort of pleasure in the feeling that they were better and prettier than other people had." "you are sure you are not proud of your little king charles now?" said hugh. "i don't know but i am," said fleda laughing. "but how much pleasanter it is here on almost every account. look at the beautiful sweep of the ground off among those hills--isn't it? what an exquisite horizon line, hugh!" "and what a sky over it!" "yes--i love these fall skies. oh i would a great deal rather be here than in any city that ever was built!" "so would i," said hugh. "but the thing is--" fleda knew quite well what the thing was, and did not answer. "but my dear hugh," she said presently,--"i don't remember that sweep of hills when we were coming?" "you were going the other way," said hugh. "yes but, hugh,--i am sure we did not pass these grain fields. we must have got into the wrong road." hugh drew the reins, and looked, and doubted. "there is a house yonder," said fleda,--"we had better drive on and ask." "there is no house--" "yes there is--behind that piece of wood. look over it--don't you see a light curl of blue smoke against the sky?--we never passed that house and wood, i am certain. we ought to make haste, for the afternoons are short now, and you will please to recollect there is nobody at home to get tea." "i hope lucas will get upon one of his everlasting talks with father," said hugh. "and that it will hold till we get home," said fleda. "it will be the happiest use lucas has made of his tongue in a good while." just as they stopped before a substantial-looking farm-house a man came from the other way and stopped there too, with his hand upon the gate. "how far are we from queechy, sir?" said hugh. "you're not from it at all, sir," said the man politely. "you're in queechy, sir, at present." "is this the right road from montepoole to queechy village?" "it is not, sir. it is a very tortuous direction indeed. have i not the pleasure of speaking to mr. rossitur's young gentleman?" mr. rossitur's young gentleman acknowledged his relationship and begged the favour of being set in the right way home. "with much pleasure! you have been shewing miss rossitur the picturesque country about montepoole?" "my cousin and i have been there on business, and lost our way coming back." "ah i dare say. very easy. first time you have been there?" "yes sir, and we are in a hurry to get home." "well sir,--you know the road by deacon patterson's?--comes out just above the lake?" hugh did not remember. "well--you keep this road straight on,--i'm sorry you are in a hurry,--you keep on till--do you know when you strike mr. harris's ground?" no, hugh knew nothing about it, nor fleda. "well i'll tell you now how it is," said the stranger, "if you'll permit me. you and your--a--cousin--come in and do us the pleasure of taking some refreshment--i know my sister'll have her table set out by this time--and i'll do myself the honour of introducing you to--a--these strange roads afterwards." "thank you, sir, but that trouble is unnecessary--cannot you direct us?" "no trouble--indeed sir, i assure you, i should esteem it a favour--very highly. i--i am dr. quackenboss, sir; you may have heard--" "thank you, dr. quackenboss, but we have no time this afternoon--we are very anxious to reach home as soon as possible; if you would be be so good as to put us in the way." [illustration: "well, sir, you know the road by deacon patterson's?"] "i--really sir, i am afraid--to a person ignorant of the various localities--you will lose no time--i will just hitch your horse here, and i'll have mine ready by the time this young lady has rested. miss--a--won't you join with me? i assure you i will not put you to the expense of a minute--thank you!--mr. harden!--just clap the saddle on to lollypop and have him up here in three seconds.--thank you!--my dear miss--a--won't you take my arm? i am gratified, i assure you." yielding to the apparent impossibility of getting anything out of dr. quackenboss, except civility, and to the real difficulty of disappointing such very earnest good will, fleda and hugh did what older persons would not have done,--alighted and walked up to the house. "this is quite a fortuitous occurrence," the doctor went on:--"i have often had the pleasure of seeing mr rossitur's family in church--in the little church at queechy run--and that enabled me to recognise your cousin as soon as i saw him in the wagon. perhaps miss--a--you may have possibly heard of my name?--quackenboss--i don't know that you understood--" "i have heard it, sir." "my irishmen, miss--a--my irish labourers, can't get hold of but one end of it; they call me boss--ha, ha, ha!" fleda hoped his patients did not get hold of the other end of it, and trembled, visibly. "hard to pull a man's name to pieces before his face,--ha, ha! but i am--a--not one thing myself,--a kind of heterogynous--i am a piece of a physician and a little in the agricultural line also; so it's all fair." "the irish treat my name as hardly, dr. quackenboss--they call me nothing but miss ring-again." and then fleda could laugh, and laugh she did, so heartily that the doctor was delighted. "ring-again! ha, ha!--very good!--well, miss--a--i shouldn't think that anybody in your service would ever--a--ever let you put your name in practice." but fleda's delight at the excessive gallantry and awkwardness of this speech was almost too much; or, as the doctor pleasantly remarked, her nerves were too many for her; and every one of them was dancing by the time they reached the hall-door. the doctor's flourishes lost not a bit of their angularity from his tall ungainly figure and a lantern-jawed face, the lower member of which had now and then a somewhat lateral play when he was speaking, which curiously aided the quaint effect of his words. he ushered his guests into the house, seeming in a flow of self-gratulation. the supper-table was spread, sure enough, and hovering about it was the doctor's sister; a lady in whom fleda only saw a dutch face, with eyes that made no impression, disagreeable fair hair, and a string of gilt beads round her neck. a painted yellow floor under foot, a room that looked excessively _wooden_ and smelt of cheese, bare walls and a well-filled table, was all that she took in besides. "i have the honour of presenting you to my sister," said the doctor with suavity. "flora, the irish domestics of this young lady call her name miss ring-again--if she will let us know how it ought to be called we shall be happy to be informed." dr. quackenboss was made happy. "miss _ringgan_--and this young gentleman is young mr. rossitur--the gentleman that has taken squire ringgan's old place. we were so fortunate as to have them lose their way this afternoon, coming from the pool, and they have just stepped in to see if you can't find 'em a mouthful of something they can eat, while lollypop is a getting ready to see them home." poor miss flora immediately disappeared into the kitchen, to order a bit of superior cheese and to have some slices of ham put on the gridiron, and then coming back to the common room went rummaging about from cupboard to cupboard, in search of cake and sweetmeats. fleda protested and begged in vain. "she was so sorry she hadn't knowed," miss flora said,--"she'd ha' had some cakes made that maybe they could have eaten, but the bread was dry; and the cheese wa'n't as good somehow as the last one they cut, maybe miss ringgan would prefer a piece of newer-made, if she liked it; and she hadn't had good luck with her preserves last summer--the most of 'em had fomented--she thought it was the damp weather, but there was some stewed pears that maybe she would be so good as to approve--and there was some ham! whatever else it was it was hot!--" it was impossible, it was impossible, to do dishonour to all this hospitality and kindness and pride that was brought out for them. early or late, they must eat, in mere gratitude. the difficulty was to avoid eating everything. hugh and fleda managed to compound the matter with each other, one taking the cake and pears, and the other the ham and cheese. in the midst of all this over flow of good will fleda bethought her to ask if miss flora knew of any girl or woman that would go out to service. miss flora took the matter into grave consideration as soon as her anxiety on the subject of their cups of tea had subsided. she did not commit herself, but thought it possible that one of the finns might be willing to go out. "where do they live?" "it's--a--not far from queechy run," said the doctor, whose now and then hesitation in the midst of his speech was never for want of a thought but simply and merely for the best words to clothe it in. "is it in our way to-night?" he could make it so, the doctor said, with pleasure, for it would give him permission to gallant them a little further. they had several miles yet to go, and the sun went down as they were passing through queechy run. under that still cool clear autumn sky fleda would have enjoyed the ride very much, but that her unfulfilled errand was weighing upon her, and she feared her aunt and uncle might want her services before she could be at home. still, late as it was, she determined to stop for a minute at mrs. finn's and go home with a clear conscience. at her door, and not till there, the doctor was prevailed upon to part company, the rest of the way being perfectly plain. "not i!--at least i think not. but, hugh, don't say anything about all this to aunt lucy. she would be troubled." fleda had certainly when she came away no notion of improving her acquaintance with miss anastasia; but the supper, and the breakfast and the dinner of the next day, with all the nameless and almost numberless duties of housework that filled up the time between, wrought her to a very strong sense of the necessity of having some kind of "help" soon. mrs. rossitur wearied herself excessively with doing very little, and then looked so sad to see fleda working on, that it was more disheartening and harder to bear than the fatigue. hugh was a most faithful and invaluable coadjutor, and his lack of strength was like her own made up by energy of will; but neither of them could bear the strain long; and when the final clearing away of the dinner-dishes gave her a breathing-time she resolved to dress herself and put her thimble in her pocket and go over to miss finn's quilting. miss lucy might not be like miss anastasia; and if she were, anything that had hands and feet to move instead of her own would be welcome. hugh went with her to the door and was to come for her at sunset. chapter xx. with superfluity of breeding first makes you sick, and then with feeding. jenyns. miss anastasia was a little surprised and a good deal gratified, fleda saw, by her coming, and played the hostess with great benignity. the quilting-frame was stretched in an upper room, not in the long kitchen, to fleda's joy; most of the company were already seated at it, and she had to go through a long string of introductions before she was permitted to take her place. first of all earl douglass's wife, who rose up and taking both fleda's hands squeezed and shook them heartily, giving her with eye and lip a most genial welcome. this lady had every look of being a very _clever_ woman; "a manager" she was said to be; and indeed her very nose had a little pinch which prepared one for nothing superfluous about her. even her dress could not have wanted another breadth from the skirt and had no fulness to spare about the body. neat as a pin though; and a well-to-do look through it all. miss quackenboss fleda recognised as an old friend, gilt beads and all. catherine douglass had grown up to a pretty girl during the five years since fleda had left queechy, and gave her a greeting half smiling, half shy. there was a little more affluence about the flow of her drapery, and the pink ribbon round her neck was confined by a little dainty jew's harp of a brooch; she had her mother's pinch of the nose too. then there were two other young ladies;--miss letitia ann thornton, a tall grown girl in pantalettes, evidently a would-be aristocrat from the air of her head and lip, with a well-looking face and looking well knowing of the same, and sporting neat little white cuffs at her wrists, the only one who bore such a distinction. the third of these damsels, jessie healy, impressed fleda with having been brought up upon coarse meat and having grown heavy in consequence; the other two were extremely fair and delicate, both in complexion and feature. her aunt syra fleda recognised without particular pleasure and managed to seat herself at the quilt with the sewing-woman and miss hannah between them. miss lucy finn she found seated at her right hand, but after all the civilities she had just gone through fleda had not courage just then to dash into business with her, and miss lucy herself stitched away and was dumb. so were the rest of the party--rather. the presence of the new-comer seemed to have the effect of a spell. fleda could not think they had been as silent before her joining them as they were for some time afterwards. the young ladies were absolutely mute, and conversation seemed to flag even among the elder ones; and if fleda ever raised her eyes from the quilt to look at somebody she was sure to see somebody's eyes looking at her, with a curiosity well enough defined and mixed with a more _or less_ amount of benevolence and pleasure. fleda was growing very industrious and feeling her cheeks grow warm, when the checked stream of conversation began to take revenge by turning its tide upon her. "are you glad to be back to queechy, fleda?" said mrs. douglass from the opposite far end of the quilt. "yes ma'am," said fleda, smiling back her answer,--"on some accounts." "ain't she growed like her father, mis' douglass?" said the sewing woman. "do you recollect walter ringgan--what a handsome feller he was?" the two opposite girls immediately found something to say to each other. "she ain't a bit more like him than she is like her mother," said mrs. douglass, biting off the end of her thread energetically. "amy ringgan was a sweet good woman as ever was in this town." again her daughter's glance and smile went over to the speaker. "you stay in queechy and live like queechy folks do," mrs. douglass added, nodding encouragingly, "and you'll beat both on 'em." but this speech jarred, and fleda wished it had not been spoken. "how does your uncle like farming?" said aunt syra. a home-thrust, which fleda parried by saying he had hardly got accustomed to it yet. "what's been his business? what has he been doing all his life till now?" said the sewing-woman. fleda replied that he had had no business; and after the minds of the company had had time to entertain this statement she was startled by miss lucy's voice at her elbow. "it seems kind o' curious, don't it, that a man should live to be forty or fifty years old and not know anything of the earth he gets his bread from?" "what makes you think he don't?" said miss thornton rather tartly. "she wa'n't speaking o' nobody," said aunt syra. "i was--i was speaking of _man_--i was speaking abstractly," said fleda's right hand neighbour. "what's abstractly?" said miss anastasia scornfully. "where do you get hold of such hard words, lucy?" said mrs. douglass. "i don't know, mis' douglass;--they come to me;--it's practice, i suppose. i had no intention of being obscure." "one kind o' word's as easy as another i suppose, when you're used to it, ain't it?" said the sewing-woman. "what's abstractly?" said the mistress of the house again. "look in the dictionary, if you want to know," said her sister. "i don't want to know--i only want you to tell." "when do you get time for it, lucy? ha'n't you nothing else to practise?" pursued mrs. douglass. "yes, mis' douglass; but then there are times for exertion, and other times less disposable; and when i feel thoughtful, or low, i commonly retire to my room and contemplate the stars or write a composition." the sewing-woman greeted this speech with an unqualified ha! ha! and fleda involuntarily raised her head to look at the last speaker; but there was nothing to be noticed about her, except that she was in rather nicer order than the rest of the finn family. "did you get home safe last night?" inquired miss quackenboss, bending forward over the quilt to look down to fleda. fleda thanked her, and replied that they had been overturned and had several ribs broken. "and where have you been, fleda, all this while?" said mrs. douglass. fleda told, upon which all the quilting-party raised their heads simultaneously to take another review of her. "your uncle's wife ain't a frenchwoman, be she?" asked the sewing-woman. fleda said "oh no"--and miss quackenboss remarked that "she thought she wa'n't;" whereby fleda perceived it had been a subject of discussion. "she lives like one, don't she?" said aunt syra. which imputation fleda also refuted to the best of her power. "well, don't she have dinner in the middle of the afternoon?" pursued aunt syra. fleda was obliged to admit that. "and she can't eat without she has a fresh piece of roast meat on table every day, can she?" "it is not always roast," said fleda, half vexed and half laughing. "i'd rather have a good dish o' bread and 'lasses than the hull on't;" observed old mrs. finn; from the corner where she sat manifestly turning up her nose at the far-off joints on mrs. rossitur's dinner-table. the girls on the other side of the quilt again held counsel together, deep and low. "well didn't she pick up all them notions in that place yonder?--where you say she has been?" aunt syra went on. "no," said fleda; "everybody does so in new york." "i want to know what kind of a place new york is, now," said old mrs. finn drawlingly. "i s'pose it's pretty big, ain't it?" fleda replied that it was. "i shouldn't wonder if it was a'most as far as from here to queechy run, now, ain't it?" the distance mentioned being somewhere about one-eighth of new york's longest diameter, fleda answered that it was quite as far. "i s'pose there's plenty o' mighty rich folks there, ain't there?" "plenty, i believe," said fleda. "i should hate to live in it awfully!" was the old woman's conclusion. "i should admire to travel in many countries," said miss lucy, for the first time seeming to intend her words particularly for fleda's ear. "i think nothing makes people more genteel. i have observed it frequently." fleda said it was very pleasant; but though encouraged by this opening could not muster enough courage to ask if miss lucy had a "notion" to come and prove their gentility. her next question was startling,--if fleda had ever studied mathematics? "no," said fleda. "have you?" "o my, yes! there was a lot of us concluded we would learn it; and we commenced to study it a long time ago. i think it's a most elevating--" the discussion was suddenly broken off, for the sewing-woman exclaimed, as the other sister came in and took her seat, "why hannah! you ha'n't been makin' bread with that crock on your hands!" "well mis' barnes!" said the girl,--"i've washed 'em, and i've made bread with 'em, and even _that_ didn't take it off!" "do you look at the stars, too, hannah?" said mrs. douglass. amidst a small hubbub of laugh and talk which now became general, poor fleda fell back upon one single thought--one wish; that hugh would come to fetch her home before tea-time. but it was a vain hope. hugh was not to be there till sundown, and supper was announced long before that. they all filed down, and fleda with them, to the great kitchen below stairs; and she found herself placed in the seat of honour indeed, but an honour she would gladly have escaped, at miss anastasia's right hand. a temporary locked-jaw would have been felt a blessing. fleda dared hardly even look about her; but under the eye of her hostess the instinct of good-breeding was found sufficient to swallow everything; literally and figuratively. there was a good deal to swallow. the usual variety of cakes, sweetmeats, beef, cheese, biscuits, and pies, was set out with some peculiarity of arrangement which fleda had never seen before, and which left that of miss quackenboss elegant by comparison. down each side of the table ran an advanced guard of little sauces, in indian file, but in companies of three, the file leader of each being a saucer of custard, its follower a ditto of preserves, and the third keeping a sharp look-out in the shape of pickles; and to fleda's unspeakable horror she discovered that the guests were expected to help themselves at will from these several stores with their own spoons, transferring what they took either to their own plates or at once to its final destination, which last mode several of the company preferred. the advantage of this plan was the necessary great display of the new silver tea-spoons which mrs. douglass slyly hinted to aunt syra were the moving cause of the tea-party. but aunt syra swallowed sweetmeats and would not give heed. there was no relief for poor fleda. aunt syra was her next neighbour, and opposite to her, at miss anastasia's left hand, was the disagreeable countenance and peering eyes of the old crone her mother. fleda kept her own eyes fixed upon her plate and endeavoured to see nothing but that. "why here's fleda ain't eating anything," said mrs. douglass. "won't you have some preserves? take some custard, do!--anastasy, she ha'n't a spoon--no wonder!" fleda had secretly conveyed hers under cover. "there _was_ one," said miss anastasia, looking about where one should have been,--"i'll get another as soon as i give mis' springer her tea." "ha'n't you got enough to go round?" said the old woman plucking at her daughter's sleeve,--"anastasy!--ha'n't you got enough to go round?" this speech which was spoken with a most spiteful simplicity miss anastasia answered with superb silence, and presently produced spoons enough to satisfy herself and the company. but fleda! no earthly persuasion could prevail upon her to touch pickles, sweetmeats, or custard, that evening; and even in the bread and cakes she had a vision of hands before her that took away her appetite. she endeavoured to make a shew with hung beef and cups of tea, which indeed was not pouchong; but her supper came suddenly to an end upon a remark of her hostess, addressed to the whole table, that they needn't be surprised if they found any bite of pudding in the gingerbread, for it was made from the molasses the children left the other day. who "the children" were fleda did not know, neither was it material. it was sundown, but hugh had not come when they went to the upper rooms again. two were open now, for they were small and the company promised not to be such. fathers and brothers and husbands began to come, and loud talking and laughing and joking took place of the quilting chit-chat. fleda would fain have absorbed herself in the work again, but though the frame still stood there the minds of the company were plainly turned aside from their duty, or perhaps they thought that miss anastasia had had admiration enough to dispense with service. nobody shewed a thimble but one or two old ladies; and as numbers and spirits gathered strength, a kind of romping game was set on foot in which a vast deal of kissing seemed to be the grand wit of the matter. fleda shrank away out of sight behind the open door of communication between the two rooms, pleading with great truth that she was tired and would like to keep perfectly quiet; and she had soon the satisfaction of being apparently forgotten. in the other room some of the older people were enjoying themselves more soberly. fleda's ear was too near the crack of the door not to have the benefit of more of their conversation than she cared for. it soon put quiet of mind out of the question. "he'll twist himself up pretty short; that's my sense of it; and he won't take long to do it, nother," said earl douglass's voice. fleda would have known it anywhere from its extreme peculiarity. it never either rose or fell much from a certain pitch; and at that level the words gurgled forth, seemingly from an ever-brimming fountain; he never wanted one; and the stream had neither let nor stay till his modicum of sense had fairly run out. people thought he had not a greater stock of that than some of his neighbours; but he issued an amount of word-currency sufficient for the use of the county. "he'll run himself agin a post pretty quick," said uncle joshua in a confirmatory tone of voice. fleda had a confused idea that somebody was going to hang himself. "he ain't a workin' things right," said douglass,--"he ain't a workin' things right; he's takin' hold o' everything by the tail end. he ain't studied the business; he doesn't know when things is right, and he doesn't know when things is wrong;--and if they're wrong he don't know how to set 'em right. he's got a feller there that ain't no more fit to be there than i am to be vice president of the united states; and i ain't a going to say what i think i _am_ fit for, but i ha'n't studied for _that_ place and i shouldn't like to stand an examination for't; and a man hadn't ought to be a farmer no more if he ha'n't qualified himself. that's my idee. i like to see a thing done well if it's to be done at all; and there ain't a stitch o' land been laid right on the hull farm, nor a furrow driv' as it had ought to be, since he come on to it; and i say, squire springer, a man ain't going to get along in that way, and he hadn't ought to. i work hard myself, and i calculate to work hard; and i make a livin by't; and i'm content to work hard. when i see a man with his hands in his pockets, i think he'll have nothin' else in 'em soon. i don't believe he's done a hand's turn himself on the land the hull season!" and upon this mr. douglass brought up. "my son lucas has been workin' with him, off and on, pretty much the hull time since he come; and _he_ says he ha'n't begun to know how to spell farmer yet." "ay, ay! my wife--she's a little harder on folks than i be--i think it ain't worth while to say nothin' of a man without i can say some good of him--that's my idee--and it don't do no harm, nother,--but my wife, she says he's got to let down his notions a peg or two afore they'll hitch just in the right place; and i won't say but what i think she ain't maybe fur from right. if a man's above his business he stands a pretty fair chance to be below it some day. i won't say myself, for i haven't any acquaintance with him, and a man oughtn't to speak but of what he is knowing to,--but i have heerd say, that he wa'n't as conversationable as it would ha' been handsome in him to be, all things considerin'. there seems to be a good many things said of him, somehow, and i always think men don't talk of a man if he don't give 'em occasion; but anyhow i've been past the farm pretty often myself this summer, workin' with seth plumfield; and i've took notice of things myself; and i know he's been makin' beds o' sparrowgrass when he had ought to ha' been makin' fences, and he's been helpin' that little girl o' his'n set her flowers, when he would ha' been better sot to work lookin' after his irishman; but i don't know as it made much matter nother, for if he went wrong mr. rossitur wouldn't know how to set him right, and if he was a going right mr. rossitur would ha' been just as likely to ha' set him wrong. well i'm sorry for him!" "mr. rossitur is a most gentlemanlike man," said the voice of dr. quackenboss. "ay,--i dare say he is," earl responded in precisely the same tone. "i was down to his house one day last summer to see him.--he wa'n't to hum, though." "it would be strange if harm come to a man with such a guardian angel in the house as that man has in his'n," said dr. quackenboss. "well she's a pretty creetur'!" said douglass, looking up with some animation. "i wouldn't blame any man that sot a good deal by her. i will say i think she's as handsome as my own darter; and a man can't go no furder than that i suppose." "she won't help his farming much, i guess," said uncle joshua,--"nor his wife, nother." fleda heard dr. quackenboss coming through the doorway and started from her corner for fear he might find her out there and know what she had heard. he very soon found her out in the new place she had chosen and came up to pay his compliments. fleda was in a mood for anything but laughing, yet the mixture of the ludicrous which the doctor administered set her nerves a twitching. bringing his chair down sideways at one angle and his person at another, so as to meet at the moment of the chair's touching the floor, and with a look and smile slanting to match, the doctor said, "well, miss ringgan, has--a--mrs. rossitur,--does she feel herself reconciled yet?" "reconciled, sir?" said fleda. "yes--a--to queechy?" "she never quarrelled with it, sir," said fleda, quite unable to keep from laughing. "yes,--i mean--a--she feels that she can sustain her spirits in different situations?" "she is very well, sir, thank you." "it must have been a great change to her--and to you all--coming to this place." "yes, sir; the country is very different from the city." "in what part of new york was mr. rossitur's former residence?" "in state street, sir." "state street,--that is somewhere in the direction of the park?" "no, sir, not exactly." "was mrs. rossitur a native of the city?" "not of new york. o hugh, my dear hugh," exclaimed fleda in another tone,--"what have you been thinking of?" "father wanted me," said hugh. "i could not help it, fleda." "you are not going to have the cruelty to take your--a--cousin away, mr. rossitur?" said the doctor. but fleda was for once happy to be cruel; she would hear no remonstrances. though her desire for miss lucy's "help" had considerably lessened she thought she could not in politeness avoid speaking on the subject, after being invited there on purpose. but miss lucy said she "calculated to stay at home this winter," unless she went to live with somebody at kenton for the purpose of attending a course of philosophy lectures that she heard were to be given there. so that matter was settled; and clasping hugh's arm fleda turned away from the house with a step and heart both lightened by the joy of being out of it. "i couldn't come sooner, fleda," said hugh. "no matter--o i'm so glad to be away! walk a little faster, dear hugh.--have you missed me at home?" "do you want me to say no or yes?" said hugh smiling. "we did very well--mother and i--and i have left everything ready to have tea the minute you get home. what sort of a time have you had?" in answer to which fleda gave him a long history; and then they walked on awhile in silence. the evening was still and would have been dark but for the extreme brilliancy of the stars through the keen clear atmosphere. fleda looked up at them and drew large draughts of bodily and mental refreshment with the bracing air. "do you know to-morrow will be thanksgiving day?" "ye--what made you think of it?" "they were talking about it--they make a great fuss here thanksgiving day." "i don't think we shall make much of a fuss," said hugh. "i don't think we shall. i wonder what i shall do--i am afraid uncle rolf will get tired of coffee and omelettes in the course of time; and my list of receipts is very limited." "it is a pity you didn't beg one of mrs. renney's books," said hugh laughing. "if you had only known--" "'tisn't too late!" said fleda quickly,--"i'll send to new york for one. i will! i'll ask uncle orrin to get it for me. that's the best thought!--" "but, fleda! you're not going to turn cook in that fashion?" "it would be no harm to have the book," said fleda. "i can tell you we mustn't expect to get anybody here that can make an omelette, or even coffee, that uncle rolf will drink. oh hugh!--" "what?" "i don't know where we are going to get anybody!--but don't say anything to aunt lucy about it." "well, we can keep thanksgiving day, fleda, without a dinner," said hugh cheerfully. "yes indeed; i am sure i can--after being among these people to-night. how much i have that they want! look at the great bear over there!--isn't that better than new york?" "the great bear hangs over new york too," hugh said with a smile. "ah but it isn't the same thing. heaven hasn't the same eyes for the city and the country." as hugh and fleda went quick up to the kitchen door they overtook a dark figure, at whom looking narrowly as she passed, fleda recognised seth plumfield. he was joyfully let into the kitchen, and there proved to be the bearer of a huge dish carefully covered with a napkin. "mother guessed you hadn't any thanksgiving ready," he said,--"and she wanted to send this down to you; so i thought i would come and fetch it myself." "o thank her! and thank you, cousin seth;--how good you are?" "mother ha'n't lost her old trick at 'em," said he, "so i hope _that's_ good." "o i know it is," said fleda. "i remember aunt miriam's thanksgiving chicken-pies. now, cousin seth, you must come in and see aunt lucy." "no," said he quietly,--"i've got my farm-boots on--i guess i won't see anybody but you." but fleda would not suffer that, and finding she could not move him she brought her aunt out into the kitchen. mrs. rossitur's manner of speaking and thanking him quite charmed seth, and he went away with a kindly feeling towards those gentle bright eyes which he never forgot. "now we've something for to-morrow, hugh!" said fleda;--"and such a chicken-pie i can tell you as _you_ never saw. hugh, isn't it odd how different a thing is in different circumstances? you don't know how glad i was when i put my hands upon that warm pie-dish and knew what it was; and when did i ever care in new york about emile's doings?" "except the almond gauffres," said hugh smiling. "i never thought to be so glad of a chicken-pie," said fleda, shaking her head. aunt miriam's dish bore out fleda's praise, in the opinion of all that tasted it; for such fowls, such butter, and such cream, as went to its composition could hardly be known but in an unsophisticated state of society. but one pie could not last for ever; and as soon as the signs of dinner were got rid of, thanksgiving day though it was, poor fleda was fain to go up the hill to consult aunt miriam about the possibility of getting "help." "i don't know, dear fleda," said she;--"if you cannot get lucy finn--i don't know who else there is you can get. mrs. toles wants both her daughters at home i know this winter, because she is sick; and marietta winchel is working at aunt syra's;--i don't know--do you remember barby elster, that used to live with me?" "o yes!" "she _might_ go--she has been staying at home these two years, to take care of her old mother, that's the reason she left me; but she has another sister come home now,--hetty, that married and went to montepoole,--she's lost her husband and come home to live; so perhaps barby would go out again. but i don't know,--how do you think your aunt lucy would get along with her?" "dear aunt miriam! you know we must do as we can. we _must_ have somebody." "barby is a little quick," said mrs. plumfield, "but i think she is good-hearted, and she is thorough, and faithful as the day is long. if your aunt and uncle can put up with her ways." "i am sure we can, aunt miriam. aunt lucy's the easiest person in the world to please, and i'll try and keep her away from uncle rolf. i think we can get along. i know barby used to like me." "but then barby knows nothing about french cooking, my child; she can do nothing but the common country things. what will your uncle and aunt say to that?" "i don't know," said fleda, "but anything is better than nothing. i must try and do what she can't do. i'll come up and get you to teach me, aunt miriam." aunt miriam hugged and kissed her before speaking. "i'll teach you what i know, my darling;--and now we'll go right off and see barby--we shall catch her just in a good time." it was a poor little unpainted house, standing back from the road, and with a double row of boards laid down to serve as a path to it. but this board-walk was scrubbed perfectly clean. they went in without knocking. there was nobody there but an old woman seated before the fire shaking all over with the st. vitus's dance. she gave them no salutation, calling instead on "barby!"--who presently made her appearance from the inner door. "barby!--who's this?" "that's mis' plumfield, mother," said the daughter, speaking loud as to a deaf person. the old lady immediately got up and dropped a very quick and what was meant to be a very respect-shewing curtsey, saying at the same time with much deference and with one of her involuntary twitches,--"i ''maun' to know!"--the sense of the ludicrous and the feeling of pity together were painfully oppressive. fleda turned away to the daughter who came forward and shook hands with a frank look of pleasure at the sight of her elder visitor. "barby," said mrs. plumfield, "this is little fleda ringgan--do you remember her?" "i 'mind to know!" said barby, transferring her hand to fleda's and giving it a good squeeze.--"she's growed a fine gal, mis' plumfield. you ha'n't lost none of your good looks--ha' you kept all your old goodness along with 'em?" fleda laughed at this abrupt question, and said she didn't know. "if you ha'n't, i wouldn't give much for your eyes," said barby letting go her hand. mrs. plumfield laughed too at barby's equivocal mode of complimenting. "who's that young gal, barby?" inquired mrs. elster. "that's mis' plumfield's niece, mother!" "she's a handsome little creetur, ain't she?" they all laughed at that, and fleda's cheeks growing crimson, mrs. plumfield stepped forward to ask after the old lady's health; and while she talked and listened fleda's eyes noted the spotless condition of the room--the white table, the nice rag-carpet, the bright many-coloured patch-work counterpane on the bed, the brilliant cleanliness of the floor where the small carpet left the boards bare, the tidy look of the two women; and she made up her mind that _she_ could get along with miss barbara very well. barby was rather tall, and in face decidedly a fine-looking woman, though her figure had the usual scantling proportions which nature or fashion assigns to the hard-working dwellers in the country. a handsome quick grey eye and the mouth were sufficiently expressive of character, and perhaps of temper, but there were no lines of anything sinister or surly; you could imagine a flash, but not a cloud. "barby, you are not tied at home any longer, are you?" said mrs. plumfield, coming back from the old lady and speaking rather low;--"now that hetty is here, can't your mother spare you?" "well i reckon she could, mis' plumfield,--if i could work it so that she'd be more comfortable by my being away." "then you'd have no objection to go out again?" "where to?" "fleda's uncle, you know, has taken my brother's old place, and they have no help. they want somebody to take the whole management--just you, barby. mrs. rossitur isn't strong." "nor don't want to be, does she? i've heerd tell of her. mis' plumfield, i should despise to have as many legs and arms as other folks and not be able to help myself!" "but you wouldn't despise to help other folks, i hope," said mrs. plumfield smiling. "people that want you very much too," said fleda; for she quite longed to have that strong hand and healthy eye to rely upon at home. barby looked at her with a relaxed face, and after a little consideration said "she guessed she'd try." "mis' plumfield," cried the old lady as they were moving,--"mis' plumfield, you said you'd send me a piece of pork." "i haven't forgotten it, mrs. elster--you shall have it." "well you get it out for me yourself," said the old woman speaking very energetically,--"don't you send no one else to the barrel for't; because i know you'll give me the biggest piece." mrs. plumfield laughed and promised. "i'll come up and work it out some odd day," said the daughter nodding intelligently as she followed them to the door. "we'll talk about that," said mrs. plumfield. "she was wonderful pleased with the pie," said barby, "and so was hetty; she ha'n't seen anything so good, she says, since she quit queechy." "well, barby," said mrs. plumfield, as she turned and grasped her hand, "did you remember your thanksgiving over it?" "yes, mis' plumfield," and the fine grey eyes fell to the floor,--"but i minded it only because it had come from you. i seemed to hear you saying just that out of every bone i picked." "you minded _my_ message," said the other gently. "well i don't mind the things i had ought to most," said barby in a subdued voice,--"never!--'cept mother--i ain't very apt to forget her." mrs. plumfield saw a tell-tale glittering beneath the drooping eye-lid. she added no more but a sympathetic strong squeeze of the hand she held, and turned to follow fleda who had gone on ahead. "mis' plumfield!" said barby, before they had reached the stile that led into the road, where fleda was standing,--"will i be sure of having the money regular down yonder? you know i hadn't ought to go otherways, on account of mother." "yes, it will be sure," said mrs. plumfield,--"and regular;" adding quietly, "i'll make it so." there was a bond for the whole amount in aunt miriam's eyes; and quite satisfied, barby went back to the house. "will she expect to come to our table, aunt miriam?" said fleda when they had walked a little way. "no--she will not expect that--but barby will want a different kind of managing from those irish women of yours. she won't bear to be spoken to in a way that don't suit her notions of what she thinks she deserves; and perhaps your aunt and uncle will think her notions rather high--i don't know." "there is no difficulty with aunt lucy," said fleda;--"and i guess i can manage uncle rolf--i'll try. _i_ like her very much." "barby is very poor," said mrs. plumfield; "she has nothing but her own earnings to support herself and her old mother, and now i suppose her sister and her child; for hetty is a poor thing--never did much, and now i suppose does nothing." "are those finns poor, aunt miriam?" "o no--not at all--they are very well off." "so i thought--they seemed to have plenty of everything, and silver spoons and all. but why then do they go out to work?" "they are a little too fond of getting money i expect," said aunt miriam. "and they are a queer sort of people rather--the mother is queer and the children are queer--they ain't like other folks exactly--never were." "i am very glad we are to have barby instead of that lucy finn," said fleda. "o aunt miriam! you can't think how much easier my heart feels." "poor child!" said aunt miriam looking at her. "but it isn't best, fleda, to have things work too smooth in this world." "no, i suppose not," said fleda sighing. "isn't it very strange, aunt miriam, that it should make people worse instead of better to have everything go pleasantly with them?" "it is because they are apt then to be so full of the present that they forget the care of the future." "yes, and forget there is anything better than the present, i suppose," said fleda. "so we mustn't fret at the ways our father takes to keep us from hurting ourselves?" said aunt miriam cheerfully. "o no!" said fleda, looking up brightly in answer to the tender manner in which these words were spoken;--"and i didn't mean that _this_ is much of a trouble--only i am very glad to think that somebody is coming to-morrow." aunt miriam thought that gentle unfretful face could not stand in need of much discipline. chapter xxi. wise men alway affyrme and say, that best is for a man diligently, for to apply, the business that he can. more. fleda waited for barby's coming the next day with a little anxiety. the introduction and installation however were happily got over. mrs. rossitur, as fleda knew, was most easily pleased; and barby elster's quick eye was satisfied with the unaffected and universal gentleness and politeness of her new employer. she made herself at home in half an hour; and mrs. rossitur and fleda were comforted to perceive, by unmistakeable signs, that their presence was not needed in the kitchen and they might retire to their own premises and forget there was another part of the house. fleda had forgotten it utterly, and deliciously enjoying the rest of mind and body she was stretched upon the sofa, luxuriating over some volume from her remnant of a library; when the inner door was suddenly pushed open far enough to admit the entrance of miss elster's head. "where's the soft soap?" fleda's book went down and her heart jumped to her mouth, for her uncle was sitting over by the window. mrs. rossitur looked up in a maze and waited for the question to be repeated. "i say, where's the soft soap?" "soft soap!" said mrs. rossitur,--"i don't know whether there is any.--fleda, do you know?" "i was trying to think, aunt lucy. i don't believe there is any." "_where_ is it?" said barby. "there is none, i believe," said mrs. rossitur. "where _was_ it, then?" "nowhere--there has not been any in the house," said fleda, raising herself up to see over the back of her sofa. "there ha'n't been none!" said miss elster, in a tone more significant than her words, and shutting the door as abruptly as she had opened it. "what upon earth does the woman mean?" exclaimed mr. rossitur, springing up and advancing towards the kitchen door. fleda threw herself before him. "nothing at all, uncle rolf--she doesn't mean anything at all--she doesn't know any better." "i will improve her knowledge--get out the way, fleda." "but uncle rolf, just hear me one moment--please don't!--she didn't mean any harm--these people don't know any manners--just let me speak to her, please uncle rolf!--" said fleda laying both hands upon her uncle's arms,--"i'll manage her." mr. rossitur's wrath was high, and he would have run over or knocked down anything less gentle that had stood in his way; but even the harshness of strength shuns to set itself in array against the meekness that does not _oppose_; if the touch of those hands had been a whit less light, or the glance of her eye less submissively appealing, it would have availed nothing. as it was, he stopped and looked at her, at first scowling, but then with a smile. "_you_ manage her!" said he. "yes," said fleda laughing, and now exerting her force she gently pushed him back towards the seat he had quitted,--"yes, uncle rolf--you've enough else to manage--don't undertake our 'help.' deliver over all your displeasure upon me when anything goes wrong--i will be the conductor to carry it off safely into the kitchen and discharge it just at that point where i think it will do most execution. now will you, uncle rolf?--because we have got a new-fashioned piece of firearms in the other room that i am afraid will go off unexpectedly if it is meddled with by an unskilful hand;--and that would leave us without arms, you see, or with only aunt lucy's and mine, which are not reliable." "you saucy girl!"--said her uncle, who was laughing partly at and partly with her,--"i don't know what you deserve exactly.--well--keep this precious new operative of yours out of my way and i'll take care to keep out of hers. but mind, you must manage not to have your piece snapping in my face in this fashion, for i won't stand it." and so, quieted, mr. rossitur sat down to his book again; and fleda leaving hers open went to attend upon barby. "there ain't much yallow soap neither," said this personage,--"if this is all. there's one thing--if we ha'n't got it we can make it. i must get mis' rossitur to have a leach-tub sot up right away. i'm a dreadful hand for havin' plenty o' soap." "what is a leach-tub?" said fleda. "why, a leach-tub, for to leach ashes in. that's easy enough. i'll fix it, afore we're any on us much older. if mr. rossitur'll keep me in good hard wood i sha'n't cost him hardly anything for potash." "i'll see about it," said fleda, "and i will see about having the leach-tub, or whatever it is, put up for you. and barby, whenever you want anything, will you just speak to me about it?--and if i am in the other room ask me to come out here. because my aunt is not strong, and does not know where things are as well as i do; and when my uncle is in there he sometimes does not like to be disturbed with hearing any such talk. if you'll tell me i'll see and have everything done for you." "well--you get me a leach sot up--that's all i'll ask of you just now," said barby good-humouredly; "and help me to find the soap-grease, if there is any. as to the rest, i don't want to see nothin' o' him in the kitchen so i'll relieve him if he don't want to see much o' me in the parlour.--i shouldn't wonder if there wa'n't a speck of it in the house." not a speck was there to be found. "your uncle's pockets must ha' had a good hole in 'em by this time," remarked barby as they came back from the cellar. "however, there never was a crock so empty it couldn't be filled. you get me a leach-tub sot up, and i'll find work for it." from that time fleda had no more trouble with her uncle and barby. each seemed to have a wholesome appreciation of the other's combative qualities and to shun them. with mrs. rossitur barby was soon all-powerful. it was enough that she wanted a thing, if mrs rossitur's own resources could compass it. for fleda, to say that barby had presently a perfect understanding with her and joined to that a most affectionate careful regard, is not perhaps saying much; for it was true of every one without exception with whom fleda had much to do. barby was to all of them a very great comfort and stand-by. it was well for them that they had her within doors to keep things, as she called it, "right and tight;" for abroad the only system in vogue was one of fluctuation and uncertainty. mr. rossitur's irishman, donohan, staid his year out, doing as little good and as much at least negative harm as he well could; and then went, leaving them a good deal poorer than he found them. dr. gregory's generosity had added to mr. rossitur's own small stock of ready money, giving him the means to make some needed outlays on the farm. but the outlay, ill-applied, had been greater than the income; a scarcity of money began to be more and more felt; and the comfort of the family accordingly drew within more and more narrow bounds. the temper of the head of the family suffered in at least equal degree. from the first of barby's coming poor fleda had done her utmost to prevent the want of mons. emile from being felt. mr. rossitur's table was always set by her careful hand, and all the delicacies that came upon it were, unknown to him, of her providing. even the bread. one day at breakfast mr. rossitur had expressed his impatient displeasure at that of miss elster's manufacture. fleda saw the distressed shade that came over her aunt's face, and took her resolution. it was the last time. she had followed her plan of sending for the receipts, and she studied them diligently, both at home and under aunt miriam. natural quickness of eye and hand came in aid of her affectionate zeal, and it was not long before she could trust herself to undertake any operation in the whole range of her cookery book. but meanwhile materials were growing scarce and hard to come by. the delicate french rolls which were now always ready for her uncle's plate in the morning had sometimes nothing to back them, unless the unfailing water cress from the good little spring in the meadow. fleda could not spare her eggs, for perhaps they might have nothing else to depend upon for dinner. it was no burden to her to do these things; she had a sufficient reward in seeing that her aunt and hugh eat the better and that her uncle's brow was clear; but it _was_ a burden when her hands were tied by the lack of means; for she knew the failure of the usual supply was bitterly felt, not for the actual want, but for that other want which it implied and prefigured. on the first dismissal of donohan fleda hoped for a good turn of affairs. but mr. rossitur, disgusted with his first experiment, resolved this season to be his own head man; and appointed lucas springer the second in command, with a posse of labourers to execute his decrees. it did not work well. mr. rossitur found he had a very tough prime minister, who would have every one of his plans to go through a kind of winnowing process by being tossed about in an argument. the arguments were interminable, until mr. rossitur not unfrequently quit the field with, "well, do what you like about it!"--not conquered, but wearied. the labourers, either from want of ready money or of what they called "manners" in their employer, fell off at the wrong times, just when they were most wanted. hugh threw himself then into the breach and wrought beyond his strength; and that tried fleda worst of all. she was glad to see haying and harvest pass over; but the change of seasons seemed to bring only a change of disagreeableness, and she could not find that hope had any better breathing-time in the short days of winter than in the long days of summer. her gentle face grew more gentle than ever, for under the shade of sorrowful patience which was always there now its meekness had no eclipse. mrs. rossitur was struck with it one morning. she was coming down from her room and saw fleda standing on the landing-place gazing out of the window. it was before breakfast one cold morning in winter. mrs. rossitur put her arms round her softly and kissed her. "what are you thinking about, dear fleda?--you ought not to be standing here." "i was looking at hugh," said fleda, and her eye went back to the window. mrs. rossitur's followed it. the window gave them a view of the ground behind the house; and there was hugh, just coming in with a large armful of heavy wood which he had been sawing. "he isn't strong enough to do that, aunt lucy," said fleda softly. "i know it," said his mother in a subdued tone, and not moving her eye, though hugh had disappeared. "it is too cold for him--he is too thinly clad to bear this exposure," said fleda anxiously. "i know it," said his mother again. "can't you tell uncle rolf?--can't you get him to do it? i am afraid hugh will hurt himself, aunt lucy." "i did tell him the other day--i did speak to him about it," said mrs. rossitur; "but he said there was no reason why hugh should do it,--there were plenty of other people--" "but how can he say so when he knows we never can ask lucas to do anything of the kind, and that other man always contrives to be out of the way when he is wanted?--oh what is he thinking of?" said fleda bitterly, as she saw hugh again at his work. it was so rarely that fleda was seen to shed tears that they always were a signal of dismay to any of the household. there was even agony in mrs. rossitur's voice as she implored her not to give way to them. but notwithstanding that, fleda's tears came this time from too deep a spring to be stopped at once. "it makes me feel as if all was lost, fleda, when i see you do so,"-- fleda put her arms about her neck and whispered that "she would not"--that "she should not"-- yet it was a little while before she could say any more. "but, aunt lucy, he doesn't know what he is doing!" "no--and i can't make him know. i cannot say anything more, fleda--it would do no good. i don't know what is the matter--he is entirely changed from what he used to be--" "i know what is the matter," said fleda, now turning comforter in her turn as her aunt's tears fell more quietly, because more despairingly, than her own,--"i know what it is--he is not happy;--that is all. he has not succeeded well in these farm doings, and he wants money, and he is worried--it is no wonder if he don't seem exactly as he used to." "and oh, that troubles me most of all!" said mrs. rossitur. "the farm is bringing in nothing, i know,--he don't know how to get along with it,--i was afraid it would be so;--and we are paying nothing to uncle orrin--and it is just a dead weight on his hands;--and i can't bear to think of it!--and what will it come to!--" mrs. rossitur was now in her turn surprised into shewing the strength of her sorrows and apprehensions. fleda was fain to put her own out of sight and bend her utmost powers to soothe and compose her aunt, till they could both go down to the breakfast table. she had got ready a nice little dish that her uncle was very fond of; but her pleasure in it was all gone; and indeed it seemed to be thrown away upon the whole table. half the meal was over before anybody said a word. "i am going to wash my hands of these miserable farm affairs," said mr. rossitur. "are you?" said his wife. "yes,--of all personal concern in them, that is. i am wearied to death with the perpetual annoyances and vexations, and petty calls upon my time--life is not worth having at such a rate! i'll have done with it." "you will give up the entire charge to lucas?" said mrs. rossitur. [illustration: "o uncle rolf, don't have anything to do with him."] "lucas!--no!--i wouldn't undergo that man's tongue for another year if he would take out his wages in talking. i could not have more of it in that case than i have had the last six months. after money, the thing that man loves best is certainly the sound of his own voice; and a most insufferable egotist! no,--i have been talking with a man who wants to take the whole farm for two years upon shares--that will clear me of all trouble." there was sober silence for a few minutes, and then mrs. rossitur asked who it was. "his name is didenhover." "o uncle rolf, don't have anything to do with him!" exclaimed fleda. "why not?" "because he lived with grandpa a great while ago, and behaved very ill. grandpa had a great deal of trouble with him." "how old were you then?" "i was young, to be sure," said fleda hanging her head, "but i remember very well how it was." "you may have occasion to remember it a second time," said mr. rossitur dryly, "for the thing is done. i have engaged him." not another word was spoken. mr. rossitur went out after breakfast, and mrs. rossitur busied herself with the breakfast cups and a tub of hot water, a work she never would let fleda share with her and which lasted in consequence long enough, barby said, to cook and eat three breakfasts. fleda and hugh sat looking at the floor and the fire respectively. "i am going up the hill to get a sight of aunt miriam," said fleda, bringing her eyes from the fire upon her aunt. "well, dear, do. you have been shut up long enough by the snow. wrap yourself up well, and put on my snow-boots." "no indeed!" said fleda. "i shall just draw on another pair of stockings over my shoes, within my india-rubbers--i will take a pair of hugh's woollen ones." "what has become of your own?" said hugh. "my own what? stockings?" "snow-boots." "worn out, mr. rossitur! i have run them to death, poor things. is that a slight intimation that you are afraid of the same fate for your socks?" "no," said hugh, smiling in spite of himself at her manner,--"i will lend you anything i have got, fleda." his tone put fleda in mind of the very doubtful pretensions of the socks in question to be comprehended under the term; she was silent a minute. "will you go with me, hugh?" "no dear, i can't;--i must get a little ahead with the wood while i can; it looks as if it would snow again; and barby isn't provided for more than a day or two." "and how for this fire?" hugh shook his head, and rose up to go forth into the kitchen. fleda went too, linking her arm in his and bearing affectionately upon it, a sort of tacit saying that they would sink or swim together. hugh understood it perfectly. "i am very sorry you have to do it, dear hugh--oh that wood-shed!--if it had only been made!--" "never mind--can't help it now--we shall get through the winter by and by." "can't you get uncle rolf to help you a little?" whispered fleda;--"it would do him good." but hugh only shook his head. "what are we going to do for dinner, barby?" said fleda, still holding hugh there before the fire. "ain't much choice," said barby. "it would puzzle anybody to spell much more out of it than pork and ham. there's plenty o' them. _i_ shan't starve this some time." "but we had ham yesterday and pork the day before yesterday and ham monday," said fleda. "there is plenty of vegetables, thanks to you and me, hugh," she said with a little reminding squeeze of his arm. "i could make soups nicely, if i had anything to make them of!" "there's enough to be had for the catching," said barby. "if i hadn't a man-mountain of work upon me, i'd start out and shoot or steal something." "_you_ shoot, barby!" said fleda laughing. "i guess i can do most anything i set my hand to. if i couldn't i'd shoot myself. it won't do to kill no more o' them chickens." "o no,--now they are laying so finely. well, i am going up the hill, and when i come home i'll try and make up something, barby." "earl douglass'll go out in the woods now and then, of a day when he ha'n't no work particular to do, and fetch hum as many pigeons and woodchucks as you could shake a stick at." "hugh, my dear," said fleda laughing, "it's a pity you aren't a hunter--i would shake a stick at you with great pleasure. well, barby, we will see when i come home." "i was just a thinkin," said barby;--"mis' douglass sent round to know if mis' rossitur would like a piece of fresh meat--earl's been killing a sheep--there's a nice quarter, she says, if she'd like to have it." "a quarter of mutton?"--said fleda,--"i don't know--no, i think not, barby; i don't know when we should be able to pay it back again.--and yet--hugh, do you think uncle rolf will kill another sheep this winter?" "i am sure he will not," said hugh;--"there have so many died." "if he only knowed it, that is a reason for killing more," said barby,--" and have the good of them while he can." "tell mrs. douglass we are obliged to her, but we do not want the mutton, barby." hugh went to his chopping and fleda set out upon her walk; the lines of her face settling into a most fixed gravity so soon as she turned away from the house. it was what might be called a fine winter's day; cold and still, and the sky covered with one uniform grey cloud. the snow lay in uncompromising whiteness thick over all the world; a kindly shelter for the young grain and covering for the soil; but fleda's spirits just then in another mood saw in it only the cold refusal to hope and the barren check to exertion. the wind had cleared the snow from the trees and fences, and they stood in all their unsoftened blackness and nakedness, bleak and stern. the high grey sky threatened a fresh fall of snow in a few hours; it was just now a lull between two storms; and fleda's spirits, that sometimes would have laughed in the face of nature's soberness, to-day sank to its own quiet. her pace neither slackened nor quickened till she reached aunt miriam's house and entered the kitchen. aunt miriam was in high tide of business over a pot of boiling lard, and the enormous bread-tray by the side of the fire was half full of very tempting light-brown cruller, which however were little more than a kind of sweet bread for the workmen. in the bustle of putting in and taking out aunt miriam could give her visitor but a word and a look. fleda pulled off her hood and sitting down watched in unusual silence the old lady's operations. "and how are they all at your house to-day?" aunt miriam asked as she was carefully draining her cruller out of the kettle. fleda answered that they were as well as usual, but a slight hesitation and the tell-tale tone of her voice made the old lady look at her more narrowly. she came near and kissed that gentle brow and looking in her eyes asked her what the matter was? "i don't know,--" said fleda, eyes and voice wavering alike,--"i am foolish, i believe,--" aunt miriam tenderly put aside the hair from her forehead and kissed it again, but the cruller was burning and she went back to the kettle. "i got down-hearted somehow this morning," fleda went on, trying to steady her voice and school herself. "_you_ down-hearted, dear? about what?" there was a world of sympathy in these words, in the warmth of which fleda's shut-up heart unfolded itself at once. "it's nothing new, aunt miriam,--only somehow i felt it particularly this morning,--i have been kept in the house so long by this snow i have got dumpish i suppose.--" aunt miriam looked anxiously at the tears which seemed to come involuntarily, but she said nothing. "we are not getting along well at home." "i supposed that," said mrs. plumfield quietly. "but anything new?" "yes--uncle rolf has let the farm--only think of it!--he has let the farm to that didenhover." "didenhover!" "for two years." "did you tell him what you knew about him?" "yes, but it was too late--the mischief was done." aunt miriam went on skimming out her cruller with a very grave face. "how came your uncle to do so without learning about him first?" "o i don't know!--he was in a hurry to do anything that would take the trouble of the farm off his hands,--he don't like it." "on what terms has he let him have it?" "on shares--and i know, i know, under that didenhover it will bring us in nothing, and it has brought us in nothing all the time we have been here; and i don't know what we are going to live upon."-- "has your uncle nor your aunt no property at all left?" "not a bit--except some waste lands in michigan i believe, that were left to aunt lucy a year or two ago; but they are as good as nothing." "has he let didenhover have the saw-mill too?" "i don't know--he didn't say--if he has there will be nothing at all left for us to live upon. i expect nothing from didenhover,--his face is enough. i should have thought it might have been for uncle rolf. o if it wasn't for aunt lucy and hugh i shouldn't care!--" "what has your uncle been doing all this year past?" "i don't know, aunt miriam,--he can't bear the business and he has left the most of it to lucas; and i think lucas is more of a talker than a doer. almost nothing has gone right. the crops have been ill managed--i do not know a great deal about it, but i know enough for that; and uncle rolf did not know anything about it but what he got from books. and the sheep are dying off--barby says it is because they were in such poor condition at the beginning of winter, and i dare say she is right." "he ought to have had a thorough good man at the beginning, to get along well." "o yes!--but he hadn't, you see; and so we have just been growing poorer every month. and now, aunt miriam, i really don't know from day to day what to do to get dinner. you know for a good while after we came we used to have our marketing brought every few days from albany; but we have run up such a bill there already at the butcher's as i don't know when in the world will get paid; and aunt lucy and i will do anything before we will send for any more; and if it wasn't for her and hugh i wouldn't care, but they haven't much appetite, and i know that all this takes what little they have away--this, and seeing the effect it has upon uncle rolf----" "does he think so much more of eating than of anything else?" said aunt miriam. "oh no, it is not that!" said fleda earnestly,--"it is not that at all--he is not a great eater--but he can't bear to have things different from what they used to be and from what they ought to be--o no, don't think that! i don't know whether i ought to have said what i have said, but i couldn't help it--" fleda's voice was lost for a little while. "he is changed from what he used to be--a little thing vexes him now, and i know it is because he is not happy;--he used to be so kind and pleasant, and he is still, sometimes; but aunt lucy's face--oh aunt miriam!--" "why, dear?" said aunt miriam, tenderly. "it is so changed from what it used to be!" poor fleda covered her own, and aunt miriam came to her side to give softer and gentler expression to sympathy than words could do; till the bowed face was raised again and hid in her neck. "i can't see thee do so my child--my dear child!--hope for brighter days, dear fleda." "i could bear it," said fleda after a little interval, "if it wasn't for aunt lucy and hugh--oh that is the worst!--" "what about hugh?" said aunt miriam, soothingly. "oh he does what he ought not to do, aunt miriam, and there is no help for it,--and he did last summer--when we wanted men; and in the hot haying-time, he used to work, i know, beyond his strength,--and aunt lucy and i did not know what to do with ourselves!--" fleda's head which had been raised sunk again and more heavily. "where was his father?" said mrs. plumfield. "oh he was in the house--he didn't know it--he didn't think about it." "didn't think about it!" "no--o he didn't think hugh was hurting himself, but he was--he shewed it for weeks afterward.--i have said what i ought not now," said fleda looking up and seeming to check her tears and the spring of them at once. "so much security any woman has in a man without religion!" said aunt miriam, going back to her work. fleda would have said something if she could; she was silent; she stood looking into the fire while the tears seemed to come as it were by stealth and ran down her face unregarded. "is hugh not well?" "i don't know,--" said fleda faintly,--"he is not ill--but he never was very strong, and he exposes himself now i know in a way he ought not.--i am sorry i have just come and troubled you with all this now, aunt miriam," she said after a little pause,--"i shall feel better by and by--i don't very often get such a fit." "my dear little fleda!"--and there was unspeakable tenderness in the old lady's voice, as she came up and drew fleda's head again to rest upon her;--"i would not let a rough wind touch thee if i had the holding of it.--but we may be glad the arranging of things is not in my hand--i should be a poor friend after all, for i do not know what is best. canst thou trust him who does know, my child?" "i do, aunt miriam,--o i do," said fleda, burying her face in her bosom;--"i don't often feel so as i did to-day." "there comes not a cloud that its shadow is not wanted," said aunt miriam. "i cannot see why,--but it is that thou mayest bloom the brighter, my dear one." "i know it,--" fleda's words were hardly audible,--"i will try--" "remember his own message to every one under a cloud--'cast all thy care upon him, for he careth for thee;'--thou mayest keep none of it;--and then the peace that passeth understanding shall keep thee. 'so he giveth his beloved sleep.'" fleda wept for a minute on the old lady's neck, and then she looked up, dried her tears, and sat down with a face greatly quieted and lightened of its burden; while aunt miriam once more went back to her work. the one wrought and the other looked on in silence. the cruller were all done at last; the great bread-trough was filled and set away; the remnant of the fat was carefully disposed of, and aunt miriam's handmaid was called in to "take the watch." she herself and her visitor adjourned to the sitting-room. "well," said fleda, in a tone again steady and clear,--"i must go home to see about getting up a dinner. i am the greatest hand at making something out of nothing, aunt miriam, that ever you saw. there is nothing like practice. i only wish the man uncle orrin talks about would come along once in a while." "who was that?" said aunt miriam. "a man that used to go about from house to house," said fleda laughing, "when the cottages were making soup, with a ham-bone to give it a relish, and he used to charge them so much for a dip, and so much for a wallop." "come, come, i can do as much for you as that," said aunt miriam, proceeding to her store-pantry,--"see here--wouldn't this be as good as a ham-bone?" said she, bringing out of it a fat fowl;--"how would a wallop of this do?" "admirably!--only--the ham-bone used to come out again,--and i am confident this never would." "well i guess i'll stand that," said aunt miriam smiling,--"you wouldn't mind carrying this under your cloak, would you?" "i have no doubt i shall go home lighter with it than without it, ma'am,--thank you, dear aunty!--dear aunt miriam!" there was a change of tone, and of eye, as fleda sealed each thank with a kiss. "but how is it?--does all the charge of the house come upon you, dear?" "o, this kind of thing, because aunt lucy doesn't understand it and can't get along with it so well. she likes better to sew, and i had quite as lief do this." "and don't you sew too?" "o--a little. she does as much as she can," said fleda gravely. "where is your other cousin?" said mrs. plumfield abruptly. "marion?--she is in england i believe;--we don't hear from her very often." "no, no, i mean the one who is in the army?" "charlton!--o he is just ordered off to mexico," said fleda sadly, "and that is another great trouble to aunt lucy. this miserable war!--" "does he never come home?" "only once since we came from paris--while we were in new york. he has been stationed away off at the west." "he has a captain's pay now, hasn't he?" "yes, but he doesn't know at all how things are at home--he hasn't an idea of it,--and he will not have. well good-bye, dear aunt miriam--i must run home to take care of my chicken." she ran away; and if her eyes many a time on the way down the hill filled and overflowed, they were not bitter nor dark tears; they were the gushings of high and pure and generous affections, weeping for fulness, not for want. that chicken was not wasted in soup; it was converted into the nicest possible little fricassee, because the toast would make so much more of it; and to fleda's own dinner little went beside the toast, that a greater portion of the rest might be for her aunt and hugh. that same evening seth plumfield came into the kitchen while fleda was there. "here is something belongs to you, i believe," said he with a covert smile, bringing out from under his cloak the mate to fleda's fowl;--"mother said somethin' had run away with t'other one and she didn't know what to do with this one alone. your uncle at home?" the next news that fleda heard was that seth had taken a lease of the saw-mill for two years. mr. didenhover did not disappoint fleda's expectations. very little could be got from him or the farm under him beyond the immediate supply wanted for the use of the family; and that in kind, not in cash. mrs. rossitur was comforted by knowing that some portion of rent had also gone to dr. gregory--how large or how small a portion she could not find out. but this left the family in increasing straits, which narrowed and narrowed during the whole first summer and winter of didenhover's administration. very straitened they would have been but for the means of relief adopted by the two _children_, as they were always called. hugh, as soon as the spring opened, had a quiet hint, through fleda, that if he had a mind to take the working of the saw-mill he might, for a consideration merely nominal. this offer was immediately and gratefully closed with; and hugh's earnings were thenceforward very important at home. fleda had her own ways and means. mr. rossitur, more low-spirited and gloomy than ever, seemed to have no heart to anything. he would have worked perhaps if he could have done it alone; but to join didenhover and his men, or any other gang of workmen, was too much for his magnanimity. he helped nobody but fleda. for her he would do anything, at any time; and in the garden and among her flowers in the flowery courtyard he might often be seen at work with her. but nowhere else. chapter xxii. some bring a capon, some a rurall cake, some nuts, some apples; some that thinke they make the better cheeses, bring 'hem; or else send by their ripe daughters, whom they would commend this way to husbands; and whose baskets beare an embleme of themselves, in plum or peare. ben jonson. so the time walked away, for this family was not now of those "whom time runneth withal,"--to the second summer of mr. didenhover's term. one morning mrs. rossitur was seated in the breakfast-room at her usual employment, mending and patching; no sinecure now. fleda opened the kitchen door and came in folding up a calico apron she had just taken off. "you are tired, dear," said mrs. rossitur sorrowfully;--"you look pale." "do i?"--said fleda, sitting down. "i am a little tired!" "why do you do so?" "o it's nothing" said fleda cheerfully;--"i haven't hurt myself. i shall be rested again in a few minutes." "what have you been doing?" "o i tired myself a little before breakfast in the garden, i suppose. aunt lucy, don't you think i had almost a bushel of peas?--and there was a little over a half bushel last time, so i shall call it a bushel. isn't that fine?" "you didn't pick them all yourself?" "hugh helped me a little while; but he had the horse to get ready, and i was out before him this morning--poor fellow, he was tired from yesterday, i dare say." mrs. rossitur looked at her, a look between remonstrance and reproach, and cast her eyes down without saying a word, swallowing a whole heartful of thoughts and feelings. fleda stooped forward till her own forehead softly touched mrs. rossitur's, as gentle a chiding of despondency as a very sunbeam could have given. "now aunt lucy!--what do you mean? don't you know it's good for me?--and do you know, mr. sweet will give me four shillings a bushel; and aunt lucy, i sent three dozen heads of lettuce this morning besides. isn't that doing well? and i sent two dozen day before yesterday. it is time they were gone, for they are running up to seed, this set; i have got another fine set almost ready." mrs. rossitur looked at her again, as if she had been a sort of terrestrial angel. "and how much will you get for them?" "i don't know exactly--threepence, or sixpence perhaps,--i guess not so much--they are so easily raised; though i don't believe there are so fine as mine to be seen in this region.--if i only had somebody to water the strawberries!--we should have a great many. aunt lucy, i am going to send as many as i can without robbing uncle rolf--he sha'n't miss them; but the rest of us don't mind eating rather fewer than usual? i shall make a good deal by them. and i think these morning rides do hugh good; don't you think so?" "and what have you been busy about ever since breakfast, fleda?" "o--two or three things," said fleda lightly. "what?" "i had bread to make--and then i thought while my hands were in i would make a custard for uncle rolf." "you needn't have done that, dear! it was not necessary." "yes it was, because you know we have only fried pork for dinner to-day, and while we have the milk and eggs it doesn't cost much--the sugar is almost nothing. he will like it better, and so will hugh. as for you," said fleda, gently touching her forehead again, "you know it is of no consequence!" "i wish you would think yourself of some consequence," said mrs. rossitur. "don't i think myself of consequence!" naid fleda affectionately. "i don't know how you'd all get on without me. what do you think i have a mind to do now, by way of resting myself?" "well?" said mrs rossitur, thinking of something else. "it is the day for making presents to the minister, you know?" "the minister?"-- "yes, the new minister--they expect him to-day;--you have heard of it;--the things are all to be carried to his house to-day. i have a great notion to go and see the fun--if i only had anything in the world i could possibly take with me--" "aren't you too tired, dear?" "no--it would rest me--it is early yet--if i only had something to take!--i couldn't go without taking something----" "a basket of eggs?" said mrs. rossitur. "can't, aunt lucy--i can't spare them; so many of the hens are setting now.--a basket of strawberries!--that's the thing! i've got enough picked for that and to-night too. that will do!" fleda's preparations were soon made, and with her basket on her arm she was ready to set forth. "if pride had not been a little put down in me," she said smiling, "i suppose i should rather stay at home than go with such a petty offering. and no doubt every one that sees it or hears of it will lay it to anything but the right reason. so much the world knows about the people it judges!--it is too bad to leave you all alone, aunt lucy." mrs. rossitur pulled her down for a kiss, a kiss in which how much was said on both sides!--and fleda set forth, choosing as she very commonly did the old-time way through the kitchen. "off again?" said barby, who was on her knees scrubbing the great flag-stones of the hearth. "yes, i am going up to see the donation party." "has the minister come?" "no, but he is coming to-day, i understand." "he ha'n't preached for 'em yet, has he?" "not yet; i suppose he will next sunday." "they are in a mighty hurry to give him a donation party!" said barby. "i'd ha' waited till he was here first. i don't believe they'd be quite so spry with their donations if they had paid the last man up as they ought. i'd rather give a man what belongs to him, and make him presents afterwards." "why, so i hope they will, barby," said fleda laughing. but barby said no more. the parsonage-house was about a quarter of a mile, a little more, from the saw-mill, in a line at right angles with the main road. fleda took hugh from his work to see her safe there. the road ran north, keeping near the level of the mid-hill where it branched off a little below the saw-mill; and as the ground continued rising towards the east and was well clothed with woods, the way at this hour was still pleasantly shady. to the left the same slope of ground carried down to the foot of the hill gave them an uninterrupted view over a wide plain or bottom, edged in the distance with a circle of gently swelling hills. close against the hills, in the far corner of the plain, lay the little village of queechy run, hid from sight by a slight intervening rise of ground; not a chimney shewed itself in the whole spread of country. a sunny landscape just now; but rich in picturesque associations of hay-cocks and winnows, spotting it near and far; and close by below them was a field of mowers at work; they could distinctly hear the measured rush of the scythes through the grass, and then the soft clink of the rifles would seem to play some old delicious tune of childish days. fleda made hugh stand still to listen. it was a warm day, but "the sweet south that breathes upon a bank of violets," could hardly be more sweet than the air which coming to them over the whole breadth of the valley had been charged by the new-made hay. "how good it is, hugh," said fleda, "that one can get out of doors and forget everything that ever happened or ever will happen within four walls!" "do you?" said hugh, rather soberly. "yes i do,--even in my flower-patch, right before the house-door; but _here_--" said fleda, turning away and swinging her basket of strawberries as she went, "i have no idea i ever did such a thing as make bread!--and how clothes get mended i do not comprehend in the least!" "and have you forgotten the peas and the asparagus too?" "i am afraid you haven't, dear hugh," said fleda, linking her arm within his. "hugh,--i must find some way to make money." "more money?" said hugh smiling. "yes--this garden business is all very well, but it doesn't come to any very great things after all, if you are aware of it; and, hugh, i want to get aunt lucy a new dress. i can't bear to see her in that old merino, and it isn't good for her. why, hugh, she couldn't possibly see anybody, if anybody should come to the house." "who is there to come?" said hugh. "why nobody; but still, she ought not to be so." "what more can you do, dear fleda? you work a great deal too hard already," said hugh sighing. "you should have seen the way father and mother looked at you last night when you were asleep on the sofa." fleda stifled her sigh, and went on. "i am sure there are things that might be done--things for the booksellers--translating, or copying, or something,--i don't know exactly--i have heard of people's doing such things. i mean to write to uncle orrin and ask him. i am sure he can manage it for me." "what were you writing the other night?" said hugh suddenly. "when?" "the other night--when you were writing by the firelight? i saw your pencil scribbling away at a furious rate over the paper, and you kept your hand up carefully between me and your face, but i could see it was something very interesting. ha?--" said hugh, laughingly trying to get another view of fleda's face which was again kept from him. "send _that_ to uncle orrin, fleda;--or shew it to me first and then i will tell you." fleda made no answer; and at the parsonage door hugh left her. two or three wagons were standing there, but nobody to be seen. fleda went up the steps and crossed the broad piazza, brown and unpainted, but picturesque still, and guided by the sound of tongues turned to the right where she found a large low room, the very centre of the stir. but the stir had not by any means reached the height yet. not more than a dozen people were gathered. here were aunt syra and mrs. douglass, appointed a committee to receive and dispose the offerings as they were brought in. "why there is not much to be seen yet," said fleda. "i did not know i was so early." "time enough," said mrs. douglass. "they'll come the thicker when they do come. good-morning, dr. quackenboss!--i hope you're a going to give us something else besides a bow? and i won't take none of your physic, neither." "i humbly submit," said the doctor graciously, "that nothing ought to be expected of gentlemen that--a--are so unhappy as to be alone; for they really--a--have nothing to give,--but themselves." there was a shout of merriment. "and suppos'n that's a gift that nobody wants?" said mrs, douglass's sharp eye and voice at once. "in that case," said the doctor, "i really--miss ringgan, may i--a--may i relieve your hand of this fair burden?" "it is not a very fair burden, sir," said fleda, laughing and relinquishing her strawberries. "ah but, fair, you know, i mean,--we speak--in that sense----mrs douglass, here is by far the most elegant offering that your hands will have the honour of receiving this day." "i hope so," said mrs. douglass, "or there won't be much to eat for the minister. did you never take notice how elegant things somehow made folks grow poor?" "i guess he'd as leave see something a little substantial," said aunt syra. "well now," said the doctor, "here is miss ringgan, who is unquestionably--a--elegant!--and i am sure nobody will say that she--looks poor!" in one sense, surely not! there could not be two opinions. but with all the fairness of health, and the flush which two or three feelings had brought to her cheeks, there was a look as if the workings of the mind had refined away a little of the strength of the physical frame, and as if growing poor in mrs. douglass's sense, that is, thin, might easily be the next step. "what's your uncle going to give us, fleda?" said aunt syra. but fleda was saved replying; for mrs. douglass, who if she was sharp could be good-natured too, and had watched to see how fleda took the double fire upon elegance and poverty, could beat no more trial of that sweet gentle face. without giving her time to answer she carried her off to see the things already stored in the closet, bidding the doctor over her shoulder "be off after his goods, whether he had got 'em or no." there was certainly a promising beginning made for the future minister's comfort. one shelf was already completely stocked with pies, and another shewed a quantity of cake, and biscuits enough to last a good-sized family for several meals. "that is always the way," said mrs. douglass;--"it's the strangest thing that folks has no sense! now one-half o' them pies'll be dried up afore they can eat the rest;--'tain't much loss, for mis' prin sent 'em down, and if they are worth anything it's the first time anything ever come out of her house that was. now look at them biscuit!"-- "how many are coming to eat them?" said fleda. "how?" "how large a family has the minister?" "he ha'n't a bit of a family! he ain't married." "not!" at the grave way in which mrs. douglass faced around upon her and answered, and at the idea of a single mouth devoted to all that closetful, fleda's gravity gave place to most uncontrollable merriment. "no," said mrs. douglass, with a curious twist of her mouth but commanding herself,--"he ain't to be sure--not yet. he ha'n't any family but himself and some sort of a housekeeper, i suppose; they'll divide the house between 'em." "and the biscuits, i hope," said fleda. "but what will he do with all the other things, mrs. douglass?" "sell 'em if he don't want 'em," said mrs. douglass quizzically. "shut up, fleda, i forget who sent them biscuit--somebody that calculated to make a shew for a little, i reckon.--my sakes! i believe it was mis' springer herself!--she didn't hear me though," said mrs. douglass peeping out of the half-open door. "it's a good thing the world ain't all alike;--there's mis' plumfield--stop now, and i'll tell you all she sent;--that big jar of lard, there's as good as eighteen or twenty pound,--and that basket of eggs, i don't know how many there is,--and that cheese, a real fine one i'll be bound, she wouldn't pick out the worst in her dairy,--and seth fetched down a hundred weight of corn meal and another of rye flour; now that's what i call doing things something like; if everybody else would keep up their end as well as they keep up their'n the world wouldn't be quite so one-sided as it is. i never see the time yet when i couldn't tell where to find mis' plumfield." "no, nor anybody else," said fleda looking happy. "there's mis' silbert couldn't find nothing better to send than a kag of soap," mrs. douglass went on, seeming very much amused;--"i _was_ beat when i saw that walk in! i should think she'd feel streaked to come here by and by and see it a standing between mis' plumfield's lard and mis' clavering's pork--that's a handsome kag of pork, ain't it? what's that man done with your strawberries?--i'll put 'em up here afore somebody takes a notion to 'em.--i'll let the minister know who he's got to thank for 'em," said she, winking at fleda. "where's dr. quackenboss?" "coming, ma'am!" sounded from the hall, and forthwith at the open door entered the doctor's head, simultaneously with a large cheese which he was rolling before him, the rest of the doctor's person being thrown into the background in consequence. a curious natural representation of a wheelbarrow, the wheel being the only artificial part. "oh!--that's you, doctor, is it?" said mrs. douglass. "this is me, ma'am," said the doctor, rolling up to the closet door,--"this has the honour to be--a--myself,--bringing my service to the feet of miss ringgan." "'tain't very elegant," said the sharp lady. fleda thought if his service was at her feet, her feet should be somewhere else, and accordingly stepped quietly out of the way and went to one of the windows, from whence she could have a view both of the comers and the come; and by this time thoroughly in the spirit of the thing she used her eyes upon both with great amusement. people were constantly arriving now, in wagons and on foot; and stores of all kinds were most literally pouring in. bags and even barrels of meal, flour, pork, and potatoes; strings of dried apples, _salt_, hams and beef; hops, pickles, vinegar, maple sugar and molasses; rolls of fresh butter, cheese, and eggs; cake, bread, and pies, without end. mr. penny, the storekeeper, sent a box of tea. mr. winegar, the carpenter, a new ox-sled. earl douglass brought a handsome axe-helve of his own fashioning; his wife a quantity of rolls of wool. zan finn carted a load of wood into the wood-shed, and squire thornton another. home-made candles, custards, preserves, and smoked liver, came in a batch from two or three miles off up on the mountain. half a dozen chairs from the factory man. half a dozen brooms from the other store-keeper at the deepwater settlement. a carpet for the best room from the ladies of the township, who had clubbed forces to furnish it; and a home-made concern it was, from the shears to the loom. the room was full now, for every one after depositing his gift turned aside to see what others had brought and were bringing; and men and women, the young and old, had their several circles of gossip in various parts of the crowd. apart from them all fleda sat in her window, probably voted "elegant" by others than the doctor, for they vouchsafed her no more than a transitory attention and sheered off to find something more congenial. she sat watching the people; smiling very often as some odd figure, or look, or some peculiar turn of expression or tone of voice, caught her ear or her eye. both ear and eye were fastened by a young countryman with a particularly fresh face whom she saw approaching the house. he came up on foot, carrying a single fowl slung at his back by a stick thrown across his shoulder, and without stirring hat or stick he came into the room and made his way through the crowd of people, looking to the one hand and the other evidently in a maze of doubt to whom he should deliver himself and his chicken, till brought up by mrs. douglass's sharp voice. "well, philetus! what are you looking for?" "do, mis' douglass!"--it is impossible to express the abortive attempt at a bow which accompanied this salutation,--"i want to know if the minister 'll be in town to-day?" "what do you want of him?" "i don't want nothin' of him. i want to know if he'll be in town to-day?" "yes--i expect he'll be along directly--why, what then?" "cause i've got ten chickens for him here, and mother said they hadn't ought to be kept no longer, and if he wa'n't to hum i were to fetch 'em back, straight." "well he'll be here, so let's have 'em," said mrs. douglass biting her lips. "what's become o' t'other one?" said earl, as the young man's stick was brought round to the table;--"i guess you've lost it, ha'n't you?" "my gracious!" was all philetus's powers were equal to. mrs. douglass went off into fits which rendered her incapable of speaking and left the unlucky chicken-bearer to tell his story his own way, but all he brought forth was "du tell!--i _am_ beat!--" "where's t'other one?" said mrs. douglass between paroxysms. "why i ha'n't done nothin' to it," said philetus dismally,--there was teu on 'em afore i started, and i took and tied 'em together and hitched 'em onto the stick, and that one must ha' loosened itself off some way.--i believe the darned thing did it o' purpose." "i guess your mother knowed that one wouldn't keep till it got here," said mrs. douglass. the room was now all one shout, in the midst of which poor philetus took himself off as speedily as possible. before fleda had dried her eyes her attention was taken by a lady and gentleman who had just got out of a vehicle of more than the ordinary pretension and were coming up to the door. the gentleman was young, the lady was not, both had a particularly amiable and pleasant appearance; but about the lady there was something that moved fleda singularly and somehow touched the spring of old memories, which she felt stirring at the sight of her. as they neared the house she lost them--then they entered the room and came through it slowly, looking about them with an air of good-humoured amusement. fleda's eye was fixed but her mind puzzled itself in vain to recover what in her experience had been connected with that fair and lady-like physiognomy and the bland smile that was overlooked by those acute eyes. the eyes met hers, and then seemed to reflect her doubt, for they remained as fixed as her own while the lady quickening her steps came up to her. "i am sure," she said, holding out her hand, and with a gentle graciousness that was very agreeable,--"i am sure you are somebody i know. what is your name?" "fleda ringgan." "i thought so!" said the lady, now shaking her hand warmly and kissing her,--"i knew nobody could have been your mother but amy charlton! how like her you look!--don't you know me? don't you remember mrs. evelyn?" "mrs. evelyn!" said fleda, the whole coming back to her at once. "you remember me now?--how well i recollect you! and all that old time at montepoole. poor little creature that you were! and dear little creature, as i am sure you have been ever since. and how is your dear aunt lucy?" fleda answered that she was well. "i used to love her very much--that was before i knew you--before she went abroad. _we_ have just got home--this spring; and now we are staying at montepoole for a few days. i shall come and see her to-morrow--i knew you were somewhere in this region, but i did not know exactly where to find you; that was one reason why i came here to-day--i thought i might hear something of you. and where are your aunt lucy's children? and how are they?" "hugh is at home," said fleda, "and rather delicate--charlton is in the army.' "in the army. in mexico!"-- "in mexico he has been"-- "your poor aunt lucy!" --"in mexico he has been, but he is just coming home now--he has been wounded, and he is coming home to spend a long furlough." "coming home. that will make you all very happy. and hugh is delicate--and how are you, love? you hardly look like a country-girl. mr. olmney!--" said mrs. evelyn looking round for her companion, who was standing quietly a few steps off surveying the scene,--"mr. olmney!--i am going to do you a favour, sir, in introducing you to miss ringgan--a very old friend of mine. mr. olmney,--these are not exactly the apple-cheeks and _robustious_ demonstrations we are taught to look for in country-land?" this was said with a kind of sly funny enjoyment which took away everything disagreeable from the appeal; but fleda conceived a favourable opinion of the person to whom it was made from the fact that he paid her no compliment and made no answer beyond a very pleasant smile. "what is mrs. evelyn's definition of a _very old_ friend?" said he with with another smile, as that lady moved off to take a more particular view of what she had come to see. "to judge by the specimen before me i should consider it very equivocal." "perhaps mrs. evelyn counts friendships by inheritance," said fleda. "i think they ought to be counted so." "'thine own friend and thy father's friend forsake not'?" said the young man. fleda looked up and smiled a pleased answer. "there is something very lovely in the faithfulness of tried friendship--and very uncommon." "i know that it is uncommon only by hearsay," said fleda, "i have so many good friends." he was silent for an instant, possibly thinking there might be a reason for that unknown only to fleda herself. "perhaps one must be in peculiar circumstances to realize it," he said sighing;--"circumstances that leave one of no importance to any one in the world.--but it is a kind lesson i--one learns to depend more on the one friendship that can never disappoint." fleda's eyes again gave an answer of sympathy, for she thought from the shade that had come upon his face that these circumstances had probably been known to himself. "this is rather an amusing scene," he remarked presently in a low tone. "very," said fleda. "i have never seen such a one before." "nor i," said he. "it is a pleasant scene too, it is pleasant to see so many evidences of kindness and good feeling on the part of all these people." "there is all the more shew of it, i suppose, to-day," said fleda, "because we have a new minister coming;--they want to make a favourable impression." "does the old proverb of the 'new broom' hold good here too?" said he, smiling. "what's the name of your new minister?" "i am not certain," said fleda,--"there were two talked of--the last i heard was that it was an old mr. carey; but from what i hear this morning i suppose it must be the other--a mr. ollum, or some such queer name, i believe." fleda thought her hearer looked very much amused, and followed his eye into the room, where mrs. evelyn was going about in all quarters looking at everything, and finding occasion to enter into conversation with at least a quarter of the people who were present. whatever she was saying it seemed at that moment to have something to do with them, for sundry eyes turned in their direction; and presently dr. quackenboss came up, with even more than common suavity of manner. "i trust miss ringgan will do me the favour of making me acquainted with--a--with our future pastor!" said the doctor, looking however not at all at miss ringgan but straight at the pastor in question. "i have great pleasure in giving you the first welcome, sir,--or, i should say, rather the second; since no doubt miss ringgan has been in advance of me. it is not un--a--appropriate, sir, for i may say we--a--divide the town between us. you are, i am sure, a worthy representative of peter and paul; and i am--a--a pupil of esculapus, sir! you are the intellectual physician, and i am the external." "i hope we shall both prove ourselves good workmen, sir," said the young minister, shaking the doctor's hand heartily. "this is dr. quackenboss, mr. olmney," said fleda, making a tremendous effort. but though she could see corresponding indications about her companion's eyes and mouth, she admired the kindness and self-command with which he listened to the doctor's civilities and answered them; expressing his grateful sense of the favours received not only from him but from others. "o--a little to begin with," said the doctor, looking round upon the room, which would certainly have furnished _that_ for fifty people;--"i hope we ain't done yet by considerable--but here is miss ringgan, mr.--a--ummin, that has brought you some of the fruits of her own garden, with her own fair hands--a basket of fine strawberries--which i am sure--a--will make you forget everything else!" mr. olmney had the good-breeding not to look at fleda, as he answered, "i am sure the spirit of kindness was the same in all, dr. quackenboss, and i trust not to forget that readily." others now came up; and mr. olmney was walked off to be "made acquainted" with all or with all the chief of his parishioners then and there assembled. fleda watched him going about, shaking hands, talking and smiling, in all directions, with about as much freedom of locomotion as a fly in a spider's web; till at mrs. evelyn's approach the others fell off a little, and taking him by the arm she rescued him. "my dear mr. olmney!" she whispered, with an intensely amused face,--"i shall have a vision of you every day for a month to come, sitting down to dinner with a rueful face to a whortleberry pie; for there are so many of them your conscience will not let you have anything else cooked--you cannot manage more than one a day." "pies!" said the young gentleman, as mrs. evelyn left talking to indulge her feelings in ecstatic quiet laughing,--"i have a horror of pies!" "yes, yes," said mrs. evelyn nodding her head delightedly as she drew him towards the pantry,--"i know!--come and see what is in store for you. you are to do penance for a month to come with tin pans of blackberry jam fringed with pie-crust--no, they can't be blackberries, they must be raspberries--the blackberries are not ripe yet. and you may sup upon cake and custards--unless you give the custards for the little pig out there--he will want something." "a pig!--" said mr. olmney in a maze; mrs. evelyn again giving out in distress. "a pig?" said mr. olmney. "yes--a pig--a very little one," said mrs. evelyn convulsively. "i am sure he is hungry now!--" they had reached the pantry, and mr. olmney's face was all that was wanting to mrs. evelyn's delight. how she smothered it, so that it should go no further than to distress his self-command, is a mystery known only to the initiated. mrs. douglass was forthwith called into council. "mrs. douglass," said mr. olmney, "i feel very much inclined to play the host, and beg my friends to share with me some of these good things they have been so bountifully providing." "he would enjoy them much more than he would alone, mrs. douglass," said mrs. evelyn, who still had hold of mr. olmney's arm, looking round to the lady with a most benign face. "i reckon some of 'em would be past enjoying by the time he got to 'em, wouldn't they?" said the lady. "well, they'll have to take 'em in their fingers, for our crockery ha'n't come yet--i shall have to jog mr. flatt's elbow--but hungry folks ain't curious." "in their fingers, or any way, provided you have only a knife to cut them with," said mr. olmney, while mrs. evelyn squeezed his arm in secret mischief;--"and pray if we can muster two knives let us cut one of these cheeses, mrs. douglass." and presently fleda saw pieces of pie walking about in all directions supported by pieces of cheese. and then mrs. evelyn and mr. olmney came out from the pantry and came towards her, the latter bringing her with his own hands a portion in a tin pan. the two ladies sat down in the window together to eat and be amused. "my dear fleda, i hope you are hungry!" said mrs. evelyn, biting her pie fleda could not help thinking with an air of good-humoured condescension. "i am, ma'am," she said laughing. "you look just as you used to do," mrs. evelyn went on earnestly. "do i?" said fleda, privately thinking that the lady must have good eyes for features of resemblance. "except that you have more colour in your cheeks and more sparkles in your eyes. dear little creature that you were! i want to make you know my children. do you remember that mr. and mrs. carleton that took such care of you at montepoole?" "certainly i do!--very well." "we saw them last winter--we were down at their country-place in---- shire. they have a magnificent place there--everything you can think of to make life pleasant. we spent a week with them. my dear fleda!--i wish i could shew you that place! you never saw anything like it." fleda eat her pie. "we have nothing like it in this country--of course--cannot have. one of those superb english country-seats is beyond even the imagination of an american." "nature has been as kind to us, hasn't she?" said fleda. "o yes, but such fortunes you know. mr. olmney, what do you think of those overgrown fortunes? i was speaking to miss ringgan just now of a gentleman who has forty thousand pounds a year income--sterling, sir;--forty thousand pounds a year sterling. somebody says, you know, that 'he who has more than enough is a thief of the rights of his brother,'--what do you think?" but mr. olmney's attention was at the moment forcibly called off by the "income" of a parishioner. "i suppose," said fleda, "his thievish character must depend entirely on the use he makes of what he has." "i don't know," said mrs. evelyn shaking her head,--"i think the possession of great wealth is very hardening." "to a fine nature?" said fleda. mrs. evelyn shook her head again, but did not seem to think it worth while to reply; and fleda was trying the question in her own mind whether wealth or poverty might be the most hardening in its effects; when mr. olmney having succeeded in getting free again came and took his station beside them; and they had a particularly pleasant talk, which fleda who had seen nobody in a great while enjoyed very much. they had several such talks in the course of the day; for though the distractions caused by mr. olmney's other friends were many and engrossing, he generally contrived in time to find his way back to their window. meanwhile mrs. evelyn had a great deal to say to fleda and to hear from her; and left her at last under an engagement to spend the next day at the pool. upon mr. olmney's departure with mrs. evelyn the attraction which had held the company together was broken, and they scattered fast. fleda presently finding herself in the minority was glad to set out with miss anastasia finn and her sister lucy, who would leave her but very little way from her own door. but she had more company than she bargained for. dr. quackenboss was pleased to attach himself to their party, though his own shortest road certainly lay in another direction; and fleda wondered what he had done with his wagon, which beyond a question must have brought the cheese in the morning. she edged herself out of the conversation as much as possible, and hoped it would prove so agreeable that he would not think of attending her home. in vain. when they made a stand at the cross-roads the doctor stood on her side. "i hope, now you've made a commencement, you will come to see us again, fleda," said miss lucy. "what's the use of asking?" said her sister abruptly. "if she has a mind to she will, and if she ha'n't i am sure we don't want her." they turned off. "those are excellent people," said the doctor when they were beyond hearing;--"really respectable!" "are they?" said fleda. "but your goodness does not look, i am sure, to find--a--parisian graces in so remote a circle?" "certainly not!" said fleda. "we have had a genial day!" said the doctor, quitting the finns. "i don't know," said fleda, permitting a little of her inward merriment to work off,--"i think it has been rather too hot." "yes," said the doctor, "the sun has been ardent; but i referred rather to the--a--to the warming of affections, and the pleasant exchange of intercourse on all sides which has taken place. how do you like our--a--the stranger?" "who, sir?" "the new-comer,--this young mr. ummin?" fleda answered, but she hardly knew what, for she was musing whether the doctor would go away or come in. they reached the door, and fleda invited him, with terrible effort after her voice; the doctor having just blandly offered an opinion upon the decided polish of mr. olmney's manners! chapter xxiii. labour is light, where lore (quoth i) doth pay; (saith he) light burthens heavy, if far borne. drayton. fleda pushed open the parlour door and preceded her convoy, in a kind of tip-toe state of spirits. the first thing that met her eyes was her aunt in one of the few handsome silks which were almost her sole relic of past wardrobe prosperity, and with a face uncommonly happy and pretty; and the next instant she saw the explanation of this appearance in her cousin charlton, a little palish, but looking better than she had ever seen him, and another gentleman of whom her eye took in only the general outlines of fashion and comfortable circumstances; now too strange to it to go unnoted. in fleda's usual mood her next movement would have been made with a demureness that would have looked like bashfulness. but the amusement and pleasure of the day just passed had for the moment set her spirits free from the burden that generally bound them down; and they were as elastic as her step as she came forward and presented to her aunt "dr. quackenboss,--and then turned to shake her cousin's hand." "charlton!--where did you come from? we didn't expect you so soon." "you are not sorry to see me, i hope?" "not at all--very glad;"--and then as her eye glanced towards the other new-comer charlton presented to her "mr. thorn;" and fleda's fancy made a sudden quick leap on the instant to the old hall at montepoole and the shot dog. and then dr. quackenboss was presented, an introduction which capt. rossitur received coldly, and mr. thorn with something more than frigidity. the doctor's elasticity however defied depression, especially in the presence of a silk dress and a military coat. fleda presently saw that he was agonizing her uncle. mrs. rossitur had drawn close to her son. fleda was left to take care of the other visitor. the young men had both seemed more struck at the vision presented to them than she had been on her part. she thought neither of them was very ready to speak to her. "i did not know," said mr. thorn softly, "what reason i had to thank rossitur for bringing me home with him to-night--he promised me a supper and a welcome,--but i find he did not tell me the half of my entertainment." "that was wise in him," said fleda;--"the half that is not expected is always worth a great deal more than the other." "in this case, most assuredly," said thorn bowing, and fleda was sure not knowing what to make of her. "have you been in mexico too, mr. thorn?" "not i!--that's an entertainment i beg to decline. i never felt inclined to barter an arm for a shoulder-knot, or to abridge my usual means of locomotion for the privilege of riding on parade--or selling oneself for a name--peter schlemil's selling his shadow i can understand; but this is really lessening oneself that one's shadow may grow the larger." "but you were in the army?" said fleda. "yes--it wasn't my doing. there is a time, you know, when one must please the old folks--i grew old enough and wise enough to cut loose from the army before i had gained or lost much by it." he did not understand the displeased gravity of fleda's face, and went on insinuatingly;-- "unless i have lost what charlton has gained--something i did not know hung upon the decision--perhaps you think a man is taller for having iron heels to his boots?" "i do not measure a man by his inches," said fleda. "then you have no particular predilection for shooting men?" "i have no predilection for shooting anything, sir." "then i am safe!" said he, with an arrogant little air of satisfaction. "i was born under an indolent star, but i confess to you, privately, of the two i would rather gather my harvests with the sickle than the sword. how does your uncle find it?" "find what, sir?" "the worship of ceres?--i remember he used to be devoted to apollo and the muses." "are they rival deities?" "why--i have been rather of the opinion that they were too many for one house to hold," said thorn glancing at mr. rossitur. "but perhays the graces manage to reconcile them!" "did you ever hear of the graces getting supper?" said fleda. "because ceres sometimes sets them at that work. uncle rolf," she added as she passed him,--"mr. thorn is inquiring after apollo--will you set him right, while i do the same for the tablecloth?" her uncle looked from her sparkling eyes to the rather puzzled expression of his guest's face. "i was only asking your lovely niece," said mr. thorn coming down from his stilts,--"how you liked this country life?" dr. quackenboss bowed, probably in approbation of the epithet. "well sir--what information did she give you on the subject?" "left me in the dark, sir, with a vague hope that you would enlighten me." "i trust mr. rossitur can give a favourable report?" said the doctor benignly. but mr. rossitur's frowning brow looked very little like it. "what do you say to our country life, sir?" "it's a confounded life, sir," said mr. rossitur, taking a pamphlet from the table to fold and twist as he spoke,--"it is a confounded life; for the head and the hands must either live separate, or the head must do no other work but wait upon the hands. it is an alternative of loss and waste, sir." "the alternative seems to be of--a--limited application," said the doctor, as fleda, having found that hugh and barby had been beforehand with her, now came back to the company. "i am sure this lady would not give such a testimony." "about what?" said fleda, colouring under the fire of so many eyes. "the blighting influence of ceres' sceptre," said mr. thorn. "this country life," said her uncle;--"do you like it, fleda?" "you know, uncle," said she cheerfully, "i was always of the old douglasses' mind--i like better to hear the lark sing than the mouse squeak." "is that one of earl douglass's sayings?" said the doctor. "yes sir," said fleda with quivering lips,--"but not the one you know--an older man." "ah!" said the doctor intelligently. "mr. rossitur,--speaking of hands,--i have employed the irish very much of late years--they are as good as one can have, if you do not want a head." "that is to say,--if you have a head," said thorn. "exactly" said the doctor, all abroad,--"and when there are not too many of them together. i had enough of that, sir, some years ago when a multitude of them were employed on the public works. the irish were in a state of mutilation, sir, all through the country." "ah!" said thorn,--"had the military been at work upon them?" "no sir, but i wish they had, i am sure; it would have been for the peace of the town. there were hundreds of them. we were in want of an army." "of surgeons,--i should think," said thorn. fleda saw the doctor's dubious air and her uncle's compressed lips; and commanding herself, with even a look of something like displeasure she quitted her seat by mr. thorn and called the doctor to the window to look at a cluster of rose acacias just then in their glory. he admired, and she expatiated, till she hoped everybody but herself had forgotten what they had been talking about. but they had no sooner returned to their seats than thorn began again. "the irish in your town are not in the same mutilated state now, i suppose, sir?" "no sir, no," said the doctor;--"there are much fewer of them to break each other's bones. it was all among themselves, sir." "the country is full of foreigners," said mr. rossitur with praiseworthy gravity. "yes sir," said dr. quackenboss thoughtfully;--"we shall have none of our ancestors left in a short time, if they go on as they are doing." fleda was beaten from the field, and rushing into the breakfast-room astonished hugh by seizing hold of him and indulging in a most prolonged and unbounded laugh. she did not shew herself again till the company came in to supper; but then she was found as grave as minerva. she devoted herself particularly to the care and entertainment of dr. quackenboss till he took leave; nor could thorn get another chance to talk to her through all the evening. when he and rossitur were at last in their rooms fleda told her story. "you don't know how pleasant it was, aunt lucy--how much i enjoyed it--seeing and talking to somebody again. mrs. evelyn was so very kind." "i am very glad, my darling," said mrs. rossitur, stroking away the hair from the forehead that was bent down towards her;--"i am glad you had it to-day and i am glad you will have it again to-morrow." "you will have it too, aunt lucy. mrs. evelyn will be here in the morning--she said so." "i shall not see her." "why? now aunt lucy!--you will." "i have nothing in the world to see her in--i cannot." "you have this?" "for the morning? a rich french silk?--it would be absurd. no, no,--it would be better to wear my old merino than that." "but you will have to dress in the morning for mr. thorn?--he will be here to breakfast." "i shall not come down to breakfast.--don't look so, love!--i can't help it." "why was that calico got for me and not for you?" said fleda, bitterly. "a sixpenny calico," said mrs. rossitur smiling,--"it would be hard if you could not have so much as that, love." "and you will not see mrs. evelyn and her daughters at all!--and i was thinking that it would do you so much good!--" mrs. rossitur drew her face a little nearer and kissed it, over and over. "it will do you good, my darling--that is what i care for much more." "it will not do me half as much," said fleda sighing. her spirits were in their old place again; no more a tip-toe to-night. the short light of pleasure was overcast. she went to bed feeling very quiet indeed; and received mrs. evelyn and excused her aunt the next day, almost wishing the lady had not been as good as her word. but though in the same mood she set off with her to drive to montepoole, it could not stand the bright influences with which she found herself surrounded. she came home again at night with dancing spirits. it was some days before capt. rossitur began at all to comprehend the change which had come upon his family. one morning fleda and hugh having finished their morning's work were in the breakfast-room waiting for the rest of the family, when charlton made his appearance, with the cloud on his brow which had been lately gathering. "where is the paper?" said he. "i haven't seen a paper since i have been here." "you mustn't expect to find mexican luxuries in queechy, capt. rossitur," said fleda pleasantly.--"look at these roses, and don't ask me for papers!" he did look a minute at the dish of flowers she was arranging for the breakfast table, and at the rival freshness and sweetness of the face that hung over them. "you don't mean to say you live without a paper?" [illustration: "look at these roses, and don't ask me for papers!"] "well, it's astonishing how many things people can live without," said fleda rather dreamily, intent upon settling an uneasy rose that would topple over. "i wish you'd answer me really," said charlton. "don't you take a paper here?" "we would take one thankfully if it would be so good as to come; but seriously, charlton, we haven't any," she said changing her tone. "and have you done without one all through the war?" "no--we used to borrow one from a kind neighbour once in a while, to make sure, as mr. thorn says, that you had not bartered an arm for a shoulder-knot." "you never looked to see whether i was killed in the meanwhile, i suppose?" "no--never," said fleda gravely, as she took her place on a low seat in the corner,--"i always knew you were safe before i touched the paper." "what do you mean?" "i am not an enemy, charlton," said fleda laughing. "i mean that i used to make aunt miriam look over the accounts before i did." charlton walked up and down the room for a little while in sullen silence; and then brought up before fleda. "what are you doing?" fleda looked up,--a glance that as sweetly and brightly as possible half asked half bade him be silent and ask no questions. "what _are_ you doing?" he repeated. "i am putting a patch on my shoe." his look expressed more indignation than anything else. "what do you mean?" "just what i say," said fleda, going on with her work. "what in the name of all the cobblers in the land do you do it for?" "because i prefer it to having a hole in my shoe; which would give me the additional trouble of mending my stockings." charlton muttered an impatient sentence, of which fleda only understood that "the devil" was in it, and then desired to know if whole shoes would not answer the purpose as well as either holes or patches? "quite--if i had them," said fleda, giving him another glance which, with all its gravity and sweetness, carried also a little gentle reproach. "but do you know," said he after standing still a minute looking at her, "that any cobbler in the country would do what you are doing much better for sixpence?" "i am quite aware of that," said fleda, stitching away. "your hands are not strong enough for that work!" fleda again smiled at him, in the very dint of giving a hard push to her needle; a smile that would have witched him into good humour if he had not been determinately in a cloud and proof against everything. it only admonished him that he could not safely remain in the region of sunbeams; and he walked up and down the room furiously again. the sudden ceasing of his footsteps presently made her look up. "what have you got there?--oh, charlton, don't!--please put that down!--i didn't know i had left them there.--they were a little wet and i laid them on the chair to dry." "what do you call this?" said he, not minding her request. "they are only my gardening gloves--i thought i had put them away." "gloves!" said he, pulling at them disdainfully,--"why here are two--one within the other--what's that for?" "it's an old-fashioned way of mending matters,--two friends covering each other's deficiencies. the inner pair are too thin alone, and the outer ones have holes that are past cobbling." "are we going to have any breakfast to-day?" said he flinging the gloves down. "you are very late!" "no," said fleda quietly,--"it is not time for aunt lucy to be down yet." "don't you have breakfast before nine o'clock?" "yes--by half-past eight generally." "strange way of getting along on a farm!--well i can't wait--i promised thorn i would meet him this morning--barby!--i wish you would bring me my boots!--" fleda made two springs,--one to touch charlton's mouth, the other to close the door of communication with the kitchen. "well!--what is the matter?--can't i have them?" "yes, yes, but ask me for what you want. you mustn't call upon barby in that fashion." "why not? is she too good to be spoken to? what is she in the kitchen for?" "she wouldn't be in the kitchen long if we were to speak to her in that way," said fleda. "i suppose she would as soon put your boots on for you as fetch and carry them. i'll see about it." "it seems to me fleda rules the house," remarked capt. rossitur when she had left the room. "well who should rule it?" said hugh. "not she!" "i don't think she does," said hugh; "but if she did, i am sure it could not be in better hands." "it shouldn't be in her hands at all. but i have noticed since i have been here that she takes the arrangement of almost everything. my mother seems to have nothing to do in her own family." "i wonder what the family or anybody in it would do without fleda!" said hugh, his gentle eyes quite firing with indignation. "you had better know more before you speak, charlton." "what is there for me to know?" "fleda does everything." "so i say; and that is what i don't like." "how little you know what you are talking about!" said hugh. "i can tell you she is the life of the house, almost literally; we should have had little enough to live upon this summer if it had not been for her." "what do you mean?"--impatiently enough. "fleda--if it had not been for her gardening and management. she has taken care of the garden these two years and sold i can't tell you how much from it. mr. sweet, the hotel-man at the pool, takes all we can give him." "how much does her 'taking care of the garden' amount to?" "it amounts to all the planting and nearly all the other work, after the first digging,--by far the greater part of it." charlton walked up and down a few turns in most unsatisfied silence. "how does she get the things to montepoole?" "i take them." "you!--when?" "i ride with them there before breakfast. fleda is up very early to gather them." "you have not been there this morning?" "yes." "with what?" "peas and strawberries." "and fleda picked them?" "yes--with some help from barby and me." "that glove of hers was wringing wet." "yes, with the pea-vines, and strawberries too; you know they get so loaded with dew. o fleda gets more than her gloves wet. but she does not mind anything she does for father and mother." "humph!--and does she get enough when all is done to pay for the trouble?" "i don't know," said hugh rather sadly. "_she_ thinks so. it is no trifle." "which?--the pay or the trouble?" "both. but i meant the pay. why she made ten dollars last year from the asparagus beds alone, and i don't know how much more this year." "ten dollars!--the devil!" "why?" "have you come to counting your dollars by the tens?" "we have counted our sixpences so a good while," said hugh quietly. charlton strode about the room again in much perturbation. then came in fleda, looking as bright as if dollars had been counted by the thousand, and bearing his boots. "what on earth did you do that for?" said he angrily. "i could have gone for them myself." "no harm done," said fleda lightly,--"only i have got something else instead of the thanks i expected." "i can't conceive," said he, sitting down and sulkily drawing on his foot-gear, "why this piece of punctiliousness should have made any more difficulty about bringing me my boots than about blacking them." a sly glance of intelligence, which charlton was quick enough to detect, passed between fleda and hugh. his eye carried its question from one to the other. fleda's gravity gave way. "don't look at me so, charlton," said she laughing;--"i can't help it, you are so excessively comical!--i recommend that you go out upon the grass-plat before the door and turn round two or three times." "will you have the goodness to explain yourself? who _did_ black these boots?" "never pry into the secrets of families," said fleda. "hugh and i have a couple of convenient little fairies in our service that do things _unknownst_." "i blacked them, charlton," said hugh. capt. rossitur gave his slippers a fling that carried them clean into the corner of the room. "i will see," he said rising, "whether some other service cannot be had more satisfactory than that of fairies!" "now charlton," said fleda with a sudden change of manner, coming to him and laying her hand most gently on his arm,--"please don't speak about these things before uncle rolf or your mother--please do not!--charlton!--it would only do a great deal of harm and do no good." she looked up in his face, but he would not meet her pleading eye, and shook off her hand. "i don't need to be instructed how to speak to my father and mother; and i am not one of the household that has submitted itself to your direction." fleda sat down on her bench and was quiet, but with a lip that trembled a little and eyes that let fall one or two witnesses against him. charlton did not see them, and he knew better than to meet hugh's look of reproach. but for all that there was a certain consciousness that hung about the neck of his purpose and kept it down in spite of him; and it was not till breakfast was half over that his ill-humour could make head against this gentle thwarting and cast it off. for so long the meal was excessively dull. hugh and fleda had their own thoughts; charlton was biting his resolution into every slice of bread and butter that occupied him; and mr. rossitur's face looked like anything but encouraging an inquiry into his affairs. since his son's arrival he had been most uncommonly gloomy; and mrs. rossitur's face was never in sunshine when his was in shade. "you'll have a warm day of it at the mill, hugh," said fleda, by way of saying something to break the dismal monotony of knives and forks. "does that mill make much?" suddenly inquired charlton. "it has made a new bridge to the brook, literally," said fleda gayly; "for it has sawn out the boards; and you know you mustn't speak evil of what carries you over the water." "does that mill pay for the working?" said charlton, turning with the dryest disregard from her interference and addressing himself determinately to his father. "what do you mean? it does not work gratuitously," answered mr. rossitur, with at least equal dryness. "but, i mean, are the profits of it enough to pay for the loss of hugh's time?" "if hugh judges they are not, he is at liberty to let it alone." "my time is not lost," said hugh; "i don't know what i should do with it." "i don't know what we should do without the mill," said mrs. rossitur. that gave charlton an unlucky opening. "has the prospect of farming disappointed you, father?" "what is the prospect of your company?" said mr. rossitur, swallowing half an egg before he replied. "a very limited prospect!" said charlton,--"if you mean the one that went with me. not a fifth part of them left." "what have you done with them?" "shewed them where the balls were flying, sir, and did my best to shew them the thickest of it." "is it necessary to shew it to us too?" said fleda. "i believe there are not twenty living that followed me into mexico," he went on, as if he had not heard her. "was all that havoc made in one engagement?" said mrs. rossitur, whose cheek had turned pale. "yes, mother--in the course of a few minutes." "i wonder what would pay for _that_ loss!" said fleda indignantly. "why, the point was gained! and it did not signify what the cost was so we did that. my poor boys were a small part of it." "what point do you mean?" "i mean the point we had in view, which was taking the place." "and what was the advantage of gaining the place." "pshaw!--the advantage of doing one's duty." "but what made it duty?" said hugh. "orders." "i grant you," said fleda,--"i understand that--but bear with me, charlton,--what was the advantage to the army or the country?" "the advantage of great honour if we succeeded, and avoiding the shame of failure." "is that all?" said hugh. "all!" said charlton. "glory must be a precious thing when other men's lives are so cheap to buy it," said fleda. "we did not risk theirs without our own," said charlton colouring. "no,--but still theirs were risked for you." "not at all;--why this is absurd! you are saying that the whole war was for nothing." "what better than nothing was the end of it? we paid mexico for the territory she yielded to us, didn't we, uncle rolf?" "yes." "how much?" "twenty millions, i believe." "and what do you suppose the war has cost?" "hum--i don't know,--a hundred." "a hundred million! besides--how much besides!--and don't you suppose, uncle rolf, that for half of that sum mexico would have sold us peaceably what she did in the end?" "it is possible--i think it is very likely." "what was the fruit of the war, capt. rossitur?" "why, a great deal of honour to the army and the nation at large." "honour again! but granting that the army gained it, which they certainly did, for one i do not feel very proud of the nation's share." "why they are one" said charlton impatiently. "in an unjust war" "it was _not_ an unjust war!" "that's what you call a knock-downer," said fleda laughing. "but i confess myself so simple as to have agreed with seth plumfield, when i heard him and lucas disputing about it last winter, that it was a shame to a great and strong nation like ours to display its might in crushing a weak one." "but they drew it upon themselves. _they_ began hostilities." "there is a diversity of opinion about that." "not in heads that have two grains of information." "i beg your pardon. mrs. evelyn and judge sensible were talking over that very question the other day at montepoole; and he made it quite clear to my mind that we were the aggressors." "judge sensible is a fool!" said mr. rossitur. "very well!" said fleda laughing;--"but as i do not wish to be comprehended in the same class, will you shew me how he was wrong, uncle?" this drew on a discussion of some length, to which fleda listened with profound attention, long after her aunt had ceased to listen at all, and hugh was thoughtful, and charlton disgusted. at the end of it mr. rossitur left the table and the room, and fleda subsiding turned to her cold coffee-cup. "i didn't know you ever cared anything about politics before," said hugh. "didn't you?" said fleda smiling, "you do me injustice." their eyes met for a second, with a most appreciating smile on his part; and then he too went off to his work. there was a few minutes' silent pause after that. "mother," said charlton looking up and bursting forth, "what is all this about the mill and the farm?--is not the farm doing well?" "i am afraid not very well," said mrs. rossitur, gently. "what is the difficulty?" "why, your father has let it to a man by the name of didenhover, and i am afraid he is not faithful; it does not seem to bring us in what it ought." "what did he do that for?" "he was wearied with the annoyances he had to endure before, and thought it would be better and more profitable to have somebody else take the whole charge and management. he did not know didenhover's character at the time." "engaged him without knowing him!" fleda was the only third party present, and charlton unwittingly allowing himself to meet her eye received a look of keen displeasure that he was not prepared for. "that is not like him," he said in a much moderated tone. "but you must be changed too, mother, or you would not endure such anomalous service in your kitchen." "there are a great many changes, dear charlton," said his mother, looking at him with such a face of sorrowful sweetness and patience that his mouth was stopped. fleda left the room. "and have you really nothing to depend upon but that child's strawberries and hugh's wood-saw?" he said in the tone he ought to have used from the beginning. "little else." charlton stifled two or three sentences that rose to his lips, and began to walk up and down the room again. his mother sat musing by the tea-board still, softly clinking her spoon against the edge of her tea-cup. "she has grown up very pretty," he remarked after a pause. "pretty!" said mrs. rossitur. "why?" "no one that has seen much of fleda would ever describe her by that name." charlton had the candour to think he had seen something of her that morning. "poor child!" said mrs. rossitur sadly,--"i can't bear to think of her spending her life as she is doing--wearing herself out, i know, sometimes--and buried alive." "buried!" said charlton in his turn. "yes--without any of the advantages and opportunities she ought to have. i can't bear to think of it. and yet how should i ever live without her!"--said mrs. rossitur, leaning her face upon her hands. "and if she were known she would not be mine long. but it grieves me to have her go without her music that she is so fond of, and the books she wants--she and hugh have gone from end to end of every volume there is in the house, i believe, in every language, except greek." "well, she looks pretty happy and contented, mother." "i don't know!" said mrs. rossitur shaking her head. "isn't she happy?" "i don't know," said mrs. rossitur again;--"she has a spirit that is happy in doing her duty, or anything for those she loves; but i see her sometimes wearing a look that pains me exceedingly. i am afraid the way she lives and the changes in our affairs have worn upon her more than we know of--she feels doubly everything that touches me, or hugh, or your father. she is a gentle spirit!--" "she seems to me not to want character," said charlton. "character! i don't know who has so much. she has at least fifty times as much character as i have. and energy. she is admirable at managing people--she knows how to influence them somehow so that everybody does what she wants." "and who influences her?" said charlton. "who influences her? everybody that she loves. who has the most influence over her, do you mean?--i am sure i don't know--hugh, if anybody,--but _she_ is rather the moving spirit of the household." capt. rossitur resolved that he would be an exception to her rule. he forgot, however, for some reason or other, to sound his father any more on the subject of mismanagement. his thoughts indeed were more pleasantly taken up. chapter xxiv. my lord sebastian, the truth you speak doth lack some gentleness and time to speak it in: you rub the sore. when you should bring the plaster. tempest. the evelyns spent several weeks at the pool; and both mother and daughters conceiving a great affection for fleda kept her in their company as much as possible for those weeks fleda had enough of gayety. she was constantly spending the day with them at the pool, or going on some party of pleasure, or taking quiet sensible walks and rides with them along or with only one or two more of the most rational and agreeable people that the place could command. and even mrs. rossitur was persuaded, more times than one, to put herself in her plainest remaining french silk and entertain the whole party, with the addition of one or two of charlton's friends, at her queechy farm-house. fleda enjoyed it all with the quick spring of a mind habitually bent to the patient fulfilment of duty and habitually under the pressure of rather sobering thoughts. it was a needed and very useful refreshment. charlton's being at home gave her the full good of the opportunity more than would else have been possible. he was her constant attendant, driving her to and from the pool, and finding as much to call him there as she had; for besides the evelyns his friend thorn abode there all this time. the only drawback to fleda's pleasure as she drove off from queechy would be the leaving hugh plodding away at his saw-mill. she used to nod and wave to him as they went by, and almost feel that she ought not to go on and enjoy herself while he was tending that wearisome machinery all day long. still she went on and enjoyed herself; but the mere thought of his patient smile as she passed would have kept her from too much elation of spirits, if there had been any danger. there never was any. "that's a lovely little cousin of yours," said thorn one evening, when he and rossitur, on horseback, were leisurely making their way along the up and down road between montepoole and queechy. "she is not particularly little," said rossitur with a dryness that somehow lacked any savour of gratification. "she is of a most fair stature," said thorn;--"i did not mean anything against that,--but there are characters to which one gives instinctively a softening appellative." "are there?" said charlton. "yes. she is a lovely little creature." "she is not to compare to one of those girls we have left behind us at montepoole," said charlton. "hum--well perhaps you are right; but which girl do you mean?--for i profess i don't know." "the second of mrs. evelyn's daughters--the auburn-haired one." "miss constance, eh?" said thorn. "in what isn't the other one to be compared to her?" "in anything! nobody would ever think of looking at her in the same room?" "why not?" said thorn coolly. "i don't know why not," said charlton, "except that she has not a tithe of her beauty. that's a superb girl!" for a matter of twenty yards mr. thorn went softly humming a tune to himself and leisurely switching the flies off his horse. "well,"--said he,--"there's no accounting for tastes-- 'i ask no red and white to make up my delight, no odd becoming graces, black eyes, or little know-not-what in faces.'" "what _do_ you want then?" said charlton, half laughing at him, though his friend was perfectly grave. "a cool eye, and a mind in it." "a cool eye!" said rossitur. "yes. those we have left behind us are arrant will-o'the-wisps--dancing fires--no more." "i can tell you there is fire sometimes in the other eyes," said charlton. "very likely," said his friend composedly,--"i could have guessed as much; but that is a fire you may warm yourself at; no eternal phosphorescence;--it is the leaping up of an internal fire, that only shews itself upon occasion." "i suppose you know what you are talking about," said charlton, "but i can't follow you into the region of volcanos. constance evelyn has superb eyes. it is uncommon to see a light blue so brilliant." "i would rather trust a sick head to the handling of the lovely lady than the superb one, at a venture." "i thought you never had a sick head," said charlton. "that is lucky for me, as the hands do not happen to be at my service. but no imagination could put miss constance in desdemona's place, when othello complained of his headache,--you remember, charlton,-- ''faith, that's with watching--'twill away again-- let me but bind this handkerchief about it hard.'" thorn gave the intonation truly and admirably. "fleda never said anything so soft as that," said charlton. "no?" "no." "you speak--well, but _soft_!--do you know what you are talking about there?" "not very well," said charlton. "i only remember there was nothing soft about othello,--what you quoted of his wife just now seemed to me to smack of that quality." "i forgive your memory," said thorn, "or else i certainly would not forgive you. if there is a fair creation in all shakespeare it is desdemona, and if there is a pretty combination on earth that nearly matches it, i believe it is that one." "what one?" "your pretty cousin." charlton was silent. "it is generous in me to undertake her defence," thorn went on, "for she bestows as little of her fair countenance upon me as she can well help. but try as she will, she cannot be so repellant as she is attractive." charlton pushed his horse into a brisker pace not favourable to conversation; and they rode forward in silence, till in descending the hill below deepwater they came within view of hugh's workplace, the saw mill. charlton suddenly drew bridle. "there she is." "and who is with her?" said thorn. "as i live!--our friend--what's his name?--who has lost all his ancestors.--and who is the other?" "my brother," said charlton. "i don't mean your brother, capt. rossitur," said thorn throwing himself off his horse. he joined the party, who were just leaving the mill to go down towards the house. very much at his leisure charlton dismounted and came after him. "i have brought charlton safe home, miss ringgan," said thorn, who leading his horse had quietly secured a position at her side. "what's the matter?" said fleda laughing. "couldn't he bring himself home?" "i don't know what's the matter, but he's been uncommonly dumpish--we've been as near as possible to quarrelling for half a dozen miles back." "we have been--a--more agreeably employed," said dr. quackenboss looking round at him with a face that was a concentration of affability. "i make no doubt of it, sir; i trust we shall bring no unharmonious interruption.--if i may change somebody else's words," he added more low to fleda,--"disdain itself must convert to courtesy in your presence." "i am sorry disdain should live to pay me a compliment," said fleda. "mr. thorn, may i introduce to you mr. olmney?" mr. thorn honoured the introduction with perfect civility, but then fell back to his former position and slightly lowered tone. "are you then a sworn foe to compliments?" "i was never so fiercely attacked by them as to give me any occasion." "i should be very sorry to furnish the occasion,--but what's the harm in them, miss ringgan?" "chiefly a want of agreeableness." "of agreeableness!--pardon me--i hope you will be so good as to give me the rationale of that?" "i am of miss edgeworth's opinion, sir," said fleda blushing, "that a lady may always judge of the estimation in which she is held by the conversation which is addressed to her." "and you judge compliments to be a doubtful indication of esteem?" "i am sure you do not need information on that point, sir." "as to your opinion, or the matter of fact?" said he somewhat keenly. "as to the matter of fact," said fleda, with a glance both simple and acute in its expression. "i will not venture to say a word," said thorn smiling. "protestations would certainly fall flat at the gates where _les douces paroles_ cannot enter. but do you know this is picking a man's pocket of all his silver pennies and obliging him to produce his gold." "that _would_ be a hard measure upon a good many people," said fleda laughing. "but they're not driven to that. there's plenty of small change left." "you certainly do not deal in the coin you condemn," said thorn bowing. "but you will remember that none call for gold but those who can exchange it, and the number of them is few. in a world where cowrie passes current a man may be excused for not throwing about his guineas." "i wish you'd throw about a few for our entertainment," said charlton, who was close behind. "i haven't seen a yellow-boy in a good while." "a proof that your eyes are not jaundiced," said his friend without turning his head, "whatever may be the case with you otherwise. is he out of humour with the country life you like so well, miss ringgan, or has he left his domestic tastes in mexico? how do you think he likes queechy?" "you might as well ask myself," said charlton. "how do you think he likes queechy, miss ringgan?" "i am afraid something after the fashion of touchstone," said fleda laughing;--"he thinks that 'in respect of itself it is a good life; but in respect that it is a shepherd's life it is naught. in respect that it is solitary, he likes it very well; but in respect that it is private, it is a very vile life. now in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth him well; but in respect it is not in the court, it is tedious.'" "there's a guinea for you, capt. rossitur," said his friend. "do you know out of what mint?" "it doesn't bear the head of socrates," said charlton. "'hast no philosophy in thee,' charlton?" said fleda laughing back at him. "has not queechy--a--the honour of your approbation, capt. rossitur?" said the doctor. "certainly sir--i have no doubt of its being a very fine country." "only he has imbibed some doubts whether happiness be an indigenous crop," said thorn. "undoubtedly," said the doctor blandly,--"to one who has roamed over the plains of mexico, queechy must seem rather--a--rather flat place." "if he could lose sight of the hills," said thorn. "undoubtedly, sir, undoubtedly," said the doctor; "they are a marked feature in the landscape, and do much to relieve--a--the charge of sameness." "luckily," said mr. olmney smiling, "happiness is not a thing of circumstance; it depends on a man's self." "i used to think so," said thorn;--"that is what i have always subscribed to; but i am afraid i could not live in this region and find it so long." "what an evening!" said fleda. "queechy is doing its best to deserve our regards under this light. mr. olmney, did you ever notice the beautiful curve of the hills in that hollow where the sun sets?" "i do notice it now" he said. "it is exquisite!" said the doctor. "capt. rossitur, do you observe, sir?--in that hollow where the sun sets?--" capt. rossitur's eye made a very speedy transition from the hills to fleda, who had fallen back a little to take hugh's arm and placing herself between him and mr. olmney was giving her attention undividedly to the latter. and to him she talked perseveringly, of the mountains, the country, and the people, till they reached the courtyard gate. mr. olmney then passed on. so did the doctor, though invited to tarry, averring that the sun had gone down behind the firmament and he had something to attend to at home. "you will come in, thorn," said charlton. "why--i had intended returning,--but the sun has gone down indeed, and as our friend says there is no chance of our seeing him again i may as well go in and take what comfort is to be had in the circumstances. gentle euphrosyne, doth it not become the graces to laugh?" "they always ask leave, sir," said fleda hesitating. "a most grace-ful answer, though it does not smile upon me," said thorn. "i am sorry, sir," said fleda, smiling now, "that you have so many silver pennies to dispose of we shall never get at the gold." "i will do my very best," said he. so he did, and made himself agreeable that evening to every one of the circle; though fleda's sole reason for liking to see him come in had been that she was glad of everything that served to keep charlton's attention from home subjects. she saw sometimes the threatening of a cloud that troubled her. but the evelyns and thorn and everybody else whom they knew left the pool at last, before charlton, who was sufficiently well again, had near run out his furlough; and then the cloud which had only shewed itself by turns during all those weeks gathered and settled determinately upon his brow. he had long ago supplied the want of a newspaper. one evening in september the family were sitting in the room where they had had tea, for the benefit of the fire, when barby pushed open the kitchen door and came in. "fleda will you let me have one of the last papers? i've a notion to look at it." fleda rose and went to rummaging in the cupboards. "you can have it again in a little while," said barby considerately. the paper was found and miss elster went out with it. "what an unendurable piece of ill-manners that woman is!" said charlton. "she has no idea of being ill-mannered, i assure you," said fleda. his voice was like a brewing storm--hers was so clear and soft that it made a lull in spite of him. but he began again. "there is no necessity for submitting to impertinence. i never would do it." "i have no doubt you never will," said his father. "unless you can't help yourself." "is there any good reason, sir, why you should not have proper servants in the house?" "a very good reason," said mr. rossitur. "fleda would be in despair." "is there none beside that?" said charlton dryly. "none--except a trifling one," mr. rossitur answered in the same tone. "we cannot afford it, dear charlton," said his mother softly. there was a silence, during which fleda moralized on the ways people take to make themselves uncomfortable. "does that man--to whom you let the farm--does he do his duty?" "i am not the keeper of his conscience." "i am afraid it would be a small charge to any one," said fleda. "but are you the keeper of the gains you ought to have from him? does he deal fairly by you?" "may i ask first what interest it is of yours?" "it is my interest, sir, because i come home and find the family living upon the exertions of hugh and fleda and find them growing thin and pale under it." "you, at least, are free from all pains of the kind, capt. rossitur." "don't listen to him, uncle rolf!" said fleda going round to her uncle, and making as she passed a most warning impression upon charlton's arm,--"don't mind what he says--that young gentleman has been among the mexican ladies till he has lost an eye for a really proper complexion. look at me!--do i look pale and thin?--i was paid a most brilliant compliment the other day upon my roses--uncle, don't listen to him!--he hasn't been in a decent humour since the evelyns went away." she knelt down before him and laid her hands upon his and looked up in his face to bring all her plea; the plea of most winning sweetness of entreaty in features yet flushed and trembling. his own did not unbend as he gazed at her, but he gave her a silent answer in a pressure of the hands that went straight from his heart to hers. fleda's eye turned to charlton appealingly. "is it necessary," he repeated, "that that child and this boy should spend their days in labour to keep the family alive?" "if it were," replied mr. rossitur, "i am very willing that their exertions should cease. for my own part i would quite as lief be out of the world as in it." "charlton!--how can you!--" said fleda, half beside herself,--you should know of what you speak or be silent!--uncle, don't mind him! he is talking wildly--my work does me good." "you do not understand yourself," said charlton obstinately;--"it is more than you ought to do, and i know my mother thinks so too." [illustration: she knelt down before him.] "well!" said mr. rossitur,--"it seems there is an agreement in my own family to bring me to the bar--get up, fleda,--let us hear all the charges to be brought against me, at once, and then pass sentence. what have your mother and you agreed upon, charlton?--go on!" mrs. rossitur, now beyond speech, left the room, weeping even aloud. hugh followed her. fleda wrestled with her agitation for a minute or two, and then got up and put both arms round her uncle's neck. "don't talk so, dear uncle rolf!--you make us very unhappy--aunt lucy did not mean any such thing--it is only charlton's nonsense. do go and tell her you don't think so,--you have broken her heart by what you said;--do go, uncle rolf!--do go and make her happy again! forget it all!--charlton did not know what he was saying--won't you go, dear uncle rolf?--" the words were spoken between bursts of tears that utterly overcame her, though they did not hinder the utmost caressingness of manner. it seemed at first spent upon a rock. mr. rossitur stood like a man that did not care what happened or what became of him; dumb and unrelenting; suffering her sweet words and imploring tears, with no attempt to answer the one or stay the other. but he could not hold out against her beseeching. he was no match for it. he returned at last heartily the pressure of her arms, and unable to give her any other answer kissed her two or three times, such kisses as are charged with the heart's whole message; and disengaging himself left the room. for a minute after he was gone fleda cried excessively; and charlton, now alone with her, felt as if he had not a particle of self-respect left to stand upon. one such agony would do her more harm than whole weeks of labour and weariness. he was too vexed and ashamed of himself to be able to utter a word, but when she recovered a little and was leaving the room he stood still by the door in an attitude that seemed to ask her to speak a word to him. "i am sure, charlton," she said gently, "you will be sorry to-morrow for what you have done." "i am sorry now," he said. but she passed out without saying anything more. capt. rossitur passed the night in unmitigated vexation with himself. but his repentance could not have been very genuine, since his most painful thought was, what fleda must think of him. he was somewhat reassured at breakfast to find no traces of the evening's storm; indeed the moral atmosphere seemed rather clearer and purer than common. his own face was the only one which had an unusual shade upon it. there was no difference in anybody's manner towards himself; and there was even a particularly gentle and kind pleasantness about fleda, intended, he knew, to soothe and put to rest any movings of self-reproach he might feel. it somehow missed of its aim and made him feel worse; and after on his part a very silent meal he quitted the house and took himself and his discontent to the woods. whatever effect they had upon him, it was the middle of the morning before he came back again. he found fleda alone in the breakfast-room, sewing; and for the first time noticed the look his mother had spoken of; a look not of sadness, but rather of settled patient gravity; the more painful to see because it could only have been wrought by long-acting causes, and might be as slow to do away as it must have been to bring. charlton's displeasure with the existing state of things had revived as his remorse died away, and that quiet face did not have a quieting effect upon him. "what on earth is going on!" he began rather abruptly as soon as he entered the room. "what horrible cookery is on foot?" "i venture to recommend that you do not inquire," said fleda. "it was set on foot in the kitchen and it has walked in here. if you open the window it will walk out." "but you will be cold?" "never mind--in that case i will walk out too, into the kitchen." "into the thick of it!--no--i will try some other way of relief. this is unendurable!" fleda looked, but made no other remonstrance, and not heeding the look mr. charlton walked out into the kitchen, shutting the door behind him. "barby," said he, "you have got something cooking here that is very disagreeable in the other room." "is it?" said barby. "i reckoned it would all fly up chimney i guess the draught ain't so strong as i thought it was." "but i tell you it fills the house!" "well, it'll have to a spell yet," said barby, "'cause if it didn't, you see, capt. rossitur, there'd be nothing to fill fleda's chickens with." "chickens!--where's all the corn in the land?" "it's some place besides in our barn," said barby. "all last year's is out, and mr. didenhover ha'n't fetched any of this year's home; so i made a bargain with 'em they shouldn't starve as long as they'd eat boiled pursley." "what do you give them?" "'most everything--they ain't particler now-a days--chunks o' cabbage, and scarcity, and pun'kin and that--all the sass that ain't wanted." "and do they eat that?" "eat it!" said barby. "they don't know how to thank me for't!" "but it ought to be done out of doors," said charlton, coming back from a kind of maze in which he had been listening to her. "it is unendurable!" "then i guess you'll have to go some place where you won't know it," said barby;--"that's the most likely plan i can hit upon; for it'll have to stay on till it's ready." charlton went back into the other room really down-hearted, and stood watching the play of fleda's fingers. "is it come to this!" he said at length. "is it possible that you are obliged to go without such a trifle as the miserable supply of food your fowls want!" "that's a small matter!" said fleda, speaking lightly though she smothered a sigh. "we have been obliged to do without more than that." "what is the reason?" "why this man didenhover is a rogue i suspect, and he manages to spirit away all the profits that should come to uncle rolf's hands--i don't know how. we have lived almost entirely upon the mill for some time." "and has my father been doing nothing all this while?" "nothing on the farm." "and what of anything else?" "i don't know," said fleda, speaking with evident unwillingness. "but surely, charlton, he knows his own business best. it is not our affair." "he is mad!" said charlton, violently striding up and down the floor. "no," said fleda with equal gentleness and sadness--"he is only unhappy;--i understand it all--he has had no spirit to take hold of anything ever since we came here." "spirit!" said charlton;--"he ought to have worked off his fingers to their joints before he let you do as you have been doing!" "don't say so!" said fleda, looking even pale in her eagerness--"don't think so, charlton! it isn't right. we cannot tell what he may have had to trouble him--i know he has suffered and does suffer a great deal.--do not speak again about anything as you did last night!--oh," said fleda, now shedding bitter tears,--"this is the worst of growing poor! the difficulty of keeping up the old kindness and sympathy and care for each other!--" "i am sure it does not work so upon you," said charlton in an altered voice. "promise me, dear charlton," said fleda looking up after a moment and drying her eyes again, "promise me you will not say any more about these things! i am sure it pains uncle rolf more than you think. say you will not,--for your mother's sake!" "i will not, fleda--for your sake. i would not give _you_ any more trouble to bear. promise me; that you will be more careful of yourself in future." "o there is no danger about me," said fleda with a faint smile and taking up her work again. "who are you making shirts for?" said charlton after a pause. "hugh." "you do everything for hugh, don't you?" "little enough. not half so much as he does for me." "is he up at the mill to-day?" "he is always there," said fleda sighing. there was another silence. "charlton," said fleda looking up with a face of the loveliest insinuation.--"isn't there something _you_ might do to help us a little?" "i will help you garden, fleda, with pleasure." "i would rather you should help somebody else," said she, still looking at him. "what, hugh?--you would have me go and work at the mill for him, i suppose!" "don't be angry with me, charlton, for suggesting it," said fleda looking down again. "angry!"--said he. "but is that what you would have me do?" "not unless you like,--i didn't know but you might take his place once in a while for a little, to give him a rest,--" "and suppose some of the people from montepoole that know me should come by? what are you thinking of?" said he in a tone that certainly justified fleda's deprecation. "well!"--said fleda in a kind of choked voice,--"there is a strange rule of honour in vogue in the world!" "why should i help hugh rather than anybody else?" "he is killing himself!--" said fleda, letting her work fall and hardly speaking the words through thick tears. her head was down and they came fast. charlton stood abashed for a minute. "you sha'n't do so, fleda," said he gently, endeavouring to raise her,--"you have tired yourself with this miserable work!--come to the window--you have got low-spirited, but i am sure without reason about hugh,--but you shall set me about what you will--you are right, i dare say, and i am wrong; but don't make me think myself a brute, and i will do anything you please." he had raised her up and made her lean upon him. fleda wiped her eyes and tried to smile. "i will do anything that will please you, fleda." "it is not to please _me_,--" she answered meekly. "i would not have spoken a word last night if i had known it would have grieved you so." "i am sorry you should have none but so poor a reason for doing right," said fleda gently. "upon my word, i think you are about as good reason as anybody need have," said charlton. she put her hand upon his arm and looked up,--such a look of pure rebuke as carried to his mind the full force of the words she did not speak,--'who art thou that carest for a worm which shall die, and forgettest the lord thy maker!'--charlton's eyes fell. fleda turned gently away and began to mend the fire. he stood watching her for a little. "what do you think of me, fleda?" he said at length. "a little wrong-headed," answered fleda, giving him a glance and a smile. "i don't think you are very bad." "if you will go with me, fleda, you shall make what you please of me!" he spoke half in jest, half in earnest, and did not himself know at the moment which way he wished fleda to take it. but she had no notion of any depth in his words. "a hopeless task!" she answered lightly, shaking her head, as she got down on her knees to blow the fire;--"i am afraid it is too much for me. i have been trying to mend you ever since you came, and i cannot see the slightest change for the better!" "where is the bellows?" said charlton in another tone. "it has expired--its last breath," said fleda. "in other words, it has lost its nose." "well, look here," said he laughing and pulling her away,--"you will stand a fair chance of losing your face if you put it in the fire. you sha'n't do it. come and shew me where to find the scattered parts of that old wind instrument and i will see if it cannot be persuaded to play again." chapter xxv. i dinna ken what i should want if i could get but a man. scotch ballad. capt. rossitur did no work at the saw-mill. but fleda's words had not fallen to the ground. he began to shew care for his fellow-creatures in getting the bellows mended; his next step was to look to his gun; and from that time so long as he staid the table was plentifully supplied with all kinds of game the season and the country could furnish. wild ducks and partridges banished pork and bacon even from memory; and fleda joyfully declared she would not see another omelette again till she was in distress. while charlton was still at home came a very urgent invitation from mrs. evelyn that fleda should pay them a long visit in new york, bidding her care for no want of preparation but come and make it there. fleda demurred, however, on that very score. but before her answer was written, another missive came from dr. gregory, not asking so much as demanding her presence, and enclosing a fifty-dollar bill, for which he said he would hold her responsible till she had paid him with,--not her own hands,--but her own lips. there was no withstanding the manner of this entreaty. fleda packed up some of mrs. rossitur's laid-by silks, to be refreshed with an air of fashion, and set off with charlton at the end of his furlough. to her simple spirit of enjoyment the weeks ran fast; and all manner of novelties and kindnesses helped them on. it was a time of cloudless pleasure. but those she had left thought it long. she wrote them how delightfully she kept house for the old doctor, whose wife had long been dead, and how joyously she and the evelyns made time fly. and every pleasure she felt awoke almost as strong a throb in the hearts at home. but they missed her, as barby said, "dreadfully;" and she was most dearly welcomed when she came back. it was just before new year. for half an hour there was most gladsome use of eyes and tongues. fleda had a great deal to tell them. "how well--how well you are looking, dear fleda!" said her aunt for the third or fourth time. "that's more than lean say for you and hugh, aunt lucy. what have you been doing to yourself?" "nothing new," they said, as her eye went from one to the other. "i guess you have wanted me!" said fleda, shaking her head as she kissed them both again. "i guess we have," said hugh, "but don't fancy we have grown thin upon the want." "but where's uncle rolf? you didn't tell me." "he is gone to look after those lands in michigan." "in michigan!--when did he go?" "very soon after you." "and you didn't let me know!--o why didn't you? how lonely you must have been." "let you know indeed!" said mrs. rossitur, wrapping her in her arms again;--"hugh and i counted every week that you staid with more and pleasure each one." "i understand!" said fleda laughing under her aunt's kisses. "well i am glad i am at home again to take care of you. i see you can't get along without me!" "people have been very kind, fleda," said hugh. "have they?" "yes--thinking we were desolate i suppose. there has been no end to aunt miriam's goodness and pleasantness." "o aunt miriam, always!" said fleda. "and seth." "catherine douglass has been up twice to ask if her mother could do anything for us; and mrs. douglass sent us once a rabbit and once a quantity of wild pigeons that earl had shot. mother and i lived upon pigeons for i don't know how long. barby wouldn't eat 'em--she said she liked pork better; but i believe she did it on purpose." "like enough," said fleda, smiling, from her aunt's arms where she still lay. "and seth has sent you plenty of your favourite hickory nuts, very fine ones; and i gathered butternuts enough for you near home." "everything is for me," said fleda. "well, the first thing i do shall be to make some butternut candy for you. you won't despise that, mr. hugh?"-- hugh smiled at her, and went on. "and your friend mr. olmney has sent us a corn-basket full of the superbest apples you ever saw. he has one tree of the finest in queechy, he says." "_my_ friend!" said fleda, colouring a little. "well i don't know whose he is if he isn't yours," said hugh. "and even the finns sent us some fish that their brother had caught, because, they said, they had more than they wanted. and dr. quackenboss sent us a goose and a turkey. we didn't like to keep them, but we were afraid if we sent them back it would not be understood." "send them back!" said fleda. "that would never do! all queechy would have rung with it." "well, we didn't," said hugh. "but so we sent one of them to barby's old mother for christmas." "poor dr. quackenboss!" said fleda. "that man has as near as possible killed me two or three times. as for the others, they are certainly the oddest of all the finny tribes. i must go out and see barby for a minute." it was a good many minutes, however, before she could get free to do any such thing. "you ha'n't lost no flesh," said barby shaking hands with her anew. "what did they think of queechy keep, down in york?" "i don't know--i didn't ask them," said fleda. "how goes the world with you, barby?" "i'm mighty glad you are come home, fleda," said barby lowering her voice. "why?" said fleda in a like tone. "i guess i ain't all that's glad of it," miss elster went on, with a glance of her bright eye. "i guess not," said fleda reddening a little;--"but what is the matter?" "there's two of our friends ha'n't made us but one visit a piece since--oh, ever since some time in october!" "well never mind the people," said fleda. "tell me what you were going to say." "and mr. olmney," said barby not minding her, "he's took and sent us a great basket chock full of apples. now wa'n't that smart of him, when he knowed there wa'n't no one here that cared about 'em?" "they are a particularly fine kind," said fleda. "did you hear about the goose and turkey?" "yes," said fleda laughing. "the doctor thinks he has done the thing just about right this time, i s'pect. he had ought to take out a patent right for his invention. he'd feel spry if he knowed who eat one on 'em." "never mind the doctor, barby. was this what you wanted to see me for?" "no," said barby changing her tone. "i'd give something it was. i've been all but at my wit's end; for you know mis' rossitur ain't no hand about anything--i couldn't say a word to her--and ever since he went away we have been just winding ourselves up. i thought i should clear out, when mis' rossitur said maybe you wa'n't a coming till next week." "but what is it barby? what is wrong?" "there ha'n't been anything right, to my notions, for a long spell," said barby, wringing out her dishcloth hard and flinging it down to give herself uninterruptedly to talk;--"but now you see, didenhover nor none of the men never comes near the house to do a chore; and there ain't wood to last three days; and hugh ain't fit to cut it if it was piled up in the yard; and there ain't the first stick of it out of the woods yet." fleda sat down and looked very thoughtfully into the fire. "he had ought to ha' seen to it afore he went away, but he ha'n't done it, and there it is." "why who takes care of the cows?" said fleda. "o never mind the cows," said barby;--"they ain't suffering; i wish we was as well off as they be;--but i guess when he went away he made a hole in our pockets for to mend his'n. i don't say he hadn't ought to ha' done it, but we've been pretty short ever sen, fleda--we're in the last bushel of flour, and there ain't but a handful of corn meal, and mighty little sugar, white or brown.--i did say something to mis' rossitur, but all the good it did was to spile her appetite, i s'pose; and if there's grain in the floor there ain't nobody to carry it to mill,--nor to thresh it,--nor a team to draw it, fur's i know." "hugh cannot cut wood!" said fleda;--"nor drive to mill either, in this weather." "i could go to mill," said barby, "now you're to hum, but that's only the beginning; and it's no use to try to do everything--flesh and blood must stop somewhere.--" "no indeed!" said fleda. "we must have somebody immediately." "that's what i had fixed upon," said barby. "if you could get hold o' some young feller that wa'n't sot up with an idee that he was a grown man and too big to be told, i'd just clap to and fix that little room up stairs for him and give him his victuals here, and we'd have some good of him; instead o' having him streakin' off just at the minute when he'd ought to be along." "who is there we could get, barby?" "i don't know," said barby; "but they say there is never a nick that there ain't a jog some place; so i guess it can be made out. i asked mis' plumfield, but she didn't know anybody that was out of work; nor seth plumfield. i'll tell you who does,--that is, if there _is_ anybody,--mis' douglass. she keeps hold of one end of 'most everybody's affairs, i tell her. anyhow she's a good hand to go to." "i'll go there at once," said fleda. "do you know anything about making maple sugar, barby?" "that's the very thing!" exclaimed barby ecstatically. "there's lots o' sugar maples on the farm and it's murder to let them go to loss; and they ha'n't done us a speck o' good ever since i come here. and in your grandfather's time they used to make barrels and barrels. you and me and hugh, and somebody else we'll have, we could clap to and make as much sugar and molasses in a week as would last us till spring come round again. there's no sense into it! all we'd want would be to borrow a team some place. i had all that in my head long ago. if we could see the last of that man didenhover oncet, i'd take hold of the plough myself and see if i couldn't make a living out of it! i don't believe the world would go now, fleda, if it wa'n't for women. i never see three men yet that didn't try me more than they were worth." "patience, barby!" said fleda smiling. "let us take things quietly." "well i declare i'm beat, to see how you take 'em," said barby, looking at her lovingly. "don't you know why, barby?" "i s'pose i do," said barby her face softening still more,--"or i can guess." "because i know that all these troublesome things will be managed in the best way and by my best friend, and i know that he will let none of them hurt me. i am sure of it--isn't that enough to keep me quiet?" fleda's eyes were filling and barby looked away from them. "well it beats me," she said taking up her dishcloth again, "why _you_ should have anything to trouble you. i can understand wicked folks being plagued, but i can't see the sense of the good ones." "troubles are to make good people better, barby." "well," said barby with a very odd mixture of real feeling and seeming want of it,--"it's a wonder i never got religion, for i will say that all the decent people i ever see were of that kind!--mis' rossitur ain't though, is she?" "no," said fleda, a pang crossing her at the thought that all her aunt's loveliness must tell directly and heavily in this case to lighten religion's testimony. it was that thought and no other which saddened her brow as she went back into the other room. "troubles already!" said mrs. rossitur. "you will be sorry you have come back to them, dear." "no indeed!" said fleda brightly; "i am very glad i have come home. we will try and manage the troubles, aunt lucy." there was no doing anything that day, but the very next afternoon fleda and hugh walked down through the snow to mrs. douglass's. it was a long walk and a cold one and the snow was heavy; but the pleasure of being together made up for it all. it was a bright walk, too, in spite of everything. in a most thrifty-looking well-painted farm-house lived mrs. douglass. "why 'tain't you, is it?" she said when she opened the door,--"catharine said it was, and i said i guessed it wa'n't, for i reckoned you had made up your mind not to come and see me at all.--how do you do?" the last sentence in the tone of hearty and earnest hospitality. fleda made her excuses. "ay, ay,--i can understand all that just as well as if you said it. i know how much it means too. take off your hat." fleda said she could not stay, and explained her business. "so you ha'n't come to see me after all. well now take off your hat, 'cause i won't have anything to say to you till you do. i'll give you supper right away." "but i have left my aunt alone, mrs. douglass;--and the afternoons are so short now it would be dark before we could get home." "serve her right for not coming along! and you sha'n't walk home in the dark, for earl will harness the team and carry you home like a streak--the horses have nothing to do--come, you sha'n't go." and as mrs. douglass laid violent hands on her bonnet fleda thought best to submit. she was presently rewarded with the promise of the very person she wanted--a boy, or young man, then in earl douglass's employ; but his wife said "she guessed he'd give him up to her;" and what his wife said, fleda knew, earl douglass was in the habit of making good. "there ain't enough to do to keep him busy," said mrs. douglass. "i told earl he made me more work than he saved; but he's hung on till now." "what sort of a boy is he, mrs. douglass?" "he ain't a steel trap. i tell you beforehand," said the lady, with one of her sharp intelligent glances,--"he don't know which way to go till you shew him; but he's a clever enough kind of a chap--he don't mean no harm. i guess he'll do for what you want." "is he to be trusted?" "trust him with anything but a knife and fork," said she, with another look and shake of the head. "he has no idea but what everything on the supper-table is meant to be eaten straight off. i would keep two such men as my husband as soon as i would philetus." "philetus!" said fleda,--"the person that brought the chicken and thought he had brought two?" "you've hit it," said mrs. douglass. "now you know him. how do you like our new minister?" "we are all very much pleased with him." "he's very good-looking, don't you think so?" "a very pleasant face." "i ha'n't seen him much yet except in church; but those that know say he is very agreeable in the house." "truly, i dare say," answered fleda, for mrs. douglass's face looked for her testimony. "but i think he looks as if he was beating his brains out there among his books--i tell him he is getting the blues, living in that big house by himself." "do you manage to do all your work without help, mrs. douglass?" said fleda, knowing that the question was "in order" and that the affirmative answer was not counted a thing to be ashamed of. "well i guess i'll know good reason," said mrs. douglass complacently, "before i'll have any help to spoil _my_ work. come along, and i'll let you see whether i want one." fleda went, very willingly, to be shewn all mrs. douglass's household arrangements and clever contrivances, of her own or her husband's devising, for lessening or facilitating labour. the lady was proud, and had some reason to be, of the very superb order and neatness of each part and detail. no corner or closet that might not be laid open fearlessly to a visitor's inspection. miss catharine was then directed to open her piano and amuse fleda with it while her mother performed her promise of getting an early supper; a command grateful to one or two of the party, for catharine had been carrying on all this while a most stately tête-à-tête with hugh which neither had any wish to prolong. so fleda filled up the time good-naturedly with thrumming over the two or three bits of her childish music that she could recall, till mr. douglass came in and they were summoned to sit down to supper; which mrs. douglass introduced by telling her guests "they must take what they could get, for she had made fresh bread and cake and pies for them two or three times, and she wa'n't a going to do it again." her table was abundantly spread however, and with most exquisite neatness, and everything was of excellent quality, saving only certain matters which call for a free hand in the use of material. fleda thought the pumpkin pies must have been made from that vaunted stock which is said to want no eggs nor sugar, and the cakes she told mrs. rossitur afterwards would have been good if half the flour had been left out and the other ingredients doubled. the deficiency in one kind however was made up by superabundance in another; the table was stocked with such wealth of crockery that one could not imagine any poverty in what was to go upon it. fleda hardly knew how to marshal the confusion of plates which grouped themselves around her cup and saucer, and none of them might be dispensed with. there was one set of little glass dishes for one kind of sweetmeat, another set of ditto for another kind; an army of tiny plates to receive and shield the tablecloth from the dislodged cups of tea, saucers being the conventional drinking vessels; and there were the standard bread and butter plates, which besides their proper charge of bread and butter and beef and cheese, were expected, fleda knew, to receive a portion of every kind of cake that might happen to be on the table. it was a very different thing however from miss anastasia's tea-table or that of miss flora quackenboss. fleda enjoyed the whole time without difficulty. mr. douglass readily agreed to the transfer of philetus's services. "he's a good boy!" said earl,--"he's a good boy; he's as good a kind of a boy as you need to have. he wants tellin'; most boys want tellin'; but he'll do when he _is_ told, and he means to do right." "how long do you expect your uncle will be gone?" said mrs. douglass. "i do not know," said fleda. "have you heard from him since he left?" "not since i came home," said fleda. "mr. douglass, what is the first thing to be done about the maple trees in the sugar season?" "why, you calculate to try makin' sugar in the spring?" "perhaps--at any rate i should like to know about it." "well i should think you would," said earl, "and it's easy done--there ain't nothin' easier, when you know the right way to set to work about it; and there's a fine lot of sugar trees on the old farm--i recollect of them sugar trees as long ago as when i was a boy--i've helped to work them afore now, but there's a good many years since--has made me a leetle older--but the first thing you want is a man and a team, to go about and empty the buckets--the buckets must be emptied every day, and then carry it down to the house." "yes, i know," said fleda, "but what is the first thing to be done to the trees?" "why la! 'tain't much to do to the trees--all you've got to do is to take an axe and chip a bit out and stick a chip a leetle way into the cut for to dreen the sap, and set a trough under, and then go on to the next one, and so on;--you may make one or two cuts in the south side of the tree, and one or two cuts in the north side, if the tree's big enough, and if it ain't, only make one or two cuts in the south side of the tree; and for the sap to run good it had ought to be that kind o' weather when it freezes in the day and thaws by night;--i would say!--when it friz in the night and thaws in the day; the sap runs more bountifully in that kind o' weather." it needed little from fleda to keep mr. douglass at the maple trees till supper was ended; and then as it was already sundown he went to harness the sleigh. it was a comfortable one, and the horses if not very handsome nor bright-curried were well fed and had good heart to their work. a two mile drive was before them, and with no troublesome tongues or eyes to claim her attention fleda enjoyed it fully. in the soft clear winter twilight when heaven and earth mingle so gently, and the stars look forth brighter and cheerfuller than ever at another time, they slid along over the fine roads, too swiftly, towards home; and fleda's thoughts as easily and swiftly slipped away from mr. douglass and maple sugar and philetus and an unfilled wood-yard and an empty flour-barrel, and revelled in the pure ether. a dark rising ground covered with wood sometimes rose between her and the western horizon; and then a long stretch of snow, only less pure, would leave free view of its unearthly white light, dimmed by no exhalation, a gentle, mute, but not the less eloquent, witness to earth of what heaven must be. but the sleigh stopped at the gate, and fleda's musings came home. "good night!" said earl, in reply to their thanks and adieus;--"'tain't anything to thank a body for--let me know when you're a goin' into the sugar making and i'll come and help you." "how sweet a pleasant message may make an unmusical tongue," said fleda, as she and hugh made their way up to the house. "we had a stupid enough afternoon," said hugh. "but the ride home was worth it all!" chapter xxvi. 'tis merry, 'tis merry, in good green wood, so blithe lady alice is singing; on the beech's pride, and the oak's brown side, lord richard's axe is ringing. lady of the lake. philetus came, and was inducted into office and the little room immediately; and fleda felt herself eased of a burden. barby reported him stout and willing, and he proved it by what seemed a perverted inclination for bearing the most enormous logs of wood he could find into the kitchen. "he will hurt himself!" said fleda. "i'll protect him!--against anything but buckwheat batter," said barby with a grave shake of her head. "lazy folks takes the most pains, i tell him. but it would be good to have some more ground, fleda, for philetus says he don't care for no dinner when he has griddles to breakfast, and there ain't anything much cheaper than that." "aunt lucy, have you any change in the house?" said fleda that same day. "there isn't but three and sixpence," said mrs. rossitur with a pained conscious look. "what is wanting, dear?" "only candles--barby has suddenly found we are out, and she won't have any more made before to-morrow. never mind!" "there is only that," repeated mrs. rossitur. "hugh has a little money due to him from last summer, but he hasn't been able to get it yet. you may take that, dear." "no," said fleda,--"we mustn't. we might want it more." "we can sit in the dark for once," said hugh, "and try to make an uncommon display of what dr. quackenboss calls 'sociality.'" "no," said fleda, who had stood busily thinking,--"i am going to send philetus down to the post-office for the paper, and when it comes i am not to be balked of reading it--i've made up my mind! we'll go right off into the woods and get some pine knots, hugh--come! they make a lovely light. you get us a couple of baskets and the hatchet--i wish we had two--and i'll be ready in no time. that'll do!" it is to be noticed that charlton had provided against any future deficiency of news in his family. fleda skipped away and in five minutes returned arrayed for the expedition, in her usual out-of-door working trim, namely,--an old dark merino cloak, almost black, the effect of which was continued by the edge of an old dark mousseline below, and rendered decidedly striking by the contrast of a large whitish yarn shawl worn over it; the whole crowned with a little close-fitting hood made of some old silver-grey silk, shaped tight to the head, without any bow or furbelow to break the outline. but such a face within side of it! she came almost dancing into the room. "this is miss ringgan!--as she appeared when she was going to see the pine trees. hugh, don't you wish you had a picture of me?" "i have got a tolerable picture of you, somewhere," said hugh. "this is somebody very different from the miss ringgan that went to see mrs. evelyn, i can tell you," fleda went on gayly. "do you know, aunt lucy, i have made up my mind that my visit to new york was a dream, and the dream is nicely folded away with my silk dresses. now i must go tell that precious philetus about the post-office--i am _so_ comforted, aunt lucy, whenever i see that fellow staggering into the house under a great log of wood! i have not heard anything in a long time so pleasant as the ringing strokes of his axe in the yard. isn't life made up of little things!" "why don't you put a better pair of shoes on?" "can't afford it, mrs. rossitur! you are extravagant!" "go and put on my india-rubbers." "no ma'am!--the rocks would cut them to pieces. i have brought my mind down to--my shoes." "it isn't safe, fleda; you might see somebody." "well ma'am!--but i tell you i am not going to see anybody but the chick-a-dees and the snow-birds, and there is great simplicity of manners prevailing among them." the shoes were changed, and hugh and fleda set forth, lingering awhile however to give a new edge to their hatchet, fleda turning the grindstone. they mounted then the apple-orchard hill and went a little distance along the edge of the table-land before striking off into the woods. they had stood still a minute to look over the little white valley to the snow-dressed woodland beyond. "this is better than new york, hugh," said fleda. "i am very glad to hear you say that," said another voice. fleda turned and started a little to see mr. olmney at her side, and congratulated herself instantly on her shoes. "mrs. rossitur told me where you had gone and gave me permission to follow you, but i hardly hoped to overtake you so soon." "we stopped to sharpen our tools," said fleda. "we are out on a foraging expedition." "will you let me help you?" "certainly!--if you understand the business. do you know a pine knot when you see it?" he laughed and shook his head, but avowed a wish to learn. "well, it would be a charity to teach you anything wholesome," said fleda, "for i heard one of mr. olmney's friends lately saying that he looked like a person who was in danger of committing suicide." "suicide!--one of my friends!"--he exclaimed in the utmost astonishment. "yes," said fleda laughing;--"and there is nothing like the open air for clearing away vapours." "you cannot have known that by experience," said he looking at her. fleda shook her head and advising him to take nothing for granted, set off into the woods. they were in a beautiful state. a light snow but an inch or two deep had fallen the night before; the air had been perfectly still during the day; and though the sun was out, bright and mild, it had done little but glitter on the earth's white capping. the light dry flakes of snow had not stirred from their first resting-place. the long branches of the large pines were just tipped with snow at the ends; on the smaller evergreens every leaf and tuft had its separate crest. stones and rocks were smoothly rounded over, little shrubs and sprays that lay along the ground were all doubled in white; and the hemlock branches, bending with their feathery burthen, stooped to the foreheads of the party and gave them the freshest of salutations as they brushed by. the whole wood-scene was particularly fair and graceful. a light veil of purity, no more, thrown over the wilderness of stones and stumps and bare ground,--like the blessing of charity, covering all roughnesses and unsightlinesses--like the innocent unsullied nature that places its light shield between the eye and whatever is unequal, unkindly, and unlovely in the world. "what do you think of this for a misanthropical man, mr. olmney? there's a better tonic to be found in the woods than in any remedies of man's devising." "better than books?" said he. "certainly!--no comparison." "i have to learn that yet." "so i suppose," said fleda. "the very danger to be apprehended, as i hear, sir, is from your running a tilt into some of those thick folios of yours, head foremost.--there's no pitch there, hugh--you may leave it alone. we must go on--there are more yellow pines higher up." "but who could give such a strange character of me to you?" said mr. olmney. "i am sure your wisdom would not advise me to tell you that, sir. you will find nothing there, mr. olmney." they went gayly on, careering about in all directions and bearing down upon every promising stump or dead pine tree they saw in the distance. hugh and mr. olmney took turns in the labour of hewing out the fat pine knots and splitting down the old stumps to get at the pitchy heart of the wood; and the baskets began to grow heavy. the whole party were in excellent spirits, and as happy as the birds that filled the woods and whose cheery "chick-a-dee-dee-dee," was heard whenever they paused to rest and let the hatchet be still. "how one sees everything in the colour of one's own spectacles," said fleda. "may i ask what colour yours are to-day?" said mr. olmney. "rose, i think," said hugh. "no," said fleda, "they are better than that--they are no worse colour than the snow's own--they shew me everything just as it is. it could not be lovelier." "then we may conclude, may we not," said mr. olmney, "that you are not sorry to find yourself in queechy again?" "i am not sorry to find myself in the woods again. that is not pitch, mr. olmney." "it has the same colour,--and weight." "no, it is only wet--see this and smell of it--do you see the difference? isn't it pleasant?" "everything is pleasant to-day," said he smiling. "i shall report you a cure. come, i want to go a little higher and shew you a view. leave that, hugh, we have got enough--" but hugh chose to finish an obstinate stump, and his companions went on without him. it was not very far up the mountain and they came to a fine look-out point; the same where fleda and mr. carleton had paused long before on their quest after nuts. the wide spread of country was a white waste now; the delicate beauties of the snow were lost in the far view; and the distant catskill shewed wintrily against the fair blue sky. the air was gentle enough to invite them to stand still, after the exercise they had taken, and as they both looked in silence mr. olmney observed that his companion's face settled into a gravity rather at variance with the expression it had worn. "i should hardly think," said he softly, "that you were looking through white spectacles, if you had not told us so." "o--a shade may come over what one is looking at you know," said fleda. but seeing that he still watched her inquiringly she added, "i do not think a very wide landscape is ever gay in its effect upon the mind--do you?" "perhaps--i do not know," said he, his eyes turning to it again as if to try what the effect was. "my thoughts had gone back," said fleda, "to a time a good while ago, when i was a child and stood here in summer weather--and i was thinking that the change in the landscape is something like that which years make in the mind." "but you have not, for a long time at least, known any very acute sorrow?" "no--" said fleda, "but that is not necessary. there is a gentle kind of discipline which does its work i think more surely." "thank god for _gentle_ discipline!" said mr. olmney; "if you do not know what those griefs are that break down mind and body together." "i am not unthankful, i hope, for anything," said fleda gently; "but i have been apt to think that after a crushing sorrow the mind may rise up again, but that a long-continued though much lesser pressure in time breaks the spring." he looked at her again with a mixture of incredulous and tender interest, but her face did not belie her words, strange as they sounded from so young and in general so bright-seeming a creature. "'there shall no evil happen to the just,'" he said presently and with great sympathy. fleda flashed a look of gratitude at him--it was no more, for she felt her eyes watering and turned them away. "you have not, i trust, heard any bad news?" "no sir--not at all!" "i beg pardon for asking, but mrs. rossitur seemed to be in less good spirits than usual." he had some reason to say so, having found her in a violent fit of weeping. "you do not need to be told," he went on, "of the need there is that a cloud should now and then come over this lower scene--the danger that if it did not our eyes would look nowhere else?" there is something very touching in hearing a kind voice say what one has often struggled to say to oneself. "i know it, sir," said fleda, her words a little choked,--"and one may not wish the cloud away,--but it does not the less cast a shade upon the face. i guess hugh has worked his way into the middle of that stump by this time, mr. olmney." they rejoined him; and the baskets being now sufficiently heavy and arms pretty well tired they left the further riches of the pine woods unexplored and walked sagely homewards. at the brow of the table-land mr. olmney left them to take a shorter cut to the high-road, having a visit to make which the shortening day warned him not to defer. "put down your basket and rest a minute, hugh," said fleda. "i had a world of things to talk to you about, and this blessed man has driven them all out of my head." "but you are not sorry he came along with us?" "o no. we had a very good time. how lovely it is, hugh! look at the snow down there--without a track; and the woods have been dressed by the fairies. o look how the sun is glinting on the west side of that hillock!" [illustration: "how lovely it is, hugh!"] "it is twice as bright since you have come home," said hugh. "the snow is too beautiful to-day. o i was right! one may grow morbid over books--but i defy anybody in the company of those chick-a-dees. i should think it would be hard to keep quite sound in the city." "you are glad to be here again, aren't you?" said hugh. "very! o hugh!--it is better to be poor and have one's feet on these hills, than to be rich and shut up to brick walls!" "it is best as it is," said hugh quietly. "once," fleda went on,--"one fair day when i was out driving in new york, it did come over me with a kind of pang how pleasant it would be to have plenty of money again and be at ease; and then, as i was looking off over that pretty north river to the other shore, i bethought me, 'a little that a righteous man hath is better than the riches of many wicked.'" hugh did not answer, for the face she turned to him in its half tearful, half bright submission took away his speech. "why you cannot have enjoyed yourself as much as we thought, fleda, if you dislike the city so much?" "yes i did. o i enjoyed a great many things. i enjoyed being with the evelyns. you don't know how much they made of me,--every one of them,--father and mother and all the three daughters--and uncle orrin. i have been well petted, i can tell you, since i have been gone." "i am glad they shewed so much discrimination," said hugh; "they would be puzzled to make too much of you." "i must have been in a remarkably discriminating society," said fleda, "for everybody was very kind!" "how do you like the evelyns on a nearer view?" "very much indeed; and i believe they really love me. nothing could possibly be kinder, in all ways of shewing kindness. i shall never forget it." "who were you driving with that day?" said hugh. "mr. thorn." "did you see much of him?" "quite as much as i wished. hugh--i took your advice." "about what?" said hugh. "i carried down some of my scribblings and sent them to a magazine." "did you!" said hugh looking delighted. "and will they publish them?" "i don't know," said fleda, "that's another matter. i sent them, or uncle orrin did, when i first went down; and i have heard nothing of them yet." "you shewed them to uncle orrin?" "couldn't help it, you know. i had to." "and what did he say to them?" "come!--i'm not going to be cross-questioned," said fleda laughing. "he did not prevent my sending them." "and if they take them, do you expect they will give anything for them?--the magazine people?" "i am sure if they don't they shall have no more--that is my only possible inducement to let them be printed. for my own pleasure, i would far rather not." "did you sign with your own name?" "my own name!--yes, and desired it to be printed in large capitals. what are you thinking of? no--i hope you'll forgive me, but i signed myself what our friend the doctor calls 'yugh.'" "i'll forgive you if you'll do one thing for me." "what?" "shew me all you have in your portfolio--do, fleda--to-night, by the light of the pitch-pine knots. why shouldn't you give me that pleasure? and besides, you know molière had an old woman?" "well," said fleda with a face that to hugh was extremely satisfactory,--"we'll see--i suppose you might as well read my productions in manuscript as in print. but they are in a terribly scratchy condition--they go sometimes for weeks in my head before i find time to put them down--you may guess polishing is pretty well out of the question. suppose we try to get home with these baskets." which they did. "has philetus got home?" was fleda's first question. "no," said mrs. rossitur, "but dr. quackenboss has been here and brought the paper--he was at the post-office this morning, he says. did you see mr. olmney?" "yes ma'am, and i feel he has saved me from a lame arm--those pine knots are so heavy." "he is a lovely young man!" said mrs. rossitur with uncommon emphasis. "i should have been blind to the fact, aunt lucy, if you had not made me change my shoes. at present, no disparagement to him, i feel as if a cup of tea would be rather more lovely than anything else." "he sat with me some time," said mrs. rossitur; "i was afraid he would not overtake you." tea was ready, and only waiting for mrs. rossitur to come down stairs, when fleda, whose eye was carelessly running along the columns of the paper, uttered a sudden shout and covered her face with it. hugh looked up in astonishment, but fleda was beyond anything but exclamations, laughing and flushing to the very roots of her hair. "what _is_ the matter, fleda?" "why," said fleda,--"how comical!--i was just looking over the list of articles in the january number of the 'excelsior'"-- "the 'excelsior'?" said hugh. "yes--the magazine i sent my things to--i was running over their advertisement here, where they give a special puff of the publication in general and of several things in particular, and i saw--here they speak of 'a tale of thrilling interest by mrs. eliza lothbury, unsurpassed,' and so forth and so forth; 'another valuable communication from mr. charleston, whose first acute and discriminating paper all our readers will remember; the beginning of a new tale from the infallibly graceful pen of miss delia lawriston, we are sure it will be so and so; '"_the wind's voices," by our new correspondent "hugh," has a delicate sweetness that would do no discredit to some of our most honoured names!_'--what do you think of that?" what hugh thought he did not say, but he looked delighted; and came to read the grateful words for himself. "i did not know but they had declined it utterly," said fleda,--"it was so long since i had sent it and they had taken no notice of it; but it seems they kept it for the beginning of a new volume." "'would do no discredit to some of our most honoured names'!" said hugh. "dear fleda, i am very glad! but it is no more than i expected." "expected!" said fleda. "when you had not seen a line! hush--my dear hugh, aren't you hungry?" the tea, with this spice to their appetites, was wonderfully relished; and hugh and fleda kept making despatches of secret pleasure and sympathy to each other's eyes; though fleda's face after the first flush had faded was perhaps rather quieter than usual. hugh's was illuminated. "mr. skillcorn is a smart man!" said barby coming in with a package,--"he has made out to go two miles in two hours and get back again safe!" "more from the post-office!" exclaimed fleda pouncing upon it,--"oh yes, there has been another mail. a letter for you, aunt lucy! from uncle rolf!--we'll forgive him, barby--and here's a letter for me, from uncle orrin, and--yes--the 'excelsior.' hugh, uncle orrin said he would send it. now for those blessed pine knots! aunt lucy, you shall be honoured with the one whole candle the house contains." the table soon cleared away, the basket of fat fuel was brought in; and one or two splinters being delicately insinuated between the sticks on the fire a very brilliant illumination sprang out. fleda sent a congratulatory look over to hugh on the other side of the fireplace as she cosily established herself on her little bench at one corner with her letter; he had the magazine. mrs. rossitur between them at the table with her one candle was already insensible to all outward things. and soon the other two were as delightfully absorbed. the bright light of the fire shone upon three motionless and rapt figures, and getting no greeting from them went off and danced on the old cupboard doors and paper hangings, in a kindly hearty joviality that would have put any number of stately wax candles out of countenance. there was no poverty in the room that night. but the people were too busy to know how cosy they were; till fleda was ready to look up from her note and hugh had gone twice carefully over the new poem,--when there was a sudden giving out of the pine splinters. new ones were supplied in eager haste and silence, and hugh was beginning "the wind's voices" for the third time when a soft-whispered "hugh!" across the fire made him look over to fleda's corner. she was holding up with both hands a five-dollar bank note and just shewing him her eyes over it. "what's that?" said hugh in an energetic whisper. "i don't know!" said fleda, shaking her head comically;--"i am told 'the wind's voices' have blown it here, but privately i am afraid it is a windfall of another kind." "what?" said hugh laughing. "uncle orrin says it is the first fruits of what i sent to the 'excelsior,' and that more will come; but i do not feel at all sure that it is entirely the growth of that soil." "i dare say it is," said hugh; "i am sure it is worth more than that. dear fleda, i like it so much!" fleda gave him such a smile of grateful affection!--not at all as if she deserved his praise but as if it was very pleasant to have. "what put it into your head? anything in particular?" "no--nothing--i was looking out of the window one day and seeing the willow tree blow; and that looked over my shoulder; as you know hans andersen says his stories did." "it is just like you!--exactly as it can be." "things put themselves in my head," said fleda, tucking another splinter into the fire. "isn't this better than a chandelier?" "ten times!" "and so much pleasanter for having got it ourselves. what a nice time we had, hugh?" "very. now for the portfolio, fleda--come!--mother is fast; she won't see or hear anything. what does father say, mother?" in answer to this they had the letter read, which indeed contained nothing remarkable beyond its strong expressions of affection to each one of the little family; a cordial which mrs. rossitur drank and grew strong upon in the very act of reading. it is pity the medicine of kind words is not more used in the world--it has so much power. then, having folded up her treasure and talked a little while about it, mrs. rossitur caught up the magazine like a person who had been famished in that kind; and soon she and it and her tallow candle formed a trio apart from all the world again. fleda and hugh were safe to pass most mysterious-looking little papers from hand to hand right before her, though they had the care to read them behind newspapers, and exchanges of thought and feeling went on more swiftly still, and softly, across the fire. looks, and smiles, and whispers, and tears too, under cover of a tribune and an express. and the blaze would die down just when hugh had got to the last verse of something, and then while impatiently waiting for the new pine splinters to catch he would tell fleda how much he liked it, or how beautiful he thought it, and whisper enquiries and critical questions; till the fire reached the fat vein and leaped up in defiant emulation of gas-lights unknown, and then he would fall to again with renewed gusto. and fleda hunted out in her portfolio what bits to give him first, and bade him as she gave them remember this and understand that, which was necessary to be borne in mind in the reading. and through all the brightening and fading blaze, and all the whispering, congratulating, explaining, and rejoicing going on at her side, mrs. rossitur and her tallow candle were devoted to each other, happily and engrossingly. at last, however, she flung the magazine from her and turning from the table sat looking into the fire with a rather uncommonly careful and unsatisfied brow. "what did you think of the second piece of poetry there, mother?" said hugh;--"that ballad?--'the wind's voices' it is called." "'the wind's voices'?--i don't know--i didn't read it, i believe." "why mother! i liked it very much. do read it--read it aloud." mrs. rossitur took up the magazine again abstractedly, and read-- "'mamma, what makes your face so sad? the sound of the wind makes me feel glad; but whenever it blows, as grave you look, as if you were reading a sorrowful book.' "'a sorrowful book i am reading, dear,-- a book of weeping and pain and fear,-- a book deep printed on my heart, which i cannot read but the tears will start. "'that breeze to my ear was soft and mild, just so, when i was a little child; but now i hear in its freshening breath the voices of those that sleep in death.' "'mamma,' said the child with shaded brow, 'what is this book you are reading now? and why do you read what makes you cry?' 'my child, it comes up before my eye. "'tis the memory, love, of a far-off day when my life's best friend was taken away;-- of the weeks and months that my eyes were dim watching for tidings--watching for him. "'many a year has come and past since a ship sailed over the ocean fast, bound for a port on england's shore,-- she sailed--but was never heard of more.' "'mamma'--and she closer pressed her side,-- 'was that the time when my father died?-- is it his ship you think you see?-- dearest mamma--won't you speak to me?' "the lady paused, but then calmly said, 'yes, lucy--the sea was his dying bed, and now whenever i hear the blast i think again of that storm long past. "'the winds' fierce bowlings hurt not me, but i think how they beat on the pathless sea,-- of the breaking mast--of the parting rope,-- of the anxious strife and the failing hope.' "'mamma,' said the child with streaming eyes, 'my father has gone above the skies; and you tell me this world is mean and base compared with heaven--that blessed place.' "'my daughter, i know--i believe it all,-- i would not his spirit to earth recall. the blest one he--his storm was brief,-- mine, a long tempest of tears and grief. "'i have you, my darling--i should not sigh. i have one star more in my cloudy sky,-- the hope that we both shall join him there, in that perfect rest from weeping and care.'" "well, mother,--how do you like it?" said hugh whose eyes gave tender witness to _his_ liking for it. "it is pretty--" said mrs. rossitur. hugh exclaimed, and fleda laughing took it out of her hand. "why mother!" said hugh,--"it is fleda's." "fleda's!" exclaimed mrs. rossitur, snatching the magazine again. "my dear child, i was not thinking in the least of what i was reading. fleda's!--" she read it over anew, with swimming eyes this time, and then clasped fleda in her arms and gave her, not words, but the better reward of kisses and tears. they remained so a long time, even till hugh left them; and then fleda released from her aunt's embrace still crouched by her side with one arm in her lap. they both sat thoughtfully looking into the fire till it had burnt itself out and nothing but a glowing bed of coals remained. "that is an excellent young man!" said mrs. rossitur. "who?" "mr. olmney. he sat with me some time after you had gone." "so you said before," said fleda, wondering at the troubled expression of her aunt's face. "he made me wish," said mrs. rossitur hesitating,--"that i could be something different from what i am--i believe i should be a great deal happier"-- the last word was hardly spoken. fleda rose to her knees and putting both arms about her aunt pressed face to face, with a clinging sympathy that told how very near her spirit was; while tears from the eyes of both fell without measure. "dear aunt lucy--_dear_ aunt lucy--i wish you would!--i am sure you would be a great deal happier--" but the mixture of feelings was too much for fleda; her head sank lower on her aunt's bosom and she wept aloud. "but i don't know anything about it!" said mrs. rossitur, as well as she could speak,--"i am as ignorant as a child!--" "dear aunty! that is nothing--god will teach you if you ask him; he has promised. oh ask him, aunt lucy! i know you would be happier!--i know it is better--a million times!--to be a child of god than to have everything in the world--if they only brought us that, i would be very glad of all our troubles!--indeed i would!" "but i don't think i ever did anything right in my life!" said poor mrs. rossitur. "dear aunt lucy!" said fleda, straining her closer and with her very heart gushing out at these words,--"_dear_ aunty--christ came for just such sinners!--for just such as you and i." "_you,_"--said mrs. rossitur, but speech failed utterly, and with a muttered prayer that fleda would help her, she sunk her head upon her shoulder and sobbed herself into quietness, or into exhaustion. the glow of the firelight faded away till only a faint sparkle was left in the chimney. there was not another word spoken, but when they rose up, with such kisses as gave and took unuttered affection, counsel and sympathy, they bade each other good-night. fleda went to her window, for the moon rode high and her childish habit had never been forgotten. but surely the face that looked out that night was as the face of an angel. in all the pouring moonbeams that filled the air, she could see nothing but the flood of god's goodness on a dark world. and her heart that night had nothing but an unbounded and unqualified thanksgiving for all the "gentle discipline" they had felt; for every sorrow and weariness and disappointment;--except besides the prayer, almost too deep to be put into words, that its due and hoped-for fruit might be brought forth unto perfection. chapter xxvii. i become not a cart as well as another man, a plague on my bringing up. shakspeare. every day could not be as bright as the last, even by the help of pitch pine knots. they blazed indeed, many a time, but the blaze shone upon faces that it could not sometimes light up. matters drew gradually within a smaller and smaller compass. another five dollars came from uncle orrin, and the hope of more; but these were carefully laid by to pay philetus; and for all other wants of the household excepting those the farm supplied the family were dependent on mere driblets of sums. none came from mr. rossitur. hugh managed to collect a very little. that kept them from absolute distress; that, and fleda's delicate instrumentality. regular dinners were given up, fresh meat being now unheard-of, unless when a kind neighbour made them a present; and appetite would have lagged sadly but for fleda's untiring care. she thought no time nor pains ill bestowed which could prevent her aunt and hugh from feeling the want of old comforts; and her nicest skill was displayed in varying the combinations of their very few and simple stores. the diversity and deliciousness of her bread stuffs, barby said, was "beyond everything!" and a cup of rich coffee was found to cover all deficiencies of removes and entremêts; and this was always served, barby said further, as if the president of the united states was expected. fleda never permitted the least slackness in the manner of doing this or anything else that she could control. mr. plumfield had sent down an opportune present of a fine porker. one cold day in the beginning of february fleda was busy in the kitchen making something for dinner, and hugh at another table was vigorously chopping sausage meat. "i should like to have some cake again," said fleda. "well, why don't you?" said hugh, chopping away. "no eggs, mr. rossitur,--and can't afford 'em at two shillings a dozen. i believe i am getting discontented--i have a great desire to do something to distinguish myself--i would make a plum pudding if i had raisins, but there is not one in the house." "you can get 'em up to mr. hemps's for sixpence a pound," said barby. but fleda shook her head at the sixpence and went on moulding out her biscuits diligently. "i wish philetus would make his appearance with the cows--it is a very odd thing they should be gone since yesterday morning and no news of them." "i only hope the snow ain't so bright it'll blind his eyes," said barby. "there he is this minute," said hugh. "it is impossible to tell from his countenance whether successful or not." "well where are the cows, mr. skillcorn?" said barby as he came in. "i have went all over town," said the person addressed, "and they ain't no place." "have you asked news of them, philetus?" "i have asked the hull town, and i have went all over, 'till i was a'most beat out with the cold,--and i ha'n't seen the first sight of 'em yet!" fleda and hugh exchanged looks, while barby and mr. skillcorn entered into an animated discussion of probabilities and impossibilities. "if we should be driven from our coffee dinners to tea with no milk in it!"--said hugh softly in mock dismay. "wouldn't!" said fleda. "we'd beat up an egg and put it in the coffee." "we couldn't afford it," said hugh smiling. "could!--cheaper than to keep the cows. i'll have some sugar at any rate, i'm determined. philetus!" "marm." "i wish, when you have got a good pile of wood chopped, you would make some troughs to put under the maple trees--you know how to make them, don't you?" "i do!" "i wish you would make some--you have pine logs out there large enough, haven't you?" "they hadn't ought to want much of it--there's some gregious big ones!" "i don't know how many we shall want, but a hundred or two at any rate; and the sooner the better. do you know how much sugar they make from one tree?" "wall i don't," said mr. skillcorn, with the air of a person who was at fault on no other point;--"the big trees give more than the little ones--" fleda's eyes flashed at hugh, who took to chopping in sheer desperation; and the muscles of both gave them full occupation for five minutes. philetus stood comfortably warming himself at the fire, looking first at one and then at the other, as if they were a show and he had paid for it. barby grew impatient. "i guess this cold weather makes lazy people of me!" she said bustling about her fire with an amount of energy that was significant. it seemed to signify nothing to philetus. he only moved a little out of the way. "didenhover's cleared out," he burst forth at length abruptly. "what!" said fleda and barby at once, the broom and the biscuits standing still. "mr. didenhover." "what of him?" "he has tuk himself off out o" town." "where to?" "i can't tell you where teu--he ain't coming back, 'tain't likely." "how do you know?" "'cause he's tuk all his traps and went, and he said farming didn't pay and he wa'n't a going to have nothin' more to deu with it;--he telled mis' simpson so--he lived to mis' simpson's; and she telled mr. ten eyck." "are you sure, philetus?" "sure as 'lection!--he telled mis' simpson so, and she telled mr. ten eyck; and he's cleared out." fleda and hugh again looked at each other. mr. skillcorn having now delivered himself of his news went out to the woodyard. "i hope he ha'n't carried off our cows along with him," said barby, as she too went out to some other part of her premises. "he was to have made us quite a payment on the first of march," said fleda. "yes, and that was to have gone to uncle orrin," said hugh. "we shall not see a cent of it. and we wanted a little of it for ourselves.--i have that money from the excelsior, but i can't touch a penny of it for it must go to philetus's wages. what barby does without hers i do not know--she has had but one five dollars in six months. why she stays i cannot imagine; unless it is for pure love." "as soon as the spring opens i can go to the mill again," said hugh after a little pause. fleda looked at him sorrowfully and shook her head as she withdrew her eyes. "i wish father would give up the farm," hugh went on under his breath. "i cannot bear to live upon uncle orrin so." fleda's answer was to clasp her hands. her only words were, "don't say anything to aunt lucy." "it is of no use to say anything to anybody," said hugh. "but it weighs me to the ground, fleda!" "if uncle rolf doesn't come home by spring--i hope, i hope he will!--but if he does not, i will take desperate measures. i will try farming myself, hugh. i have thought of it, and i certainly will. i will get earl douglass or somebody else to play second fiddle, but i will have but one head on the farm and i will try what mine is worth." "you could not do it, fleda." "one can do anything!--with a strong enough motive." "i'm afraid you'd soon be tired, fleda." "not if i succeeded--not so tired as i am now." "poor fleda! i dare say you are tired." "it wasn't _that_ i meant," said fleda, slightly drawing her breath;--"i meant this feeling of everything going wrong, and uncle orrin, and all--" "but you _are_ weary," said hugh affectionately. "i see it in your face." "not so much body as mind, after all. oh hugh! this is the worst part of being poor!--the constant occupation of one's mind on a miserable succession of trifles. i am so weary sometimes!--if i only had a nice book to rest myself for a while and forget all these things--i would give so much for it!--" "dear fleda! i wish you had!" "that was one delight of being in new york--i forgot all about money from one end of it to the other--i put all that away;--and not having to think of meals till i came to eat them. you can't think how tired i get of ringing the changes on pork and flour and indian meal and eggs and vegetables!--" fleda looked tired and pale; and hugh looked sadly conscious of it. "don't tell aunt lucy i have said all this!" she exclaimed after a moment rousing herself,--"i don't always feel so--only once in a while i get such a fit--and now i have just troubled you by speaking of it!" "you don't trouble any one in that way very often, dear fleda," said hugh kissing her. "i ought not at all--you have enough else to think of--but it is a kind of relief sometimes. i like to do these things in general,--only now and then i get tired, as i was just now, i suppose, and then one sees everything through a different medium." "i am afraid it would tire you more to have the charge of earl douglass and the farm upon your mind;--and mother could be no help to you,--nor i, if i am at the mill." "but there's seth plumfield. o i've thought of it all. you don't know what i am up to, mr. rossitur. you shall see how i will manage--unless uncle rolf comes home, in which case i will very gladly forego all my honours and responsibilities together." "i hope he will come!" said hugh. but this hope was to be disappointed. mr. rossitur wrote again about the first of march, saying that he hoped to make something of his lands in michigan, and that he had the prospect of being engaged in some land agencies which would make it worth his while to spend the summer there. he bade his wife let anybody take the farm that could manage it and would pay; and to remit to dr. gregory whatever she should receive and could spare. he hoped to do something where he was. it was just then the beginning of the sugar season; and mrs. douglass having renewed and urged earl's offer of help, fleda sent philetus down to ask him to come the next day with his team. seth plumfield's, which had drawn the wood in the winter, was now busy in his own sugar business. on earl douglass's ground there happpened to be no maple trees. his lands were of moderate extent and almost entirely cultivated as a sheep farm; and mr. douglass himself though in very comfortable circumstances was in the habit of assisting, on advantageous terms, all the farmers in the neighbourhood. philetus came back again in a remarkably short time; and announced that he had met dr. quackenboss in the way, who had offered to come with _his_ team for the desired service. "then you have not been to mr. douglass's?" "i have not," said philetus;--"i thought likely you wouldn't calculate to want him teu." "how came the doctor to know what you were going for?" "i told him." "but how came you to tell him?" "wall i guess he had a mind to know," said philetus, "so i didn't keep it no closer than i had teu." "well," said fleda biting her lips, "you will have to go down to mr. douglass's nevertheless, philetus, and tell him the doctor is coming to-morrow, but i should be very much obliged to him if he will be here next day. will you?" "yes marm!" "now dear hugh, will you make me those little spouts for the trees!--of some dry wood--you can get plenty out here. you want to split them up with a hollow chisel about a quarter of an inch thick, and a little more than half an inch broad. have you got a hollow chisel?" "no, but i can get one up the hill. why must it be hollow?" "to make little spouts, you know,--for the sap to run in. and then, my dear hugh! they must be sharpened at one end so as to fit where the chisel goes in--i am afraid i have given you a day's work of it. how sorry i am you must go to-morrow to the mill!--and yet i am glad too." "why need you go round yourself with these people?" said hugh. "i don't see the sense of it." "they don't know where the trees are," said fleda. "i am sure i do not. do you?" "perfectly well. and besides," said fleda laughing, "i should have great doubts of the discreetness of philetus's auger if it were left to his simple direction. i have no notion the trees would yield their sap as kindly to him as to me. but i didn't bargain for dr. quackenboss." dr. quackenboss arrived punctually the next morning with his oxen and sled; and by the time it was loaded with the sap-troughs, fleda in her black cloak, yarn shawl, and grey little hood came out of the house to the wood-yard. earl douglass was there too, not with his team, but merely to see how matters stood and give advice. "good day, mr. douglass!" said the doctor. "you see i'm so fortunate as to have got the start of you." "very good," said earl contentedly,--"you may have it;--the start's one thing and the pull's another. i'm willin' anybody should have the start, but it takes a pull to know whether a man's got stuff in him or no." "what do you mean?" said the doctor. "i don't mean nothin' at all. you make a start to-day and i'll come ahint and take the pull to-morrow. ha' you got anythin' to boil down in, fleda?--there's a potash kittle somewheres, ain't there? i guess there is. there is in most houses." "there is a large kettle--i suppose large enough," said fleda. "that'll do, i guess. well what do you calculate to put the syrup in--ha' you got a good big cask, or plenty o' tubs and that? or will you sugar off the hull lot every night and fix it that way? you must do one thing or t'other, and it's good to know what you're a going to do afore you come to do it." "i don't know, mr. douglass," said fleda;--"whichever is the best way--we have no cask large enough, i am afraid." "well i tell you what i'll do--i know where there's a tub, and where they ain't usin' it nother, and i reckon i can get 'em to let me have it--i reckon i can--and i'll go round for't and fetch it here to-morrow mornin' when i come with the team. 'twon't be much out of my way. it's more handier to leave the sugarin' off till the next day; and it had ought to have a settlin' besides. where'll you have your fire built?--in doors or out?" "out--i would rather, if we can. but can we?" "la, 'tain't nothin' easier--it's as easy out as in--all you've got to do is to take and roll a couple of pretty sized billets for your fireplace and stick a couple o' crotched sticks for to hang the kittle over--i'd as lieve have it out as in, and if anythin' a leetle liever. if you'll lend me philetus, me and him'll fix it all ready agin you come back--'tain't no trouble at all--and if the sticks ain't here we'll go into the woods after 'em, and have it all sot up." but fleda represented that the services of philetus were just then in requisition, and that there would be no sap brought home till to-morrow. "very good!" said earl amicably,--"_very_ good! it's just as easy done one day as another--it don't make no difference to me, and if it makes any difference to you, of course we'll leave it to-day, and there'll be time enough to do it to-morrow; me and him'll knock it up in a whistle.--what's them little shingles for?" fleda explained the use and application of hugh's mimic spouts. he turned one about, whistling, while he listened to her. "that's some o' seth plumfield's new jigs, ain't it. i wonder if he thinks now the sap's a goin to run any sweeter out o' that 'ere than it would off the end of a chip that wa'n't quite so handsome?" "no, mr. douglass," said fleda smiling,--"he only thinks that this will catch a little more." "his sugar won't never tell where it come from," remarked earl, throwing the spout down. "well,--you shall see more o' me to-morrow. good-bye, dr. quackenboss!" "do you contemplate the refining process?" said the doctor, as they moved off. "i have often contemplated the want of it," said fleda; "but it is best not to try to do too much. i should like to make sure of something worth refining in the first place." "mr. douglass and i," said the doctor,--"i hope--a--he's a very good-hearted man, miss fleda, but, ha! ha!--he wouldn't suffer loss from a little refining himself.--haw! you rascal--where are you going! haw! i tell ye--" "i am very sorry, dr. quackenboss," said fleda when she had the power and the chance to speak again,--"i am very sorry you should have to take this trouble; but unfortunately the art of driving oxen is not among mr. skillcorn's accomplishments." "my dear miss ringgan!" said the doctor, "i--i--nothing i assure you could give me greater pleasure than to drive my oxen to any place where you would like to have them go." poor fleda wished she could have despatched them and him in one direction while she took another; the art of driving oxen _quietly_ was certainly not among the doctor's accomplishments. she was almost deafened. she tried to escape from the immediate din by running before to shew philetus about tapping the trees and fixing the little spouts, but it was a longer operation than she had counted upon, and by the time they were ready to leave the tree the doctor was gee-hawing alongside of it; and then if the next maple was not within sight she could not in decent kindness leave him alone. the oxen went slowly, and though fleda managed to have no delay longer than to throw down a trough as the sled came up with each tree which she and philetus had tapped, the business promised to make a long day of it. it might have been a pleasant day in pleasant company; but fleda's spirits were down to set out with, and dr. quackenboss was not the person to give them the needed spring; his long-winded complimentary speeches had not interest enough even to divert her. she felt that she was entering upon an untried and most weighty undertaking; charging her time and thoughts with a burthen they could well spare. her energies did not flag, but the spirit that should have sustained them was not strong enough for the task. it was a blustering day of early march; with that uncompromising brightness of sky and land which has no shadow of sympathy with a heart overcast. the snow still lay a foot thick over the ground, thawing a little in sunny spots; the trees quite bare and brown, the buds even of the early maples hardly shewing colour; the blessed evergreens alone doing their utmost to redeem the waste, and speaking of patience and fortitude that can brave the blast and outstand the long waiting and cheerfully bide the time when "the winter shall be over and gone." poor fleda thought they were like her in their circumstances, but she feared she was not like them in their strong endurance. she looked at the pines and hemlocks as she passed, as if they were curious preachers to her; and when she had a chance she prayed quietly that she might stand faithfully like them to cheer a desolation far worse and she feared far more abiding than snows could make or melt away. she thought of hugh, alone in his mill-work that rough chilly day, when the wind stalked through the woods and over the country as if it had been the personification of march just come of ape and taking possession of his domains. she thought of her uncle, doing what?--in michigan,--leaving them to fight with difficulties as they might,--why?--why? and her gentle aunt at home sad and alone, pining for the want of them all, but most of him, and fading with their fortunes. and fleda's thoughts travelled about from one to the other and dwelt with them all by turns till she was heart-sick; and tears, tears, fell hot on the snow many a time when her eyes had a moment's shield from the doctor and his somewhat more obtuse coadjutor. she felt half superstitiously as if with her taking the farm were beginning the last stage of their falling prospects, which would leave them with none of hope's colouring. not that in the least she doubted her own ability and success; but her uncle did not deserve to have his affairs prosper under such a system and she had no faith that they would. "it is most grateful," said the doctor with that sideway twist of his jaw and his head at once, in harmony,--"it is a most grateful thing to see such a young lady--haw i there now i--what are you about? haw,--haw then!--it is a most grateful thing to see--" but fleda was not at his side; she had bounded away and was standing under a great maple tree a little ahead, making sure that philetus screwed his auger _up_ into the tree instead of _down_, which he had several times shewed an unreasonable desire to do. the doctor had steered his oxen by her little grey hood and black cloak all the day. he made for it now. "have we arrived at the termination of our--a--adventure?" said he as he came up and threw down the last trough. "why no, sir," said fleda, "for we have yet to get home again." "'tain't so fur going that way as it were this'n," said philetus. "my! ain't i glad." "glad of what?" said the doctor. "here's miss ringgan's walked the whole way, and she a lady--ain't you ashamed to speak of being tired?" "i ha'n't said the first word o' being tired!" said philetus in an injured tone of voice,--"but a man ha'n't no right to kill hisself, if he ain't a gal!" "i'll qualify to your being safe enough," said the doctor. "but miss ringgan, my dear, you are--a--you have lost something since you came out--" "what?" said fleda laughing. "not my patience?" "no," said the doctor, "no,--you're--a--you're an angel! but your cheeks, my dear miss ringgan, shew that you have exceeded your--a--" "not my intentions, doctor," said fleda lightly. "i am very well satisfied with our day's work, and with my share of it, and a cup of coffee will make me quite up again. don't look at my cheeks till then." "i shall disobey you constantly," said the doctor;--"but, my dear miss fleda, we must give you some felicities for reaching home, or mrs. rossitur will be--a--distressed when she sees them. might i propose--that you should just bear your weight on this wood-sled and let my oxen and me have the honour--the cup of coffee, i am confident, would be at your lips considerably earlier--" "the sun won't be a great haighth by the time we get there," said philetus in a cynical manner; "and i ha'n't took the first thing to-day!" "well who has?" said the doctor; "you ain't the only one. follow your nose down hill, mr. skillcorn, and it'll smell supper directly. now, my dear miss ringgan!--will you?" fleda hesitated, but her relaxed energies warned her not to despise a homely mode of relief. the wood-sled was pretty clean, and the road decently good over the snow. so fleda gathered her cloak about her and sat down flat on the bottom of her rustic vehicle; too grateful for the rest to care if there had been a dozen people to laugh at her; but the doctor was only delighted, and philetus regarded every social phenomenon as coolly and in the same business light as he would the butter to his bread, or any other infallible every-day matter. fleda was very glad presently that she had taken this plan, for besides the rest of body she was happily relieved from all necessity of speaking. the doctor though but a few paces off was perfectly given up to the care of his team, in the intense anxiety to shew his skill and gallantry in saving her harmless from every ugly place in the road that threatened a jar or a plunge. why his oxen didn't go distracted was a question; but the very vehemence and iteration of his cries at last drowned itself in fleda's ear and she could hear it like the wind's roaring, without thinking of it. she presently subsided to that. with a weary frame, and with that peculiar quietness of spirits that comes upon the ending of a days work in which mind and body have both been busily engaged, and the sudden ceasing of any call upon either, fancy asked no leave and dreamily roved hither and thither between the material and the spirit world; the will too subdued to stir. days gone by came marshalling their scenes and their actors before her; again she saw herself a little child under those same trees that stretched their great black arms over her head and swaying their tops in the wind seemed to beckon her back to the past. they talked of their old owner, whose steps had so often passed beneath them with her own light tread,--light now, but how dancing then!--by his side; and of her father whose hand perhaps had long ago tapped those very trees where she had noticed the old closed-up soars of the axe. at any rate his boyhood had rejoiced there, and she could look back to one time at least in his manhood when she had taken a pleasant walk with him in summer weather among those same woods, in that very ox-track she believed. gone--two generations that she had known there; hopes and fears and disappointments, akin to her own, at rest,--as hers would be; and how sedately the old trees stood telling her of it, and waving their arms in grave and gentle commenting on the folly of anxieties that came and went with the wind. fleda agreed to it all; she heard all they said; and her own spirit was as sober and quiet as their quaint moralizing. she felt as if it would never dance again. the wind had greatly abated of its violence; as if satisfied with the shew of strength it had given in the morning it seemed willing to make no more commotion that day. the sun was far on his way to the horizon, and many a broad hill-side slope was in shadow; the snow had blown or melted from off the stones and rocks leaving all their roughness and bareness unveiled; and the white crust of snow that lay between them looked a cheerless waste in the shade of the wood and the hill. but there were other spots where the sunbeams struck and bright streams of light ran between the trees, smiling and making them smile. and as fleda's eye rested there another voice seemed to say, "at evening-time it shall be light,"--and "sorrow may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning." she could have cried, but spirits were too absolutely at an ebb. she knew this was partly physical, because she was tired and faint, but it could not the better be overcome. yet those streaks of sunlight were pleasant company, and fleda watched them, thinking how bright they used to be once; till the oxen and sled came out from the woods, and she could see the evening colours on the hill-tops beyond the village, lighting up the whole landscape with promise of the morrow. she thought her day had seen its brightest; but she thought too that if she must know sorrows it was a very great blessing to know them at queechy. the smoke of the chimney-tops came in sight, and fancy went home,--a few minutes before her. "i wonder what you'll take and do to yourself next!" said barby in extreme vexation when she saw her come in. "you're as white as the wall,--and as cold, ain't you? i'd ha' let philetus cut all the trees and drink all the sap afterwards. i wonder which you think is the worst, the want o' you or the want o' sugar." a day's headache was pretty sure to visit fleda after any over-exertion or exhaustion, and the next day justified barby's fears. she was the quiet prisoner of pain. but earl douglass and mr. skillcorn could now do without her in the woods; and her own part of the trouble fleda always took with speechless patience. she had the mixed comfort that love could bestow; hugh's sorrowful kiss and look before setting off for the mill, mrs. rossitur's caressing care, and barby's softened voice, and sympathizing hand on her brow, and hearty heart-speaking kiss, and poor little king lay all day with his head in her lap, casting grave wistful glances up at his mistress's face and licking her hand with intense affection when even in her distress it stole to his head to reward and comfort him. he never would budge from her side, or her feet, till she could move herself and he knew that she was well. as sure as king came trotting into the kitchen barby used to look into the other room and say, "so you're better, ain't you, fleda? i knowed it!" after hours of suffering the fit was at last over; and in the evening, though looking and feeling racked, fleda would go out to see the sap-boilers. earl douglass and philetus had had a very good day of it, and now were in full blast with the evening part of the work. the weather was mild, and having the stay of hugh's arm fleda grew too amused to leave them. it was a very pretty scene. the sap-boilers had planted themselves near the cellar door on the other side of the house from the kitchen door and the wood-yard; the casks and tubs for syrup being under cover there; and there they had made a most picturesque work-place. two strong crotched sticks were stuck in the ground some six or eight feet apart and a pole laid upon them, to which by the help of some very rustic hooks two enormous iron kettles were slung. under them a fine fire of smallish split sticks was doing duty, kept in order by a couple of huge logs which walled it in on the one side and on the other. it was a dark night, and the fire painted all this in strong lights and shadows; threw a faint fading aurora like light over the snow, beyond the shade of its log barriers; glimmered by turns upon the paling of the garden fence, whenever the dark figures that were passing and repassing between gave it a chance; and invested the cellar-opening and the outstanding corner of the house with striking and unwonted dignity, in a light that revealed nothing except to the imagination. nothing was more fancifully dignified or more quaintly travestied by that light than the figures around it, busy and flitting about and shewing themselves in every novel variety of grouping and colouring. there was earl douglass, not a hair different from what he was every day in reality, but with his dark skin and eyes, and a hat that like its master had concluded to abjure all fashions and perhaps for the same reason, he looked now like any bandit and now in a more pacific view could pass for nothing less than a spanish shepherd at least, with an iron ladle in lieu of crook. there was dr. quackenboss, who had come too, determined as earl said, "to keep his eend up," excessively bland and busy and important, the fire would throw his one-sidedness of feature into such aspects of gravity or sternness that fleda could make nothing of him but a poor clergyman or a poor schoolmaster alternately. philetus, who was kept handing about a bucket of sap or trudging off for wood, defied all comparison; he was philetus still; but when barby came once or twice and peered into the kettle her strong features with the handkerchief she always wore about her head were lit up into a very handsome gypsy. fleda stood some time unseen in the shadow of the house to enjoy the sight, and then went forward on the same principle that a sovereign princess shews herself to her army, to grace and reward the labours of her servants. the doctor was profuse in enquiries after her health and earl informed her of the success of the day. "we've had first rate weather," he said;--"i don't want to see no better weather for sugar-makin'; it's as good kind o' weather as you need to have. it friz everythin' up tight in the night, and it thew in the sun this mornin' as soon as the sun was anywhere; the trees couldn't do no better than they have done. i guess we ha'n't got much this side o' two hundred gallon--i ain't sure about it, but that's what i think; and there's nigh two hundred gallon we've fetched down; i'll qualify to better than a hundred and fifty, or a hundred and sixty either. we should ha' had more yet if mr. skillcorn hadn't managed to spill over one cask of it--i reckon he wanted it for sass for his chicken." "now, mr. douglass!"--said philetus, in a comical tone of deprecation. "it is an uncommonly fine lot of sugar trees," said the doctor, "and they stand so on the ground as to give great felicities to the oxen." "now, fleda," earl went on, busy all the while with his iron ladle in dipping the boiling sap from one kettle into the other,--"you know how this is fixed when we've done all we've got to do with it?--it must be strained out o' this biler into a cask or a tub or somethin' 'nother,--anythin' that'll hold it,--and stand a day or so;--you may strain it through a cotton cloth, or through a woollen cloth, or through any kind of a cloth!--and let it stand to settle; and then when it's biled down--barby knows about bilin' down--you can tell when it's comin' to the sugar when the yellow blobbers rises thick to the top and puffs off, and then it's time to try it in cold water,--it's best to be a leetle the right side o' the sugar and stop afore it's done too much, for the molasses will dreen off afterwards--" "it must be clarified in the commencement," put in the doctor. "o' course it must be clarified," said earl,--"barby knows about clarifyin'--that's when you first put it on--you had ought to throw in a teeny drop o' milk fur to clear it,--milk's as good as a'most anything,--or if you can get it calf's blood's better "-- "eggs would be a more preferable ingredient on the present occasion, i presume," said the doctor. "miss ringgan's delicacy would be--a--would shrink from--a--and the albumen of eggs will answer all the same purpose." "well anyhow you like to fix it," said earl,--"eggs or calf's blood--i won't quarrel with you about the eggs, though i never heerd o' blue ones afore, 'cept the robin's and bluebird's--and i've heerd say the swamp black bird lays a handsome blue egg, but i never happened to see the nest myself;--and there's the chippin' sparrow,--but you'd want to rob all the birds' nests in creation to get enough of 'em, and they ain't here in sugar time, nother; but anyhow any eggs'll do i s'pose if you can get 'em--or milk'll do if you ha'n't nothin' else--and after it is turned out into the barrel you just let it stand still a spell till it begins to grain and look clean on top"-- "may i suggest an improvement?" said the doctor. "many persons are of the opinion that if you take and stir it up well from the bottom for a length of time it will help the coagulation of the particles. i believe that is the practice of mr. plumfield and others." "'tain't the practice of as good men as him and as good sugar-bilers, besides," said earl; "though i don't mean to say nothin' agin seth plumfield nor agin his sugar, for the both is as good as you'd need to have; he's a good man and he's a good farmer--there ain't no better man in town than seth plumfield, nor no better farmer, nor no better sugar nother; but i hope there's as good; and i've seen as handsome sugar that wa'n't stirred as i'd want to see or eat either." "it would lame a man's arms the worst kind!" said philetus. fleda stood listening to the discussion and smiling, when hugh suddenly wheeling about brought her face to face with mr. olmney. "i have been sitting some time with mrs. rossitur," he said, "and she rewarded me with permission to come and look at you. i mean!--not that i wanted a reward, for i certainly did not--" "ah mr. olmney!" said fleda laughing, "you are served right. you see how dangerous it is to meddle with such equivocal things as compliments. but we are worth looking at, aren't we? i have been standing here this half hour." he did not say this time what he thought. "pretty, isn't it?" said fleda. "stand a little further back, mr. olmney--isn't it quite a wild-looking scene, in that peculiar light and with the snowy background? look at philetus now with that bundle of sticks--hugh! isn't he exactly like some of the figures in the old pictures of the martyrdoms, bringing billets to feed the fire?--that old martyrdom of st. lawrence--whose was it--spagnoletto!--at mrs. decatur's--don't you recollect? it is fine, isn't it, mr. olmney?" "i am afraid," said he shaking his head a little, "my eye wants training. i have not been once in your company i believe without your shewing me something i could not see." "that young lady, sir," said dr. quackenboss from the far side of the fire, where he was busy giving it more wood,--"that young lady, sir, is a pattron to her--a--to all young ladies." "a patron!" said mr. olmney. "passively, not actively, the doctor means," said fleda softly. "well i won't say but she's a good girl," said mr. douglass in an abstracted manner, busy with his iron ladle,--"she means to be a good girl--she's as clever a girl as you need to have!" nobody's gravity stood this, excepting philetus, in whom the principle of fun seemed not to be developed. "miss ringgan, sir," dr. quackenboss went on with a most benign expression of countenance,--"miss ringgan, sir, mr. olmney, sets an example to all ladies who--a--have had elegant advantages. she gives her patronage to the agricultural interest in society." "not exclusively, i hope?" said mr. olmney smiling, and making the question with his eye of fleda. but she did not meet it. "you know," she said rather quickly, and drawing back from the fire, "i am of an agricultural turn perforce--in uncle rolf's absence i am going to be a farmer myself." "so i have heard--so mrs. rossitur told me,--but i fear--pardon me--you do not look fit to grapple with such a burden of care." hugh sighed, and fleda's eyes gave mr. olmney a hint to be silent. "i am not going to grapple with any thing, sir; i intend to take things easily." "i wish i could take an agricultural turn too," said he smiling, "and be of some service to you." "o i shall have no lack of service," said fleda gayly;--"i am not going unprovided into the business. there is my cousin seth plumfield, who has engaged himself to be my counsellor and instructor in general; i could not have a better; and mr. douglass is to be my right hand; i occupying only the quiet and unassuming post of the will, to convey the orders of the head to the hand. and for the rest, sir, there is philetus!" mr. olmney looked, half laughing, at mr. skillcorn, who was at that moment standing with his hands on his sides, eying with concentrated gravity the movements of earl douglass and the doctor. "don't shake your head at him!" said fleda. "i wish you had come an hour earlier, mr. olmney." "why?" "i was just thinking of coming out here," said fleda, her eyes flashing with hidden fun,--"and hugh and i were both standing in the kitchen, when we heard a tremendous shout from the woodyard. don't laugh, or i can't go on. we all ran out, towards the lantern which we saw standing there, and so soon as we got near we heard philetus singing out, 'ho, miss elster!--i'm dreadfully on't!'--why he called upon barby i don't know, unless from some notion of her general efficiency, though to be sure he was nearer her than the sap-boilers and perhaps thought her aid would come quickest. and he was in a hurry, for the cries came thick--'miss elster!--here!--i'm dreadfully on't'--" "i don't understand--" "no," said fleda, whose amusement seemed to be increased by the gentleman's want of understanding,--"and neither did we till we came up to him. the silly fellow had been sent up for more wood, and splitting a log he had put his hand in to keep the cleft, instead of a wedge, and when he took out the axe the wood pinched him; and he had the fate of milo before his eyes, i suppose, and could do nothing but roar. you should have seen the supreme indignation with which barby took the axe and released him with 'you're a smart man, mr. skillcorn!'" "what was the fate of milo?" said mr. olmney presently. "don't you remember,--the famous wrestler that in his old age trying to break open a tree found himself not strong enough; and the wood closing upon his hands held him fast till the wild beasts came and made an end of him. the figure of our unfortunate wood-cutter though, was hardly so dignified as that of the old athlete in the statue.--dr. quackenboss, and mr. douglass,--you will come in and see us when this troublesome business is done?" "it'll be a pretty spell yet," said earl;--"but the doctor, he can go in,--he ha'n't nothin' to do. it don't take more'n half a dozen men to keep one pot a bilin'." "ain't there ten on 'em, mr. douglass?" said philetus. chapter xxviii. he that has light within his own clear breast, may sit i' the centre and enjoy bright day. milton. the farming plan succeeded beyond fleda's hopes; thanks not more to her wisdom than to the nice tact with which the wisdom was brought into play. the one was eked out with seth plumfield's; the other was all her own. seth was indefatigably kind and faithful. after his own day's work was done he used to walk down to see fleda, go with her often to view the particular field or work just then in question, and give her the best counsel dictated by great sagacity and great experience. it was given too with equal frankness and intelligence, so that fleda knew the steps she took and could maintain them against the prejudice or the ignorance of her subordinates. but fleda's delicate handling stood her yet more in stead than her strength. earl douglass was sometimes unmanageable, and held out in favour of an old custom or a prevailing opinion in spite of all the weight of testimony and light of discovery that could be brought to bear upon him. fleda would let the thing go. but seizing her opportunity another time she would ask him to try the experiment, on a piece of the ground; so pleasantly and skilfully that earl could do nothing but shut his mouth and obey, like an animal fairly stroked into good humour. and as fleda always forgot to remind him that she had been right and he wrong, he forgot it too, and presently took to the new way kindly. in other matters he could be depended on, and the seed-time and harvest prospered well. there was hope of making a good payment to dr. gregory in the course of a few months. as the spring came forward fleda took care that her garden should,--both gardens indeed. there she and philetus had the game in their own hands, and beautifully it was managed. hugh had full occupation at the mill. many a dollar this summer was earned by the loads of fine fruit and vegetables which philetus carried to montepoole; and accident opened a new source of revenue. when the courtyard was in the full blaze of its beauty, one day an admiring passer-by modestly inquired if a few of those exquisite flowers might be had for money. they were given him most cheerfully that time; but the demand returned, accompanied by the offer, and fleda obliged herself not to decline it. a trial it was to cut her roses and jessamines for anything but her own or her friends' pleasure, but according to custom she bore it without hesitation. the place became a resort for all the flower-lovers who happened to be staying at the pool; and rose-leaves were changed into silver pennies as fast as in a fairy-tale. but the delicate mainspring that kept all this machinery in order suffered from too severe a strain. there was too much running, too much considering, too much watchfulness. in the garden pulling peas and seeing that philetus weeded the carrots right,--in the field or the woodyard consulting and arranging or maybe debating with earl douglass, who acquired by degrees an unwonted and concentrated respect for womankind in her proper person; breakfast waiting for her often before she came in; in the house her old housewifery concerns, her share in barby's cares or difficulties, her sweet countenancing and cheering of her aunt, her dinner, her work;--then when evening came, budding her roses or tying her carnations or weeding or raking the ground between them, (where philetus could do nothing,) or training her multiflora and sweet-briar branches;--and then often after all, walking up to the mill to give hugh a little earlier a home smile and make his way down pleasant. no wonder if the energies which owed much of their strength to love's nerving, should at last give out, and fleda's evening be passed in wearied slumbers. no wonder if many a day was given up to the forced quietude of a headache, the more grievous to fleda because she knew that her aunt and hugh always found the day dark that was not lightened by her sunbeam. how brightly it shone out the moment the cloud of pain was removed, winning the shadow from their faces and a smile to their lips, though solitude always saw her own settle into a gravity as fixed as it was soft. "you have been doing too much, fleda," said mrs. rossitur one morning when she came in from the garden. "i didn't know it would take me so long," said fleda drawing a long breath;--"but i couldn't help it. i had those celery plants to prick out,--and then i was helping philetus to plant another patch of corn." "he might have done that without help i should think." "but it must be put in to-day, and he had other things to do." "and then you were at your flowers?--" "o well!--budding a few roses--that's only play. it was time they were done. but i _am_ tired; and i am going up to see hugh--it will rest me and him too." the gardening frock and gloves were exchanged for those of ordinary wear, and fleda set off slowly to go up to the saw-mill. she stopped a moment when she came upon the bridge, to look off to the right where the waters of the little run came hurrying along through a narrow wooded chasm in the hill, murmuring to her of the time when a little child's feet had paused there and a child's heart danced to its music. the freshness of its song was unchanged, the glad rush of its waters was as joyous as ever, but the spirits were quieted that used to answer it with sweeter freshness and lighter joyousness. its faint echo of the old-time laugh was blended now in fleda's ear with a gentle wail for the rushing days and swifter fleeing delights of human life;--gentle, faint, but clear,--she could hear it very well. taking up her walk again with a step yet slower and a brow yet more quiet, she went on till she came in sight of the little mill; and presently above the noise of the brook could hear the saw going. to her childish ears what a signal of pleasure that had always been; and now,--she sighed, and stopping at a little distance looked for hugh. he was there; she saw him in a moment going forward to stop the machinery, the piece of timber in hand having walked its utmost length up to the saw; she saw him throwing aside the new-cut board, and adjusting what was left till it was ready for another march up to headquarters. when it stopped the second time fleda went forward. hugh must have been busy in his own thoughts, for he did not see her until he had again adjusted the log and set the noisy works in motion. she stood still. several huge timbers lay close by, ready for the saw; and on one of them where he had been sitting fleda saw his bible lying open. as her eye went from it to him it struck her heart with a pang that he looked tired and that there was a something of delicacy, even of fragility, in the air of face and figure both. he came to meet her and welcomed her with a smile that coming upon this feeling set fleda's heart a quivering. hugh's smile was always one of very great sweetness, though never unshadowed; there was often something ethereal in its pure gentleness. this time it seemed even sweeter than usual, but though not sadder, perhaps less sad, fleda could hardly command herself to reply to it. she could not at the moment speak; her eye glanced at his open book. "yes, it rests me," he said, answering her. "rests you, dear hugh!--" he smiled again. "here is somebody else that wants resting, i am afraid," said he, placing her gently on the log; and before she had found anything to say he went off again to his machinery. fleda sat looking at him and trying to clear her bosom of its thick breathing. "what has brought you up here through the hot sun?" said he, coming back after he had stopped the saw, and sitting down beside her. fleda's lip moved nervously and her eye shunned meeting his. softly pushing back the wet hair from his temples, she said, "i had one of my fits of doing nothing at home--i didn't feel very bright and thought perhaps you didn't,--so on the principle that two negatives make an affirmative--" "i feel bright," said hugh gently. fleda's eye came down to his, which was steady and clear as the reflection of the sky in deepwater lake,--and then hers fell lower. "why don't you, dear fleda?" "i believe i am a little tired," fleda said, trying but in vain to command herself and look up,--"and there are states of body when anything almost is enough to depress one--" "and what depresses you now?" said he, very steadily and quietly. "o--i was feeling a little down about things in general," said fleda in a choked voice, trying to throw off her load with a long breath;--"it's because i am tired, i suppose--" "i felt so too, a little while ago," said hugh. "but i have concluded to give all that up, fleda." fleda looked at him. her eyes were swimming full, but his were clear and gentle as ever, only glistening a little in sympathy with hers. "i thought all was going wrong with us," he went on. "but i found it was only i that was wrong; and since that i have been quite happy, fleda." fleda could not speak to him; his words made her pain worse. "i told you this rested me," said he reaching across her for his book; "and now i am never weary long. shall i rest you with it? what have you been troubling yourself about to-day?" she did not answer while he was turning over the leaves, and he then said, "do you remember this, fleda?--'_truly god is good to israel, even to them that are of a clean heart_.'" fleda bent her head down upon her hands. "i was moody and restless the other day," said hugh,--"desponding of everything;--and i came upon this psalm; and it made me ashamed of myself. i had been disbelieving it, and because i could not see how things were going to work good i thought they were going to work evil. i thought we were wearing out our lives alone here in a wearisome way, and i forgot that it must be the very straightest way that we could get home. i am sure we shall not want anything that will do us good; and the rest i am willing to want--and so are you, fleda?" fleda squeezed his hand,--that was all. for a minute he was silent, and then went on, without any change of tone. "i had a notion awhile ago that i should like it if it were possible for me to go to college; but i am quite satisfied now. i have good time and opportunity to furnish myself with a better kind of knowledge, that i shall want where college learning wouldn't be of much use to me; and i can do it, i dare say, better here in this mill than if we had stayed in new york and i had lived in our favourite library." "but dear hugh," said fleda, who did not like this speech in any sense of it,--"the two things do not clash. the better man the better christian always, other things being equal. the more precious kind of knowledge should not make one undervalue the less?" "no,"--he said; but the extreme quietness and simplicity of his reply smote fleda's fears; it answered her words and waived her thought; she dared not press him further. she sat looking over the road with an aching heart. "you haven't taken enough of my medicine," said hugh smiling. "listen, fleda--'_all the paths of the lord are mercy and truth unto such as keep his covenant and his testimonies_.'" but that made fleda cry again. "'all his paths,' fleda--then, whatever may happen to you, and whatever may happen to me, or to any of us.--i can trust him. i am willing any one should have the world, if i may have what abraham had--'_fear not; i am thy shield and thy exceeding great reward;_'--and i believe i shall, fleda; for it is not the hungry that he has threatened to send empty away." fleda could say nothing, and hugh just then said no more. for a little while, near and busy as thoughts might be, tongues were silent. fleda was crying quietly, the utmost she could do being to keep it quiet; hugh, more quietly, was considering again the strong pillars on which he had laid his hope, and trying their strength and beauty; till all other things were to him as the mist rolling off from the valley is to the man planted on a watch tower. his meditations were interrupted by the tramp of horse, and a party of riders male and female came past them up the hill. hugh looked on as they went by; fleda's head was not raised. "there are some people enjoying themselves," said hugh. "after all, dear fleda, we should be very sorry to change places with those gay riders. i would not for a thousand worlds give my hope and treasure for all other they can possibly have, in possession or prospect." "no, indeed!" said fleda energetically, and trying to rouse herself;--"and besides that, hugh, we have as it is a great deal more to enjoy than most other people. we are so happy--" in each other, she was going to say, but the words choked her. "those people looked very hard at us, or at one of us," said hugh. "it must have been you, i think, fleda" "they are welcome," said fleda; "they couldn't have made much out of the back of my sun bonnet." "well, dear fleda, i must content myself with little more than looking at you now, for mr. winegar is in a hurry for his timber to be sawn, and i must set this noisy concern a going again." fleda sat and watched him, with rising and falling hopes and fears, forcing her lips to a smile when he came near her, and hiding her tears at other times; till the shadows stretching well to the east of the meridian, admonished her she had been there long enough; and she left him still going backward and forward tending the saw. as she went down the hill she pressed involuntarily her hands upon her heart, for the dull heavy pain there. but that was no plaster for it; and when she got to the bridge the soft singing of the little brook was just enough to shake her spirits from the doubtful poise they had kept. giving one hasty glance along the road and up the hill to make sure that no one was near she sat down on a stone in the edge of the woods, and indulged in such weeping as her gentle eyes rarely knew; for the habit of patience so cultivated for others' sake constantly rewarded her own life with its sweet fruits. but deep and bitter in proportion was the flow of the fountain once broken up. she struggled to remind herself that "providence runneth not on broken wheels," she struggled to repeat to herself, what she did not doubt that "_all_ the ways of the lord are mercy and truth" to his people;--in vain. the slight check for a moment to the torrent of grief but gave it greater head to sweep over the barrier; and the self-reproach that blamed its violence and needlessness only made the flood more bitter. nature fought against patience for awhile; but when the loaded heart had partly relieved itself patience came in again and she rose up to go home. it startled her exceedingly to find mr. olmney standing before her, and looking so sorrowful that fleda's eyes could not bear it. "my dear miss ringgan!--forgive me--i hope you will forgive me,--but i could not leave you in such distress. i knew that in _you_ it could only be from some very serious cause of grief." "i cannot say it is from anything new, mr. olmney--except to my apprehensions." "you are all _well_?" he said inquiringly, after they had walked a few steps in silence. "well?--yes, sir,--" said fleda hesitatingly,--"but i do not think that hugh looks very well." the trembling of her voice told him her thought. but he remained silent. "you have noticed it?" she said hastily, looking up. "i think you have told me he always was delicate?" "and you have noticed him looking so lately, mr. olmney?" "i have thought so,--but you say he always was that. if you will permit me to say so, i have thought the same of you, miss fleda." fleda was silent; her heart ached again. "we would gladly save each other from every threatening trouble," said mr. olmney again after a pause;--"but it ought to content us that we do not know how. hugh is in good hands, my dear miss ringgan." "i know it, sir," said fleda unable quite to keep back her tears,--"and i know very well this thread of our life will not bear the strain always,--and i know that the strands must in all probability part unevenly,--and i know it is in the power of no blind fate,--but that--" "does not lessen our clinging to each other. oh no!--it grows but the tenderer and the stronger for the knowledge." fleda could but cry. "and yet," said he very kindly,--"we who are christians may and ought to learn to take troubles hopefully; for 'tribulation worketh patience; and patience,' that is, quiet waiting on god, 'works experience' of his goodness and faithfulness; 'and experience worketh hope; and that hope, we know, 'maketh not ashamed.'" "i know it," said fleda;--"but, mr. olmney, how easily the brunt of a new affliction breaks down all that chain of reasoning!" "yes!--" he said sadly and thoughtfully;--"but my dear miss fleda, you know the way to build it up again. i would be very glad to bear all need for it away from you!" they had reached the gate. fleda could not look up to thank him; the hand she held out was grasped, more than kindly, and he turned away. fleda's tears came hot again as she went up the walk; she held her head down to hide them and went round the back way. chapter xxix. now, the melancholy god protect thee; and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal!--twelfth night. "well what did you come home for?" was barby's salutation;--"here's company been waiting for you till they're tired, and i am sure i be." "company!!--" said fleda. "yes, and it's ungrateful in you to say so," said barby, "for she's been in a wonderful hurry to see you,--or to get somethin' to eat; i don't know which; a little o' both, i hope in charity." "why didn't you give her something to eat? who is it?" "i don't know who it is! it's one of your highfliers, that's all i can make out. she 'a'n't a hat a bit better than a man's beaver,--one 'ud think she had stole her little brother's for a spree, if the rest of her was like common folks; but she's got a tail to her dress as long as from here to queechy run; and she's been tiddling in and out here with it puckered up under her arm sixty times. i guess she belongs to some company of female militie, for the body of it is all thick with braid and buttons. i believe she ha'n't sot still five minutes since she come into the house, till i don't know whether i am on my head or my heels." "but why didn't you give her something to eat?" said fleda, who was hastily throwing off her gloves and smoothing her disordered hair with her hands into something of composure. "did!" said barby;--"i give her some o' them cold biscuit and butter and cheese and a pitcher of milk--sot a good enough meal for anybody--but she didn't take but a crumb, and she turned up her nose at that. come, go!--you've slicked up enough--you're handsome enough to shew yourself to her any time o' day, for all her jig-em-bobs." "where is aunt lucy?" "she's up stairs;--there's been nobody to see to her but me. she's had the hull lower part of the house to herself, kitchen and all, and she's done nothing but go out of one room into another ever since she come. she'll be in here again directly if you ain't spry." fleda went in, round to the west room, and there found herself in the arms of the second miss evelyn, who jumped to meet her and half stifled her with caresses. "you wicked little creature! what have you been doing? here have i been growing melancholy over the tokens of your absence, and watching the decline of the sun with distracted feelings these six hours." "six hours!" said fleda smiling. "my dear little fleda!--it's so delicious to see you again!" said miss evelyn with another prolonged hug and kiss. "my dear constance!--i am very glad--but where are the rest?" "it's unkind of you to ask after anybody but me, when i came here this morning on purpose to talk the whole day to you. now dear little fleda," said miss constance, executing an impatient little persuasive caper round her,--"won't you go out and order dinner? for i'm raging. your woman did give me something, but i found the want of you had taken away all my appetite; and now the delight of seeing you has exhausted me, and i feel that nature is sinking. the stimulus of gratified affection is too much for me." "you absurd child!" said fleda,--"you haven't mended a bit. but i told barby to put on the tea-kettle and i will administer a composing draught as soon as it can be got ready; we don't indulge in dinners here in the wilderness. meanwhile suppose that exhausted nature try the support of this easy-chair?" she put her visitor gently into it, and seating herself upon the arm held her hand and looked at her, with a smiling face and yet with eyes that were almost too gentle in their welcoming. "my dear little fleda!--you're as lovely as you can be! are you glad to see me?" "very." "why don't you ask after somebody else?" "i was afraid of overtasking your exhausted energies." "come and sit down here upon my lap!--you shall, or i won't say another word to you. fleda! you've grown thin! what have you been doing to yourself?" "nothing, with that particular purpose." "i don't care, you've done something. you have been insanely imagining that it is necessary for you to be in three or four places at the same time, and in the distracted effort after ubiquity you are in imminent danger of being nowhere--there's nothing left of you." "i don't wonder you were overcome at the sight of me," said fleda. "but you are looking charmingly for all that," constance went on;--"so charmingly that i feel a morbid sensation creeping all over me while i sit regarding you. really, when you come to us next winter if you persist in being,--by way of shewing your superiority to ordinary human nature,--a rose without a thorn, the rest of the flowers may all shut up at once. and the rose reddens in my very face, to spite me!" "is 'ordinary human nature' typified by a thorn? you give it rather a poor character." "i never heard of a thorn that didn't bear an excellent character!" said constance gravely. "hush!" said fleda laughing;--"i don't want to hear about mr. thorn.--tell me of somebody else." "i haven't said a word about mr. thorn!" said constance ecstatically, "but since you ask about him i will tell you. he has not acted like himself since you disappeared from our horizon--that is, he has ceased to be at all pointed in his attentions to me; his conversation has lost all the acuteness for which i remember you admired it; he has walked broadway in a moody state of mind all winter, and grown as dull as is consistent with the essential sharpness of his nature. i ought to except our last interview, though, for his entreaties to mamma that she would bring you home with her were piercing." fleda was unable in spite of herself to keep from laughing, but entreated that constance would tell her of somebody else. "my respected parents are at montepoole, with all their offspring,--that is, florence and edith,--i am at present anxiously enquired after, being nobody knows where, and to be fetched by mamma this evening. wasn't i good, little fleda, to run away from mr. carleton to come and spend a whole day in social converse with you?" "carleton!" said fleda. "yes--o you don't know who _he_ is! he's a new attraction--there's been nothing like him this great while, and all new york is topsy-turvy about him; the mothers are dying with anxiety and the daughters with admiration; and it's too delightful to see the cool superiority with which he takes it all;--like a new star that all the people are pointing their telescopes at,--as thorn said spitefully the other day. o he has turned _my_ head; i have looked till i cannot look at anything else. i can just manage to see a rose, but my dazzled powers of vision are equal to nothing more." "my dear constance!--" "it's perfectly true! why as soon as we knew he was coming to montepoole i wouldn't let mamma rest till we all made a rush after him--and when we got here first and i was afraid he wasn't coming, nothing can express the state of my feelings!--but he appeared the next morning, and then i was quite happy," said constance, rising and falling in her chair on what must have been ecstatic springs, for wire ones it had none. "constance!--" said fleda with a miserable attempt at rebuke,--"how can you talk so!" "and so we were all riding round here this morning and i had the self-denial to stop to see you and leave florence and the marlboroughs to monopolize him all the way home. you ought to love me for ever for it. my dear fleda!--" said constance, clasping her hands and elevating her eyes in mock ecstasy,--"if you had ever seen mr. carleton i--" "i dare say i have seen somebody as good," said fleda quietly. "my dear fleda!" said constance, a little scornfully this time,--"you haven't the least idea what you are talking about! i tell you he is an englishman--he's of one of the best families in england,--not such as you ever see here but once in an age,--he's rich enough to count mr. thorn over i don't know how many times." "i don't like anybody the better for being an englishman," said fleda; "and it must be a small man whose purse will hold his measure." constance made an impatient gesture. "but i tell you it isn't! we knew him when we were abroad, and we know what he is, and we know his mother very well. when we were in england we were a week with them down at their beautiful place in ----shire,--the loveliest time! you see she was over here with mr. carleton once before, a good while ago; and mamma and papa were polite to them, and so they shewed us a great deal of attention when we were in england. we had the loveliest time down there you can possibly conceive. and my dear fleda he wears such a fur cloak!--lined with the most exquisite black fox." "but, constance!" said fleda, a little vexed though laughing,--"any man may wear a fur cloak--the thing is, what is inside of it?" "it is perfectly indifferent to me what is inside of it!" said constance ecstatically. "i can see nothing but the edges of the black fox, especially when it is worn so very gracefully." "but in some cases there might be a white fox within?" "there is nothing of the fox about mr. carleton!" said constance impatiently. "if it had been anybody else i should have said he was a bear two or three times; but he wears everything as he does his cloak, and makes you take what he pleases from him; what i wouldn't take from anybody else i know." "with a fox lining?" said fleda laughing. "then foxes haven't got their true character, that's all. now i'll just tell you an instance--it was at a party somewhere--it was at that tiresome mrs. swinburne's, where the evenings are always so stupid, and there was nothing worth going or staying for but the supper,--except mr. carleton! and he never stays five minutes, except at two or three places; and it drives me crazy, because they are places i don't go to very often--" "suppose you keep your wits and tell me your story?" "well--don't interrupt me!--he was there, and he had taken me into the supper-room, when mamma came along and took it into her head to tell me not to take something--i forget what--punch, i believe,--because i had not been well in the morning. now you know, it was absurd! i was perfectly well then, and i told her i shouldn't mind her; but do you believe mr. carleton wouldn't give it to me?--absolutely told me he wouldn't, and told me why, as coolly as possible, and gave me a glass of water and made me drink it; and if it had been anybody else i do assure you i would have flung it in his face and never spoken to him again; and i have been in love with him ever since. now _is_ that tea going to be ready?" "presently. how long have you been here?" "o a day or two--and it has poured with rain every single day since we came, till this one;--and just think!"--said constance with a ludicrously scared face,--"i must make haste and be back again. you see, i came away on principle, that i may strike with the effect of novelty when i appear again; but if i stay _too_ long, you know,--there is a point--" "on the principle of the ice-boats," said fleda, "that back a little to give a better blow to the ice, where they find it tough?" "tough!" said constance. "does florence like this paragon of yours as well as you do?" "i don't know--she don't talk so much about him, but that proves nothing; she's too happy to talk _to_ him.--i expect our family concord will be shattered by and by!" said constance shaking her head. "you seem to take the prospect philosophically," said fleda, looking amused. "how long are you going to stay at the pool?" constance gave an expressive shrug, intimating that the deciding of that question did not rest with her. "that is to say, you are here to watch the transit of this star over the meridian of queechy?" "of queechy!--of montepoole." "very well--of montepoole. i don't wonder that nature is exhausted. i will go and see after this refection." the prettiest little meal in the world was presently set forth for the two,--fleda knew her aunt would not come down, and hugh was yet at the mill; so she led her visitor into the breakfast-room alone, constance by the way again fondly embracing her and repeating, "my dear little fleda!--how glad i am to see you!" the lady was apparently hungry, for there was a minute of silence while the refection begun, and then constance exclaimed, perhaps with a sudden appreciation of the delicious bread and butter and cream and strawberries, "what a lovely old room this is!--and what lovely times you have here, don't you, fleda?" "yes--sometimes," fleda said with a sigh. "but i shall tell mamma you are growing thin, and the first minute we get home i shall send for you to come to us. mrs. thorn will be amazingly glad to see you." "has she got back from europe?" said fleda. "ages!--and she's been entertaining the world as hard as she could ever since. i have no doubt lewis has confided to the maternal bosom all his distresses; and there never was anything like the rush that i expect will be made to our greenhouse next winter. o fleda, you should see mr. carleton's greenhouses!" "should i?" said fleda. "dear me! i hope mamma will come!" said constance with a comical fidgety shake of herself;--"when i think of those greenhouses i lose my self-command. and the park!--fleda, it's the loveliest thing you ever saw in your life; and it's all that delightful man's doing; only he won't have a geometric flower-garden, as i did everything i could think of to persuade him. i pity the woman that will be his wife,--she won't have her own way in a single thing; but then he will fascinate her into thinking that his way is the best, so it will do just as well i suppose. do you know i can't conceive what he has come over here for? he has been here before, you know, and he don't seem to me to know exactly what he means to do; at least i can't find out, and i have tried." "how long has he been here?" "o a month or two--since the beginning of april, i believe. he came over with some friends of his--a sir george egerton and his family;--he is going to canada, to be established in some post there, i forget what; and they are spending part of the summer here before they fix themselves at the north. it is easy to see what _they_ are here for,--they are strangers and amusing themselves; but mr. carleton is at home, and _not_ amusing himself, at least he don't seem to be. he goes about with the egertons, but that is just for his friendship for them; and he puzzles me. he don't snow whether he is going to niagara,--he has been once already--and 'perhaps' he may go to canada,--and 'possibly' he will make a journey to the west,--and i can't find out that he wants anything in particular." "perhaps he don't mean that you shall," said fleda. "perhaps he don't; but you see that aggravates my state of mind to a distressing degree. and then i'm afraid he will go somewhere where i can't keep watch of him!--" fleda could not help laughing. "perhaps he was tired of home and came for mere weariness." "weariness! it's my opinion he has no idea there is such a word in the language,--i am certain if he heard it he would call for a dictionary the next minute. why at carleton it seems to me he was half the time on horseback, flying about from one end of the country to the other; and when he is in the house he is always at work at something; it's a piece of condescension to get him to attend to you at all; only when he does, my dear fleda!--he is so enchanting that you live in a state of delight till next time. and yet i never could get him to pay me a compliment to this minute,--i tried two or three times, and he rewarded me with some very rude speeches." "rude!" said fleda. "yes,--that is, they were the most graceful and fascinating things possible, but they would have been rudeness in anybody else. where _is_ mamma!" said constance with another comic counterfeit of distress "my dear fleda, it's the most captivating thing to breakfast at carleton!--" "i have no idea the bread and butter is sweeter there than in some other parts of the world," said fleda. "i don't know about the bread and butter," said constance, "but those exquisite little sugar dishes! my dear fleda, every one has his own sugar-dish and cream-ewer--the loveliest little things!--" "i have heard of such things before," said fleda. "i don't care about the bread and butter," said constance; "eating is immaterial, with those perfect little things right opposite to me. they weren't like any you ever saw, fleda--the sugar-bowl was just a little plain oval box, with the lid on a hinge, and not a bit of chasing, only the arms on the cover; like nothing i ever saw but an old-fashioned silver tea-caddy; and the cream-jug a little straight up and down thing to match. mamma said they were clumsy, but they bewitched me!--" "i think everything bewitched you," said fleda smiling. "can't your head stand a sugar-dish and milk-cup?" "my dear fleda, i never had your superiority to the ordinary weaknesses of human nature--i can stand _one_ sugar-bowl, but i confess myself overcome by a dozen. how we have all wanted to see you, fleda! and papa; you have captivated papa; and he says--" "never mind--don't tell me what he says," said fleda. "there--that's your modesty, that everybody raves about--i wish i could catch it. fleda, where did you get that little bible?--while i was waiting for you i tried to soothe my restless anticipations with examining all the things in all the rooms;--where did you get it?" "it was given me a long while ago," said fleda. "but it is real gold on the outside!--the clasps and all--do you know it? it is not washed." "i know it," said fleda smiling; "and it is better than gold inside." "wasn't that mamma's favourite mr. olmney that parted from you at the gate?" said constance after a minute's silence. "yes." "is he a favourite of yours too?" "you must define what you mean by a favourite?" said fleda gravely. "well, how do you like him?" "i believe everybody likes him," said fleda, colouring and vexed at herself that she could not help it. the bright eyes opposite her took note of the fact with a sufficiently wide-awake glance. "he's very good!" said constance hugging herself, and taking a fresh supply of butter,--"but don't let him know i have been to see you or he'll tell you all sorts of evil things about me for fear you should innocently be contaminated. don't you like to be taken care of?" "very much," said fleda smiling,--"by people that know how." "i can't bear it!" said constance, apparently with great sincerity;--"i think it is the most impertinent thing in the world people can do. i can't endure it--except from--! oh my dear fleda! it is perfect luxury to have him put a shawl round your shoulders!--" "fleda," said earl douglass putting his head in from the kitchen, and before he said any more bobbing it frankly at miss evelyn, half in acknowledgment of her presence and half as it seemed in apology for his own,--"fleda, will you let barby pack up somethin' 'nother for the men's lunch?--my wife would ha' done it, as she had ought to, if she wa'n't down with the teeth-ache, and catherine's away on a jig to kenton, and the men won't do so much work on nothin', and i can't say nothin' to 'em if they don't; and i'd like to get that 'ere clover field down afore night--it's goin' to be a fine spell o' weather. i was a goin' to try to get along without it; but i believe we can't." "very well," said fleda. "but, mr. douglass, you'll try the experiment of curing it in cocks?" "well i don't know," said earl in a tone of very discontented acquiescence,--"i don't see how anythin' should be as sweet as the sun for dryin' hay--i know folks says it is, and i've heerd 'em say it is! and they'll stand to it and you can't beat 'em off the notion it is; but somehow or 'nother i can't seem to come into it. i know the sun makes sweet hay, and i think the sun was meant to make hay, and i don't want to see no sweeter hay than the sun makes; it's as good hay as you need to have." "but you wouldn't mind trying it for once, mr. douglass, just for me?" "i'll do just what you please," said he with a little exculpatory shake of his head;--"'tain't my concern--it's no concern of mine--the gain or the loss'll be your'n, and it's fair you should have the gain or the loss, which ever on 'em you choose to have. i'll put it in cocks--how much heft should be in 'em?" "about a hundred pounds--and you don't want to cut any more than you can put up to-night, mr. douglass. we'll try it." "very good! and you'll send along somethin' for the men--barby knows," said earl bobbing his head again intelligently at fleda,--"there's four on 'em and it takes somethin' to feed 'em--workin' men'll put away a good deal o' meat." he withdrew his head and closed the door, happily for constance, who went off into a succession of ecstatic convulsions. "what time of day do your eccentric hay-makers prefer for the rest of their meals, if they lunch at three o'clock? i never heard anything so original in my life." "this is lunch number two," said fleda smiling; "lunch number one is about ten in the morning; and dinner at twelve." "and do they gladden their families with their presence at the other ordinary convivial occasions?" "certainly." "and what do they have for lunch?" "varieties. bread and cheese, and pies, and quirlcakes; at every other meal they have meat." "horrid creatures!" "it is only during haying and harvesting." "and you have to see to all this! poor little fleda! i declare, if i was you--i'd do something!--" "no," said fleda quietly, "mrs. douglass and barby manage the lunch between them. i am not at all desperate." "but to have to talk to these people!" "earl douglass is not a very polished specimen," said fleda smiling, "but i assure you in some of 'these people' there is an amount of goodness and wit, and shrewd practical sense and judgment, that would utterly distance many of those that would call them bears." constance looked a good deal more than she said. "my dear little fleda! you're too sensible for anything; but as i don't like sense from anybody but mr. carleton i would rather look at you in the capacity of a rose, smiling a gentle rebuke upon me while i talk nonsense." and she did talk, and fleda did smile and laugh, in spite of herself, till mrs. evelyn and her other daughters made their appearance. then barby said she thought they'd have talked the house down; and she expected there'd be nothing left of fleda after all the kissing she got. but it was not too much for fleda's pleasure. mrs. evelyn was so tenderly kind, and miss evelyn as caressing as her sister had been, and edith, who was but a child, so joyously delighted, that fleda's eyes were swimming in happiness as she looked from one to the other, and she could hardly answer kisses and questions fast enough. "them is good-looking enough girls," said barby as fleda came back to the house after seeing them to their carriage,--"if they knowed how to dress themselves. i never see this fly away one 'afore--i knowed the old one as soon as i clapped my eyes onto her. be they stopping at the pool again?" "yes." "well when are you going up there to see 'em?" "i don't know," said fleda quietly. and then sighing as the thought of her aunt came into her head she went off to find her and bring her down. fleda's brow was sobered, and her spirits were in a flutter that was not all of happiness and that threatened not to settle down quietly. but as she went slowly up the stairs faith's hand was laid, even as her own grasped the balusters, on the promise, "all the paths of the lord are mercy and truth unto such as keep his covenant and his testimonies." she set faith's foot down on those sure stepping-stones; and she opened her aunt's door and looked in with a face that was neither troubled nor afraid. chapter xxx. _ant_. he misses not much. _seb_. no; he doth but mistake the truth totally. tempest. it was the very next morning that several ladies and gentlemen were gathered on the piazza of the hotel at montepoole, to brace minds or appetites with the sweet mountain air while waiting for breakfast. as they stood there a young countryman came by bearing on his hip a large basket of fruit and vegetables. "o look at those lovely strawberries!" exclaimed constance evelyn running down the steps.--"stop if you please--where are you going with these?" "marm!" responded the somewhat startled carrier. "what are you going to do with them?" "i ain't going to do nothin' with 'em." "whose are they? are they for sale?" "well, 'twon't deu no harm, as i know," said the young man making a virtue of necessity, for the fingers of constance were already hovering over the dainty little leaf-strewn baskets and her eyes complacently searching for the most promising;--"i ha'n't got nothin' to deu with 'em." "constance!" said mrs. evelyn from the piazza,--"don't take that! i dare say they are for mr. sweet." "well, mamma!--" said constance with great equanimity,--"mr. sweet gets them for me, and i only save him the trouble of spoiling them. my taste leads me to prefer the simplicity of primitive arrangements this morning." "young man!" called out the landlady's reproving voice, "won't you never recollect to bring that basket round the back way?" "'tain't no handier than this way," said philetus, with so much belligerent demonstration that the landlady thought best in presence of her guests to give over the question. "where do you get them?" said mrs. evelyn. "how?--" said philetus. "where do they come from? are they fresh picked?" "just afore i started." "started from where?" said a gentleman standing by mrs. evelyn. "from mr. rossitur's down to queechy." "mr. rossitur's!" said mrs. evelyn;--"does he send them here?" "he doos not," said philetus;--"he doosn't keep to hum for a long spell." "who does send them then?" said constance. "who doos? it's miss fliddy ringgan." "mamma!" exclaimed constance looking up. "what does she have to do with it?" said mrs. evelyn. "there don't nobody else have nothin' to deu with it--i guess she's pretty much the hull," said her coadjutor. "her and me was a picking 'em afore sunrise." "all that basketful!" "'tain't all strawberries--there's garden sass up to the top." "and does she send that too?" "she sends that teu," said philetus succinctly. "but hasn't she any help in taking care of the garden?" said constance. "yes marm--i calculate to help considerable in the back garden--she won't let no one into the front where she grows her posies." "but where is mr. hugh?" "he's to hum." "but has he nothing to do with all this? does he leave it all to his cousin?" "he's to the mill." "and miss ringgan manages farm and garden and all?" said mrs. evelyn. "she doos," said philetus. and receiving a gratuity which he accepted without demonstration of any kind whatever, the basket-bearer at length released moved off. "poor fleda!" said miss evelyn as he disappeared with his load. "she's a very clever girl," said mrs. evelyn dismissing the subject. "she's too lovely for anything!" said constance. "mr. carleton,--if you will just imagine we are in china, and introduct a pair of familiar chop-sticks into this basket, i shall be repaid for the loss of a strawberry by the expression of ecstasy which will immediately spread itself over your features. i intend to patronize the natural mode of eating in future. i find the ends of my fingers decidedly odoriferous." he smiled a little as he complied with the young lady's invitation, but the expression of ecstasy did not come. "are mr. rossitur's circumstances so much reduced?" he said, drawing nearer to mrs. evelyn. "do you know them!" exclaimed both the daughters at once. "i knew mrs. rossitur very well some years ago, when she was in paris." "they are all broken to pieces," said mrs. evelyn, as mr. carleton's eye went back to her for his answer;--"mr. rossitur failed and lost everything--bankrupt--a year or two after they came home." "and what has he been doing since?' "i don't know!--trying to farm it here; but i am afraid he has not succeeded well--i am afraid not. they don't look like it. mrs. rossitur will not see anybody, and i don't believe they have done any more than struggle for a living since they came here." "where is mr. rossitur now?" "he is at the west somewhere--fleda tells me he is engaged in some agencies there; but i doubt," said mrs. evelyn shaking her head compassionately,--"there is more in the name of it than anything else. he has gone down hill sadly since his misfortunes. i am very sorry for them." "and his niece takes care of his farm in the meantime?" "do you know her?" asked both the miss evelyns again. "i can hardly say that," he replied. "i had such a pleasure formerly. do i understand that _she_ is the person to fill mr. rossitur's place when he is away?" "so she says." "and so she acts," said constance. "i wish you had heard her yesterday. it was beyond everything. we were conversing very amicably, regarding each other through a friendly vista formed by the sugar-bowl and tea-pot, when a horrid man, that looked as if he had slept all his life in a hay-cock and only waked up to turn it over, stuck his head in and immediately introduced a clover-field; and fleda and he went to tumbling about the cocks till i do assure you i was deluded into a momentary belief that hay-making was the principal end of human nature, and looked upon myself as a burden to society; and after i had recovered my locality and ventured upon a sentence of gentle commiseration for her sufferings, fleda went off into a eulogium upon the intelligence of hay-makers in general and the strength of mind barbarians are universally known to possess." the manner still more than the matter of this speech was beyond the withstanding of any good-natured muscles, though the gentleman's smile was a grave one and quickly lost in gravity. mrs. evelyn laughed and reproved in a breath; but the laugh was admiring and the reproof was stimulative. the bright eye of constance danced in return with the mischievous delight of a horse that has slipped his bridle and knows you can't catch him. "and this has been her life ever since mr. rossitur lost his property?" "entirely,--sacrificed!--" said mrs. evelyn, with a compassionately resigned air;--"education, advantages and everything given up; and set down here where she has seen nobody from year's end to year's end but the country people about--very good people--but not the kind of people she ought to have been brought up among." "oh mamma!" said the eldest miss evelyn in a deprecatory tone,--"you shouldn't talk so--it isn't right--i am sure she is very nice--nicer now than anybody else i know; and clever too." "nice!" said edith. "i wish _i_ had such a sister!" "she is a good girl--a very good girl," said mrs. evelyn, in a tone which would have deterred any one from wishing to make her acquaintance. "and happy, mamma--fleda don't look miserable--she seems perfectly happy and contented!" "yes," said mrs. evelyn,--"she has got accustomed to this state of things--it's her life--she makes delicious bread and puddings for her aunt, and raises vegetables for market, and oversees her uncle's farmers, and it isn't a hardship to her; she finds her happiness in it. she is a very good girl! but she might have been made something much better than a farmer's wife." "you may set your mind at rest on that subject, mamma," said constance, still using her chop-sticks with great complacency;--"it's my opinion that the farmer is not in existence who is blessed with such a conjugal futurity. i think fleda's strong pastoral tastes are likely to develope themselves in a new direction." mrs. evelyn looked with a partial smile at the pretty features which the business of eating the strawberries displayed in sundry novel and picturesque points of view; and asked what she meant? "i don't know,--" said constance, intent upon her basket,--"i feel a friend's distress for mr. thorn--it's all your doing, mamma,--you won't be able to look him in the face when we have fleda next fall--i am sure i shall not want to look at his! he'll be too savage for anything." "mr. thorn!" said mr. carleton. "yes," said mrs. evelyn in an indulgent tone,--"he was very attentive to her last winter when she was with us, but she went away before anything was decided. i don't think he has forgotten her." "i shouldn't think anybody could forget her," said edith. "i am confident he would be here at this moment," said constance, "if he wasn't in london." "but what is 'all mamma's doing,' constance?" inquired her sister. "the destruction of the peace of the whole family of thorns--shouldn't sleep sound in my bed if i were she with such a reflection. i look forward to heart-rending scenes,--with a very disturbed state of mind." "but what have i done, my child?" said mrs. evelyn. "didn't you introduce your favourite mr. olmney to miss ringgan last summer? i don't know!--her native delicacy shrunk from making any disclosures, and of course the tongue of friendship is silent,--but they were out ages yesterday while i was waiting for her, and their parting at the gate was--i feel myself unequal to the task of describing it!" said constance ecstatically;--"and she was in the most elevated tone of mind during our whole interview afterwards, and took all my brilliant remarks with as much coolness as if they had been drops of rain--more, i presume, considering that it was hay-time." "did you see him?" said mrs. evelyn. "only at that impracticable distance, mamma; but i introduced his name afterwards in my usual happy manner and i found that miss ringgan's cheeks were by no means indifferent to it. i didn't dare go any further." "i am very glad of it! i hope it is so!" said mrs. evelyn energetically. "it would be a most excellent match. he is a charming young man and would make her very happy." "you are exciting gloomy feelings in mr. carleton's mind, mamma, by your felicitous suggestions. mr. carleton, did your ears receive a faint announcement of ham and eggs which went quite through and through mine just now?" he bowed and handed the young lady in; but constance declared that though he sat beside her and took care of her at breakfast he had on one of his intangible fits which drove her to the last extreme of impatience, and captivation. the sun was not much more than two hours high the next morning when a rider was slowly approaching mr. rossitur's house from the bridge, walking his horse like a man who wished to look well at all he was passing. he paused behind a clump of locusts and rose-acacias in the corner of the courtyard as a figure bonneted and gloved came out of the house and began to be busy among the rose-bushes. another figure presently appeared at the hall-door and called out, "fleda!--" "well, barby--" this second voice was hardly raised, but it came from so much nearer that the words could be distinctly heard. "mr. skillcorn wants to know if you're going to fix the flowers for him to carry?" "they're not ready, and it won't do for him to vait--mr. sweet must send for them if he wants them. philetus must make haste back, for you know mr. douglass wants him to help in the barn meadow. lucas won't be here and now the weather is so fine i want to make haste with the hay." "well, will you have the samp for breakfast?" "no--we'll keep that for dinner. i'll come in and poach some eggs, barby,--if you'll make me some thin pieces of toast--and call me when it's time. thin, barby." the gentleman turned his horse and galloped back to montepoole. some disappointment was created among a portion of mr. sweet's guests that afternoon by the intelligence that mr. carleton purposed setting off the next morning to join his english friends at saratoga on their way to the falls and canada. which purpose was duly carried into effect. chapter xxxi. with your leave, sir, an' there were no more men living upon the face of the earth, i should not fancy him, by st. george.--every man out of his humour. october had come; and a fair season and a fine harvest had enabled fleda to ease her mind by sending a good remittance to dr. gregory. the family were still living upon her and hugh's energies. mr. rossitur talked of coming home, that was all. it sometimes happened that a pause in the urgency of business permitted hugh to take a day's holiday. one of these falling soon after the frosts had opened the burrs of the chestnut trees and the shells of the hickories, fleda seized upon it for a nutting frolic. they took philetus and went up to the fine group of trees on the mountain, the most difficult to reach and the best worth reaching of all their nut wood. the sport was very fine; and after spoiling the trees philetus was left to "shuck" and bring home a load of the fruit; while fleda and hugh took their way slowly down the mountain. she stopped him, as usual, on the old lookout place. the leaves were just then in their richest colouring; and the october sky in its strong vitality seemed to fill all inanimate nature with the breath of lile. if ever, then on that day, to the fancy, "the little hills rejoiced on every side." the woods stood thick with honours, and earth lay smiling under the tokens of the summer's harvest and the promise for the coming year; and the wind came in gusts over the lower country and up the hill-side with a hearty good-will that blew away all vapours, physical and mental, from its path, bidding everything follow its example and be up and doing. fleda drew a long breath or two that seemed to recognize its freshening power. [illustration: philetus was left to "shuck" and bring home a load of the fruit.] "how long it seems," she said,--"how very long--since i was here with mr. carleton;--just nine years ago. how changed everything is! i was a little child then. it seems such an age ago!--" "it is very odd he didn't come to see us," said hugh. "he did--don't you know?--the very next day after we heard he was here--when most unluckily i was up at aunt miriam's." "i should think he might have come again, considering what friends you used to be." "i dare say he would if he had not left montepoole so soon. but dear hugh! i was a mere child--how could he remember me much." "you remember him," said hugh. "ah but i have good reason. besides i never forget anything. i would have given a great deal to see him--if i had it." "i wish the evelyns had staid longer," said hugh. "i think you have wanted something to brighten you up. they did you a great deal of good last year. i am afraid all this taking care of philetus and earl douglass is too much for you." fleda gave him a very bright smile, half affection, half fun. "don't you admire my management?" said she. "because i do. philetus is firmly persuaded that he is an invaluable assistant to me in the mystery of gardening; and the origin of earl douglass's new ideas is so enveloped in mist that he does not himself know where they come from. it was rich to hear him the other day descanting to lucas upon the evil effects of earthing up corn and the advantages of curing hay in cocks, as to both which matters lucas is a thorough unbeliever, and earl was a year ago." "but that doesn't hinder your looking pale and thin, and a great deal soberer than i like to see you," said hugh. "you want a change, i know. i don't know how you are to get it. i wish they would send for you to new york again." "i don't know that i should want to go if they did," said fleda. "they don't raise my spirits, hugh. i am amused sometimes,--i can't help that,--but such excessive gayety rather makes me shrink within myself; i am too out of tone with it. i never feel more absolutely quiet than sometimes when i am laughing at constance evelyn's mad sallies--and sometimes i cannot laugh at them. i do not know what they must think of me; it is what they can have no means of understanding." "i wish you didn't understand it either, fleda." "but you shouldn't say that. i am happier than they are, now, hugh,--now that you are better,--with all their means of happiness. they know nothing of our quiet enjoyments, they must live in a whirl or they would think they are not living at all, and i do not believe that all new york can give them the real pleasure that i have in such a day as this. they would see almost nothing in all this beauty that my eyes 'drink in,' as cowper says; and they would be certain to quarrel with the wind, that to me is like the shake of an old friend's hand. delicious!--" said fleda, at the wind rewarded this eulogium with a very hearty shake indeed. "i believe you would make friends with everything, fleda," said hugh laughing. "the wind is always that to me," said fleda,--"not always in such a cheerful mood as to-day, though. it talks to me often of a thousand old-time things and sighs over them with me--a most sympathizing friend!--but to day he invites me to a waltz--come!----" and pulling hugh after her away she went down the rocky path, with a step too light to care for the stones; the little feet capering down the mountain with a disdain of the ground that made hugh smile to see her; and eyes dancing for company; till they reached the lower woodland. "a most, spirited waltz!" said hugh. "and a most slack partner. why didn't you keep me company?" "i never was made for waltzing," said hugh shaking his head. "not to the tune of the north wind? that has done me good, hugh." "so i should judge, by your cheeks." "poverty need not always make people poor," said fleda taking breath and his arm together. "you and i are rich, hugh." "and our riches cannot take to themselves wings and flyaway," said hugh. "no, but besides those riches--there are the pleasures of the eye and the mind that one may enjoy everywhere--everywhere in the country at least--unless poverty bear one down very hard; and they are some of the purest and most satisfying of any. o the blessing of a good education! how it makes one independent of circumstances." "and circumstances are education too," said hugh smiling. "i dare say we should not appreciate our mountains and woods so well if we had had our old plenty of everything else." "i always loved them," said fleda. "but what good company they have been to us for years past, hugh;--to me especially; i have more reason to love them." they walked on quietly and soberly to the brow of the tableland, where they parted; hugh being obliged to go home, and fleda wishing to pay a visit to her aunt miriam. she turned off alone to take the way to the high road and went softly on, no longer certainly in the momentary spirits with which she had shaken hands with the wind and skipped down the mountain; but feeling, and thankful that she felt, a cheerful patience to tread the dusty highway of life. the old lady had been rather ailing, and from one or two expressions she had let fall fleda could not help thinking that she looked upon her ailments with a much more serious eye than anybody else thought was called for. it did not, however, appear to-day. she was not worse, and fleda's slight anxious feeling could find nothing to justify it, if it were not the very calm and quietly happy face and manner of the old lady; and that if it had something to alarm, did much more to sooth. fleda had sat with her a long time, patience and cheerfulness all the while unconsciously growing in her company; when catching up her bonnet with a sudden haste very unlike her usual collectedness of manner fleda kissed her aunt and was rushing away. "but stop!--where are you going, fleda?" "home, aunt miriam--i must--don't keep me!" "but what are you going that way for? you can't go home that way?" "yes i can." "how?" "i can cross the blackberry hill behind the barn and then over the east hill, and then there's nothing but the water-cress meadow." "i sha'n't let you go that way alone--sit down and tell me what you mean,--what is this desperate hurry?" but with equal precipitation fleda had cast her bonnet out of sight behind the table, and the next moment turned with the utmost possible quietness to shake hands with mr. olmney. aunt miriam had presence of mind enough to make no remark and receive the young gentleman with her usual dignity and kindness. he staid some time, but fleda's hurry seemed to have forsaken her. she had seized upon an interminable long grey stocking her aunt was knitting, and sat in the corner working at it most diligently, without raising her eyes unless spoken to. "do you give yourself no rest at home or abroad, miss fleda?" said the gentleman. "put that stocking down, fleda," said her aunt, "it is in no hurry." "i like to do it, aunt miriam." but she felt with warming cheeks that she did not like to do it with two people sitting still and looking at her. the gentleman presently rose. "don't go till we have had tea, mr. olmney," said mrs. plumfield. "thank you, ma'am,--i cannot stay, i believe,--unless miss fleda will let me take care of her down the hill by and by." "thank you, mr. olmney," said fleda, "but i am not going home before night, unless they send for me." "i am afraid," said he looking at her, "that the agricultural turn has proved an over-match for your energies." "the farm don't complain of me, does it?" said fleda, looking up at him with a comic grave expression of countenance. "no," said he laughing,--"certainly not; but--if you will forgive me for saying so--i think you complain of it,--tacitly,--and that will raise a good many complaints in other quarters--if you do not take care of yourself." he shook hands and left them; and mrs. plumfield sat silently looking at fleda, who on her part looked at nothing but the grey stocking. "what is all this, fleda?" "what is what, aunt miriam?" said fleda, picking up a stitch with desperate diligence. "why did you want to run away from mr. olmney?" "i didn't wish to be delayed--i wanted to get home." "then why wouldn't you let him go home with you?" "i liked better to go alone, aunt miriam." "don't you like him, fleda?" "certainly, aunt miriam--very much.' "i think he likes you, fleda," said her aunt smiling. "i am very sorry for it," said fleda with great gravity. mrs. plumfield looked at her for a few minutes in silence and then said, "fleda, love, come over here and sit by me and tell me what you mean. why are you sorry? it has given me a great deal of pleasure to think of it." but fleda did not budge from her seat or her stocking and seemed tongue-tied. mrs. plumfield pressed for an answer. "because, aunt miriam," said fleda, with the prettiest red cheeks in the world but speaking very clearly and steadily,--"my liking only goes to a point which i am afraid will not satisfy either him or you." "but why?--it will go further." "no ma'am." "why not? why do you say so?" "because i must if you ask me." "but what can be more excellent and estimable, fleda?--who could be more worth liking? i should have thought he would just please you. he is one of the most lovely young men i have ever seen." "dear aunt miriam!" said fleda looking up beseechingly,--"why should we talk about it?" "because i want to understand you, fleda, and to be sure that you understand yourself." "i do," said fleda, quietly and with a quivering lip. "what is there that you dislike about mr. olmney?" "nothing in the world, aunt miriam." "then what is the reason you cannot like him enough?" "because, aunt miriam," said fleda speaking in desperation,--"there isn't enough of him. he is _very_ good and excellent in every way--nobody feels that more than i do--i don't want to say a word against him--but i do not think he has a very strong mind; and he isn't cultivated enough." "but you cannot have everything, fleda." "no ma'am--i don't expect it." "i am afraid you have set up too high a standard for yourself," said mrs. plumfield, looking rather troubled. "i don't think that is possible, aunt miriam." "but i am afraid it will prevent your ever liking anybody?" "it will not prevent my liking the friends i have already--it may prevent my leaving them for somebody else," said fleda, with a gravity that was touching in its expression. "but mr. olmney is sensible,--and well educated." "yes, but his tastes are not. he could not at all enter into a great many things that give me the most pleasure. i do not think he quite understands above half of what i say to him." "are you sure? i know he admires you, fleda." "ah, but that is only half enough, you see, aunt miriam, unless i could admire him too." mrs. plumfield looked at her in some difficulty;--mr. olmney was not the only one, clearly, whose powers of comprehension were not equal to the subject. "fleda," said her aunt inquiringly,--"is there anybody else that has put mr. olmney out of your head?" "nobody in the world!" exclaimed fleda with a frank look and tone of astonishment at the question, and cheeks colouring as promptly. "how could you ask?--but he never was in my head, aunt miriam." "mr. thorn?" said mrs. plumfield. "mr. thorn!" said fleda indignantly. "don't you know me better than that, aunt miriam? but you do not know him." "i believe i know you, dear fleda, but i heard he had paid you a great deal of attention last year; and you would not have been the first unsuspecting nature that has been mistaken." fleda was silent, flushed and disturbed; and mrs. plumfield was silent and meditating; when hugh came in. he came to fetch fleda home. dr. gregory had arrived. in haste again fleda sought her bonnet, and exchanging a more than usually wistful and affectionate kiss and embrace with her aunt, set off with hugh down the hill. hugh had a great deal to say to her all the way home, of which fleda's ears alone took the benefit, for her understanding received none of it; and when she at last came into the breakfast room where the doctor was sitting, the fact of his being there was the only one which had entered her mind. "here she is!--i declare!" said the doctor, holding her back to look at her after the first greetings had passed,--"i'll be hanged if you ain't handsome!--now what's the use of pinking your cheeks any more at that, as if you didn't know it before?--eh?" "i will always do my best to deserve your good opinion, sir," said fleda laughing. "well sit down now," said he shaking his head, "and pour me out a cup of tea--your mother can't make it right." and sipping his tea, for some time the old doctor sat listening to mrs. rossitur and eating bread and butter; saying little, but casting a very frequent glance at the figure opposite him behind the tea-board. "i am afraid," said he after a while, "that your care for my good opinion won't outlast an occasion. is _that_ the way you look for every day?" the colour came with the smile; but the old doctor looked at her in a way that made the tears come too. he turned his eyes to mrs. rossitur for an explanation. "she is well," said mrs. rossitur fondly,--"she has been very well--except her old headaches now and then;--i think she has grown rather thin lately." "thin!" said the old doctor,--"etherealized to a mere abstract of herself; only that is a very bad figure, for an abstract should have all the bone and muscle of the subject; and i should say you had little left but pure spirit. you are the best proof i ever saw of the principle of the homoeopaths--i see now that though a little corn may fatten a man, a great deal may be the death of him." "but i have tried it both ways, uncle orrin," said fleda laughing. "i ought to be a happy medium between plethora and starvation. i am pretty substantial, what there is of me." "substantial!" said the doctor; "you look as substantial a personage as your old friend the 'faire una,' just about. well prepare yourself, gentle saxon, to ride home with me the day after to-morrow. i'll try a little humanizing regimen with you." "i don't think that is possible, uncle orrin," said fleda gently. "we'll talk about the possibility afterwards--at present all you have to do is to get ready. if you raise difficulties you will find me a very hercules to clear them away--i'm substantial enough i can tell you--so it's just as well to spare yourself and me the trouble." "there are no difficulties," mrs. rossitur and hugh said both at once. "i knew there weren't. put a pair or two of clean stockings in your trunk--that's all you want--mrs. pritchard and i will find the rest. there's the people in fourteenth street wants you the first of november and i want you all the time till then, and longer too.--stop--i've got a missive of some sort here for you--" he foisted out of his breast-pocket a little package of notes; one from mrs. evelyn and one from florence begging fleda to come to them at the time the doctor had named; the third from constance. "my darling little fleda, "i am dying to see you--so pack up and come down with dr. gregory if the least spark of regard for me is slumbering in your breast--mamma and florence are writing to beg you,--but though an insignificant member of the family, considering that instead of being 'next to head' only little edith prevents my being at the less dignified end of this branch of the social system,--i could not prevail upon myself to let the representations of my respected elders go unsupported by mine--especially as i felt persuaded of the superior efficacy of the motives i had it in my power to present to your truly philanthropical mind. "i am in a state of mind that baffles description--mr. carleton is going home!!---- "i have not worn earrings in my ears for a fortnight--my personal appearance is become a matter of indifference to me--any description of mental exertion is excruciating--i sit constantly listening for the ringing of the door-bell, and when it sounds i rush frantically to the head of the staircase and look over to see who it is--the mere sight of pen and ink excites delirious ideas--judge what i suffer in writing to you-- "to make the matter worse (if it could be) i have been informed privately that he is going home to crown at the altar of hymen an old attachment to one of the loveliest of all england's daughters. conceive the complication of my feelings!---- "nothing is left me but the resources of friendship--so come darling fleda, before a barrier of ice interposes itself between my chilled heart and your sympathy. "mr. thorn's state would move my pity if i were capable of being moved by anything--by this you will comprehend he is returned. he has been informed by somebody that there is a wolf in sheep's clothing prowling about queechy, and his head is filled with the idea that you have fallen a victim, of which in my calmer moments i have in vain endeavoured to dispossess him--every morning we are wakened up at an unseasonable hour by a furious ringing at the door-bell--joe manton pulls off his nightcap and slowly descending the stairs opens the door and finds mr. thorn, who enquires distractedly whether miss ringgan has arrived; and being answered in the negative gloomily walks off towards the east river--the state of anxiety in which his mother is thereby kept is rapidly depriving her of all her flesh--but we have directed joe lately to reply 'no sir, but she is expected,'--upon which mr. thorn regularly smiles faintly and rewards the 'fowling piece' with a quarter dollar-- "so make haste, dear fleda, or i shall feel that we are acting the part of innocent swindlers. "c.e." there was but one voice at home on the point whether fleda should go. so she went. chapter xxxii. _host._ now, my young guest! methinks you're allycholy; i pray you, why is it? _jul_. marry, mine host, because i cannot be merry. two gentlemen of verona. some nights after their arrival the doctor and fleda were seated at tea in the little snug old-fashioned back parlour, where the doctor's nicest of housekeepers, mrs. pritchard, had made it ready for them. in general mrs. pritchard herself poured it out for the doctor, but she descended most cheerfully from her post of elevation whenever fleda was there to fill it. the doctor and fleda sat cosily looking at each other across the toast and chipped beef, their glances grazing the tea-urn which was just on one side of their range of vision. a comfortable liverpool-coal fire in a state of repletion burned away indolently and gave everything else in the room somewhat of its own look of sousy independence. except perhaps the delicate creature at whom the doctor between sips of his tea took rather wistful observations. "when are you going to mrs. evelyn?" he said breaking the silence. "they say next week, sir." "i shall be glad of it!" said the doctor. "glad of it?" said fleda smiling. "do you want to get rid of me, uncle orrin?" "yes!" said he. "this isn't the right place for you. you are too much alone." "no indeed, sir. i have been reading voraciously, and enjoying myself as much as possible. i would quite as lieve be here as there, putting you out of the question." "i wouldn't as lieve have you," said he shaking his head. "what were you musing about before tea? your face gave me the heart-ache." "my face!" said fleda, smiling, while an instant flush of the eyes answered him,--"what was the matter with my face?" "that is the very thing i want to know." "before tea?--i was only thinking,--" said fleda, her look going back to the fire from association,--"thinking of different things--not disagreeably--taking a kind of bird's-eye view of things, as one does sometimes." "i don't believe you ever take other than a bird's-eye view of anything," said her uncle. "but what were you viewing just then, my little saxon?" "i was thinking of them at home," said fleda smiling thoughtfully,--"and i somehow had perched myself on a point of observation and was taking one of those wider views which are always rather sobering." "views of what?" "of life, sir." "as how?" said the doctor. "how near the end is to the beginning, and how short the space between, and how little the ups and downs of it will matter if we take the right road and get home." "pshaw!" said the doctor. but fleda knew him too well to take his interjection otherwise than most kindly. and indeed though he whirled round and eat his toast at the fire discontentedly, his look came back to her after a little with even more than its usual gentle appreciation. "what do you suppose you have come to new york for?" said he. "to see you, sir, in the first place, and the evelyns in the second." "and who in the third?" "i am afraid the third place is vacant," said fleda smiling. "you are, eh? well--i don't know--but i know that i have been inquired of by two several and distinct people as to your coming. ah, you needn't open your bright eyes at me, because i shall not tell you. only let me ask,--you have no notion of fencing off my queechy rose with a hedge of blackthorn,--or anything of that kind, have you?" "i have no notion of any fences at all, except invisible ones, sir," said fleda, laughing and colouring very prettily. "well those are not american fences," said the doctor, "so i suppose i am safe enough. whom did i see you out riding with yesterday?" "i was with mrs. evelyn," said fleda,--"i didn't want to go, but i couldn't very well help myself." "mrs. evelyn.--mrs. evelyn wasn't driving, was she?" "no sir; mr. thorn was driving." "i thought so. have you seen your old friend mr. carleton yet?" "do you know him uncle orrin?" "why shouldn't i? what's the difficulty of knowing people? have you seen him?" "but how did you know that he was an old friend of mine?" "question?--" said the doctor. "hum--well, i won't tell you--so there's the answer. now will you answer me?" "i have not seen him, sir." "haven't met him in all the times you have been to mrs. evelyn's?" "no sir. i have been there but once in the evening, uncle orrin. he is just about sailing for england." "well, you're going there to-night, aren't you? run and bundle yourself up and i'll take you there before i begin my work." there was a small party that evening at mrs. evelyn's. fleda was very early. she ran up to the first floor,--rooms lighted and open, but nobody there. "fleda ringgan," called out the voice of constance from over the stairs,--"is that you?" "yes," said fleda. "well just wait till i come down to you.--my darling little fleda, it's delicious of you to come so early. now just tell me,--am i captivating?" "well,--i retain self-possession," said fleda. "i cannot tell about the strength of head of other people." "you wretched little creature!--fleda, don't you admire my hair?--it's new style, my dear,--just come out,--the delancys brought it out with them--eloise delancy taught it us--isn't it graceful? nobody in new york has it yet, except the delancys and we." "how do you know but they have taught somebody else?" said fleda. "i won't talk to you!--don't you like it?" "i am not sure that i do not like you in your ordinary way better." constance made a gesture of impatience, and then pulled fleda after her into the drawing-rooms. "come in here--i won't waste the elegancies of my toilet upon your dull perceptions--come here and let me shew you some flowers--aren't those lovely? this bunch came to-day, 'for miss evelyn,' so florence will have it it is hers, and it's very mean of her, for i am perfectly certain it is mine--it's come from somebody who wasn't enlightened on the subject of my family circle and has innocently imagined that _two_ miss evelyns could not belong to the same one! i know the floral representatives of all florence's dear friends and admirers, and this isn't from any of them--i have been distractedly endeavouring all day to find who it came from, for if i don't i can't take the least comfort in it." "but you might enjoy the flowers for their own sake, i should think," said fleda, breathing the sweetness of myrtle and heliotrope. "no i can't, for i have all the time the association of some horrid creature they might have come from, you know; but it will do just as well to humbug people--i shall make cornelia schenck believe that this came from my dear mr. carleton!" "no you won't, constance," said fleda gently. "my dear little fleda, i shock you, don't i? but i sha'n't tell any lies--i shall merely expressively indicate a particular specimen and say, 'my dear cornelia, do you perceive that this is an english rose?'--and then it's none of my business, you know, what she believes--and she will be dying with curiosity and despair all the rest of the evening." "i shouldn't think there would be much pleasure in that, i confess," said fleda gravely. "how very ungracefully and stiffly those are made up!" "my dear little queechy rose?" said constance impatiently, "you are, pardon me, as fresh as possible. they can't cut the flowers with long stems, you know,--the gardeners would be ruined. that is perfectly elegant--it must have cost at least ten dollars. my dear little fleda!" said constance capering off before the long pier-glass,--"i am afraid i am not captivating!--do you think it would be an improvement if i put drops in my ears?--or one curl behind them? i don't know which mr. carleton likes best!--" and with her head first on one side and then on the other she stood before the glass looking at herself and fleda by turns with such a comic expression of mock doubt and anxiety that no gravity but her own could stand it. "she is a silly girl, fleda, isn't she?" said mrs. evelyn coming up behind them. "mamma!--am i captivating?" cried constance wheeling round. the mother's smile said "very!" "fleda is wishing she were out of the sphere of my influence, mamma.--wasn't mr. olmney afraid of my corrupting you?" she said with a sudden pull-up in front of fleda.--"my blessed stars!--there's somebody's voice i know.--well i believe it is true that a rose without thorns is a desideratum.--mamma, is mrs. thorn's turban to be an invariable _pendant_ to your coiffure all the while miss ringgan is here?" "hush!--" with the entrance of company came constance's return from extravaganzas to a sufficiently graceful every-day manner, only enough touched with high spirits and lawlessness to free it from the charge of commonplace. but the contrast of these high spirits with her own rather made fleda's mood more quiet, and it needed no quieting. of the sundry people that she knew among those presently assembled there were none that she wanted to talk to; the rooms were hot and she felt nervous and fluttered, partly from encounters already sustained and partly from a little anxious expecting of mr. carleton's appearance. the evelyns had not said he was to be there but she had rather gathered it; and the remembrance of old times was strong enough to make her very earnestly wish to see him and dread to be disappointed. she swung clear of mr. thorn, with some difficulty, and ensconced herself under the shadow of a large cabinet, between that and a young lady who was very good society for she wanted no help in carrying on the business of it. all fleda had to do was to sit still and listen, or not listen, which she generally preferred. miss tomlinson discoursed upon varieties, with great sociableness and satisfaction; while poor fleda's mind, letting all her sense and nonsense go, was again taking a somewhat bird's-eye view of things, and from the little centre of her post in mrs. evelyn's drawing-room casting curious glances over the panorama of her life--england, france, new york, and queechy!--half coming to the conclusion that her place henceforth was only at the last and that the world and she had nothing to do with each other. the tide of life and gayety seemed to have thrown her on one side, as something that could not swim with it; and to be rushing past too strongly and swiftly for her slight bark ever to launch upon it again. perhaps the shore might be the safest and happiest place; but it was sober in the comparison; and as a stranded bark might look upon the white sails flying by, fleda saw the gay faces and heard the light tones with which her own could so little keep company. but as little they with her. their enjoyment was not more foreign to her than the causes which moved it were strange. merry?--she might like to be merry; but she could sooner laugh with the north wind than with one of those vapid faces, or with any face that she could not trust. conversation might be pleasant,--but it must be something different from the noisy cross-fire of nonsense that was going on in one quarter, or the profitless barter of nothings that was kept up on the other side of her. rather queechy and silence, by far, than new york and _this!_ and through it all miss tomlinson talked on and was happy. "my dear fleda!--what are you back here for?" said florence coming up to her. "i was glad to be at a safe distance from the fire." "take a screen--here! miss tomlinson, your conversation is too exciting for miss ringgan--look at her cheeks--i must carry you off--i want to shew you a delightful contrivance for transparencies, that i learned the other day--" the seat beside her was vacated, and not casting so much as a look towards any quarter whence a possible successor to miss tomlinson might be arriving, fleda sprang up and took a place in the far corner of the room by mrs. thorn, happily not another vacant chair in the neighbourhood. mrs. thorn had shewn a very great fancy for her and was almost as good company as miss tomlinson; not quite, for it was necessary sometimes to answer and therefore necessary always to hear. but fleda liked her; she was thoroughly amiable, sensible, and good-hearted. and mrs. thorn, very much gratified at fleda's choice of a seat, talked to her with a benignity which fleda could not help answering with grateful pleasure. "little queechy, what has driven you into the corner?" said constance pausing a moment before her. "it must have been a retiring spirit," said fleda. "mrs. thorn, isn't she lovely?" mrs. thorn's smile at fleda might almost have been called that, it was so full of benevolent pleasure. but she spoiled it by her answer. "i don't believe i am the first one to find it out." "but what are you looking so sober for?" constance went on, taking fleda's screen from her hand and fanning her diligently with it,--"you don't talk! the gravity of miss ringgan's face casts a gloom over the brightness of the evening. i couldn't conceive what made me feel chilly in the other room, till i looked about and found that the shade came from this corner; and mr. thorn's teeth, i saw, were chattering." "constance!" said fleda laughing and vexed, and making the reproof more strongly with her eyes,--"how can you talk so!" "mrs. thorn, isn't it true?" mrs. thorn's look at fleda was the essence of good-humour. "will you let lewis come and take you a good long ride to-morrow?" "no, mrs. thorn, i believe not--i intend to stay perseveringly at home to-morrow and see if it is possible to be quiet a day in new york." "but you will go with me to the concert to-morrow night?--both of you--and hear truffi;--come to my house and take tea and go from there? will you, constance?" "my dear mrs. thorn!" said constance,--"i shall be in ecstacies, and miss ringgan was privately imploring me last night to find some way of getting her to it. we regard such material pleasures as tea and muffins with great indifference, but when you look up after swallowing your last cup you will see miss ringgan and miss evelyn, cloaked and hooded, anxiously awaiting your next movement. my dear fleda!--there is a ring!--" and giving her the benefit of a most comic and expressive arching of her eyebrows, constance flung back the screen into fleda's lap and skimmed away. fleda was too vexed for a few minutes to understand more of mrs. thorn's talk than that she was first enlarging upon the concert, and afterwards detailing to her a long shopping expedition in search of something which had been a morning's annoyance. she almost thought constance was unkind, because she wanted to go to the concert herself to lug her in so unceremoniously; and wished herself back in her uncle's snug little quiet parlour,--unless mr. carleton would come. and there he is!--said a quick beat of her heart, as his entrance explained constance's "ring." such a rush of associations came over fleda that she was in imminent danger of losing mrs. thorn altogether. she managed however by some sort of instinct to disprove the assertion that the mind cannot attend to two things at once, and carried on a double conversation, with herself and with mrs. thorn, for some time very vigorously. "just the same!--he has not altered a jot," she said to herself as he came forward to mrs. evelyn;--"it is himself!--his very self--he doesn't look a day older--i'm very glad!--(yes, ma'am--it's extremely tiresome--) how exactly as when he left me in paris,--and how much pleasanter than anybody else!--more pleasant than ever, it seems to me, but that is because i have not seen him in so long; he only wanted one thing. that same grave eye-- but quieter, isn't it,--than it used to be?--i think so--(it's the best store in town, i think, mrs. thorn, by far,--yes, ma'am--) those eyes are certainly the finest i ever saw--how i have seen him stand and look just so when he was talking to his workmen--without that air of consciousness that all these people have, comparatively--what a difference! (i know very little about it, ma'am;--i am not learned in laces--i never bought any--) i wish he would look this way--i wonder if mrs. evelyn does not mean to bring him to see me--she must remember;--now there is that curious old smile and looking down! how much better i know what it means than mrs. evelyn does--(yes, ma'am, i understand--i mean!--it is very convenient--i never go anywhere else to get anything,--at least i should not if i lived here--) she does not know whom she is talking to.--she is going to walk him off into the other room! how very much more gracefully he does everything than anybody else--it comes from that entire high-mindedness and frankness, i think,--not altogether, a fine person must aid the effect, and that complete independence of other people.----i wonder if mrs. evelyn has forgotten my existence!--he has not, i am sure--i think she is a little odd--(yes, ma'am, my face is flushed--the room is very warm--)" "but the fire has gone down--it will be cooler now," said mrs. thorn. which were the first words that fairly entered fleda's understanding. she was glad to use the screen to hide her face now, not the fire. apparently the gentleman and lady found nothing to detain them in the other room, for after sauntering off to it they sauntered back again and placed themselves to talk just opposite her. fleda had an additional screen now in the person of miss tomlinson, who had sought her corner and was earnestly talking across her to mrs. thorn; so that she was sure even if mr. carleton's eyes should chance to wander that way they would see nothing but the unremarkable skirt of her green silk dress, most unlikely to detain them. the trade in nothings going on over the said green silk was very brisk indeed; but disregarding the buzz of tongues near at hand fleda's quick ears were able to free the barrier and catch every one of the quiet tones beyond. "and you leave us the day after to-morrow?" said mrs. evelyn. "no, mrs. evelyn,--i shall wait another steamer." the lady's brow instantly revealed to fleda a trap setting beneath to catch his reason. "i'm very glad!" exclaimed little edith who in defiance of conventionalities and proprieties made good her claim to be in the drawing room on all occasions;--"then you will take me another ride, won't you, mr. carleton?" "you do not flatter us with a very long stay," pursued mrs. evelyn. "quite as long as i expected--longer than i meant it to be," he answered rather thoughtfully. "mr. carleton," said constance sidling up in front of him,--"i have been in distress to ask you a question, and i am afraid----" "of what are you afraid, miss constance?" "that you would reward me with one of your severe looks,--which would petrify me,--and then i am afraid i should feel uncomfortable--" "i hope he will!" said mrs. evelyn, settling herself back in the corner of the sofa, and with a look at her daughter which was complacency itself,--"i hope mr. carleton will, if you are guilty of any impertinence." "what is the question, miss constance?" "i want to know what brought you out here?" "fie, constance!" said her mother. "i am ashamed of you. do not answer her, mr. carleton." "mr. carleton will answer me, mamma,--he looks benevolently upon my faults, which are entirely those of education! what was it, mr. carleton?" "i suppose," said he smiling, "it might be traced more or less remotely to the restlessness incident to human nature." "but _you_ are not restless, mr. carleton," said florence, with a glance which might be taken as complimentary. "and knowing that i am," said constance in comic impatience,--"you are maliciously prolonging my agonies. it is not what i expected of you, mr. carleton." "my dear," said her father, "mr. carleton, i am sure, will fulfil all reasonable expectations. what is the matter?" "i asked him where a certain tribe of indians was to be found, papa, and he told me they were supposed originally to have come across behring's straits one cold winter!" mr. evelyn looked a little doubtfully and constance with so unhesitating gravity that the gravity of nobody else was worth talking about. "but it is so uncommon," said mrs. evelyn when they had done laughing, "to see an englishman of your class here at all, that when he comes a second time we may be forgiven for wondering what has procured us such an honour." "women may always be forgiven for wondering, my dear," said mr. evelyn,--"or the rest of mankind must live at odds with them." "your principal object was to visit our western prairies, wasn't it, mr. carleton?" said florence. "no," he replied quietly,--"i cannot say that. i should choose to give a less romantic explanation of my movements. from some knowledge growing out of my former visit to this country i thought there were certain negotiations i might enter into here with advantage; and it was for the purpose of attending to these, miss constance, that i came." "and have you succeeded?" said mrs. evelyn with an expression of benevolent interest. "no, ma'am--my information had not been sufficient." "very likely!" said mr. evelyn. "there isn't one man in a hundred whose representations on such a matter are to be trusted at a distance." "'on such a matter'!" repeated his wife funnily,--"you don't know what the matter was, mr. evelyn--you don't know what you are talking about." "business, my dear,--business--i take only what mr. carleton said;--it doesn't signify a straw what business. a man must always see with his own eyes." whether mr. carleton had seen or had not seen, or whether even he had his faculty of hearing in present exercise, a glance at his face was incompetent to discover. "i never should have imagined," said constance eying him keenly, "that mr. carleton's errand to this country was one of business and not of romance, _i_ believe it's a humbug!" for an instant this was answered by one of those looks of absolute composure in every muscle and feature which put an effectual bar to all further attempts from without or revelations from within; a look fleda remembered well, and felt even in her corner. but it presently relaxed, and he said with his usual manner, "you cannot understand then, miss constance, that there should be any romance about business?" "i cannot understand," said mrs. evelyn, "why romance should not come after business. mr. carleton, sir, you have seen american scenery this summer--isn't american beauty worth staying a little while longer for?" "my dear," said mr. evelyn, "mr. carleton is too much of a philosopher to care about beauty--every man of sense is." "i am sure he is not," said mrs. evelyn smoothly. "mr. carleton,--you are an admirer of beauty, are you not, sir?" "i hope so, mrs. evelyn," he said smiling,--"but perhaps i shall shock you by adding,--not of _beauties_." "that sounds very odd," said florence. "but let us understand," said mrs. evelyn with the air of a person solving a problem,--"i suppose we are to infer that your taste in beauty is of a peculiar kind?" "that may be a fair inference," he said. "what is it then?" said constance eagerly. "yes--what is it you look for in a face?" said mrs. evelyn. "let us hear whether america has any chance," said mr. thorn, who had joined the group and placed himself precisely so as to hinder fleda's view. "my fancy has no stamp of nationality, in this, at least," he said pleasantly. "now for instance, the miss delancys--don't you call them handsome, mr. carleton?" said florence. "yes," he said, half smiling. "but not beautiful?--now what is it they want?" "i do not wish, if i could, to make the want visible to other eyes than my own." "well, cornelia schenck,--how do you like her face?" "it is very pretty-featured." "pretty-featured!--why she is called beautiful. she has a beautiful smile, mr. carleton?" "she has only one." "only one! and how many smiles ought the same person to have?" cried florence impatiently. but that which instantly answered her said forcibly that a plurality of them was possible. "i have seen one face," he said gravely, and his eye seeking the floor,--"that had i think a thousand." "different smiles?" said mrs. evelyn in a constrained voice. "if they were not all absolutely that, they had so much of freshness and variety that they all seemed new." "was the mouth so beautiful?" said florence. "perhaps it would not have been remarked for beauty when it was perfectly at rest; but it could not move with the least play of feeling, grave or gay, that it did not become so in a very high degree. i think there was no touch or shade of sentiment in the mind that the lips did not give with singular nicety; and the mind was one of the most finely wrought i have ever known." "and what other features went with this mouth?" said florence. "the usual complement, i suppose," said thorn. "'item, two lips indifferent red; item, two grey eyes with lids to them; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth.'" "mr. carleton, sir," said mrs. evelyn blandly--"as mr. evelyn says women may be forgiven for wondering, won't you answer florence's question?" "mr. thorn has done it, mrs. evelyn, for me." "but i have great doubts of the correctness of mr. thorn's description, sir--won't you indulge us with yours?" "word-painting is a difficult matter, mrs. evelyn, in some instances;--if i must do it i will borrow my colours. in general, 'that which made her fairness much the fairer was that it was but an ambassador of a most fair mind.'" "a most exquisite picture!" said thorn, "and the original don't stand so thick that one is in any danger of mistaking them. is the painter shakspeare?--i don't recollect--" "i think sidney, sir--i am not sure." "but still, mr. carleton," said mrs evelyn, "this is only in general--i want very much to know the particulars;--what style of features belonged to this face?" "the fairest, i think, i have ever known," said mr. carleton. "you asked me, miss evelyn, what was my notion of beauty;--this face was a good illustration of it. not perfection of outline, though it had that too in very uncommon degree;--but the loveliness of mind and character to which these features were only an index; the thoughts were invariably telegraphed through eye and mouth more faithfully than words could give them." "what kind of eyes?" said florence. his own grew dark as he answered,-- "clear and pure as one might imagine an angel's--through which i am sure my good angel many a time looked at me." good angels were at a premium among the eyes that were exchanging glances just then. "and mr. carleton," said mrs. evelyn,--"is it fair to ask--this paragon--is she living still?" "i hope so," he answered, with his old light smile, dismissing the subject. "you spoke so much in the past tense," said mrs. evelyn apologetically. "yes, i have not seen it since it was a child's." "a child's face!--oh," said florence, "i think you see a great many children's faces with that kind of look." "i never saw but the one," said mr. carleton dryly. so far fleda listened, with cheeks that would certainly have excited mrs. thorn's alarm if she had not been happily engrossed with miss tomlinson's affairs; though up to the last two minutes the idea of herself had not entered fleda's head in connection with the subject of conversation. but then feeling it impossible to make her appearance in public that evening, she quietly slipped out of the open window close by, which led into a little greenhouse on the piazza, and by another door gained the hall and the dressing-room. when dr. gregory came to mrs. evelyn's an hour or two after, a figure all cloaked and hooded ran down the stairs and met him in the hall. "ready!" said the doctor in surprise. "i have been ready some time, sir," said fleda. "well," said he, "then we'll go straight home, for i've not done my work yet." "dear uncle orrin!" said fleda, "if i had known you had work to do i wouldn't have come." "yes you would!" said he decidedly. she clasped her uncle's arm and walked with him briskly home through the frosty air, looking at the silent lights and shadows on the walls of the street and feeling a great desire to cry. "did you have a pleasant evening?" said the doctor when they were about half way. "not particularly, sir," said fleda hesitating. he said not another word till they got home and fleda went up to her room. but the habit of patience overcame the wish to cry; and though the outside of her little gold-clasped bible awoke it again, a few words of the inside were enough to lay it quietly to sleep. "well," said the doctor as they sat at breakfast the next morning,--"where are you going next?" "to the concert, i must, to-night," said fleda. "i couldn't help myself." "why should you want to help yourself?" said the doctor. "and to mrs. thorn's to-morrow night?" "no sir, i believe not." "i believe you will," said he looking at her. "i am sure i should enjoy myself more at home, uncle orrin. there is very little rational pleasure to be had in these assemblages." "rational pleasure!" said he. "didn't you have any rational pleasure last night?" "i didn't hear a single word spoken, sir, that was worth listening to,--at least that was spoken to me; and the hollow kind of rattle that one hears from every tongue makes me more tired than anything else, i believe;--i am out of tune with it, somehow." "out of tune!" said the old doctor, giving her a look made up of humourous vexation and real sadness,--"i wish i knew the right tuning-key to take hold of you!" "i become harmonious rapidly, uncle orrin, when i am in this pleasant little room alone with you." "that won't do!" said he, shaking his head at the smile with which this was said,--"there is too much tension upon the strings. so that was the reason you were all ready waiting for me last night?--well, you must tune up, my little piece of discordance, and go with me to mrs. thorn's to-morrow night--i won't let you off." "with you, sir!" said fleda. "yes," he said. "i'll go along and take care of you lest you get drawn into something else you don't like." "but, dear uncle orrin, there is another difficulty--it is to be a large party and i have not a dress exactly fit." "what have you got?" said he with a comic kind of fierceness. "i have silks, but they are none of them proper for this occasion--they are ever so little old-fashioned." "what do you want?" "nothing, sir," said fleda; "for i don't want to go." "you mend a pair of stockings to put on," said he nodding at her, "and i'll see to the rest." "apparently you place great importance in stockings," said fleda laughing, "for you always mention them first. but please don't get anything for me, uncle orrin--please don't! i have plenty for common occasions, and i don't care to go to mrs. thorn's." "i don't care either," said the doctor, working himself into his great coat. "by the by, do you want to invoke the aid of st. crispin?" he went off, and fleda did not know whether to cry or to laugh at the vigorous way in which he trod through the hall and slammed the front door after him. her spirits just kept the medium and did neither. but they were in the same doubtful mood still an hour after when he came back with a paper parcel he had brought home under his arm, and unrolled a fine embroidered muslin; her eyes were very unsteady in carrying their brief messages of thankfulness, as if they feared saying too much. the doctor, however, was in the mood for doing, not talking, by looks or otherwise. mrs. pritchard was called into consultation, and with great pride and delight engaged to have the dress and all things else in due order by the following night; _her_ eyes saying all manner of gratulatory things as they went from the muslin to fleda and from fleda to dr. gregory. the rest of the day was, not books, but needlefuls of thread; and from the confusion of laces and draperies fleda was almost glad to escape and go to the concert,--but for one item; that spoiled it. they were in their seats early. fleda managed successfully to place the two evelyns between her and mr. thorn, and then prepared herself to wear out the evening with patience. "my dear fleda!" whispered constance, after some time spent in restless reconnoitring of everybody and everything,--"i don't see my english rose anywhere!" "hush!" said fleda smiling. "that happened not to be an english rose, constance." "what was it?" "american, unfortunately; it was a noisette; the variety i think that they call 'conque de venus.'" "my dear little fleda, you're too wise for anything!" said constance with a rather significant arching of her eyebrows. "you mustn't expect other people to be as rural in their acquirements as yourself. i don't pretend to know any rose by sight but the queechy," she said, with a change of expression meant to cover the former one. fleda's face, however, did not call for any apology. it was perfectly quiet. "but what has become of him?" said constance with her comic impatience.--"my dear fleda! if my eyes cannot rest upon that development of elegance the parterre is become a wilderness to me!" "hush, constance!" fleda whispered earnestly,--"you are not safe--he may be near you." "safe!--" ejaculated constance; but a half backward hasty glance of her eye brought home so strong an impression that the person in question was seated a little behind her that she dared not venture another look, and became straightway extremely well-behaved. he was there; and being presently convinced that he was in the neighbourhood of his little friend of former days he resolved with his own excellent eyes to test the truth of the opinion he had formed as to the natural and inevitable effect of circumstances upon her character; whether it could by possibility have retained its great delicacy and refinement under the rough handling and unkindly bearing of things seemingly foreign to both. he had thought not. truffi did not sing, and the entertainment was of a very secondary quality. this seemed to give no uneasiness to the miss evelyns, for if they pouted they laughed and talked in the same breath, and that incessantly. it was nothing to mr. carleton, for his mind was bent on something else. and with a little surprise he saw that it was nothing to the subject of his thoughts,--either because her own were elsewhere too, or because they were in league with a nice taste that permitted them to take no interest in what was going on. even her eyes, trained as they had been to recluse habits, were far less busy than those of her companions; indeed they were not busy at all; for the greater part of the time one hand was upon the brow, shielding them from the glare of the gas-lights. ostensibly,--but the very quiet air of the face led him to guess that the mind was glad of a shield too. it relaxed sometimes. constance and florence and mr. thorn and mr. thorn's mother were every now and then making demands upon her, and they were met always with an intelligent well-bred eye, and often with a smile of equal gentleness and character; but her observer noticed that though the smile came readily, it went as readily, and the lines of the face quickly settled again into what seemed to be an habitual composure. there were the same outlines, the same characters, he remembered very well; yet there was a difference; not grief had changed them, but life had. the brow had all its fine chiselling and high purity of expression; but now there sat there a hopelessness, or rather a want of hopefulness, that a child's face never knows. the mouth was sweet and pliable as ever, but now often patience and endurance did not quit their seat upon the lip even when it smiled. the eye with all its old clearness and truthfulness had a shade upon it that nine years ago only fell at the bidding of sorrow; and in every line of the face there was a quiet gravity that went to the heart of the person who was studying it. whatever causes had been at work he was very sure had done no harm to the character; its old simplicity had suffered no change, as every look and movement proved; the very unstudied careless position of the fingers over the eyes shewed that the thoughts had nothing to do there. on one half of his doubt mr. carleton's mind was entirely made up;--but education? the training and storing of the mind?--how had that fared? he would know!-- perhaps he would have made some attempt that very evening towards satisfying himself; but noticing that in coming out thorn permitted the evelyns to pass him and attached himself determinately to fleda, he drew back, and resolved to make his observations indirectly and on more than one point before he should seem to make them at all. chapter xxxiii hark! i hear the sound of coaches, the hour of attack approaches. gay. mrs. pritchard had arrayed fleda in the white muslin, with an amount of satisfaction and admiration that all the lines of her face were insufficient to express. "now," she said, "you must just run down and let the doctor see you--afore you take the shine off--or he won't be able to look at anything else when you get to the place." "that would be unfortunate!" said fleda, and she ran down laughing into the room where the doctor was waiting for her; but her astonished eyes encountering the figure of dr. quackenboss she stopped short, with an air that no woman of the world could have bettered. the physician of queechy on his part was at least equally taken aback. "dr. quackenboss!" said fleda. "i--i was going to say, miss ringgan!" said the doctor with a most unaffected obeisance,--"but--a--i am afraid, sir, it is a deceptive influence!" "i hope not," said dr. gregory smiling, one corner of his mouth for his guest and the other for his niece. "real enough to do real execution, or i am mistaken, sir." "upon my word, sir," said dr. quackenboss bowing again,--"i hope--a--miss ringgan!--will remember the acts of her executive power at home, and return in time to prevent an unfortunate termination!" dr. gregory laughed heartily now, while fleda's cheeks relieved her dress to admiration. "who will complain of her if she don't?" said the doctor. "who will complain of her if she don't?" but fleda put in her question. "how are you all at home, dr. quackenboss?" "all queechy, sir," answered the doctor politely, on the principle of 'first come, first served,'--"and individuals,--i shouldn't like to specify--" "how are you all in queechy, dr. quackenboss!" said fleda. "i--have the pleasure to say--we are coming along as usual," replied the doctor, who seemed to have lost his power of standing up straight;--"my sister flora enjoys but poor health lately,--they are all holding their heads up at your house. mr. rossitur has come home." "uncle rolf! has he!" exclaimed fleda, the colour of joy quite supplanting the other. "o i'm very glad!" "yes," said the doctor,--"he's been home now,--i guess, going on four days." "i am very glad!" repeated fleda. "but won't you come and see me another time, dr. quackenboss?--i am obliged to go out." the doctor professed his great willingness, adding that he had only come down to the city to do two or three chores and thought she might perhaps like to take the opportunity--which would afford him such very great gratification. "no indeed, faire una," said dr. gregory, when they were on their way to mrs. thorn's,--"they've got your uncle at home now and we've got you; and i mean to keep you till i'm satisfied. so you may bring home that eye that has been squinting at queechy ever since you have been here and make up your mind to enjoy yourself; i sha'n't let you go till you do." "i ought to enjoy myself, uncle orrin," said fleda, squeezing his arm gratefully. "see you do," said he. the pleasant news from home had given fleda's spirits the needed spur which the quick walk to mrs. thorn's did not take off. "did you ever see fleda look so well, mamma?" said florence, as the former entered the drawing-room. "that is the loveliest and best face in the room," said mr. evelyn; "and she looks like herself to-night." "there is a matchless simplicity about her," said a gentleman standing by. "her dress is becoming," said mrs. evelyn. "why where did you ever see her, mr. stackpole, except at our house?" said constance. "at mrs. decatur's--i have had that pleasure--and once at her uncle's." "i didn't know you ever noticed ladies' faces, mr. stackpole," said florence. "how mrs. thorn does look at her!" said constance, under her breath. "it is too much!" it was almost too much for fleda's equanimity, for the colour began to come. "and there goes mr. carleton!" said constance. "i expect momentarily to hear the company strike up 'sparkling and bright.'" [illustration: "and there goes mr. carleton!" said constance.] "they should have done that some time ago, miss constance," said the gentleman. which compliment, however, constance received with hardly disguised scorn, and turned her attention again to mr. carleton. "i trust i do not need presentation," said his voice and his smile at once, as he presented himself to fleda. how little he needed it the flash of feeling which met his eyes said sufficiently well. but apparently the feeling was a little too deep, for the colour mounted and the eyes fell, and the smile suddenly died on the lips. mr. thorn came up to them, and releasing her hand mr. carleton stepped back and permitted him to lead her away. "what do think of _that_ face?" said constance finding herself a few minutes after at his side. "'that' must define itself," said he, "or i can hardly give a safe answer." "what face? why i mean of course the one mr. thorn carried off just now." "you are her friend, miss constance," he said coolly. "may i ask for your judgment upon it before i give mine?" "mine? why i expected every minute that mr. thorn would make the musicians play 'sparkling and bright,' and tell miss ringgan that to save trouble he had directed them to express what he was sure were the sentiments of the whole company in one burst." he smiled a little, but in a way that constance could not understand and did not like. "those are common epithets," he said. "must i use uncommon?" said constance significantly. "no--but these may say one thing or another." "i have said one thing," said constance; "and now you may say the other." "pardon me--you have said nothing. these epithets are deserved by a great many faces, but on very different grounds; and the praise is a different thing accordingly." "well what is the difference?" said constance. "on what do you think this lady's title to it rests?" "on what?--why on that bewitching little air of the eyes and mouth, i suppose." "bewitching is a very vague term," said he smiling again more quietly. "but you have had an opportunity of knowing it much better of late than i--to which class of bright faces would you refer this one? where does the light come from?" "i never studied faces in a class," said constance a little scornfully. "come from?--a region of mist and clouds i should say, for it is sometimes pretty well covered up." "there are some eyes whose sparkling is nothing more than the play of light upon a bright bead of glass." "it is not that," said constance, answering in spite of herself after delaying as long as she dared. "there is the brightness that is only the reflection of outward circumstances, and passes away with them." "it isn't that in fleda ringgan," said constance, "for her outward circumstances have no brightness, i should think, that reflection would not utterly absorb." she would fain have turned the conversation, but the questions were put so lightly and quietly that it could not be gracefully done. she longed to cut it short, but her hand was upon mr. carleton's arm and they were slowly sauntering down the rooms,--too pleasant a state of things to be relinquished for a trifle. "there is the broad day-light of mere animal spirits," he went on, seeming rather to be suggesting these things for her consideration than eager to set forth any opinions of his own;--"there is the sparkling of mischief, and the fire of hidden passions,--there is the passing brilliance of wit, as satisfactory and resting as these gas-lights,--and there is now and then the light of refined affections out of a heart unspotted from the world, as pure and abiding as the stars, and like them throwing its soft ray especially upon the shadows of life." "i have always understood," said constance, "that cats' eyes are brightest in the dark." "they do not love the light, i believe," said mr. carleton calmly. "well," said constance, not relishing the expression of her companion's eye, which from glowing had suddenly become cool and bright,--"where would you put me, mr. carleton, among all these illuminators of the social system?" "you may put yourself--where you please, miss constance," he said, again turning upon her an eye so deep and full in its meaning that her own and her humour fell before it; for a moment she looked most unlike the gay scene around her. "is not that the best brightness," he said speaking low, "that will last forever?--and is not that lightness of heart best worth having which does not depend on circumstances, and will find its perfection just when all other kinds of happiness fail utterly?" "i can't conceive," said constance presently, rallying or trying to rally herself,--"what you and i have to do in a place where people are enjoying themselves at this moment, mr. carleton!" he smiled at that and led her out of it into the conservatory, close to which they found themselves. it was a large and fine one, terminating the suite of rooms in this direction. few people were there; but at the far end stood a group among whom fleda and mr. thorn were conspicuous. he was busying himself in putting together a quantity of flowers for her; and mrs. evelyn and old mr. thorn stood looking on; with mr. stackpole. mr. stackpole was an englishman, of certainly not very prepossessing exterior but somewhat noted as an author and a good deal sought after in consequence. at present he was engaged by mrs. evelyn. mr. carleton and constance sauntered up towards them and paused at a little distance to look at some curious plants. "don't try for that, mr. thorn," said fleda, as the gentleman was making rather ticklish efforts to reach a superb fuchsia that hung high,--"you are endangering sundry things besides yourself." "i have learned, miss fleda," said thorn as with much ado he grasped the beautiful cluster,--"that what we take the most pains for is apt to be reckoned the best prize,--a truth i should never think of putting into a lady's head if i believed it possible that a single one of them was ignorant of its practical value." "i have this same rose in my garden at home," said fleda. "you are a great gardener, miss fleda, i hear," said the old gentleman. "my son says you are an adept in it." "i am very fond of it, sir," said fleda, answering _him_ with an entirely different face. "i thought the delicacy of american ladies was beyond such a masculine employment as gardening," said mr. stackpole, edging away from mrs. evelyn. "i guess this young lady is an exception to the rule," said old mr. thorn. "i guess she is an exception to most rules that you have got in your note-book, mr. stackpole," said the younger man. "but there is no guessing about the garden, for i have with my own eyes seen these gentle hands at one end of a spade and her foot at the other;--a sight that--i declare i don't know whether i was most filled with astonishment or admiration!" "yes," said fleda half laughing and colouring,--"and he ingenuously confessed in his surprise that he didn't know whether politeness ought to oblige him to stop and shake hands or to pass by without seeing me; evidently shewing that he thought i was about something equivocal." the laugh was now turned against mr. thorn, but he went on cutting his geraniums with a grave face. "well," said he at length, "i think it _is_ something of very equivocal utility. why should such gentle hands and feet spend their strength in clod-breaking, when rough ones are at command?" there was nothing equivocal about fleda's merriment this time. "i have learned, mr. thorn, by sad experience, that the rough hands break more than the clods. one day i set philetus to work among my flowers; and the first thing i knew he had pulled up a fine passion-flower which didn't make much shew above ground and was displaying it to me with the grave commentary, 'well! that root did grow to a great haigth!'" "some mental clod-breaking to be done up there, isn't there?" said thorn in a kind of aside. "i cannot express my admiration at the idea of your dealing with those boors, as it has been described to me." "they do not deserve the name, mr. thorn," said fleda. "they are many of them most sensible and excellent people, and friends that i value very highly." "ah, your goodness would made friends of everything." "not of boors, i hope," said fleda coolly. "besides, what do you mean by the name?" "anybody incapable of appreciating that of which you alone should be unconscious," he said softly. fleda stood impatiently tapping her flowers against her left hand. "i doubt their power of appreciation reaches a point that would surprise you, sir." "it does indeed--if i am mistaken in my supposition," he said with a glance which fleda refused to acknowledge. "what proportion do you suppose," she went on, "of all these roomfuls of people behind us,--without saying anything uncharitable,--what proportion of them, if compelled to amuse themselves for two hours at a bookcase, would pitch upon macaulay's essays, or anything like them, to spend the time?" "hum--really, miss fleda," said thorn, "i should want to brush up my algebra considerably before i could hope to find x, y, and z in such a confusion of the alphabet." "or extract the small sensible root of such a quantity of light matter," said mr. stackpole. "will you bear with my vindication of my country friends?--hugh and i sent for a carpenter to make some new arrangement of shelves in a cupboard where we kept our books; he was one of these boors, mr. thorn, in no respect above the rest. the right stuff for his work was wanting, and while it was sent for he took up one of the volumes that were lying about and read perseveringly until the messenger returned. it was a volume of macaulay's miscellanies; and afterwards he borrowed the book of me." "and you lent it to him?" said constance. "most assuredly! and with a great deal of pleasure." "and is this no more than a common instance, miss ringgan?" said mr. carleton. "no, i think not," said fleda; the quick blood in her cheeks again answering the familiar voice and old associations;--"i know several of the farmers' daughters around us that have studied latin and greek; and philosophy is a common thing; and i am sure there is more sense"-- she suddenly checked herself, and her eye which had been sparkling grew quiet. "it is very absurd!" said mr. stackpole "why, sir?" "o--these people have nothing to do with such things--do them nothing but harm!" "may i ask again, what harm?" said fleda gently. "unfit them for the duties of their station and make them discontented with it." "by making it pleasanter?" "no, no--not by making it pleasanter." "by what then, mr. stackpole?" said thorn, to draw him on and to draw her out, fleda was sure. "by lifting them out of it." "and what objection to lifting them out of it?" said thorn. "you can't lift everybody out of it," said the gentleman with a little irritation in his manner,--"that station must be filled--there must always be poor people." "and what degree of poverty ought to debar a man from the pleasures of education and a cultivated taste? such as he can attain? "no, no, not that," said mr. stackpole;--"but it all goes to fill them with absurd notions about their place in society, inconsistent with proper subordination." fleda looked at him, but shook her head slightly and was silent. "things are in very different order on our side the water," said mr. stackpole hugging himself. "are they?" said fleda. "yes--we understand how to keep things in their places a little better." "i did not know," said fleda quietly, "that it was by _design_ of the rulers of england that so many of her lower class are in the intellectual condition of our slaves." "mr. carleton," said mrs. evelyn laughing,--"what do you say to that, sir?" fleda's face turned suddenly to him with a quick look of apology, which she immediately knew was not needed. "but this kind of thing don't make the people any happier," pursued mr. stackpole;--"only serves to give them uppish and dissatisfied longings that cannot be gratified." "somebody says," observed thorn, "that 'under a despotism all are contented because none can get on, and in a republic none are contented because all can get on.'" "precisely," said mr. stackpole. "that might do very well if the world were in a state of perfection," said fleda. "as it is, commend me to discontent and getting on. and the uppishness i am afraid is a national fault, sir; you know our state motto is 'excelsior.'" "we are at liberty to suppose," said thorn, "that miss ringgan has followed the example of her friends the farmers' daughters?--or led them in it?--" "it is dangerous to make surmises," said fleda colouring. "it is a pleasant way of running into danger," said mr. thorn, who was leisurely pruning the prickles from the stem of a rose. "i was talking to a gentleman once," said fleda, "about the birds and flowers we find in our wilds; and he told me afterwards gravely that he was afraid i was studying too many things at once!--when i was innocent of all ornithology but what my eyes and ears had picked up in the woods; except some childish reminiscences of audubon." "that is just the right sort of learning for a lady," said mr. stackpole, smiling at her, however;--"women have nothing to do with books." "what do you say to that, miss fleda?" said thorn. "nothing, sir; it is one of those positions that are unanswerable." "but mr. stackpole," said mrs. evelyn, "i don't like that doctrine, sir. i do not believe in it at all." "that is unfortunate--for my doctrine," said the gentleman. "but i do not believe it is yours. why must women have nothing to do with books? what harm do they do, mr. stackpole?" "not needed, ma'am,--a woman, as somebody says, knows intuitively all that is really worth knowing." "of what use is a mine that is never worked?" said mr. carleton. "it _is_ worked," said mr. stackpole. "domestic life is the true training for the female mind. one woman will learn more wisdom from the child on her breast than another will learn from ten thousand volumes." "it is very doubtful how much wisdom the child will ever learn from her," said mr. carleton smiling. "a woman who never saw a book," pursued mr. stackpole, unconsciously quoting his author, "may be infinitely superior, even in all those matters of which books treat, to the woman who has read, and read intelligently, a whole library." "unquestionably--and it is likewise beyond question that a silver sixpence may be worth more than a washed guinea." "but a woman's true sphere is in her family--in her home duties, which furnish the best and most appropriate training for her faculties--pointed out by nature itself." "yes!" said mr. carleton,--"and for those duties, some of the very highest and noblest that are entrusted to human agency, the fine machinery that is to perform them should be wrought to its last point of perfectness. the wealth of a woman's mind, instead of lying in the rough, should be richly brought out and fashioned for its various ends, while yet those ends are in the future, or it will never meet the demand. and for her own happiness, all the more because her sphere is at home, her home stores should be exhaustless--the stores she cannot go abroad to seek. i would add to strength beauty, and to beauty grace, in the intellectual proportions, so far as possible. it were ungenerous, in man to condemn the _best_ half of human intellect to insignificance merely because it is not his own." mrs. evelyn wore a smile of admiration that nobody saw, but fleda's face was a study while mr. carleton was saying this. her look was fixed upon him with such intent satisfaction and eagerness that it was not till he had finished that she became aware that those dark eyes were going very deep into hers, and suddenly put a stop to the inquisition. "very pleasant doctrine to the ears that have an interest in it!" said mr. stackpole rather discontentedly. "the man knows little of his own interest," said mr. carleton, "who would leave that ground waste, or would cultivate it only in the narrow spirit of a utilitarian. he needs an influence in his family not more refreshing than rectifying; and no man will seek that in one greatly his inferior. he is to be pitied who cannot fall back upon his home with the assurance that he has there something better than himself." "why, mr. carleton, sir--" said mrs. evelyn, with every line of her mouth saying funny things,--"i am afraid you have sadly neglected your own interest--have you anything at carleton better than yourself?" suddenly cool again, he laughed and said, "you were there, mrs. evelyn." "but mr. carleton,--" pursued the lady with a mixture of insinuation and fun,--"why were you never married?" "circumstances have always forbade it," he answered with a smile which constance declared was the most fascinating thing she ever saw in her life. fleda was arranging her flowers, with the help of some very unnecessary suggestions from the donor. "mr. lewis," said constance with a kind of insinuation very different from her mother's, made up of fun and daring,--"mr. carleton has been giving me a long lecture on botany; while my attention was distracted by listening to your _spirituel_ conversation." "well, miss constance?" "and i am morally certain i sha'n't recollect a word of it if i don't carry away some specimens to refresh my memory--and in that case he would never give me another!" it was impossible to help laughing at the distressful position of the young lady's eyebrows, and with at least some measure of outward grace mr. thorn set about complying with her request. fleda again stood tapping her left hand with her flowers, wondering a little that somebody else did not come and speak to her; but he was talking to mrs. evelyn and mr. stackpole. fleda did not wish to join them, and nothing better occurred to her than to arrange her flowers over again; so throwing them all down before her on a marble slab, she began to pick them up one by one and put them together, with it must be confessed a very indistinct realization of the difference between myrtle and lemon blossoms, and as she seemed to be laying acacia to rose, and disposing some sprigs of beautiful heath behind them, in reality she was laying kindness alongside of kindness and looking at the years beyond years where their place had been. it was with a little start that she suddenly found the person of her thoughts standing at her elbow and talking to her in bodily presence. but while he spoke with all the ease and simplicity of old times, almost making fleda think it was but last week they had been strolling through the place de la concorde together, there was a constraint upon her that she could not get rid of and that bound eye and tongue. it might have worn off, but his attention was presently claimed again by mrs. evelyn; and fleda thought best while yet constance's bouquet was unfinished, to join another party and make her escape into the drawing-rooms. chapter xxxiv. have you observed a sitting hare, list'ning, and fearful of the storm of horns and hounds, clap back her ear, afraid to keep or leave her form? prior. by the evelyns' own desire fleda's going to them was delayed for a week, because, they said, a furnace was to be brought into the house and they would be all topsy-turvy till that fuss was over. fleda kept herself very quiet in the mean time, seeing almost nobody but the person whom it was her especial object to shun. do her best she could not quite escape him, and was even drawn into two or three walks and rides; in spite of denying herself utterly to gentlemen at home, and losing in consequence a visit from her old friend. she was glad at last to go to the evelyns and see company again, hoping that mr. thorn would be merged in a crowd. but she could not merge him; and sometimes was almost inclined to suspect that his constant prominence in the picture must be owing to some mysterious and wilful conjuration going on in the background. she was at a loss to conceive how else it happened that despite her utmost endeavours to the contrary she was so often thrown upon his care and obliged to take up with his company. it was very disagreeable. mr. carleton she saw almost as constantly, but though frequently near she had never much to do with him. there seemed to be a dividing atmosphere always in the way; and whenever he did speak to her she felt miserably constrained and unable to appear like herself. why was it?--she asked herself in a very vexed state of mind. no doubt partly from the remembrance of that overheard conversation which she could not help applying, but much more from an indefinable sense that at these times there were always eyes upon her. she tried to charge the feeling upon her consciousness of their having heard that same talk, but it would not the more go off. and it had no chance to wear off, for somehow the occasions never lasted long; something was sure to break them up; while an unfortunate combination of circumstances, or of connivers, seemed to give mr. thorn unlimited facilities in the same kind. fleda was quick witted and skilful enough to work herself out of them once in a while; more often the combination was too much for her simplicity and straight-forwardness. she was a little disappointed and a little surprised at mr. carleton's coolness. he was quite equal to withstand or out-general the schemes of any set of manoeuvrers; therefore it was plain he did not care for the society of his little friend and companion of old time. fleda felt it, especially as she now and then heard him in delightful talk with somebody else; making himself so interesting that when fleda could get a chance to listen she was quite ready to forgive his not talking to her for the pleasure of hearing him talk at all. but at other times she said sorrowfully to herself, "he will be going home presently, and i shall not have seen him!" one day she had successfully defended herself against taking a drive which mr. thorn came to propose, though the proposition had been laughingly backed by mrs. evelyn. raillery was much harder to withstand than persuasion; but fleda's quiet resolution had proved a match for both. the better to cover her ground, she declined to go out at all, and remained at home the only one of the family that fine day. in the afternoon mr. carleton was there. fleda sat a little apart from the rest, industriously bending over a complicated piece of embroidery belonging to constance and in which that young lady had made a great blunder which she declared her patience unequal to the task of rectifying. the conversation went gayly forward among the others; fleda taking no part in it beyond an involuntary one. mr. carleton's part was rather reserved and grave; according to his manner in ordinary society. "what do you keep bothering yourself with that for?" said edith coming to fleda's side. "one must be doing something, you know," said fleda lightly. "no you mustn't--not when you're tired--and i know you are. i'd let constance pick out her own work." "i promised her i would do it," said fleda. "well, you didn't promise her when. come!--everybody's been out but you, and you have sat here over this the whole day. why don't you come over there and talk with the rest?--i know you want to, for i've watched your mouth going." "going!--how?" "going--off at the corners. i've seen it! come." but fleda said she could listen and work at once, and would not budge. edith stood looking at her a little while in a kind of admiring sympathy, and then went back to the group. "mr. carleton," said the young lady, who was treading with laudable success in the steps of her sister constance,--"what has become of that ride you promised to give me?" "i do not know, miss edith," said mr. carleton smiling, "for my conscience never had the keeping of it." "hush, edith!" said her mother; "do you think mr. carleton has nothing to do but to take you riding?" "i don't believe he has much to do," said edith securely. "but mr. carleton, you did promise, for i asked you and you said nothing; and i always have been told that silence gives consent; so what is to become of it?" "will you go now, miss edith?" "now?--o yes! and will you go out to manhattanville, mr. carleton!--along by the river?" "if you like. but miss edith, the carriage will hold another--cannot you persuade one of these ladies to go with us?" "fleda!" said edith, springing off to her with extravagant capers of joy,--"fleda, you shall go! you haven't been out to-day." "and i cannot go out to-day," said fleda gently. "the air is very fine," said mr. carleton approaching her table, with no want of alacrity in step or tone, her ears knew;--"and this weather makes everything beautiful--has that piece of canvas any claims upon you that cannot be put aside for a little?" "no sir," said fleda,--"but--i am sorry i have a stronger reason that must keep me at home." "she knows how the weather looks," said edith,--"mr. thorn takes her out every other day. it's no use to talk to her, mr. carleton,--when she says she won't, she won't." "every other day!" said fleda. "no, no," said mrs. evelyn coming up, and with that smile which fleda had never liked so little as at that minute,--"not _every other day_, edith, what are you talking of? go and don't keep mr. carleton waiting." fleda worked on, feeling a little aggrieved. mr. carleton stood still by her table, watching her, while his companions were getting themselves ready; but he said no more, and fleda did not raise her head till the party were off. florence had taken her resigned place. "i dare say the weather will be quite as fine to-morrow, dear fleda," said mrs. evelyn softly. "i hope it will," said fleda in a tone of resolute simplicity. "i only hope it will not bring too great a throng of carriages to the door," mrs. evelyn went on in a tone of great internal amusement;--"i never used to mind it, but i have lately a nervous fear of collisions." "to-morrow is not your reception-day," said fleda. "no, not mine," said mrs. evelyn softly,--"but that doesn't signify--it may be one of my neighbours'." fleda pulled away at her threads of worsted and wouldn't know anything else. "i have read of the servants of lot and the servants of abraham quarrelling," mrs. evelyn went on in the same undertone of delight,--"because the land was too strait for them--i should be very sorry to have anything of the sort happen again, for i cannot imagine where lot would go to find a plain that would suit him." "lot and abraham, mamma!" said constance from the sofa,--"what on earth are you talking about?" "none of your business," said mrs. evelyn;--"i was talking of some country friends of mine that you don't know." constance knew her mother's laugh very well; but mrs. evelyn was impenetrable. the next day fleda ran away and spent a good part of the morning with her uncle in the library, looking over new books; among which she found herself quite a stranger, so many had made their appearance since the time when she had much to do with libraries or bookstores. living friends, male and female, were happily forgotten in the delighted acquaintance-making with those quiet companions which, whatever their deficiencies in other respects, are at least never importunate nor unfaithful. fleda had come home rather late and was dressing for dinner with constance's company and help, when mrs. evelyn came into her room. "my dear fleda," said the lady, her face and voice as full as possible of fun,--"mr. carleton wants to know if you will ride with him this afternoon.--i told him i believed you were in general shy of gentlemen that drove their own horses--that i thought i had noticed you were,--but i would come up and see." "mrs. evelyn!--you did not tell him that?" "he said he was sorry to see you looked pale yesterday when he was asking you; and he was afraid that embroidery is not good for you. he thinks you are a very charming girl!--" and mrs. evelyn went off into little fits of laughter which unstrung all fleda's nerves. she stood absolutely trembling. "mamma!--don't plague her!" said constance. "he didn't say so." "he did!--upon my word!--" said mrs. evelyn, speaking with great difficulty;--"he said she was very charming, and it might be dangerous to see too much of her." "you made him say that, mrs. evelyn!" said fleda, reproachfully. "well i did ask him if you were not very charming, but he answered--without hesitation--" said the lady,--"i am only so afraid that lot will make his appearance!--" fleda turned round to the glass, and went on arranging her hair, with a quivering lip. "lot, mamma!" said constance somewhat indignantly. "yes," said mrs. evelyn in ecstacies,--"because the land will not bear both of them.--but mr. carleton is very much in earnest for his answer, fleda my dear--what shall i tell him?--you need be under no apprehensions about going--he will perhaps tell you that you are charming, but i don't think he will say anything more. you know he is a kind of patriarch!--and when i asked him if he didn't think it might be dangerous to see too much of you, he said he thought it might to some people--so you see you are safe." "mrs. evelyn, how could you use my name so!" said fleda with a voice that carried a good deal of reproach. "my dear fleda, shall i tell him you will go?--you need not be afraid to go riding, only you must not let yourself be seen walking with him." "i shall not go, ma'am," said fleda quietly. "i wanted to send edith with you, thinking it would be pleasanter; but i knew mr. carleton's carriage would hold but two to-day. so what shall i tell him?" "i am not going, ma'am," repeated fleda. "but what shall i tell him? i must give him some reason. shall i say that you think a sea-breeze is blowing, and you don't like it?--or shall i say that prospects are a matter of indifference to you?" fleda was quite silent, and went on dressing herself with trembling fingers. "my dear fleda," said the lady bringing her face a little into order,--"won't you go?--i am very sorry--" "so am i sorry," said fleda. "i can't go, mrs. evelyn." "i will tell mr. carleton you are very sorry," said mrs. evelyn, every line of her face drawing again,--"that will console him; and let him hope that you will not mind sea-breezes by and by, after you have been a little longer in the neighbourhood of them. i will tell him you are a good republican, and have an objection at present to an english equipage, but i have no doubt that it is a prejudice which will wear off." she stopped to laugh, while fleda had the greatest difficulty not to cry. the lady did not seem to see her disturbed brow; but recovering herself after a little, though not readily, she bent forward and touched her lips to it in kind fashion. fleda did not look up; and saying again, "i will tell him, dear fleda!"--mrs. evelyn left the room. constance after a little laughing and condoling, neither of which fleda attempted to answer, ran off too, to dress herself; and fleda after finishing her own toilette locked her door, sat down and cried heartily. she thought mrs. evelyn had been, perhaps unconsciously, very unkind; and to say that unkindness has not been meant is but to shift the charge from one to another vital point in the character of a friend, and one perhaps sometimes not less grave. a moment's passionate wrong may consist with the endurance of a friendship worth having, better than the thoughtlessness of obtuse wits that can never know how to be kind. fleda's whole frame was still in a tremor from disagreeable excitement; and she had serious causes of sorrow to cry for. she was sorry she had lost what would have been a great pleasure in the ride,--and her great pleasures were not often,--but nothing would have been more impossible than for her to go after what mrs. evelyn had said;--she was sorry mr. carleton should have asked her twice in vain; what must he think?--she was exceeding sorry that a thought should have been put into her head that never before had visited the most distant dreams of her imagination,--so needlessly, so gratuitously;--she was very sorry, for she could not be free of it again, and she felt it would make her miserably hampered and constrained in mind and manner both, in any future intercourse with the person in question. and then again what would he think of that? poor fleda came to the conclusion that her best place was at home; and made up her mind to take the first good opportunity of getting there. she went down to dinner with no traces of either tears or unkindness on her sweet face, but her nerves were quivering all the afternoon; she could not tell whether mrs. evelyn and her daughters found it out. and it was impossible for her to get back even her old degree of freedom of manner before either mr. carleton or mr thorn. all the more because mrs. evelyn was every now and then bringing out some sly allusion which afforded herself intense delight and wrought fleda to the last degree of quietness. unkind.--fleda thought now it was but half from ignorance of the mischief she was doing, and the other half from the mere desire of selfish gratification. the times and ways in which lot and abraham were walked into the conversation were incalculable,--and unintelligible except to the person who understood it only too well. on one occasion mrs. evelyn went on with a long rigmarole to mr. thorn about sea-breezes, with a face of most exquisite delight at his mystification and her own hidden fun; till fleda was absolutely trembling. fleda shunned both the gentlemen at length with a kind of nervous horror. one steamer had left new york, and another, and still mr. carleton did not leave it. why he staid, constance was as much in a puzzle as ever, for no mortal could guess. clearly, she said, he did not delight in new york society, for he honoured it as slightly and partially as might be, and it was equally clear if he had a particular reason for staying he didn't mean anybody should know it. "if he don't mean it, you won't find it out, constance," said fleda. "but it is that very consideration, you see, which inflames my impatience to a most dreadful degree. i think our house is distinguished with his regards, though i am sure i can't imagine why, for he never condescends to anything beyond general benevolence when he is here, and not always to that. he has no taste for embroidery, or miss ringgan's crewels would receive more of his notice--he listens to my spirited conversation with a self-possession which invariably deprives me of mine!--and his ear is evidently dull to musical sensibilities, or florence's harp would have greater charms. i hope there is a web weaving somewhere that will catch him--at present he stands in an attitude of provoking independence of all the rest of the world. it is curious!" said constance with an indescribable face,--"i feel that the independence of another is rapidly making a slave of me!--" "what do you mean, constance?" said edith indignantly. but the others could do nothing but laugh. fleda did not wonder that mr. carleton made no more efforts to get her to ride, for the very next day after his last failure he had met her driving with mr. thorn. fleda had been asked by mr. thorn's mother in such a way as made it impossible to get off; but it caused her to set a fresh seal of unkindness to mrs. evelyn's behaviour. one evening when there was no other company at mrs. evelyn's, mr. stackpole was entertaining himself with a long dissertation upon the affairs of america, past, present, and future. it was a favourite subject; mr. stackpole always seemed to have more complacent enjoyment of his easy chair when he could succeed in making every american in the room sit uncomfortably. and this time, without any one to thwart him, he went on to his heart's content, disposing of the subject as one would strip a rose of its petals, with as much seeming nonchalance and ease, and with precisely the same design, to make a rose no rose. leaf after leaf fell under mr. stackpole's touch, as if it had been a black frost. the american government was a rickety experiment; go to pieces presently,--american institutions an alternative between fallacy and absurdity, the fruit of raw minds and precocious theories;--american liberty a contradiction;-- american character a compound of quackery and pretension;--american society (except at mrs. evelyn's) an anomaly;--american destiny the same with that of a cactus or a volcano; a period of rest followed by a period of excitement; not however like the former making successive shoots towards perfection, but like the latter grounding every new face of things upon the demolition of that which went before. smoothly and pleasantly mr. stackpole went on compounding this cup of entertainment for himself and his hearers, smacking his lips over it, and all the more, fleda thought, when they made wry faces; throwing in a little truth, a good deal of fallacy, a great deal of perversion and misrepresentation; while mrs. evelyn listened and smiled, and half parried and half assented to his positions; and fleda sat impatiently drumming upon her elbow with the fingers of her other hand, in the sheer necessity of giving some expression to her feelings. mr. stackpole at last got his finger upon the sore spot of american slavery, and pressed it hard. "this is the land of the stars and the stripes!" said the gentleman in a little fit of virtuous indignation;--"this is the land where all are brothers!--where 'all men are born free and equal.'" "mr. stackpole," said fleda in a tone that called his attention,--"are you well acquainted with the popular proverbs of your country?" "not particularly," he said,--"he had never made it a branch of study." "i am a great admirer of them." he bowed, and begged to be excused for remarking that he didn't see the point yet. "do you remember this one, sir," said fleda colouring a little,--"'those that live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones?'" "i have heard it; but pardon me,--though your remark seems to imply the contrary i am in the dark yet. what unfortunate points of vitrification have i laid open to your fire?" "i thought they were probably forgotten by you, sir." "i shall be exceedingly obliged to you if you will put me in condition to defend myself." "i think nothing could do that, mr. stackpole. under whose auspices and fostering care was this curse of slavery laid upon america?" "why--of course,--but you will observe, miss ringgan, that at that day the world was unenlightened on a great many points;--since then _we_ have cast off the wrong which we then shared with the rest of mankind." "ay sir, but not until we had first repudiated it and englishmen had desired to force it back upon us at the point of the sword. four times"-- "but my dear fleda," interrupted mrs. evelyn, "the english nation have no slaves nor slave-trade--they have put an end to slavery entirely everywhere under their flag." "they were very slow about it," said fleda. "four times the government of massachusetts abolished the slave-trade under their control, and four times the english government thrust it back upon them. do you remember what burke says about that?--in his speech on conciliation with america?" "it don't signify what burke says about it," said mr. stackpole rubbing his chin,--"burke is not the first authority--but miss ringgan, it is undeniable that slavery and the slave-trade, too, does at this moment exist in the interior of your own country." "i will never excuse what is wrong, sir; but i think it becomes an englishman to be very moderate in putting forth that charge." "why?" said he hastily;--"we have done away with it entirely in our own dominions;--wiped that stain clean off. not a slave can touch british ground but he breathes free air from that minute." "yes, sir, but candour will allow that we are not in a condition in this country to decide the question by a _tour de force_." "what is to decide it then?" said he a little arrogantly. "the progress of truth in public opinion." "and why not the government--as well as our government?" "it has not the power, you know, sir." "not the power! well, that speaks for itself." "nothing against us, on a fair construction," said fleda patiently. "it is well known to those who understand the subject"-- "where did you learn so much about it, fleda?" said mrs. evelyn humourously. "as the birds pick up their supplies, ma'am--here and there.--it is well known, mr. stackpole, that our constitution never could have been agreed upon if that question of slavery had not been by common consent left where it was--with the separate state governments." "the separate state governments--well, why do not _they_ put an end to it? the disgrace is only shifted." "of course they must first have the consent of the public mind of those states." "ah!--their consent!--and why is their consent wanting?" "we cannot defend ourselves there," said mrs. evelyn;--"i wish we could." "the disgrace at least is shifted from the whole to a part. but will you permit me," said fleda, "to give another quotation from my despised authority, and remind you of an englishman's testimony, that beyond a doubt that point of emancipation would never have been carried in parliament had the interests of even a part of the electors been concerned in it." "it was done, however,--and done at the expense of twenty millions of money." "and i am sure that was very noble," said florence. "it was what no nation but the english would ever have done," said mrs. evelyn. "i do not wish to dispute it," said fleda; "but still it was doing what did not touch the sensitive point of their own well-being." "_we_ think there is a little national honour concerned in it," said mr. stackpole dryly, stroking his chin again. "so does every right-minded person," said mrs. evelyn; "i am sure i do." "and i am sure so do i," said fleda; "but i think the honour of a piece of generosity is considerably lessened by the fact that it is done at the expense of another." "generosity!" said mr. stackpole,--"it was not generosity, it was justice;--there was no generosity about it." "then it deserves no honour at all," said fleda, "if it was merely that--the tardy execution of justice is but the removal of a reproach." "we englishmen are of opinion, however," said mr. stackpole contentedly, "that the removers of a reproach are entitled to some honour which those who persist in retaining it cannot claim." "yes," said fleda, drawing rather a long breath,--"i acknowledge that; but i think that while some of these same englishmen have shewn themselves so unwilling to have the condition of their own factory slaves ameliorated, they should be very gentle in speaking of wrongs which we have far less ability to rectify." "ah!--i like consistency," said mr. stackpole. "america shouldn't dress up poles with liberty caps till all who walk under are free to wear them. she cannot boast that the breath of her air and the breath of freedom are one." "can england?" said fleda gently,--"when her own citizens are not free from the horrors of impressment?" "pshaw!" said mr. stackpole, half in a pet and half laughing,--"why, where did you get such a fury against england?--you are the first _fair_ antagonist i have met on this side of the water." "i wish i was a better one, sir," said fleda laughing. "miss ringgan has been prejudiced by an acquaintance with one or two unfortunate specimens," said mrs. evelyn. "ay!" said mr. stackpole a little bitterly,--"america is the natural birthplace of prejudice,--always was." "displayed, first, in maintaining the rights against the swords of englishmen;--latterly, how, mr. stackpole?" "it isn't necessary to enlighten _you_ on any part of the subject," said he a little pointedly. "fleda, my dear, you are answered!" said mrs. evelyn, apparently with great internal amusement. "yet you will indulge me so far as to indicate what part of the subject you are upon?" said fleda quietly. "you must grant so much as that to so gentle a requisition, mr. stackpole," said the older lady. "i venture to assume that you do not say that on your own account, mrs. evelyn?" "not at all--i agree with you, that americans are prejudiced; but i think it will pass off, mr. stackpole, as they learn to know themselves and other countries better." "but how do they deserve such a charge and such a defence? or how have they deserved it?" said fleda. "tell her, mr. stackpole," said mrs. evelyn. "why," said mr. stackpole,--"in their absurd opposition to all the old and tried forms of things, and rancorous dislike of those who uphold them; and in their pertinacity on every point where they might be set right, and impatience of hearing the truth." "are they singular in that last item?" said fleda. "now," said mr. stackpole, not heeding her,--"there's your treatment of the aborigines of this country--what do you call that, for a _free_ people?" "a powder magazine, communicating with a great one of your own somewhere else; so if you are a good subject, sir, you will not carry a lighted candle into it." "one of our own--where?" said he. "in india," said fleda with a glance,--"and there are i don't know how many trains leading to it,--so better hands off, sir." "where did you pick up such a spite against us?" said mr. stackpole, drawing a little back and eying her as one would a belligerent mouse or cricket. "will you tell me now that americans are not prejudiced?" "what do you call prejudice?" said fleda smiling. "o there is a great deal of it, no doubt, here, mr. stackpole," said mrs. evelyn blandly;--"but we shall grow out of it in time;--it is only the premature wisdom of a young people." "and young people never like to hear their wisdom rebuked," said mr stackpole bowing. "fleda, my dear, what for is that little significant shake of your head?" said mrs. evelyn in her amused voice. "a trifle, ma'am." "covers a hidden rebuke, mrs. evelyn, i have no doubt, for both our last remarks. what is it, miss fleda?--i dare say we can bear it." "i was thinking, sir, that none would trouble themselves much about our foolscap if we had not once made them wear it." "mr. stackpole, you are worsted!--i only wish mr. carleton had been here!" said mrs. evelyn, with a face of excessive delight. "i wish he had," said fleda, "for then i need not have spoken a word." "why," said mr. stackpole a little irritated, "you suppose he would have fought for you against me?" "i suppose he would have fought for truth against anybody, sir," said fleda. "even against his own interests?" "if i am not mistaken in him," said fleda, "he reckons his own and those of truth identical." the shout that was raised at this by all the ladies of the family, made her look up in wonderment. "mr. carleton,"--said mrs. evelyn,--"what do you say to that, sir." the direction of the lady's eye made fleda spring up and face about. the gentleman in question was standing quietly at the back of her chair, too quietly, she saw, to leave any doubt of his having been there some time. mr. stackpole uttered an ejaculation, but fleda stood absolutely motionless, and nothing could be prettier than her colour. "what do you say to what you have heard, mr. carleton?" said mrs. evelyn. fleda's eyes were on the floor, but she thoroughly appreciated the tone of the question. "i hardly know whether i have listened with most pleasure or pain, mrs. evelyn." "pleasure!" said constance. "pain!" said mr. stackpole. "i am certain miss ringgan was pure from any intention of giving pain," said mrs. evelyn with her voice of contained fun. "she has no national antipathies, i am sure,--unless in the case of the jews,--she is too charming a girl for that." "miss ringgan cannot regret less than i a word that she has spoken," said mr. carleton looking keenly at her as she drew back and took a seat a little off from the rest. "then why was the pain?" said mr. stackpole. "that there should have been any occasion for them, sir." "well i wasn't sensible of the occasion, so i didn't feel the pain," said mr. stackpole dryly, for the other gentleman's tone was almost haughtily significant. "but if i had, the pleasure of such sparkling eyes would have made me forget it. good-evening, mrs. evelyn--good-evening, my gentle antagonist,--it seems to me you have learned, if it is permissible to alter one of your favorite proverbs, that it is possible to _break two windows_ with one stone. however, i don't feel that i go away with any of mine shattered."-- "fleda, my dear," said mrs. evelyn laughing,--"what do you say to that?" "as he is not here i will say nothing to it, mrs. evelyn," said fleda, quietly drawing off to the table with her work, and again in a tremor from head to foot. "why, didn't you see mr. carleton come in?" said edith following her;--"i did--he came in long before you had done talking, and mamma held up her finger and made him stop; and he stood at the back of your chair the whole time listening. mr. stackpole didn't know he was there, either. but what's the matter with you?" "nothing--" said fleda,--but she made her escape out of the room the next instant. "mamma," said edith, "what ails fleda?" "i don't know, my love," said mrs. evelyn. "nothing, i hope." "there does, though," said edith decidedly. "come here, edith," said constance, "and don't meddle with matters above your comprehension. miss ringgan has probably hurt her hand with throwing stones." "hurt her hand!" said edith. but she was taken possession of by her eldest sister. "that is a lovely girl, mr. carleton," said mrs. evelyn with an indescribable look--outwardly benign, but beneath that most keen in its scrutiny. he bowed rather abstractedly. "she will make a charming little farmer's wife, don't you think so?" "is that her lot, mrs. evelyn?" he said with a somewhat incredulous smile. "why no--not precisely,--" said the lady,--"you know in the country, or you do not know, the ministers are half farmers, but i suppose not more than half; just such a mixture as will suit fleda, i should think. she has not told me in so many words, but it is easy to read so ingenuous a nature as hers, and i have discovered that there is a most deserving young friend of mine settled at queechy that she is by no means indifferent to. i take it for granted that will be the end of it," said mrs. evelyn, pinching her sofa cushion in a great many successive places with a most composed and satisfied air. but mr. carleton did not seem at all interested in the subject, and presently introduced another. chapter xxxv. it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but mountains may be removed with earthquakes, and so encounter.--as you like it. "what have we to do to-night?" said florence at breakfast the next morning. "you have no engagement, have you?" said her mother. "no mamma," said constance arching her eyebrows,--"we are to taste the sweets of domestic life--you as head of the family will go to sleep in the dormeuse, and florence and i shall take turns in yawning by your side." "and what will fleda do?" said mrs. evelyn laughing. "fleda, mamma, will be wrapped in remorseful recollections of having enacted a mob last evening and have enough occupation in considering how she shall repair damages." "fleda, my dear, she is very saucy," said mrs. evelyn, sipping her tea with great comfort. "why should we yawn to-night any more than last night?" said fleda; a question which edith would certainly have asked if she had not been away at school. the breakfast was too late for both her and her father. "last night, my dear, your fractious disposition kept us upon half breath; there wasn't time to yawn. i meant to have eased my breast by laughing afterwards, but that expectation was stifled." "what stifled it?" "i was afraid!--" said constance with a little flutter of her person up and down in her chair. "afraid of what?" "and besides you know we can't have our drawing-rooms filled with distinguished foreigners _every_ evening we are not at home. i shall direct the fowling-piece to be severe in his execution of orders to-night and let nobody in. i forgot!"--exclaimed constance with another flutter,--"it is mr. thorn's night!--my dearest mamma, will you consent to have the dormeuse wheeled round with its back to the fire?--and florence and i will take the opportunity to hear little edith's lessons in the next room--unless mr decatur comes. i must endeavour to make the manton comprehend what he has to do." "but what is to become of mr. evelyn?" said fleda; "you make mrs. evelyn the head of the family very unceremoniously." "mr. evelyn, my dear," said constance gravely,--"makes a futile attempt semi-weekly to beat his brains out with a club; and every successive failure encourages him to try again; the only effect being a temporary decapitation of his family; and i believe this is the night on which he periodically turns a frigid eye upon their destitution." "you are too absurd!" said florence, reaching over for a sausage. "dear constance!" said fleda, half laughing, "why do you talk so?" "constance, behave yourself," said her mother. "mamma!" said the young lady,--"i am actuated by a benevolent desire to effect a diversion of miss ringgan's mind from its gloomy meditations, by presenting to her some more real subjects of distress." "i wonder if you ever looked at such a thing," said fleda. "what 'such a thing'?" "as a real subject of distress." "yes--i have one incessantly before me in your serious countenance. why in the world, fleda, don't you look like other people?" "i suppose, because i don't feel like them." "and why don't you? i am sure you ought to be as happy as most people." "i think i am a great deal happier," said fleda. "than i am?" said the young lady, with arched eyebrows. but they went down and her look softened in spite of herself at the eye and smile which answered her. "i should be very glad, dear constance, to know you were as happy as i." "why do you think i am not?" said the young lady a little tartly. "because no happiness would satisfy me that cannot last" "and why can't it last?" "it is not built upon lasting things." "pshaw!" said constance, "i wouldn't have such a dismal kind of happiness as yours, fleda, for anything." "dismal!" said fleda smiling,--"because it can never disappoint me?--or because it isn't noisy?" "my dear little fleda!" said constance in her usual manner,--"you have lived up there among the solitudes till you have got morbid ideas of life--which it makes me melancholy to observe. i am very much afraid they verge towards stagnation." "no indeed!" said fleda laughing; "but, if you please, with me the stream of life has flowed so quietly that i have looked quite to the bottom, and know how shallow it is, and growing shallower;--i could not venture my bark of happiness there; but with you it is like a spring torrent,--the foam and the roar hinder your looking deep into it." constance gave her a significant glance, a strong contrast to the earnest simplicity of fleda's face, and presently inquired if she ever wrote poetry. "shall i have the pleasure some day of discovering your uncommon signature in the secular corner of some religious newspaper?" "i hope not," said fleda quietly. joe manton just then brought in a bouquet for miss evelyn, a very common enlivener of the breakfast-table, all the more when, as in the present case, the sisters could not divine where it came from. it moved fleda's wonder to see how very little the flowers were valued for their own sake; the probable cost, the probable giver, the probable éclat, were points enthusiastically discussed and thoroughly appreciated; but the sweet messengers themselves were carelessly set by for other eyes and seemed to have no attraction for those they were destined to. fleda enjoyed them at a distance and could not help thinking that "heaven sends almonds to those that have no teeth." "this camellia will just do for my hair to-morrow night!" said florence;--"just what i want with my white muslin." "i think i will go with you to-morrow, florence," said fleda;--"mrs. decatur has asked me so often." "well, my dear, i shall be made happy by your company," said florence abstractedly, examining her bouquet,--"i am afraid it hasn't stem enough, constance!--never mind--i'll fix it--where _is _ the end of this myrtle?--i shall be very glad, of course, fleda my dear, but--" picking her bouquet to pieces,--"i think it right to tell you, privately, i am afraid you will find it very stupid--" "o i dare say she will not," said mrs. evelyn,--"she can go and try at any rate--she would find it very stupid with me here alone and constance at the concert--i dare say she will find some there whom she knows." "but the thing is, mamma, you see, at these conversaziones they never talk anything but french and german--i don't know--of _course_ i should be delighted to have fleda with me, and i have no doubt mrs. decatur would be very glad to have her--but i am afraid she won't enjoy herself." "i do not want to go where i shall not enjoy myself," said fleda quietly;--"that is certain." "of course, you know, dear, i would a great deal rather have you than not--i only speak for what i think would be for your pleasure." "i would do just as i felt inclined, fleda," said mrs. evelyn. "i shall let her encounter the dullness alone, ma'am," said fleda lightly. but it was not in a light mood that she put on her bonnet after dinner and set out to pay a visit to her uncle at the library; she had resolved that she would not be near the dormeuse in whatsoever relative position that evening. very, very quiet she was; her grave little face walked through the crowd of busy, bustling, anxious people, as if she had nothing in common with them; and fleda felt that she had very little. half unconsciously as she passed along the streets her eye scanned the countenances of that moving panorama; and the report it brought back made her draw closer within herself. she wondered that her feet had ever tripped lightly up those library stairs. "ha! my fair saxon," said the doctor;--"what has brought you down here to-day?" "i felt in want of something fresh, uncle orrin, so i thought i would come and see you." "fresh!" said he. "ah you are pining for green fields, i know. but you little piece of simplicity, there are no green fields now at queechy--they are two feet deep with snow by this time." "well i am sure _that_ is fresh," said fleda smiling. the doctor was turning over great volumes one after another in a delightful confusion of business. "when do you think you shall go north, uncle orrin?" "north?" said he--"what do you want to know about the north?" "you said, you know, sir, that you would go a little out of your way to leave me at home." "i won't go out of my way for anybody. if i leave you there, it will be in my way. why you are not getting homesick?" "no sir, not exactly,--but i think i will go with you when you go." "that won't be yet awhile--i thought those people wanted you to stay till january." "ay, but suppose i want to do something else?" he looked at her with a comical kind of indecision, and said, "you don't know what you want!--i thought when you came in you needn't go further than the glass to see something fresh; but i believe the sea-breezes haven't had enough of you yet. which part of you wants freshening?" he said in his mock-fierce way. fleda laughed and said she didn't know. "out of humour, i guess," said the doctor. "i'll talk to you!--take this and amuse yourself awhile, with something that _isn't_ fresh, till i get through, and then you shall go home with me." fleda carried the large volume into one of the reading rooms, where there was nobody, and sat down at the baize-covered table. but the book was not of the right kind--or her mood was notfor it failed to interest her. she sat nonchalantly turning over the leaves; but mentally she was busy turning over other leaves which had by far the most of her attention. the pages that memory read--the record of the old times passed in that very room, and the old childish light-hearted feelings that were, she thought, as much beyond recall. those pleasant times, when the world was all bright and friends all fair, and the light heart had never been borne down by the pressure of care, nor sobered by disappointment, nor chilled by experience. the spirit will not spring elastic again from under that weight; and the flower that has closed upon its own sweetness will not open a second time to the world's breath. thoughtfully, softly, she was touching and feeling of the bands that years had fastened about her heart--they would not be undone,--though so quietly and almost stealthily they had been bound there. she was remembering the shadows that one after another had been cast upon her life, till now one soft veil of a cloud covered the whole; no storm cloud certainly, but also there was nothing left of the glad sunlight that her young eyes rejoiced in. at queechy the first shadow had fallen;--it was a good while before the next one, but then they came thick. there was the loss of some old comforts and advantages,--that could have been borne;--then consequent upon that, the annoyances and difficulties that had wrought such a change in her uncle, till fleda could hardly look back and believe that he was the same person. once manly, frank, busy, happy and making his family so;--now reserved, gloomy, irritable, unfaithful to his duty and selfishly throwing down the burden they must take up, but were far less able to bear. and so hugh was changed too; not in loveliness of character and demeanour, nor even much in the always gentle and tender expression of countenance; but the animal spirits and frame, that should have had all the strong cherishing and bracing that affection and wisdom together could have applied, had been left to wear themselves out under trials his father had shrunk from and other trials his father had made. and mrs. rossitur,--it was hard for fleda to remember the face she wore at paris,--the bright eye and joyous corners of the mouth, that now were so utterly changed. all by his fault--that made it so hard to bear. fleda had thought all this a hundred times; she went over it now as one looks at a thing one is well accustomed to; not with new sorrow, only in a subdued mood of mind just fit to make the most of it. the familiar place took her back to the time when it became familiar; she compared herself sitting there and feeling the whole world a blank, except for the two or three at home, with the child who had sat there years before in that happy time "when the feelings were young and the world was new." then the evelyns--why should they trouble one so inoffensive and so easily troubled as her poor little self? they did not know all they were doing,--but if they had eyes they _must_ see a little of it. why could she not have been allowed to keep her old free simple feeling with everybody, instead of being hampered and constrained and miserable from this pertinacious putting of thoughts in her head that ought not to be there? it had made her unlike herself, she knew, in the company of several people. and perhaps _they_ might be sharp-sighted enough to read it!--but even if not, how it had hindered her enjoyment. she had taken so much pleasure in the evelyns last year, and in her visit,--well, she would go home and forget it, and maybe they would come to their right minds by the next time she saw them. [illustration: fleda saw with a start that it was mr. carleton.] "what pleasant times we used to have here once, uncle orrin!" she said with half a sigh, the other half quite made up by the tone in which she spoke. but it was not, as she thought, uncle orrin that was standing by her side, and looking up as she finished speaking fleda saw with a start that it was mr. carleton. there was such a degree of life and pleasantness in his eyes that, in spite of the start, her own quite brightened. "that is a pleasure one may always command," he said, answering part of her speech. "ay, provided one has one's mind always under command," said fleda. "it is possible to sit down to a feast with a want of appetite." "in such a case, what is the best tonic?" his manner, even in those two minutes, had put fleda perfectly at her ease, ill-bred eyes and ears being absent. she looked up and answered, with such entire trust in him as made her forget that she had ever had any cause to distrust herself. "for me," she said,--"as a general rule, nothing is better than to go out of doors--into the woods or the garden--they are the best fresheners i know of. i can do myself good there at times when books are a nuisance." "you are not changed from your old self," he said. the wish was strong upon fleda to know whether _he_ was, but it was not till she saw the answer in his face that she knew how plainly hers had asked the question. and then she was so confused that she did not know what the answer had been. "i find it so too," he said. "the influences of pure nature are the best thing i know for some moods--after the company of a good horse." "and you on his back, i suppose?" "that was my meaning. what is the doubt thereupon?" said he laughing. "did i express any doubt?" "or my eyes were mistaken." "i remember they never used to be that," said fleda. "what was it?" "why," said fleda, thinking that mr. carleton had probably retained more than one of his old habits, for she was answering with her old obedience,--"i was doubting what the influence is in that case--worth analyzing, i think. i am afraid the good horse's company has little to do with it." "what then do you suppose?" said he smiling. "why," said fleda,--"it might be--but i beg your pardon, mr. carleton! i am astonished at my own presumption." "go on, and let me know why?" he said, with that happiness of manner which was never resisted. fleda went on, reassuring her courage now and then with a glance. "the relief _might_ spring, sir, from the gratification of a proud feeling of independence,--or from a dignified sense of isolation,--or an imaginary riding down of opposition--or the consciousness of being master of what you have in hand." she would have added to the general category, "the running away from oneself;" but the eye and bearing of the person before her forbade even such a thought as connected with him. he laughed, but shook his head. "perhaps then," said fleda, "it may be nothing worse than the working off of a surplus of energy or impatience, that leaves behind no more than can be managed." "you have learned something of human nature since i had the pleasure of knowing you," he said with a look at once amused and penetrating. "i wish i hadn't," said fleda. her countenance absolutely fell. "i sometimes think," said he turning over the leaves of her book, "that these are the best companionship one can have--the world at large is very unsatisfactory." "o how much!" said fleda with a long breath. "the only pleasant thing that my eyes rested upon as i came through the streets this afternoon, was a huge bunch of violets that somebody was carrying. i walked behind them as long as i could." "is your old love for queechy in full force?" said mr. carleton, still turning over the leaves, and smiling. "i believe so--i should be very sorry to live here long--at home i can always go out and find society that refreshes me." "you have set yourself a high standard," he said, with no displeased expression of the lips. "i have been charged with that," said fleda;--"but is it possible to set too high a standard, mr. carleton?" "one may leave oneself almost alone in the world." "well, even then," said fleda, "i would rather have only the image of excellence than be contented with inferiority." "isn't it possible to do both?" said he, smiling again. "i don't know," said fleda,--"perhaps i am too easily dissatisfied--i believe i have grown fastidious living alone--i have sometimes almost a disgust at the world and everything in it." "i have often felt so," he said;--"but i am not sure that it is a mood to be indulged in--likely to further our own good or that of others." "i am sure it is not," said fleda;--"i often feel vexed with myself for it; but what can one do, mr. carleton?" "don't your friends the flowers help you in this?" "not a bit," said fleda,--"they draw the other way; their society is so very pure and satisfying that one is all the less inclined to take up with the other." she could not quite tell what to make of the smile with which he began to speak; it half abashed her. "when i spoke a little while ago," said he, "of the best cure for an ill mood, i was speaking of secondary means simply--the only really humanizing, rectifying, peace-giving thing i ever tried was looking at time in the light of eternity, and shaming or melting my coldness away in the rays of the sun of righteousness." fleda's eyes, which had fallen on her book, were raised again with such a flash of feeling that it quite prevented her seeing what was in his. but the feeling was a little too strong--the eyes went down, lower than ever, and the features shewed that the utmost efforts of self-command were needed to control them. "there is no other cure," he went on in the same tone;--"but disgust and weariness and selfishness shrink away and hide themselves before a word or a look of the redeemer of men. when we hear him say, 'i have bought thee--thou art mine,' it is like one of those old words of healing, 'thou art loosed from thine infirmity,'--'be thou clean,'--and the mind takes sweetly the grace and the command together, 'that he who loveth god love his brother also.'--only the preparation of the gospel of peace can make our feet go softly over the roughness of the way." fleda did not move, unless her twinkling eyelashes might seem to contradict that. "_i_ need not tell you," mr. carleton went on a little lower, "where this medicine is to be sought." "it is strange," said fleda presently, "how well one may know and how well one may forget.--but i think the body has a great deal to do with it sometimes--these states of feeling, i mean." "no doubt it has; and in these cases the cure is a more complicated matter. i should think the roses would be useful there?" fleda's mind was crossed by an indistinct vision of peas, asparagus, and sweet corn; she said nothing. "an indirect remedy is sometimes the very best that can be employed. however it is always true that the more our eyes are fixed upon the source of light the less we notice the shadows that things we are passing fling across our way." fleda did not know how to talk for a little while; she was too happy. whatever kept mr. carleton from talking, he was silent also. perhaps it was the understanding of her mood. "mr. carleton," said fleda after a little time, "did you ever carry out that plan of a rose-garden that you were talking of a long while ago?" "you remember it?" said he with a pleased look.--"yes--that was one of the first things i set about after i went home--but i did not follow the regular fashion of arrangement that one of your friends is so fond of." "i should not like that for anything," said fleda,--"and least of all for roses." "do you remember the little shrubbery path that opened just in front of the library windows?--leading at the distance of half a mile to a long narrow winding glen?" "perfectly well!" said fleda,--"through the wood of evergreens--i remember the glen very well." "about half way from the house," said he smiling at her eyes, "a glade opens which merges at last in the head of the glen--i planted my roses there--the circumstances of the ground were very happy for disposing them according to my wish." "and how far?" "the roses?--o all the way, and some distance down the glen. not a continuous thicket of them," he added smiling again,--"i wished each kind to stand so that its peculiar beauty should be fully relieved and appreciated; and that would have been lost in a crowd." "yes, i know it," said fleda;--"one's eye rests upon the chief objects of attraction and the others are hardly seen,--they do not even serve as foils. and they must shew beautifully against that dark background of firs and larches!" "yes--and the windings of the ground gave me every sort of situation and exposure. i wanted room too for the different effects of masses of the same kind growing together and of fine individuals or groups standing alone where they could shew the full graceful development of their nature." "what a pleasure!--what a beauty it must be!" "the ground is very happy--many varieties of soil and exposure were needed for the plants of different habits, and i found or made them all. the rocky beginnings of the glen even furnished me with south walls for the little tea-roses, and the macartneys and musk roses,--the banksias i kept nearer home." "do you know them all, mr. carleton?" "not quite," said he smiling at her. "i have seen one banksia--the macartney is a name that tells me nothing." "they are evergreens--with large white flowers--very abundant and late in the season, but they need the shelter of a wall with us." "i should think you would say 'with _me_'," said fleda. "i cannot conceive that the head-quarters of the rose tribe should be anywhere else." "one of the queens of the tribe is there, in the neighbourhood of the macartneys--the difficult rosa sulphurea--it finds itself so well accommodated that it condescends to play its part to perfection. do you know that?" "not at all." "it is one of the most beautiful of all, though not my favourite--it has large double yellow flowers shaped like the provence--very superb, but as wilful as any queen of them all." "which is your favourite, mr. carleton?" "not that which shews itself most splendid to the eye, but which offers fairest indications to the fancy." fleda looked a little wistfully, for there was a smile rather of the eye than of the lips which said there was a hidden thought beneath. "don't you assign characters to your flowers?" said he gravely. "always!" "that rosa sulphurea is a haughty high-bred beauty that disdains even to shew herself beautiful unless she is pleased;--i love better what comes nearer home to the charities and wants of everyday life." he had not answered her, fleda knew; she thought of what he had said to mrs. evelyn about liking beauty but not _beauties_. "then," said he smiling again in that hidden way, "the head of the glen gave me the soil i needed for the bourbons and french roses."-- "bourbons?"--said fleda. "those are exceeding fine--a hybrid between the chinese and the rose-à-quatre-saisons--i have not confined them all to the head of the glen; many of them are in richer soil, grafted on standards." "i like standard roses," said fleda, "better than any." "not better than climbers?" "better than any climbers i ever saw--except the banksia." "there is hardly a more elegant variety than that, though it is not strictly a climber; and indeed when i spoke i was thinking as much of the training roses. many of the noisettes are very fine. but i have the climbers all over--in some parts nothing else, where the wood closes in upon the path--there the evergreen roses or the ayrshire cover the ground under the trees, or are trained up the trunks and allowed to find their own way through the branches down again--the multiflora in the same manner. i have made the boursault cover some unsightly rocks that were in my way.--then in wider parts of the glade nearer home are your favourite standards--the damask, and provence, and moss, which you know are varieties of the centifolia, and the noisette standards, some of them are very fine, and the chinese roses, and countless hybrids and varieties of all these, with many bourbons;--and your beautiful american yellow rose, and the austrian briar and eglantine, and the scotch and white and dog roses in their innumerable varieties change admirably well with the others, and relieve the eye very happily." "relieve the eye!" said fleda,--"my imagination wants relieving! isn't there--i have a fancy that there is--a view of the sea from some parts of that walk, mr. carleton?" "yes,--you have a good memory," said he smiling. "on one side the wood is rather dense, and in some parts of the other side; but elsewhere the trees are thinned off towards the south-west, and in one or two points the descent of the ground and some cutting have given free access to the air and free range to the eye, bounded only by the sea line in the distance--if indeed that can be said to bound anything." "i haven't seen it since i was a child," said fleda. "and for how long a time in the year is this literally a garden of roses, mr. carleton?" "the perpetual roses are in bloom for eight months,--the damask and the chinese, and some of their varieties--the provence roses are in blossom all the summer." "ah we can do nothing like that in this country," said fleda shaking her head;--"our winters are unmanageable." she was silent a minute, turning over the leaves of her book in an abstracted manner. "you have struck out upon a grave path of reflection," said mr. carleton gently,--"and left me bewildered among the roses." "i was thinking," said fleda, looking up and laughing--"i was moralizing to myself upon the curious equalization of happiness in the world--i just sheered off from a feeling of envy, and comfortably reflected that one measures happiness by what one knows--not by what one does not know; and so that in all probability i have had near as much enjoyment in the little number of plants that i have brought up and cherished and know intimately, as you, sir, in your superb walk through fairyland." "do you suppose," said he laughing, "that i leave the whole care of fairyland to my gardener? no, you are mistaken--when the roses are to act as my correctors i find i must become theirs. i seldom go among them without a pruning knife and never without wishing for one. and you are certainly right so far,--that the plants on which i bestow most pains give me the most pleasure. there are some that no hand but mine ever touches, and those are by far the best loved of my eye." a discussion followed, partly natural, partly moral,--on the manner of pruning various roses, and on the curious connection between care and complacency, and the philosophy of the same. "the rules of the library are to shut up at sundown, sir," said one of the bookmen who had come into the room. "sundown!" exclaimed fleda jumping up;--"is my uncle not here, mr. frost?" "he has been gone half an hour, ma'am." "and i was to have gone home with him--i have forgotten myself." "if that is at all the fault of my roses,", said mr. carleton smiling, "i will do my best to repair it." "i am not disposed to call it a fault," said fleda tying her bonnet-strings,--"it is rather an agreeable thing once in a while. i shall dream of those roses, mr. carleton!" "that would be doing them too much honour." very happily she had forgotten herself; and during all the walk home her mind was too full of one great piece of joy and indeed too much engaged with conversation to take up her own subject again. her only wish was that they might not meet any of the evelyns;--mr. thorn, whom they did meet, was a matter of entire indifference. the door was opened by dr. gregory himself. to fleda's utter astonishment mr. carleton accepted his invitation to come in. she went up stairs to take off her things in a kind of maze. "i thought he would go away without my seeing him, and now what a nice time i have had!--in spite of mrs. evelyn--" that thought slipped in without fleda's knowledge, but she could not get it out again. "i don't know how much it has been her fault either, but one thing is certain--i never could have had it at her house.--how very glad i am!--how _very_ glad i am!--that i have seen him and heard all this from his own lips.--but how very funny that he will be here to tea--" "well!" said the doctor when she came down,--"you _do_ look freshened up, i declare. here is this girl, sir, was coming to me a little while ago, complaining that she wanted something _fresh_, and begging me to take her back to queechy, forsooth, to find it, with two feet of snow on the ground. who wants to see you at queechy?" he said, facing round upon her with a look half fierce, half quizzical. fleda laughed, but was vexed to feel that she could not help colouring and colouring exceedingly; partly from the consciousness of his meaning, and partly from a vague notion that somebody else was conscious of it too. dr. gregory, however, dashed right off into the thick of conversation with his guest, and kept him busily engaged till tea-time. fleda sat still on the sofa, looking and listening with simple pleasure; memory served her up a rich entertainment enough. yet she thought her uncle was the most heartily interested of the two in the conversation; there was a shade more upon mr. carleton, not than he often wore, but than he had worn a little while ago. dr. gregory was a great bibliopole, and in the course of the hour hauled out and made his guest overhaul no less than several musty old folios; and fleda could not help fancying that he did it with an access of gravity greater even than the occasion called for. the grace of his manner, however, was unaltered; and at tea she did not know whether she had been right or not. demurely as she sat there behind the tea-urn, for dr. gregory still engrossed all the attention of his guest as far as talking was concerned, fleda was again inwardly smiling to herself at the oddity and the pleasantness of the chance that had brought those three together in such a quiet way, after all the weeks she had been seeing mr. carleton at a distance. and she enjoyed the conversation too; for though dr. gregory was a little fond of his hobby it was still conversation worthy the name. "i have been so unfortunate in the matter of the drives," mr. carleton said, when he was about to take leave and standing before fleda,--"that i am half afraid to mention it again." "i could not help it, both those time, mr. carleton," said fleda earnestly. "both the last?--or both the first?" said he smiling. "the last?--" said fleda. "i have had the honour of making such an attempt twice within the last ten days----to my disappointment." "it was not by my fault then either, sir," fleda said quietly. but he knew very well from the expression of her face a moment before where to put the emphasis her tongue would not make. "dare i ask you to go with me to-morrow?" "i don't know," said fleda with the old childish sparkle of her eye,--"but if you ask me, sir, i will go." he sat down beside her immediately, and fleda knew by his change of eye that her former thought had been right. "shall i see you at mrs. decatur's to-morrow?" "no, sir." "i thought i understood," said he in an explanatory tone, "from your friends the miss evelyns, that they were going." "i believe they are, and i did think of it; but i have changed my mind, and shall stay at home with mrs. evelyn." after some further conversation the hour for the drive was appointed, and mr. carleton took leave. "come for me twice and mrs. evelyn refused without consulting me!" thought fleda. "what could make her do so?--how very rude he must have thought me! and how glad i am i have had an opportunity of setting that right." so quitting mrs. evelyn her thoughts went off upon a long train of wandering over the afternoon's talk. "wake up!" said the doctor, laying his hand kindly upon her shoulder,--"you'll want something fresh again presently. what mine of profundity are you digging into now?" fleda looked up and came back from her profundity with a glance and smile as simple as a child's. "dear uncle orrin, how came you to leave me alone in the library?" "was that what you were trying to discover?" "oh no, sir! but why did you, uncle orrin? i might have been left utterly alone." "why," said the doctor, "i was going out, and a friend that i thought i could confide in promised to take care of you." "a friend!--nobody came near me," said fleda. "then i'll never trust anybody again," said the doctor. "but what were you hammering at, mentally, just now?--come, you shall tell me." "o nothing, uncle orrin," said fleda, looking grave again however;--"i was thinking that i had been talking too much to-day." "talking too much?--why whom have you been talking to?" "o, nobody but mr. carleton." "mr. carleton! why you didn't say six and a quarter words while he was here." "no, but i mean in the library, and walking home." "talking too much! i guess you did," said the doctor;--"your tongue is like 'the music of the spheres, so loud it deafens human ears.' how came you to talk too much? i thought you were too shy to talk at all in company." "no sir, i am not;--i am not at all shy unless people frighten me. it takes almost nothing to do that; but i am very bold if i am not frightened." "were you frightened this afternoon?" "no sir." "well, if you weren't frightened, i guess nobody else was," said the doctor. chapter xxxvi. whence came this? this is some token from a newer friend. shakspeare. the snow-flakes were falling softly and thick when fleda got up the next morning. "no ride for me to-day--but how very glad i am that i had a chance of setting that matter right. what could mrs. evelyn have been thinking of?--very false kindness!--if i had disliked to go ever so much she ought to have made me, for my own sake, rather than let me seem so rude--it is true she didn't know _how_ rude. o snow-flakes--how much purer and prettier you are than most things in this place!" no one was in the breakfast parlour when fleda came down, so she took her book and the dormeuse and had an hour of luxurious quiet before anybody appeared. not a foot-fall in the house; nor even one outside to be heard, for the soft carpeting of snow which was laid over the streets. the gentle breathing of the fire the only sound in the room; while the very light came subdued through the falling snow and the thin muslin curtains, and gave an air of softer luxury to the apartment. "money is pleasant," thought fleda, as she took a little complacent review of all this before opening her book.--"and yet how unspeakably happier one may be without it than another with it. happiness never was locked up in a purse yet. i am sure hugh and i,--they must want me at home!--" there was a little sober consideration of the lumps of coal and the contented looking blaze in the grate, a most essentially home-like thing,--and then fleda went to her book and for the space of an hour turned over her pages without interruption. at the end of the hour "the fowling piece," certainly the noiseliest of his kind, put his head in, but seeing none of his ladies took it and himself away again and left fleda in peace for another half hour. then appeared mrs. evelyn in her morning wrapper, and only stopping at the bell-handle, came up to the dormeuse and stooping down kissed fleda's forehead, with so much tenderness that it won a look of most affectionate gratitude in reply. "fleda my dear, we set you a sad example. but you won't copy it. joe, breakfast. has mr. evelyn gone down town?" "yes, ma'am, two hours ago." "did it ever occur to you, fleda my dear," said mrs. evelyn, breaking the lumps of coal with the poker in a very leisurely satisfied kind of a way,--"did it ever occur to you to rejoice that you were not born a business man? what a life!--" "i wonder how it compares with that of a business woman," said fleda laughing. "there is an uncompromising old proverb which says 'man's work is from sun to sun-- but a woman's work is never done.'" a saying which she instantly reflected was entirely beyond the comprehension of the person to whose consideration she had offered it. and then came in florence, rubbing her hands and knitting her eyebrows. "why don't you look as bright as the rest of the world, this morning," said fleda. "what a wretched storm!" "wretched! this beautiful snow! here have i been enjoying it for this hour." but florence rubbed her hands and looked as if fleda were no rule for other people. "how horrid it will make the going out to-night, if it snows all day!" "then you can stay at home," said her mother composedly. "indeed i shall not, mamma!" "mamma!" said constance now coming in with edith,--"isn't breakfast ready? it strikes me that the fowling-piece wants polishing up. i have an indistinct impression that the sun would be upon the meridian if he was anywhere." "not quite so bad as that," said fleda smiling;--"it is only an hour and a half since i came down stairs." "you horrid little creature!--mamma, i consider it an act of inhospitality to permit studious habits on the part of your guests. and i am surprised your ordinary sagacity has not discovered that it is the greatest impolicy towards the objects of your maternal care. we are labouring under growing disadvantages; for when we have brought the enemy to at long shot there is a mean little craft that comes in and unmans him in a close fight before we can get our speaking-trumpets up." "constance!--do hush!" said her sister. "you are too absurd." "fact," said constance gravely. "capt. lewiston was telling me the other night how the thing is managed; and i recognized it immediately and told him i had often seen it done!" "hold your tongue, constance," said her mother smiling,--"and come to breakfast." half and but half of the mandate the young lady had any idea of obeying. "i can't imagine what you are talking about, constance!" said edith. "and then being a friend, you see," pursued constance, "we can do nothing but fire a salute, instead of demolishing her." "can't you?" said fleda. "i am sure many a time i have felt as if you had left me nothing but my colours." "except your prizes, my dear. i am sure i don't know about your being a friend either, for i have observed that you engage english and american alike." "she is getting up her colours now," said mrs. evelyn in mock gravity,--"you can tell what she is." "blood-red!" said constance. "a pirate!--i thought so,"--she exclaimed, with an ecstatic gesture. "i shall make it my business to warn everybody!" "oh constance!" said fleda, burying her face in her hands. but they all laughed. "fleda my dear, i would box her ears," said mrs. evelyn commanding herself. "it is a mere envious insinuation,--i have always understood those were the most successful colours carried." "dear mrs. evelyn!--" "my dear fleda, that is not a hot roll--you sha'n't eat it--take this. florence give her a piece of the bacon--fleda my dear, it is good for the digestion--you must try it. constance was quite mistaken in supposing yours were those obnoxious colours--there is too much white with the red--it is more like a very different flag." "like what then, mamma?" said constance;--"a good american would have blue in it." "you may keep the american yourself," said her mother. "only," said fleda trying to recover herself, "there is a slight irregularity--with you the stars are blue and the ground white." "my dear little fleda!" exclaimed constance jumping up and capering round the table to kiss her, "you are too delicious for anything; and in future i will be blind to your colours; which is a piece of self-denial i am sure nobody else will practise." "mamma," said edith, "what _are_ you all talking about? can't constance sit down and let fleda eat her breakfast?" "sit down, constance, and eat your breakfast!" "i will do it, mamma, out of consideration for the bacon.--nothing else would move me." "are you going to mrs. decatur's to-night, fleda?" "no, edith, i believe not" "i'm very glad; then there'll be somebody at home. but why don't you?" "i think on the whole i had rather not." "mamma," said constance, "you have done very wrong in permitting such a thing. i know just how it will be. mr. thorn and mr. stackpole will make indefinite voyages of discovery round mrs. decatur's rooms, and then having a glimmering perception that the light of miss ringgan's eyes is in another direction they will sheer off; and you will presently see them come sailing blandly in, one after the other, and cast anchor for the evening; when to your extreme delight mr. stackpole and miss ringgan will immediately commence fighting. i shall stay at home to see!" exclaimed constance, with little bounds of delight up and down upon her chair which this time afforded her the additional elasticity of springs,--"i will not go. i am persuaded how it will be, and i would not miss it for anything." "dear constance!" said fleda, unable to help laughing through all her vexation,--"please do not talk so! you know very well mr. stackpole only comes to see your mother." "he was here last night," said constance in an extreme state of delight,--"with all the rest of your admirers--ranged in the hall, with their hats in a pile at the foot of the staircase as a token of their determination not to go till you came home; and as they could not be induced to come up to the drawing-room mr. evelyn was obliged to go down, and with some difficulty persuaded them to disperse." fleda was by this time in a state of indecision betwixt crying and laughing, assiduously attentive to her breakfast. "mr. carleton asked me if you would go to ride with him again the other day, fleda," said mrs. evelyn, with her face of delighted mischief,--"and i excused you; for i thought you would thank me for it." "mamma," said constance, "the mention of that name rouses all the bitter feelings i am capable of! my dear fleda--we have been friends--but if i see you abstracting my english rose"-- "look at those roses behind you!" said fleda. the young lady turned and sprang at the word, followed by both her sisters; and for some moments nothing but a hubbub of exclamations filled the air, "joe, you are enchanting!--but did you ever _see_ such flowers?--oh those rose-buds!--" "and these camellias," said edith,--"look, florence, how they are cut--with such splendid long stems." "and the roses too--all of them--see mamma, just cut from the bushes with the buds all left on, and immensely long stems--mamma, these must have cost an immensity!--" "that is what i call a bouquet," said fleda, fain to leave the table too and draw near the tempting shew in florence's hand. "this is the handsomest you have had all winter, florence," said edith. "handsomest!--i never saw anything like it. i shall wear some of these to-night, mamma." "you are in a great hurry to appropriate it," said constance,--"how do you know but it is mine?" "which of us is it for, joe?" "say it is mine, joe, and i will vote you--the best article of your kind!" said constance, with an inexpressible glance at fleda. "who brought it, joe?" said mrs. evelyn. "yes, joe, who brought it? where did it come from, joe?" joe had hardly a chance to answer. "i really couldn't say, miss florence,--the man wasn't known to me." "but did he say it was for florence or for me?" "no ma'am--he"-- "_which_ did he say it was for?" "he didn't say it was either for miss florence or for you, miss constance; he--" "but didn't he say who sent it?" "no ma'am. it's"-- "mamma here is a white moss that is beyond everything! with two of the most lovely buds--oh!" said constance clasping her hands and whirling about the room in comic ecstasy--"i sha'n't survive if i cannot find out where it is from!--" "how delicious the scent of these tea-roses is!" said fleda. "you ought not to mind the snow storm to-day after this, florence. i should think you would be perfectly happy." "i shall be, if i can contrive to keep them fresh to wear to-night. mamma how sweetly they would dress me." "they're a great deal too good to be wasted so," said mrs. evelyn; "i sha'n't let you do it." "mamma!--it wouldn't take any of them at all for my hair and the bouquet de corsage too--there'd be thousands left--well joe,--what are you waiting for?" "i didn't say," said joe, looking a good deal blank and a little afraid,--"i should have said--that the bouquet--is--" "what is it?" "it is--i believe, ma'am,--the man said it was for miss ringgan." "for me!" exclaimed fleda, her cheeks forming instantly the most exquisite commentary on the gift that the giver could have desired. she took in her hand the superb bunch of flowers from which the fingers of florence unclosed as if it had been an icicle. "why didn't you say so before?" she inquired sharply; but the "fowling-piece" had wisely disappeared. "i am very glad!" exclaimed edith. "they have had plenty all winter, and you haven't had one--i am very glad it is yours, fleda." but such a shadow had come upon every other face that fleda's pleasure was completely overclouded. she smelled at her roses, just ready to burst into tears, and wishing sincerely that they had never come. "i am afraid, my dear fleda," said mrs. evelyn quietly going on with her breakfast,--"that there is a thorn somewhere among those flowers." fleda was too sure of it. but not by any means the one mrs. evelyn intended. "he never could have got half those from his own greenhouse, mamma," said florence,--"if he had cut every rose that was in it; and he isn't very free with his knife either." "i said nothing about anybody's greenhouse," said mrs. evelyn,--"though i don't suppose there is more than one lot in the city they could have come from." "well," said constance settling herself back in her chair and closing her eyes,--"i feel extinguished!----mamma, do you suppose it possible that a hot cup of tea might revive me? i am suffering from a universal sense of unappreciated merit!--and nobody can tell what the pain is that hasn't felt it." "i think you are extremely foolish, constance," said edith. "fleda hasn't had a single flower sent her since she has been here and you have had them every other day. i think florence is the only one that has a right to be disappointed." "dear florence," said fleda earnestly,--"you shall have as many of them as you please to dress yourself,--and welcome!" "oh no--of course not!--" florence said,--"it's of no sort of consequence--i don't want them in the least, my dear. i wonder what somebody would think to see his flowers in my head!" fleda secretly had mooted the same question and was very well pleased not to have it put to the proof. she took the flowers up stairs after breakfast, resolving that they should not be an eye-sore to her friends; placed them in water and sat down to enjoy and muse over them in a very sorrowful mood. she again thought she would take the first opportunity of going home. how strange--out of their abundance of tributary flowers to grudge her this one bunch! to be sure it was a magnificent one. the flowers were mostly roses, of the rarer kinds, with a very few fine camellias; all of them cut with a freedom that evidently had known no constraint but that of taste, and put together with an exquisite skill that fleda felt sure was never possessed by any gardener. she knew that only one hand had had anything to do with them, and that the hand that had bought, not the one that had sold; and "how very kind!"--presently quite supplanted "how very strange!"--"how exactly like him,--and how singular that mrs. evelyn and her daughters should have supposed they could have come from mr. thorn." it was a moral impossibility that _he_ should have put such a bunch of flowers together; while to fleda's eye they so bore the impress of another person's character that she had absolutely been glad to get them out of sight for fear they might betray him. she hung over their varied loveliness, tasted and studied it, till the soft breath of the roses had wafted away every cloud of disagreeable feeling and she was drinking in pure and strong pleasure from each leaf and bud. what a very apt emblem of kindness and friendship she thought them; when their gentle preaching and silent sympathy could alone so nearly do friendship's work; for to fleda there was both counsel and consolation in flowers. so she found it this morning. an hour's talk with them had done her a great deal of good, and when she dressed herself and went down to the drawing-room her grave little face was not less placid than the roses she had left; she would not wear even one of them down to be a disagreeable reminder. and she thought that still snowy day was one of the very pleasantest she had had in new york. florence went to mrs. decatur's; but constance according to her avowed determination remained at home to see the fun. fleda hoped most sincerely there would be none for her to see. but a good deal to her astonishment, early in the evening mr. carleton walked in, followed very soon by mr. thorn. constance and mrs. evelyn were forthwith in a perfect effervescence of delight, which as they could not very well give it full play promised to last the evening; and fleda, all her nervous trembling awakened again, took her work to the table and endeavoured to bury herself in it. but ears could not be fastened as well as eyes; and the mere sound of mrs. evelyn's voice sometimes sent a thrill over her. "mr. thorn," said the lady in her smoothest manner,--"are you a lover of floriculture, sir?" "can't say that i am, mrs. evelyn,--except as practised by others." "then you are not a connoisseur in roses?--miss ringgan's happy lot--sent her a most exquisite collection this morning, and she has been wanting to apply to somebody who could tell her what they are--i thought you might know.--o they are not here," said mrs. evelyn as she noticed the gentleman's look round the room;--"miss ringgan judges them too precious for any eyes but her own. fleda, my dear, won't you bring down your roses to let mr. thorn tell us their names?" "i am sure mr. thorn will excuse me, mrs. evelyn--i believe he would find it a puzzling task." "the surest way, mrs. evelyn, would be to apply at the fountain head for information," said thorn dryly. "if i could get at it," said mrs. evelyn, (fleda knew with quivering lips,)--"but it seems to me i might as well try to find the dead sea!" "perhaps mr. carleton might serve your purpose," said thorn. that gentleman was at the moment talking to constance. "mr. carleton--" said mrs. evelyn,--"are you a judge, sir?" "of what, mrs. evelyn?--i beg your pardon." the lady's tone somewhat lowered. "are you a judge of roses, mr. carleton?" "so far as to know a rose when i see it," he answered smiling, and with an imperturbable coolness that it quieted fleda to hear. [illustration: "i am sure mr. thorn will excuse me."] "ay, but the thing is," said constance, "do you know twenty roses when you see them?" "miss ringgan, mr. carleton," said mrs. evelyn, "has received a most beautiful supply this morning; but like a true woman she is not satisfied to enjoy unless she can enjoy intelligently--they are strangers to us all, and she would like to know what name to give them--mr. thorn suggested that perhaps you might help us out of our difficulty." "with great pleasure, so far as i am able,--if my judgment may be exercised by daylight. i cannot answer for shades of green in the night time." but he spoke with an ease and simplicity that left no mortal able to guess whether he had ever heard of a particular bunch of roses in his life before. "you give me more of eve in my character, mrs. evelyn, than i think belongs to me," said fleda from her work at the far centre-table, which certainly did not get its name from its place in the room. "my enjoyment to-day has not been in the least troubled by curiosity." which none of the rest of the family could have affirmed. "do you mean to say, mr. carleton," said constance, "that it is necessary to distinguish between shades of green in judging of roses?" "it is necessary to make shades of distinction in judging of almost anything, miss constance. the difference between varieties of the same flower is often extremely nice." "i have read of magicians," said thorn softly, bending down towards fleda's work,--"who did not need to see things to answer questions respecting them." fleda thought that was a kind of magic remarkably common in the world; but even her displeasure could not give her courage to speak. it gave her courage to be silent, however; and mr. thorn's best efforts in a conversation of some length could gain nothing but very uninterested rejoinders. a sudden pinch from constance then made her look up and almost destroyed her self-possession as she saw mr. stackpole make his way into the room. "i hope i find my fair enemy in a mollified humour," he said approaching them. "i suppose you have repaired damages, mr. stackpole," said constance,--"since you venture into the region of broken windows again." "mr. stackpole declared there were none to repair," said mrs. evelyn from the sofa. "more than i knew of," said the gentleman laughing--"there were more than i knew of; but you see i court the danger, having rashly concluded that i might as well know all my weak points at once." "miss ringgan will break nothing to-night, mr. stackpole--she promised me she would not." "not even her silence?" said the gentleman. "is she always so desperately industrious?" said mr. thorn. "miss ringgan, mr. stackpole," said constance, "is subject to occasional fits of misanthropy, in which cases her retreating with her work to the solitude of the centre-table is significant of her desire to avoid conversation,--as mr. thorn has been experiencing." "i am happy to see that the malady is not catching, miss constance." "mr. stackpole!" said constance,--"i am in a morose state of mind!--miss ringgan this morning received a magnificent bouquet of roses which in the first place i rashly appropriated to myself; and ever since i discovered my mistake i have been meditating the renouncing of society--it has excited more bad feelings than i thought had existence in my nature." "mr. stackpole," said mrs. evelyn, "would you ever have supposed that roses could be a cause of discord?" mr. stackpole looked as if he did not exactly know what the ladies were driving at. "there have five thousand emigrants arrived at this port within a week!" said he, as if that were something worth talking about. "poor creatures! where will they all go?" said mrs. evelyn comfortably. "country's large enough," said thorn. "yes, but such a stream of immigration will reach the pacific and come back again before long: and then there will be a meeting of the waters! this tide of german and irish will sweep over everything." "i suppose if the land will not bear both, one party will have to seek other quarters," said mrs. evelyn with an exquisite satisfaction which fleda could hear in her voice. "you remember the story of lot and abraham, mr. stackpole,--when a quarrel arose between them?--not about roses." mr. stackpole looked as if women were--to say the least--incomprehensible. "five thousand a week!" he repeated. "i wish there was a dead sea for them all to sheer off into!" said thorn. "if you had seen the look of grave rebuke that speech called forth, mr. thorn," said constance, "your feelings would have been penetrated--if you have any." "i had forgotten," he said, looking round with a bland change of manner,--"what gentle charities were so near me." "mamma!" said constance with a most comic shew of indignation,--"mr. thorn thought that with miss ringgan he had forgotten all the gentle charities in the room!--i am of no further use to society!--i will trouble you to ring that bell, mr. thorn, if you please. i shall request candles and retire to the privacy of my own apartment!" "not till you have permitted me to expiate my fault!" said mr. thorn laughing. "it cannot be expiated!--my worth will be known at some future day.--mr. carleton, _will_ you have the goodness to summon our domestic attendant?" "if you will permit me to give the order," he said smiling, with his hand on the bell. "i am afraid you are hardly fit to be trusted alone." "why?" "may i delay obeying you long enough to give my reasons?" "yes." "because," said he coming up to her, "when people turn away from the world in disgust they generally find worse company in themselves." "mr. carleton!--i would not sit still another minute, if curiosity didn't keep me. i thought solitude was said to be such a corrector?" "like a clear atmosphere--an excellent medium if your object is to take an observation of your position--worse than lost if you mean to shut up the windows and burn sickly lights of your own." "then according to that one shouldn't seek solitude unless one doesn't want it." "no," said mr. carleton, with that eye of deep meaning to which constance always rendered involuntary homage,--"every one wants it;--if we do not daily take an observation to find where we are, we are sailing about wildly and do not know whither we are going." "an observation?" said constance, understanding part and impatient of not catching the whole of his meaning. "yes," he said with a smile of singular fascination,--"i mean, consulting the unerring guides of the way to know where we are and if we are sailing safely and happily in the right direction--otherwise we are in danger of striking upon some rock or of never making the harbour; and in either case, all is lost." the power of eye and smile was too much for constance, as it had happened more than once before; her own eyes fell and for a moment she wore a look of unwonted sadness and sweetness, at what from any other person would have roused her mockery. "mr. carleton," said she, trying to rally herself but still not daring to look up, knowing that would put it out of her power,--"i can't understand how you ever came to be such a grave person." "what is your idea of gravity?" said he smiling. "to have a mind so at rest about the future as to be able to enjoy thoroughly all that is worth enjoying in the present?" "but i can't imagine how _you_ ever came to take up such notions." "may i ask again, why not i?" "o you know--you have so much to make you otherwise." "what degree of present contentment ought to make one satisfied to leave that of the limitless future an uncertain thing?" "do you think it can be made certain?" "undoubtedly!--why not? the tickets are free--the only thing is to make sure that ours has the true signature. do you think the possession of that ticket makes life a sadder thing? the very handwriting of it is more precious to me, by far, miss constance, than everything else i have." "but you are a very uncommon instance," said constance, still unable to look up, and speaking without any of her usual attempt at jocularity. "no, i hope not," he said quietly. "i mean," said constance, "that it is very uncommon language to hear from a person like you." "i suppose i know your meaning," he said after a minute's pause;--"but, miss constance, there is hardly a graver thought to me than that power and responsibility go hand in hand." "it don't generally work so," said constance rather uneasily. "what are you talking about, constance?" said mrs. evelyn. "mr. carleton, mamma,--has been making me melancholy." "mr. carleton," said mrs. evelyn, "i am going to petition that you will turn your efforts in another direction--i have felt oppressed all the afternoon from the effects of that funeral service i was attending--i am only just getting over it. the preacher seemed to delight in putting together all the gloomy thoughts he could think of." "yes!" said mr. stackpole, putting his hands in his pockets,--"it is the particular enjoyment of some of them, i believe, to do their best to make other people miserable." mr. thorn said nothing, being warned by the impatient little hammering of fleda's worsted needle upon the marble, while her eye was no longer considering her work, and her face rested anxiously upon her hand. "there wasn't a thing," the lady went on,--"in anything he said, in his prayer or his speech,--there wasn't a single cheering or elevating consideration,--all he talked and prayed for was that the people there might be filled with a sense of their wickedness--" "it's their trade, ma'am," said mr. stackpole,--"it's their trade! i wonder if it ever occurs to them to include themselves in that petition." "there wasn't the slightest effort made in anything he said or prayed for,--and one would have thought that would have been so natural!--there was not the least endeavour to do away with that superstitious fear of death which is so common--and one would think it was the very occasion to do it;--he never once asked that we might be led to look upon it rationally and calmly.--it's so unreasonable, mr. stackpole--it is so dissonant with our views of a benevolent supreme being--as if it could be according to _his_ will that his creatures should live lives of tormenting themselves--it so shews a want of trust in his goodness!" "it's a relic of barbarism, ma'am," said mr. stackpole;--"it's a popular delusion--and it is like to be, till you can get men to embrace wider and more liberal views of things." "what do you suppose it proceeds from?" said mr. carleton, as if the question had just occurred to him. "i suppose, from false notions received from education, sir." "hardly," said mr. carleton;--"it is too universal. you find it everywhere; and to ascribe it everywhere to education would be but shifting the question back one generation." "it is a root of barbarous ages," said mr. stackpole,--"a piece of superstition handed down from father to son--a set of false ideas which men are bred up and almost born with, and that they can hardly get rid of." "how can that be a root of barbarism, which the utmost degree of intelligence and cultivation has no power to do away, nor even to lessen, however it may afford motive to control? men may often put a brave face upon it and shew none of their thoughts to the world; but i think no one capable of reflection has not at times felt the influence of that dread." "men have often sought death, of purpose and choice," said mr. stackpole dryly and rubbing his chin. "not from the absence of this feeling, but from the greater momentary pressure of some other." "of course," said mr. stackpole, rubbing his chin still,--there is a natural love of life--the world could not get on if there was not." "if the love of life is natural, the fear of death must be so, by the same reason." "undoubtedly," said mrs. evelyn, "it is natural--it is part of the constitution of our nature." "yes," said mr. stackpole, settling himself again in his chair with his hands in his pockets--"it is not unnatural, i suppose,--but then that is the first view of the subject--it is the business of reason to correct many impressions and prejudices that are, as we say, natural." "and there was where my clergyman of to-day failed utterly," said mrs. evelyn;--"he aimed at strengthening that feeling and driving it down as hard as he could into everybody's mind--not a single lisp of anything to do it away or lessen the gloom with which we are, naturally as you say, disposed to invest the subject." "i dare say he has held it up as a bugbear till it has become one to himself," said mr. stackpole. "it is nothing more than the mere natural dread of dissolution," said mr. carleton. "i think it is that," said mrs. evelyn,--"i think that is the principal thing." "is there not besides an undefined fear of what lies beyond--an uneasy misgiving that there may be issues which the spirit is not prepared to meet?" "i suppose there is," said mrs. evelyn,--"but sir--" "why that is the very thing," said mr. stackpole,--"that is the mischief of education i was speaking of--men are brought up to it." "you cannot dispose of it so, sir, for this feeling is quite as universal as the other; and so strong that men have not only been willing to render life miserable but even to endure death itself, with all the aggravation of torture, to smooth their way in that unknown region beyond." "it is one of the maladies of human nature," said mr. stackpole,--"that it remains for the progress of enlightened reason to dispel." "what is the cure for the malady?" said mr. carleton quietly. "why sir!--the looking upon death as a necessary step in the course of our existence which simply introduces us from a lower to a higher sphere,--from a comparatively narrow to a wider and nobler range of feeling and intellect." "ay--but how shall we be sure that it is so?" "why mr. carleton, sir," said mrs. evelyn,--"do you doubt that? do you suppose it possible for a moment that a benevolent being would make creatures to be anything but happy?" "you believe the bible, mrs. evelyn?" he said smiling slightly. "certainly, sir; but mr. carleton, the bible i am sure holds out the same views of the goodness and glory of the creator; you cannot open it but you find them on every page. if i could take such views of things as some people have," said mrs. evelyn, getting up to punch the fire in her extremity,--"i don't know what i should do!--mr. carleton, i think i would rather never have been born, sir!" "every one runs to the bible!" said mr. stackpole. "it is the general armoury, and all parties draw from it to fight each other." "true," said mr. carleton,--"but only while they draw partially. no man can fight the battle of truth but in the whole panoply; and no man so armed can fight any other." "what do you mean, sir?" "i mean that the bible is not a riddle, neither inconsistent with itself; but if you take off one leg of a pair of compasses the measuring power is gone." "but mr. carleton, sir," said mrs. evelyn,--"do you think that reading the bible is calculated to give one gloomy ideas of the future?" "by no means," he said with one of those meaning-fraught smiles,--"but is it safe, mrs. evelyn, in such a matter, to venture a single grasp of hope without the direct warrant of god's word?" "well, sir?" "well, ma'am,--that says, 'the soul that sinneth, it shall die.'" "that disposes of the whole matter comfortably at once," said mr. stackpole. "but, sir," said mrs. evelyn,--"that doesn't stand alone--the bible everywhere speaks of the fulness and freeness of christ's salvation?" "full and free as it can possibly be," he answered with something of a sad expression of countenance;--"but, mrs. evelyn, _never offered but with conditions_." "what conditions?" said mr. stackpole hastily. "i recommend you to look for them, sir," answered mr. carleton, gravely;--"they should not be unknown to a wise man." "then you would leave mankind ridden by this nightmare of fear?--or what is your remedy?" "there is a remedy, sir," said mr. carleton, with that dilating and darkening eye which shewed him deeply engaged in what he was thinking about;--"it is not mine. when men feel themselves lost and are willing to be saved in god's way, then the breach is made up--then hope can look across the gap and see its best home and its best friend on the other side--then faith lays hold on forgiveness and trembling is done--then, sin being pardoned, the sting of death is taken away and the fear of death is no more, for it is swallowed up in victory. but men will not apply to a physician while they think themselves well; and people will not seek the sweet way of safety by christ till they know there is no other; and so, do you see, mrs. evelyn, that when the gentleman you were speaking of sought to-day to persuade his hearers that they were poorer than they thought they were, he was but taking the surest way to bring them to be made richer than they ever dreamed." there was a power of gentle earnestness in his eye that mrs evelyn could not answer; her look fell as that of constance had done, and there was a moment's silence. thorn had kept quiet, for two reasons--that he might not displease fleda, and that he might watch her. she had left her work, and turning half round from the table had listened intently to the conversation, towards the last very forgetful that there might be anybody to observe her,--with eyes fixed, and cheeks flushing, and the corners of the mouth just indicating delight,--till the silence fell; and then she turned round to the table and took up her worsted-work. but the lips were quite grave now, and thorn's keen eyes discerned that upon one or two of the artificial roses there lay two or three very natural drops. "mr. carleton," said edith, "what makes you talk such sober things?--you have set miss ringgan to crying." "mr. carleton could not be better pleased than at such a tribute to his eloquence," said mr. thorn with a saturnine expression. "smiles are common things," said mr. stackpole a little maliciously; "but any man may be flattered to find his words drop diamonds." "fleda my dear," said mrs. evelyn, with that trembling tone of concealed ecstasy which always set every one of fleda's nerves a jarring,--"you may tell the gentlemen that they do not always know when they are making an unfelicitous compliment--i never read what poets say about 'briny drops' and 'salt tears' without imagining the heroine immediately to be something like lot's wife." "nobody said anything about briny drops, mamma," said edith. "why there's florence!--" her entrance made a little bustle, which fleda was very glad of. unkind!--she was trembling again in every finger. she bent down over her canvas and worked away as hard as she could. that did not hinder her becoming aware presently that mr. carleton was standing close beside her. "are you not trying your eyes?" said he. the words were nothing, but the tone was a great deal, there was a kind of quiet intelligence in it. fleda looked up, and something in the clear steady self-reliant eye she met wrought an instant change in her feeling. she met it a moment and then looked at her work again with nerves quieted. "cannot i persuade them to be of my mind?" said mr. carleton, bending down a little nearer to their sphere of action. "mr. carleton is unreasonable, to require more testimony of that this evening," said mr. thorn;--"his own must have been ill employed." fleda did not look up, but the absolute quietness of mr. carleton's manner could be felt; she felt it, almost with sympathetic pain. thorn immediately left them and took leave. "what are you searching for in the papers, mr. carleton?" said mrs. evelyn presently coming up to them. "i was looking for the steamers, mrs. evelyn." "how soon do you think of bidding us good-bye?" "i do not know, ma'am," he answered coolly--"i expect my mother." mrs. evelyn walked back to her sofa. but in the space of two minutes she came over to the centre-table again, with an open magazine in her hand. "mr. carleton," said the lady, "you must read this for me and tell me what you think of it, will you sir? i have been shewing it to mr. stackpole and he can't see any beauty in it, and i tell him it is his fault and there is some serious want in his composition. now i want to know what you will say to it." "an arbiter, mrs. evelyn, should be chosen by both parties." "read it and tell me what you think!" repeated the lady, walking away to leave him opportunity. mr. carleton looked it over. "that is something pretty," he said putting it before fleda. mrs. evelyn was still at a distance. "what do you think of that print for trying the eyes?" said fleda laughing as she took it. but he noticed that her colour rose a little. "how do you like it?" "i like it,--pretty well," said fleda rather hesitatingly. "you have seen it before?" "why?" fleda said, with a look up at him at once a little startled and a little curious;--"what makes you say so?" "because--pardon me--you did not read it." "oh," said fleda laughing, but colouring at the same time very frankly, "i can tell how i like some things without reading them very carefully." mr. carleton looked at her, and then took the magazine again. "what have you there, mr. carleton?" said florence. "a piece of english on which i was asking this lady's opinion, miss evelyn." "now, mr. carleton!" exclaimed constance jumping up,--"i am going to ask you to decide a quarrel between fleda and me about a point of english"-- "hush, constance!" said her mother,--"i want to speak to mr. carleton--mr. carleton, how do you like it?" "like what, mamma?" said florence. "a piece i gave mr. carleton to read. mr. carleton, tell how you like it, sir." "but what is it, mamma?" "a piece of poetry in an old excelsior--'the spirit of the fireside.' mr. carleton, won't you read it aloud, and let us all hear--but tell me first what you think of it." "it has pleased me particularly, mrs. evelyn." "mr. stackpole says he does not understand it, sir." "fanciful," said mr. stackpole,--"it's a little fanciful--and i can't quite make out what the fancy is." "it has been the misfortune of many good things before not to be prized, mr. stackpole," said the lady funnily. "true, ma'am," said that gentleman rubbing his chin--"and the converse is also true unfortunately,--and with a much wider application." "there is a peculiarity of mental development or training," said mr. carleton, "which must fail of pleasing many minds because of their wanting the corresponding key of nature or experience. some literature has a hidden freemasonry of its own." "very hidden indeed!" said mr. stackpole;--"the cloud is so thick that i can't see the electricity!" "mr. carleton," said mrs. evelyn laughing, "i take that remark as a compliment, sir. i have always appreciated that writer's pieces--i enjoy them very much." "well, won't you please read it, mr. carleton?" said florence, "and let us know what we are talking about." mr. carleton obeyed, standing where he was by the centre-table. "by the old hearthstone a spirit dwells, the child of bygone years,-- he lieth hid the stones amid, and liveth on smiles and tears. "but when the night is drawing on, and the fire burns clear and bright, he cometh out and walketh about, in the pleasant grave twilight. "he goeth round on tiptoe soft, and scanneth close each face; if one in the room be sunk in gloom, by him he taketh his place. "and then with fingers cool and soft, (their touch who does not know) with water brought from the well of thought, that was dug long years ago, "he layeth his hand on the weary eyes-- they are closed and quiet now;-- and he wipeth away the dust of the day which had settled on the brow. "and gently then he walketh away and sits in the corner chair; and the closed eyes swim--it seemeth to _him_ the form that once sat there. "and whispered words of comfort and love fall sweet on the ear of sorrow;-- 'why weepest thou?--thou art troubled now, but there cometh a bright to-morrow. "'we too have passed over life's wild stream in a frail and shattered boat, but the pilot was sure--and we sailed secure when we seemed but scarce afloat. "'though tossed by the rage of waves and wind, the bark held together still,-- one arm was strong--it bore us along, and has saved from every ill.' "the spirit returns to his hiding-place, but his words have been like balm. the big tears start--but the fluttering heart is soothed and softened and calm." "i remember that," said florence;--"it is beautiful." "who's the writer?" said mr. stackpole. "i don't know," said mrs. evelyn,--"it is signed 'hugh'--there have been a good many of his pieces in the excelsior for a year past--and all of them pretty." "hugh!" exclaimed edith springing forward,--"that's the one that wrote the chestnuts!--fleda, won't you read mr. carleton the chestnuts?" "why no, edith, i think not." "ah do! i like it so much, and i want him to hear it,--and you know mamma says they're all pretty. won't you?" "my dear edith, you have heard it once already to day." "but i want you to read it for me again." "let me have it, miss edith," said mr. carleton smiling,--"i will read it for you." "ah but it would be twice as good if you could hear her read it," said edith, fluttering over the leaves of the magazine,--"she reads it so well. it's so funny--about the coffee and buckwheat cakes." "what is that, edith?" said her mother. "something mr. carleton is going to read for me, mamma." "don't you trouble mr. carleton." "it won't trouble him, mamma--he promised of his own accord." "let us all have the benefit of it, mr. carleton," said the lady. it is worthy of remark that fleda's politeness utterly deserted her during the reading of both this piece and the last. she as near as possible turned her back upon the reader. "merrily sang the crickets forth one fair october night;-- and the stars looked down, and the northern crown gave its strange fantastic light. "a nipping frost was in the air, on flowers and grass it fell; and the leaves were still on the eastern hill as if touched by a fairy spell. "to the very top of the tall nut-trees the frost-king seemed to ride; with his wand he stirs the chestnut burs, and straight they are opened wide. "and squirrels and children together dream of the coming winter's hoard; and many, i ween, are the chestnuts seen in hole or in garret stored. "the children are sleeping in feather-beds-- poor bun in his mossy nest,-- _he_ courts repose with his tail on his nose. on the others warm blankets rest. "late in the morning the sun gets up from behind the village spire; and the children dream, that the first red gleam is the chestnut trees on fire! "the squirrel had on when he first awoke all the clothing he could command; and his breakfast was light--he just took a bite of an acorn that lay at hand; "and then he was off to the trees to work;-- while the children some time it takes to dress and to eat what _they_ think meet of coffee and buckwheat cakes. "the sparkling frost when they first go out, lies thick upon all around; and earth and grass, as they onward pass, give a pleasant crackling sound. "o there is a heap of chestnuts, see!' cried the youngest of the train; for they came to a stone where the squirrel had thrown what he meant to pick up again. "and two bright eyes from the tree o'erhead, looked down at the open bag where the nuts went in--and so to begin, almost made his courage flag. "away on the hill, outside the wood, three giant trees there stand; and the chestnuts bright that hang in sight, are eyed by the youthful band. "and one of their number climbs the tree, and passes from bough to bough,-- and the children run--for with pelting fun the nuts fall thickly now. "some of the burs are still shut tight,-- some open with chestnuts three,-- and some nuts fall with no burs at all-- smooth, shiny, as nuts should be. "o who can tell what fun it was to see the prickly shower! to feel what a whack on head or back. was within a chestnut's power!-- "to run beneath the shaking tree, and then to scamper away; and with laughing shout to dance about the grass where the chestnuts lay. "with flowing dresses, and blowing hair, and eyes that no shadow knew,-- like the growing light of a morning bright--- the dawn of the summer blue! "the work was ended--the trees were stripped-- the children were 'tired of play.' and they forgot (but the squirrel did not) the wrong they had done that day." whether it was from the reader's enjoyment or good giving of these lines, or from edith's delight in them, he was frequently interrupted with bursts of laughter. "i can understand _that_" said mr. stackpole, "without any difficulty." "you are not lost in the mysteries of chestnuting in open daylight," said mrs. evelyn. "mr. carleton," said edith, "wouldn't you have taken the squirrel's chestnuts?" "i believe i should, miss edith,--if i had not been hindered." "but what would have hindered you? don't you think it was right?" "ask your friend miss ringgan what she thinks of it," said he smiling. "now mr. carleton," said constance as he threw down the magazine, "will you decide that point of english between miss ringgan and me?" "i should like to hear the pleadings on both sides, miss constance." "well, fleda, will you agree to submit it to mr. carleton?" "i must know by what standards mr. carleton will be guided before i agree to any such thing," said fleda. "standards! but aren't you going to trust anybody in anything without knowing what standards they go by?" "would that be a safe rule to follow in general?" said fleda smiling. "you won't be a true woman if you don't follow it, sooner or later, my dear fleda," said mrs. evelyn. "every woman must." "the later the better, ma'am, i cannot help thinking." "you will change your mind," said mrs. evelyn complacently. "mamma's notions, mr. stackpole, would satisfy any man's pride, when she is expatiating upon the subject of woman's dependence," said florence. "the dependence of affection," said mrs. evelyn. "of course! it's their lot. affection always leads a true woman to merge her separate judgment, on anything, in the judgment of the beloved object." "ay," said fleda laughing,--"suppose her affection is wasted on an object that has none?" "my dear fleda!" said mrs. evelyn with a funny expression,--"that can never be, you know--don't you remember what your favourite longfellow says--'affection never is wasted'?--florence, my love, just hand me 'evangeline' there--i want you to listen to it, mr. stackpole--here it is-- 'talk not of wasted affection; affection never was wasted; if it enrich not the heart of another, its waters returning back to their springs shall fill them full of refreshment. that which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.'" "how very plain it is that was written by a man!" said fleda. "why?" said mr. carleton laughing. "i always thought it was so exquisite!" said florence. "_i_ was so struck with it," said constance, "that i have been looking ever since for an object to waste _my_ affections upon." "hush, constance!" said her mother. "don't you like it, mr. carleton?" "i should like to hear miss ringgan's commentary," said mr. stackpole;--" i can't anticipate it. i should have said the sentiment was quite soft and tender enough for a woman." "don't you agree with it, mr. carleton," repeated mrs. evelyn. "i beg leave to second mr. stackpole's motion," he said smiling. "fleda my dear, you must explain yourself,--the gentlemen are at a stand." "i believe, mrs. evelyn," said fleda smiling and blushing,--i am of the mind of the old woman who couldn't bear to see anything wasted." "but the assertion is that it _isn't_ wasted," said mr. stackpole. "'that which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain,'" said mrs. evelyn. "yes, to flood and lay waste the fair growth of nature," said fleda with a little energy, though her colour rose and rose higher. "did it never occur to you, mrs. evelyn, that the streams which fertilize as they flow do but desolate if their course be checked?" "but your objection lies only against the author's figure," said mr. stackpole;--"come to the fact." "i was speaking as he did, sir, of the fact under the figure--i did not mean to separate them." both the gentlemen were smiling, though with very different expression. "perhaps," said mr. carleton, "the writer was thinking of a gentler and more diffusive flow of kind feeling, which however it may meet with barren ground and raise no fruit there, is sure in due time to come back, heaven-refined, to refresh and replenish its source." "perhaps so," said fleda with a very pleased answering look,--"i do not recollect how it is brought in--i may have answered rather mrs. evelyn than mr. longfellow." "but granting that it is an error," said mr. stackpole, "as you understood it,--what shews it to have been made by a man?" "its utter ignorance of the subject, sir." "you think _they_ never waste their affections?" said he. "by no means! but i think they rarely waste so much in any one direction as to leave them quite impoverished." "mr. carleton, how do you bear that, sir?" said mrs. evelyn. "will you let such an assertion pass unchecked?" "i would not if i could help it, mrs. evelyn." "that isn't saying much for yourself," said constance;--"but fleda my dear, where did you get such an experience of waste and desolation?" "oh, 'man is a microcosm,' you know," said fleda lightly. "but you make it out that only one-half of mankind can appropriate that axiom," said mr. stackpole. "how can a woman know _men's_ hearts so well?" "on the principle that the whole is greater than a part?" said mr. carleton smiling. "i'll sleep upon that before i give my opinion," said mr. stackpole. "mrs. evelyn, good-evening!--" "well mr. carleton!" said constance, "you have said a great deal for women's minds." "some women's minds," he said with a smile. "and some men's minds," said fleda. "i was speaking only in the general." her eye half unconsciously reiterated her meaning as she shook hands with mr. carleton. and without speaking a word for other people to hear, his look and smile in return were more than an answer. fleda sat for some time after he was gone trying to think what it was in eye and lip which had given her so much pleasure. she could not make out anything but approbation,--the look of loving approbation that one gives to a good child; but she thought it had also something of that quiet intelligence--a silent communication of sympathy which the others in company could not share. she was roused from her reverie by mrs. evelyn. "fleda my dear, i am writing to your aunt lucy--have you any message to send?" "no mrs. evelyn--i wrote myself to-day." and she went back to her musings. "i am writing about you, fleda," said mrs. evelyn, again in a few minutes. "giving a good account, i hope, ma'am," said fleda smiling. "i shall tell her i think sea-breezes have an unfavourable effect upon you," said mrs. evelyn;--"that i am afraid you are growing pale; and that you have clearly expressed yourself in favour of a garden at queechy rather than any lot in the city--or anywhere else;--so she had better send for you home immediately." fleda tried to find out what the lady really meant; but mrs. evelyn's delighted amusement did not consist with making the matter very plain. fleda's questions did nothing but aggravate the cause of them, to her own annoyance; so she was fain at last to take her light and go to her own room. she looked at her flowers again with a renewal of the first pleasure and of the quieting influence the giver of them had exercised over her that evening; thought again how very kind it was of him to send them, and to choose them so; how strikingly he differed from other people; how glad she was to have seen him again, and how more than glad that he was so happily changed from his old self. and then from that change and the cause of it, to those higher, more tranquilizing, and sweetening influences that own no kindred with earth's dust and descend like the dew of heaven to lay and fertilize it. and when she laid herself down to sleep it was with a spirit grave but simply happy; every annoyance and unkindness as unfelt now as ever the parching heat of a few hours before when the stars are abroad. chapter xxxvii. a snake bedded himself under the threshold of a country house. l'estrange. to fleda's very great satisfaction mr. thorn was not seen again for several days. it would have been to her very great comfort too if he could have been permitted to die out of mind as well as out of sight; but he was brought up before her "lots of times," till poor fleda almost felt as if she was really in the moral neighbourhood of the dead sea, every natural growth of pleasure was so withered under the barren spirit of raillery. sea-breezes were never so disagreeable since winds blew; and nervous and fidgety again whenever mr. carleton was present, fleda retreated to her work and the table and withdrew herself as much as she could from notice and conversation; feeling humbled,--feeling sorry and vexed and ashamed, that such ideas should have been put into her head, the absurdity of which, she thought, was only equalled by their needlessness. "as much as she could" she withdrew; but that was not entirely; now and then interest made her forget herself, and quitting her needle she would give eyes and attention to the principal speaker as frankly as he could have desired. bad weather and bad roads for those days put riding out of the question. one morning she was called down to see a gentleman, and came eschewing in advance the expected image of mr. thorn. it was a very different person. "charlton rossitur! my dear charlton, how do you do? where did you come from?" "you had better ask me what i have come for," he said laughing as he shook hands with her. "what have you come for?" "to carry you home." "home!" said fleda. "i am going up there for a day or two, and mamma wrote me i had better act as your escort, which of course i am most willing to do. see what mamma says to you." "when are you going, charlton?" said fleda as she broke the seal of the note he gave her. "to-morrow morning." "that is too sudden a notice, capt. rossitur," said mrs. evelyn. "fleda will hurry herself out of her colour, and then your mother will say there is something in sea-breezes that isn't good for her; and then she will never trust her within reach of them again,--which i am sure miss ringgan would be sorry for." fleda took her note to the window, half angry with herself that a kind of banter in which certainly there was very little wit should have power enough to disturb her. but though the shaft might be a slight one it was winged with a will; the intensity of mrs. evelyn's enjoyment in her own mischief gave it all the force that was wanting. fleda's head was in confusion; she read her aunt's note three times over before she had made up her mind on any point respecting it. "my dearest fleda, charlton is coming home for a day or two--hadn't you better take the opportunity to return with him? i feel as if you had been long away, my dear child--don't you feel so too? your uncle is very desirous of seeing you; and as for hugh and me we are but half ourselves. i would not still say a word about your coming home if it were for your good to stay; but i fancy from something in mrs. evelyn's letter that queechy air will by this time do you good again; and opportunities of making the journey are very uncertain. my heart has grown lighter since i gave it leave to expect you. yours, my darling, l. r. "p.s. i will write to mrs. e. soon." "what string has pulled these wires that are twitching me home?" thought fleda, as her eyes went over and over the words which the feeling of the lines of her face would alone have told her were unwelcome. and why unwelcome?--"one likes to be moved by fair means and not by foul," was the immediate answer. "and besides, it is very disagreeable to be taken by surprise. whenever, in any matter of my staying or going, did aunt lucy have any wish but my pleasure?" fleda mused a little while; and then with a perfect understanding of the machinery that had been at work, though an extremely vague and repulsed notion of the spring that had moved it, she came quietly out from her window and told charlton she would go with him. "but not to-morrow?" said mrs. evelyn composedly. "you will not hurry her off so soon as that, capt. rossitur?" "furloughs are the stubbornest things in the world, mrs. evelyn; there is no spirit of accommodation about them. mine lies between to-morrow morning and one other morning some two days thereafter; and you might as soon persuade atlas to change his place. will you be ready, coz?" "i will be ready," said fleda; and her cousin departed. "now my dear fleda" said mrs. evelyn, but it was with that funny face, as she saw fleda standing thoughtfully before the fire,--you must be very careful in getting your things together--" "why, mrs. evelyn?" "i am afraid you will leave something behind you, my love." "i will take care of that, ma'am, and that i may i will go and see about it at once." very busy till dinner-time; she would not let herself stop to think about anything. at dinner mr. evelyn openly expressed his regrets for her going and his earnest wishes that she would at least stay till the holidays were over. "don't you know fleda better, papa," said florence, "than to try to make her alter her mind? when she says a thing is determined upon, i know there is nothing to do but to submit, with as good a grace as you can." "i tried to make capt. rossitur leave her a little longer," said mrs. evelyn; "but he says furloughs are immovable, and his begins to-morrow morning--so he was immovable too. i should keep her notwithstanding, though, if her aunt lucy hadn't sent for her." "well see what she wants, and come back again," said mr. evelyn. "thank you, sir," said fleda smiling gratefully,--"i think not this winter." "there are two or three of my friends that will be confoundedly taken aback," said mr. evelyn, carefully helping himself to gravy. "i expect that an immediate depopulation of new york will commence," said constance,--"and go on till the heights about queechy are all thickly settled with elegant country-seats,--which is the conventional term for a species of mouse trap!" "hush, you baggage!" said her father. "fleda, i wish you could spare her a little of your common-sense, to go through the world with." "papa thinks, you see, my dear, that you have _more than enough_--which is not perhaps precisely the compliment he intended." "i take the full benefit of his and yours," said fleda smiling. after dinner she had just time to run down to the library to bid dr. gregory good-bye; her last walk in the city. it wasn't a walk she enjoyed much. "going to-morrow," said he. "why i am going to boston in a week--you had better stay and go with me." "i can't now, uncle orrin--i am dislodged--and you know there is nothing to do then but to go." "come and stay with me till next week." but fleda said it was best not, and went home to finish her preparations. she had no chance till late, for several gentlemen spent the evening with them. mr. carleton was there part of the time, but he was one of the first to go; and fleda could not find an opportunity to say that she should not see him again. her timidity would not allow her to make one. but it grieved her. at last she escaped to her own room, where most of her packing was still to do. by the time half the floor and all the bed was strewn with neat-looking piles of things, the varieties of her modest wardrobe, florence and constance came in to see and talk with her, and sat down on the floor too; partly perhaps because the chairs were all bespoken in the service of boxes and baskets, and partly to follow what seemed to be the prevailing style of things. "what do you suppose has become of mr. thorn?" said constance. "i have a presentiment that you will find him cracking nuts sociably with mr. rossitur or drinking one of aunt lucy's excellent cups of coffee--in comfortable expectation of your return." "if i thought that i should stay here," said fleda. "my dear, those were _my_ cups of coffee!" "i wish i could make you think it then," said constance. "but you are glad to go home, aren't you, fleda?" said florence. "she isn't!" said her sister. "she knows mamma contemplates making a grand entertainment of all the jews as soon as she is gone. what _does_ mamma mean by that, fleda?--i observe you comprehend her with most invariable quickness." "i should be puzzled to explain all that your mother means," said fleda gently, as she went on bestowing her things in the trunk. "no--i am not particularly glad to go home--but i fancy it is time. i am afraid i have grown too accustomed to your luxury of life, and want knocking about to harden me a little." "harden you!" said constance. "my dear fleda, you are under a delusion. why should any one go through an indurating process?--will you inform me?" "i don't say that every one should," said fleda,--"but isn't it well for those whose lot does not lie among soft things?" there was extreme sweetness and a touching insinuation in her manner, and both the young ladies were silent for sometime thereafter watching somewhat wistfully the gentle hands and face that were so quietly busy; till the room was cleared again and looked remarkably empty with fleda's trunk standing in the middle of it. and then reminding them that she wanted some sleep to fit her for the hardening process and must therefore send them away, she was left alone. one thing fleda had put off till then--the care of her bunch of flowers. they were beautiful still. they had given her a very great deal of pleasure; and she was determined they should be left to no servant's hands to be flung into the street. if it had been summer she was sure she could have got buds from them; as it was, perhaps she might strike some cuttings; at all events they should go home with her. so carefully taking them out of the water and wrapping the ends in some fresh earth she had got that very afternoon from her uncle's garden, fleda bestowed them in the corner of her trunk that she had left for them, and went to bed, feeling weary in body, and in mind to the last degree quiet. in the same mind and mood she reached queechy the next afternoon. it was a little before january--just the same time that she had come home last year. as then, it was a bright day, and the country was again covered thick with the unspotted snow; but fleda forgot to think how bright and fresh it was. somehow she did not feel this time quite so glad to find herself there. it had never occurred to her so strongly before that queechy could want anything. this feeling flew away before the first glimpse of her aunt's smile, and for half an hour after fleda would have certified that queechy wanted nothing. at the end of that time came in mr. rossitur. his greeting of charlton was sufficiently unmarked; but eye and lip wakened when he turned to fleda. "my dear child," he said, holding her face in both his hands,--how lovely you have grown!" "that's only because you have forgotten her, father," said hugh laughing. [illustration: "my dear child," he said, holding her face in both his hands.] it was a very lovely face just then. mr. rossitur gazed into it a moment and again kissed first one cheek and then the other, and then suddenly withdrew his hands and turned away, with an air--fleda could not tell what to make of it--an air that struck her with an immediate feeling of pain; somewhat as if for some cause or other he had nothing to do with her or her loveliness. and she needed not to see him walk the room for three minutes to know that michigan agencies had done nothing to lighten his brow or uncloud his character. if this had wanted confirmation fleda would have found it in her aunt's face. she soon discovered, even in the course of the pleasant talkative hours before supper, that it was not brightened as she had expected to find it by her uncle's coming home; and her ears now caught painfully the occasional long breath, but half smothered, which told of a burden upon the heart but half concealed. fleda supposed that mr. rossitur's business affairs at the west must have disappointed him; and resolved not to remember that michigan was in the map of north america. still they talked on, through the afternoon and evening, all of them except him; he was moody and silent. fleda felt the cloud overshadow sadly her own gayety; but mrs. rossitur and hugh were accustomed to it, and charlton was much too tall a light to come under any external obscuration whatever. he was descanting brilliantly upon the doings and prospects at fort hamilton where he was stationed, much to the entertainment of his mother and brother. fleda could not listen to him while his father was sitting lost in something not half so pleasant as sleep in the corner of the sofa. her eyes watched him stealthily till she could not bear it any longer. she resolved to bring the power of her sunbeam to bear, and going round seated herself on the sofa close by him and laid her hand on his arm. he felt it immediately. the arm was instantly drawn away to be put around her and fleda was pressed nearer to his side, while the other hand took hers; and his lips were again on her forehead. "and how do you like me for a farmer, uncle rolf?" she said looking up at him laughingly, and then fearing immediately that she had chosen her subject ill. not from any change in his countenance however,--that decidedly brightened up. he did not answer at once. "my child--you make me ashamed of mankind!" "of the dominant half of them, sir, do you mean?" said charlton,--"or is your observation a sweeping one?" "it would sweep the greatest part of the world into the background, sir," answered his father dryly, "if its sense were the general rule." "and what has fleda done to be such a besom of desolation?" fleda's laugh set everybody else a going, and there was immediately more life and common feeling in the society than had been all day. they all seemed willing to shake off a weight, and even fleda, in the endeavour to chase the gloom that hung over others, as it had often happened, lost half of her own. "but still i am not answered," said charlton when they were grave again. "what has fleda done to put such a libel upon mankind?" "you should call it a _label_, as dr. quackenboss does," said fleda in a fresh burst,--"he says he never would stand being labelled!"-- "but come back to the point," said charlton,--"i want to know what is the _label_ in this case, that fleda's doings put upon those of other people?" "insignificance," said his father dryly. "i should like to know how bestowed," said charlton. "don't enlighten him, uncle rolf," said fleda laughing,--"let my doings remain in safe obscurity,--please!" "i stand as a representative of mankind," said charlton, "and i demand an explanation." "look at what this slight frame and delicate nerves have been found equal to, and then tell me if the broad shoulders of all your mess would have borne half the burden or their united heads accomplished a quarter the results." he spoke with sufficient depth of meaning, though now with no unpleasant expression. but charlton notwithstanding rather gathered himself up. "o uncle rolf," said fleda gently,--"nerves and muscles haven't much to do with it--after all you know i have just served the place of a mouth-piece. seth was the head, and good earl douglass the hand." "i am ashamed of myself and of mankind," mr. rossitur repeated, "when i see what mere weakness can do, and how proudly valueless strength is contended to be. you are looking, capt. rossitur,--but after all a cap and plume really makes a man taller only to the eye." "when i have flung my plume in anybody's face, sir," said charlton rather hotly, "it will be time enough to throw it back again." mrs. rossitur put her hand on his arm and looked her remonstrance. "are you glad to be home again, dear fleda?" she said turning to her. but fleda was making some smiling communications to her uncle and did not seem to hear. "fleda does it seem pleasant to be here again?" "very pleasant, dear aunt lucy--though i have had a very pleasant visit too." "on the whole you do not wish you were at this moment driving out of town in mr. thorn's cabriolet?" said her cousin. "not in the least," said fleda coolly. "how did you know i ever did such a thing?" "i wonder what should bring mr. thorn to queechy at this time of year," said hugh. fleda started at this confirmation of constance's words; and what was very odd, she could not get rid of the impression that mr. rossitur had started too. perhaps it was only her own nerves, but he had certainly taken away the arm that was round her. "i suppose he has followed miss ringgan," said charlton gravely. "no," said hugh, "he has been here some little time." "then he preceded her, i suppose, to see and get the sleighs in order." "he did not know i was coming," said fleda. "didn't!" "no--i have not seen him for several days." "my dear little cousin," said charlton laughing,--"you are not a witch in your own affairs, whatever you may be in those of other people." "why, charlton?" "you are no adept in the art of concealment." "i have nothing to conceal," said fleda. "how do you know he is here, hugh?" "i was anxiously asked the other day," said hugh with a slight smile, "whether you had come home; and then told that mr. thorn was in queechy. there is no mistake about it, for my imformant had actually seen him, and given him the direction to mr. plumfield's, for which he was inquiring." "the direction to mr. plumfield's!" said fleda. "what's your old friend mr. carleton doing in new york?" said charlton. "is he there still?" said mrs. rossitur. "as large as life," answered her son. "which, though you might not suppose it, aunt lucy, is about the height of capt. rossitur, with--i should judge--a trifle less weight." "your eyes are observant!" said charlton. "of a good many things," said fleda lightly. "he is _not_ my height by half an inch," said charlton;--"i am just six feet without my boots." "an excellent height!" said fleda,--"'your six feet was ever the only height.'" "who said that?" said charlton. "isn't it enough that i say it?" "what's he staying here for?" "i don't know really," said fleda. "it's very difficult to tell what people do things for." "have you seen much of him?" said mrs. rossitur. "yes ma'am--a good deal--he was often at mrs. evelyn's." "is he going to marry one of her daughters?" "oh no!" said fleda smiling,--"he isn't thinking of such a thing;--not in america--i don't know what he may do in england." "no!" said charlton.--"i suppose he would think himself contaminated by matching with any blood in this hemisphere." "you do him injustice," said fleda, colouring;--"you do not know him, charlton." "you do?" "much better than that." "and he is not one of the most touch-me-not pieces of english birth and wealth that ever stood upon their own dignity?" "not at all!" said fleda;--"how people may be misunderstood!--he is one of the most gentle and kind persons i ever saw." "to you!" "to everybody that deserves it." "humph!--and not proud?" "no, not as you understand it,"--and she felt it was very difficult to make him understand it, as the discovery involved a very offensive implication;--"he is too fine a character to be proud." "that _is_ arguing in a circle with a vengeance!" said charlton. "i know what you are thinking of," said fleda, "and i suppose it passes for pride with a great many people who cannot comprehend it--he has a singular power of quietly rebuking wrong, and keeping impertinence at a distance--where capt. rossitur, for instance, i suppose, would throw his cap in a man's face, mr. carleton's mere silence would make the offender doff his and ask pardon." the manner in which this was said precluded all taking offence. "well," said charlton shrugging his shoulders,--"then i don't know what pride is--that's all!" "take care, capt. rossitur," said fleda laughing,--"i have heard of such a thing as american pride before now." "certainly!" said charlton, "and i'm quite willing--but it never reaches quite such a towering height on our side the water." "i am sure i don't know how that may be," said fleda, "but i know i have heard a lady, an enlightened, gentle-tempered american lady, so called,--i have heard her talk to a poor irish woman with whom she had nothing in the world to do, in a style that moved my indignation--it stirred my blood!--and there was nothing whatever to call it out. 'all the blood of all the howards,' i hope would not have disgraced itself so." "what business have you to 'hope' anything about it?" "none--except from the natural desire to find what one has a right to look for. but indeed i wouldn't take the blood of all the howards for any security--pride as well as high-breeding is a thing of natural not adventitious growth--it belongs to character, not circumstance." "do you know that your favourite mr. carleton is nearly connected with those same howards, and quarters their arms with his own?" "i have a very vague idea of the dignity implied in that expression of 'quartering arms,' which comes so roundly out of your mouth, charlton," said fleda laughing. "no, i didn't know it. but in general i am apt to think that pride is a thing which reverses the usual rules of architecture, and builds highest on the narrowest foundations." "what do you mean?" "never mind," said fleda,--"if a meaning isn't plain it isn't worth looking after. but it will not do to measure pride by its supposed materials. it does not depend on them but on the individual. you everywhere see people assert that most of which they feel least sure, and then it is easy for them to conclude that where there is so much more of the reality there must be proportionably more of the assertion. i wish some of our gentlemen, and ladies, who talk of pride where they see and can see nothing but the habit of wealth--i wish they could see the universal politeness with which mr. carleton returns the salutes of his inferiors. not more respectfully they lift their hats to him than he lifts his to them--unless when he speaks." "you have seen it?" "often." "where?" "in england--at his own place--among his own servants and dependents. i remember very well--it struck even my childish eyes." "well, after all, that is nothing still but a refined kind of haughtiness." "it is a kind that i wish some of our americans would copy," said fleda. "but dear fleda," said mrs. rossitur, "all americans are not like that lady you were talking of--it would be very unfair to make her a sample. i don't think i ever heard any one speak so in my life--you never heard me speak so." "dear aunt lucy!--no,--i was only giving instance for instance. i have no idea that mr. carleton is a type of englishmen in general--i wish he were. but i think it is the very people that cry out against superiority, who are the most happy to assert their own where they can; the same jealous feeling that repines on the one hand, revenges itself on the other." "superiority of what kind?" said charlton stiffly. "of any kind--superiority of wealth, or refinement, or name, or standing. now it does not follow that an englishman is proud because he keeps liveried servants, and it by no means follows that an american lacks the essence of haughtiness because he finds fault with him for doing so." "i dare say some of our neighbours think we are proud," said hugh, "because we use silver forks instead of steel." "because we're _too good for steel forks_, you ought to say," said fleda. "i am sure they think so. i have been given to understand as much. barby, i believe, has a good opinion of us and charitably concludes that we mean right; but some other of our country friends would think i was far gone in uppishness if they knew that i never touch fish with a steel knife; and it wouldn't mend the matter much to tell them that the combination of flavours is disagreeable to me--it hardly suits the doctrine of liberty and equality that my palate should be so much nicer than theirs." "absurd!" said charlton. "very," said fleda; "but on which side, in all probability, is the pride?" "it wasn't for liveried servants that i charged mr. carleton," said her cousin. "how do the evelyns like this paragon of yours?" "o everybody likes him," said fleda smiling,--"except you and your friend mr. thorn." "thorn don't like him, eh?" "i think not." "what do you suppose is the reason?" said charlton gravely. "i don't think mr. thorn is particularly apt to like anybody," said fleda, who knew very well the original cause of both exceptions but did not like to advert to it. "apparently you don't like mr. thorn?" said mr. rossitur, speaking for the first time. "i don't know who does, sir, much,--except his mother." "what is he?" "a man not wanting in parts, sir, and with considerable force of character,--but i am afraid more for ill than for good. i should be very sorry to trust him with anything dear to me." "how long were you in forming that opinion?" said charlton looking at her curiously. "it was formed, substantially, the first evening i saw him, and i hare never seen cause to alter it since." the several members of the family therewith fell into a general muse, with the single exception of hugh, whose eyes and thoughts seemed to be occupied with fleda's living presence. mr. rossitur then requested that breakfast might be ready very early--at six o'clock. "six o'clock!" exclaimed mrs. rossitur. "i have to take a long ride, on business, which must be done early in the day." "when will you be back?" "not before night-fall." "but going on _another_ business journey!" said mrs. rossitur. "you have but just these few hours come home from one." "cannot breakfast be ready?" "yes, uncle rolf," said fleda bringing her bright face before him,--"ready at half-past five if you like--now that _i_ am to the fore, you know." he clasped her to his breast and kissed her again; but with a face so very grave that fleda was glad nobody else saw it. then charlton went, averring that he wanted at least a night and a half of sleep between two such journeys as the one of that day and the one before him on the next,--especially as he must resign himself to going without anything to eat. him also fleda laughingly promised that precisely half an hour before the stage time a cup of coffee and a roll should be smoking on the table, with whatever substantial appendages might be within the bounds of possibility, or the house. "i will pay you for that beforehand with a kiss," said he. "you will do nothing of the kind," said fleda stepping back;--"a kiss is a favour taken, not given; and i am entirely ignorant what you have done to deserve it." "you make a curious difference between me and hugh," said charlton, half in jest, half in earnest. "hugh is my brother, capt. rossitur," said fleda smiling,--and that is an honour you never made any pretensions to." "come, you shall not say that any more," said he, taking the kiss that fleda had no mind to give him. half laughing, but with eyes that were all too ready for something else, she turned again to hugh when his brother had left the room and looked wistfully in his face, stroking back the hair from his temples with a caressing hand. "you are just as you were when i left you!--" she said, with lips that seemed too unsteady to say more, and remained parted. "i am afraid so are you," he replied;--"not a bit fatter. i hoped you would be." "what have you been smiling at so this evening?" "i was thinking how well you talked." "why hugh!--you should have helped me--i talked too much." "i would much rather listen," said hugh. "dear fleda, what a different thing the house is with you in it!" fleda said nothing, except an inexplicable little shake of her head which said a great many things; and then she and her aunt were left alone. mrs. rossitur drew her to her bosom with a look so exceeding fond that its sadness was hardly discernible. it was mingled however with an expression of some doubt. "what has made you keep so thin?" "i have been very well, aunt lucy,--thinness agrees with me." "are you glad to be home again, dear fleda?" "i am very glad to be with you, dear aunt lucy!" "but not glad to be home?" "yes i am," said fleda,--"but somehow--i don't know--i believe i have got a little spoiled--it is time i was at home i am sure.--i shall be quite glad after a day or two, when i have got into the works again. i am glad now, aunt lucy." mrs. rossitur seemed unsatisfied, and stroked the hair from fleda's forehead with an absent look. "what was there in new york that you were so sorry to leave?" "nothing ma'am, in particular,"--said fleda brightly,--"and i am not sorry, aunt lucy--i tell you i am a little spoiled with company and easy living--i am glad to be with you again." mrs. rossitur was silent. "don't you get up to uncle rolf's breakfast to-morrow, aunt lucy." "nor you." "i sha'n't unless i want to--but there'll be nothing for you to do, and you must just lie still. we will all have our breakfast together when charlton has his." "you are the veriest sunbeam that ever came into a house," said her aunt kissing her. chapter xxxviii. my flagging soul flies under her own pitch. dryden. fleda mused as she went up stairs whether the sun were a luminous body to himself or no, feeling herself at that moment dull enough. bright, was she, to others? nothing seemed bright to her. every old shadow was darker than ever. her uncle's unchanged gloom,--her aunt's unrested face,--hugh's unaltered delicate sweet look, which always to her fancy seemed to write upon his face, "passing away!"--and the thickening prospects whence sprang the miasm that infected the whole moral atmosphere--alas, yes!--"money is a good thing," thought fleda;--"and poverty need not be a bad thing, if people can take it right;--but if they take it wrong!--" with a very drooping heart indeed she went to the window. her old childish habit had never been forgotten; whenever the moon or the stars were abroad fleda rarely failed to have a talk with them from her window. she stood there now, looking out into the cold still night, with eyes just dimmed with tears--not that she lacked sadness enough, but she did lack spirit enough to cry. it was very still;--after the rattle and confusion of the city streets, that extent of snow-covered country where the very shadows were motionless--the entire absence of soil and of disturbance--the rest of nature--the breathlessness of the very wind--all preached a quaint kind of sermon to fleda. by the force of contrast they told her what should be;--and there was more yet,--she thought that by the force of example they shewed what might be. her eyes had not long travelled over the familiar old fields and fences before she came to the conclusion that she was home in good time,--she thought she had been growing selfish, or in danger of it; and she made up her mind she was glad to be back again among the rough things of life, where she could do so much to smooth them for others and her own spirit might grow to a polish it would never gain in the regions of ease and pleasure. "to do life's work!"--thought fleda clasping her hands,--"no matter where--and mine is here. i am glad i am in my place again--i was forgetting i had one." it was a face of strange purity and gravity that the moon shone upon, with no power to brighten as in past days; the shadows of life were upon the child's brow. but nothing to brighten it from within? one sweet strong ray of other light suddenly found its way through the shadows and entered her heart. "the lord reigneth! let the earth be glad!"--and then the moonbeams pouring down with equal ray upon all the unevennesses of this little world seemed to say the same thing over and over. even so! not less equally his providence touches all,--not less impartially his faithfulness guides. "the lord reigneth! let the earth be glad!" there was brightness in the moonbeams now that fleda could read this in them; she went to sleep, a very child again, with these words for her pillow. it was not six, and darkness yet filled the world, when mr. rossitur came down stairs and softly opened the sitting-room door. but the home fairy had been at work; he was greeted with such a blaze of cheerfulness as seemed to say what a dark place the world was everywhere but at home; his breakfast-table was standing ready, well set and well supplied; and even as he entered by one door fleda pushed open the other and came in from the kitchen, looking as if she had some strange spirit-like kindred with the cheery hearty glow which filled both rooms. "fleda!--you up at this hour!" "yes, uncle rolf," she said coming forward to put her hands upon his,--"you are not sorry to see me, i hope." but he did not say he was glad; and he did not speak at all; he busied himself gravely with some little matters of preparation for his journey. evidently the gloom of last night was upon him yet. but fleda had not wrought for praise, and could work without encouragement; neither step nor hand slackened, till all she and barby had made ready was in nice order on the table and she was pouring out a cup of smoking coffee. "you are not fit to be up," said mr. rossitur, looking at her,---"you are pale now, put yourself in that arm chair, fleda, and go to sleep--i will do this for myself." "no indeed, uncle rolf," she answered brightly,--"i have enjoyed getting breakfast very much at this out-of-the-way hour, and now i am going to have the pleasure of seeing you eat it. suppose you were to take a cup of coffee instead of my shoulder." he took it and sat down, but fleda found that the pleasure of seeing him was to be a very qualified thing. he ate like a business man, in unbroken silence and gravity; and her cheerful words and looks got no return. it became an effort at length to keep either bright. mr. rossitur's sole remarks during breakfast were to ask if charlton was going back that day, and if philetus was getting the horse ready. mr. skillcorn had been called in good time by barby at fleda's suggestion, and coming down stairs had opined discontentedly that "a man hadn't no right to be took out of bed in the morning afore he could see himself." but this, and barby's spirited reply, that "there was no chance of his doing _that_ at any time of day, so it was no use to wait,"--fleda did not repeat. her uncle was in no humour to be amused. she expected almost that he would go off without speaking to her. but he came up kindly to where she stood watching him. "you must bid me good-bye for all the family, uncle rolf, as i am the only one here," she said laughing. but she was sure that the embrace and kiss which followed were very exclusively for her. they made her face almost as sober as his own. "there will be a blessing for you," said he,--"if there is a blessing anywhere!" "if, uncle rolf?" said fleda, her heart swelling to her eyes. he turned away without answering her. fleda sat down in the easy chair then and cried. but that lasted very few minutes; she soon left crying for herself to pray for him, that he might have the blessing he did not know. that did not stop tears. she remembered the poor man sick of the palsy who was brought in by friends to be healed, and that "jesus seeing _their_ faith, said unto the sick of the palsy, 'son, thy sins be forgiven thee.'" it was a handle that faith took hold of and held fast while love made its petition. it was all she could do, she thought; _she_ never could venture to speak to her uncle on the subject. weary and tired, tears and longing at length lost themselves in sleep. when she awaked she found the daylight broadly come, little king in her lap, the fire, instead of being burnt out, in perfect preservation, and barby standing before it and looking at her. "you ha'n't got one speck o' good by _this_ journey to new york," was miss elster's vexed salutation. "do you think so?" said fleda rousing herself. "_i_ wouldn't venture to say as much as that, barby." "if you have, 'tain't in your cheeks," said barby decidedly. "you look just as if you was made of anything that wouldn't stand wear, and that isn't the way you used to look." "i have been up a good while without breakfast--my cheeks will be a better colour when i have had that, barby--they feel pale." the second breakfast was a cheerfuller thing. but when the second traveller was despatched, and the rest fell back upon their old numbers, fleda was very quiet again. it vexed her to be so, but she could not change her mood. she felt as if she had been whirled along in a dream and was now just opening her eyes to daylight and reality. and reality--she could not help it--looked rather dull after dreamland. she thought it was very well she was waked up; but it cost her some effort to appear so. and then she charged herself with ingratitude, her aunt and hugh were so exceedingly happy in her company. "earl douglass is quite delighted with the clover hay, fleda," said hugh, as the three sat at an early dinner. "is he?" said fleda. "yes,--you know he was very unwilling to cure it in your way--and he thinks there never was anything like it now." "did you ever see finer ham, fleda?" inquired her aunt. "mr. plumfield says it could not be better." "very good!" said fleda, whose thoughts had somehow got upon mr. carleton's notions about female education and were very busy with them. "i expected you would have remarked upon our potatoes, before now," said hugh. "these are the elephants--have you seen anything like them in new york?" "there cannot be more beautiful potatoes," said mrs. rossitur. "we had not tried any of them before you went away, fleda, had we?" "i don't know, aunt lucy!--no, i think not." "you needn't talk to fleda, mother," said hugh laughing,--"she is quite beyond attending to all such ordinary matters--her thoughts have learned to take a higher flight since she has been in new york." "it is time they were brought down then," said fleda smiling; "but they have not learned to fly out of sight of home, hugh." "where were they, dear fleda?" said her aunt. "i was thinking a minute ago of something i heard talked about in new york, aunt lucy; and afterwards i was trying to find out by what possible or imaginable road i had got round to it." "could you tell?" fleda said no, and tried to bear her part in the conversation. but she did not know whether to blame the subjects which had been brought forward, or herself, for her utter want of interest in them. she went into the kitchen feeling dissatisfied with both. "did you ever see potatoes that would beat them elephants?" said barby. "never, certainly," said fleda with a most involuntary smile. "i never did," said barby. "they beat all, for bigness and goodness both. i can't keep 'em together. there's thousands of 'em, and i mean to make philetus eat 'em for supper--such potatoes and milk is good enough for him, or anybody. the cow has gained on her milk wonderful, fleda, since she begun to have them roots fed out to her." "which cow?" said fleda. "which cow?--why--the blue cow--there ain't none of the others that's giving any, to speak of," said barby looking at her. "don't you know,--the cow you said them carrots should be kept for?" fleda half laughed, as there began to rise up before her the various magazines of vegetables, grain, hay, and fodder, that for many weeks had been deliciously distant from her imagination. "i made butter for four weeks, i guess, after you went away," barby went on;--"just come in here and see--and the carrots makes it as yellow and sweet as june--i churned as long as i had anything to churn, and longer; and now we live on cream--you can make some cheesecakes just as soon as you're a mind to,--see! ain't that doing pretty well?--and fine it is,--put your nose down to it--" "bravely, barby--and it is very sweet." "you ha'n't left nothing behind you in new york, have you?" said barby when they returned to the kitchen. "left anything! no,--what do you think i have left?" "i didn't know but you might have forgotten to pack up your memory," said barby dryly. fleda laughed; and then in walked mr. douglass. "how d'ye do?" said he. "got back again. i heerd you was hum, and so i thought i'd just step up and see. been getting along pretty well?" fleda answered, smiling internally at the wide distance between her "getting along" and his idea of it. "well the hay's first-rate!" said earl, taking off his hat and sitting down in the nearest chair;--"i've been feedin' it out, now, for a good spell, and i know what to think about it. we've been feedin' it out ever since some time this side o' the middle o' november;--i never see nothin' sweeter, and i don't want to see nothin' sweeter than it is! and the cattle eats it like may roses--they don't know how to thank you enough for it." "to thank _you_, mr. douglass," said fleda smiling. "no," said he in a decided manner,--"i don't want no thanks for it, and i don't deserve none! 'twa'n't thanks to none of _my_ fore-sightedness that the clover wa'n't served the old way. i didn't like new notions--and i never did like new notions! and i never see much good of 'em;--but i suppose there's some on 'em that ain't moon-shine--my woman says there is, and i suppose there is, and after this clover hay i'm willin' to allow that there is! it's as sweet as a posie if you smell to it,--and all of it's cured alike; and i think, fleda, there's a quarter more weight of it. i ha'n't proved it nor weighed it, but i've an eye and a hand as good as most folks', and i'll qualify to there being a fourth part more weight of it;--and it's a beautiful colour. the critters is as fond of it as you and i be of strawberries." "well that is satisfactory, mr. douglass," said fleda. "how is mrs. douglass? and catherine?" "i ha'n't heerd 'em sayin' nothin' about it," he said,--"and if there was anythin' the matter i suppose they'd let me know. there don't much go wrong in a man's house without his hearin' tell of it. so i think. maybe 'tain't the same in other men's houses. that's the way it is in mine." "mrs. douglass would not thank you," said fleda, wholly unable to keep from laughing. earl's mouth gave way a very little, and then he went on. "how be you?" he said. "you ha'n't gained much, as i see. i don't see but you're as poor as when you went away." "i am very well, mr. douglass." "i guess new york ain't the place to grow fat. well, fleda, there ha'n't been seen in the whole country, or by any man in it, the like of the crop of corn we took off that 'ere twenty-acre lot--they're all beat to hear tell of it--they won't believe me--seth plumfield ha'n't shewed as much himself--he says you're the best farmer in the state." "i hope he gives you part of the credit, mr. douglass;--how much was there? "i'll take my share of credit whenever i can get it," said earl, "and i think it's right to take it, as long as you ha'n't nothing to be ashamed of; but i won't take no more than my share; and i will say i thought we was a goin' to choke the corn to death when we seeded the field in that way.--well, there's better than two thousand bushel--more or less--and as handsome corn as i want to see;--there never was handsomer corn. would you let it go for five shillings?--there's a man i've heerd of wants the hull of it." "is that a good price, mr. douglass? why don't you ask mr. rossitur?" "do you s'pose mr. rossitur knows much about it?" inquired earl with a curious turn of feature, between sly and contemptuous. "the less he has to do with that heap of corn the bigger it'll be--that's my idee, _i_ ain't agoin' to ask him nothin'--you may ask him what you like to ask him--but i don't think he'll tell you much that'll make you and me wiser in the matter o' farmin'." "but now that he is at home, mr. douglass, i certainly cannot decide without speaking to him." "very good!" said earl uneasily,--"'tain't no affair of mine--as you like to have it so you'll have it--just as you please!--but now, fleda, there's another thing i want to speak to you about--i want you to let me take hold of that 'ere piece of swamp land and bring it in. i knew a man that fixed a piece of land like that and cleared nigh a thousand dollars off it the first year." "which piece?" said fleda. "why you know which 'tis--just the other side of the trees over there--between them two little hills. there's six or seven acres of it--nothin' in the world but mud and briars--will you let me take hold of it? i'll do the hull job if you'll give me half the profits for one year.--come over and look at it, and i'll tell you--come! the walk won't hurt you, and it ain't fur." all fleda's inclinations said no, but she thought it was not best to indulge them. she put on her hood and went off with him; and was treated to a long and most implicated detail of ways and means, from which she at length disentangled the rationale of the matter and gave mr. douglass the consent he asked for, promising to gain that of her uncle. the day was fair and mild, and in spite of weariness of body a certain weariness of mind prompted fleda when she had got rid of earl douglass, to go and see her aunt miriam. she went questioning with herself all the way for her want of good-will to these matters. true, they were not pleasant mind-work; but she tried to school herself into taking them patiently as good life-work. she had had too much pleasant company and enjoyed too much conversation, she said. it had unfitted her for home duties. mrs. plumfield, she knew, was no better. but her eye found no change for the worse. the old lady was very glad to see her, and very cheerful and kind as usual. "well are you glad to be home again?" said aunt miriam after a pause in the conversation. "everybody asks me that question," said fleda smiling. "perhaps for the same reason i did--because they thought you didn't look very glad." "i am glad--" said fleda,--"but i believe not so glad as i was last year." "why not "i suppose i had a pleasanter time, i have got a little spoiled, i believe, aunt miriam," fleda said with glistening eyes and an altering voice,--"i don't take up my old cares and duties kindly at first--i shall be myself again in a few days." aunt miriam looked at her with that fond, wistful, benevolent look which made fleda turn away. "what has spoiled you, love?" "oh!--easy living and pleasure, i suppose--" fleda said, but said with difficulty. "pleasure?"--said aunt miriam, putting one arm gently round her. fleda struggled with herself. "it is so pleasant, aunt miriam, to forget these money cares!--to lift one's eyes from the ground and feel free to stretch out one's hand--not to be obliged to think about spending sixpences, and to have one's mind at liberty for a great many things that i haven't time for here. and hugh--and aunt lucy--somehow things seem sad to me--" nothing could be more sympathizingly kind than the way in which aunt miriam brought fleda closer to her side and wrapped her in her arms. "i am very foolish--" fleda whispered,--"i am very wrong--i shall get over it--" "i am afraid, dear fleda," mrs. plumfield said after a pause,--"it isn't best for us always to be without sad things--though i cannot bear to see your dear little face look sad--but it wouldn't fit us for the work we have to do--it wouldn't fit us to stand where i stand now and look forward happily." "where you stand?" said fleda raising her head. "yes, and i would not be without a sorrow i have ever known. they are bitter now, when they are present,--but the sweet fruit comes after." "but what do you mean by 'where you stand'?" "on the edge of life." "you do not think so, aunt miriam!" fleda said with a terrified look. "you are not worse?" "i don't expect ever to be better," said mrs. plumfield with a smile. "nay, my love," she said, as fleda's head went down on her bosom again,--"not so! i do not wish it either, fleda. i do not expect to leave you soon, but i would not prolong the time by a day. i would not have spoken of it now if i had recollected myself,--but i am so accustomed to think and speak of it that it came out before i knew it.--my darling child, it is nothing to cry for." "i know it, aunt miriam." "then don't cry," whispered aunt miriam, when she had stroked fleda's head for five minutes. "i am crying for myself, aunt miriam," said fleda. "i shall be left alone." "alone, my dear child?" "yes--there is nobody but you that i feel i can talk to." she would have added that she dared not say a word to hugh for fear of troubling him. but that pain at her heart stopped her, and pressing her hands together she burst into bitter weeping. "nobody to talk to but me?" said mrs. plumfield after again soothing her for some time,--"what do you mean, dear?" "o--i can't say anything to them at home," said fleda with a forced effort after voice;--"and you are the only one i can look to for help--hugh never says anything--almost never--anything of that kind;--he would rather others should counsel him--" "there is one friend to whom you may always tell everything, with no fear of wearying him,--of whom you may at all times ask counsel without any danger of being denied,--more dear, more precious, more rejoiced in, the more he is sought unto. thou mayest lose friend after friend, and gain more than thou losest,--in that one." "i know it," said fleda;--"but dear aunt miriam, don't you think human nature longs for some human sympathy and help too?" "my sweet blossom!--yes--" said mrs. plumfield caressingly stroking her bowed head,--"but let him do what he will;--he hath said, 'i will never leave thee nor forsake thee.'" "i know that too," said fleda weeping. "how do people bear life that do not know it!" "or that cannot take the comfort of it. thou art not poor nor alone while thou hast him to go to, little fleda.--and you are not losing me yet, my child; you will have time, i think, to grow as well satisfied as i with the prospect." "is that possible,--for _others_?" said fleda. the mother sighed, as her son entered the room. he looked uncommonly grave, fleda thought. that did not surprise her, but it seemed that it did his mother, for she asked an explanation. which however he did not give. "so you've got back from new york," said he. "just got back, yesterday," said fleda. "why didn't you stay longer?" "i thought my friends at home would be glad to see me," said fleda. "was i mistaken?" he made no answer for a minute, and then said, "is your uncle at home?" "no," said fleda, "he went away this morning on business, and we do not expect him home before night-fall. do you want to see him?" "no," said seth very decidedly. "i wish he had staid in michigan, or gone further west,--anywhere that queechy'd never have heard of him." "why what has he done?" said fleda, looking up half laughing and half amazed at her cousin. but his face was disagreeably dark, though she could not make out that the expression was one of displeasure. it did not encourage her to talk. "do you know a man in new york of the name of thorn?" he said after standing still a minute or two. "i know two men of that name," said fleda, colouring and wondering. "is either on 'em a friend of your'n?" "no." "he ain't?" said mr. plumfield, giving the forestick on the fire an energetic kick which fleda could not help thinking was mentally aimed at the said new yorker. "no certainly. what makes you ask?" "o," said seth dryly, "folks' tongues will find work to do;--i heerd say something like that--i thought you must take to him more than i do." "why what do you know of him?" "he's been here a spell lately," said seth,--"poking round; more for ill than for good, i reckon." he turned and quitted the room abruptly; and fleda bethought her that she must go home while she had light enough. chapter xxxix. nothing could be more obliging and respectful than the lion's letter was, in appearance; but there was death in the true intent.--l'estrange. the landscape had grown more dark since fleda came up the hill,--or else the eyes that looked at it. both probably. it was just after sundown, and that is a very sober time of day in winter, especially in some states of the weather. the sun had left no largesses behind him; the scenery was deserted to all the coming poverty of night and looked grim and threadbare already. not one of the colours of prosperity left. the land was in mourning dress; all the ground and even the ice on the little mill-ponds a uniform spread of white, while the hills were draperied with black stems, here just veiling the snow, and there on a side view making a thick fold of black. every little unpainted workshop or mill shewed uncompromisingly all its forbidding sharpness of angle and outline darkening against the twilight. in better days perhaps some friendly tree had hung over it, shielding part of its faults and redeeming the rest. now nothing but the gaunt skeleton of a friend stood there,--doubtless to bud forth again as fairly as ever should the season smile. still and quiet all was, as fleda's spirit, and in too good harmony with it; she resolved to choose the morning to go out in future. there was as little of the light of spring or summer in her own mind as on the hills, and it was desirable to catch at least a cheering reflection. she could rouse herself to no bright thoughts, try as she would; the happy voices of nature that used to speak to her were all hushed,--or her ear was deaf; and her eye met nothing that did not immediately fall in with the train of sad images that were passing through her mind and swell the procession. she was fain to fall back and stay herself upon these words, the only stand-by she could lay hold of;-- "to them who by patient continuance in well-doing seek for glory, and honour, and immortality, eternal life!"-- they toned with the scene and with her spirit exactly; they suited the darkening sky and the coming night; for "glory, honour, and immortality" are not now. they filled fleda's mind, after they had once entered, and then nature's sympathy was again as readily given; each barren stern-looking hill in its guise of present desolation and calm expectancy seemed to echo softly, "patient continuance in well-doing." and the tears trembled then in fleda's eyes; she had set her face, as the old scotchman says, "in the right airth. [footnote: quarter, direction]" "how sweet is the wind that bloweth out of the airth where christ is!" "well," said hugh, who entered the kitchen with her, "you have been late enough. did you have a pleasant walk? you are pale, fleda!" "yes, it was pleasant," said fleda with one of her winning smiles,--"a kind of pleasant. but have you looked at the hills? they are exactly as if they had put on mourning--nothing but white and black--a crape-like dressing of black tree-stems upon the snowy face of the ground, and on every slope and edge of the hills the crape lies in folds. do look at it when you go out! it has a most curious effect." "not pleasant, i should think," said hugh. "you'll see it is just as i have described it. no--not pleasant exactly--the landscape wants the sun to light it up just now--it is cold and wilderness looking. i think i'll take the morning in future. whither are you bound?" "i must go over to queechy run for a minute, on business--i'll be home before supper--i should have been back by this time but philetus has gone to bed with a headache and i had to take care of the cows." "three times and out," said barby. "i won't try again. i didn't know as anything would be too powerful for his head; but i find as sure as he has apple dumplin' for dinner he goes to bed for his supper and leaves the cows without none. and then hugh has to take it. it has saved so many elephants--that's one thing." hugh went out by one door and fleda by another entered the breakfast-room; the one generally used in winter for all purposes. mrs. rossitur sat there alone in an easy-chair; and fleda no sooner caught the outline of her figure than her heart sank at once to an unknown depth,--unknown before and unfathomable now. she was _cowering_ over the fire,--her head sunk in her hands, so crouching, that the line of neck and shoulders instantly conveyed to fleda the idea of fancied or felt degradation--there was no escaping it--how, whence, what, was all wild confusion. but the language of mere attitude was so unmistakable,--the expression of crushing pain was so strong, that after fleda had fearfully made her way up beside her she could do no more. she stood there tongue-tied, spell-bound, present to nothing but a nameless chill of fear and heart-sinking. she was afraid to speak--afraid to touch her aunt, and abode motionless in the grasp of that dread for minutes. but mrs. rossitur did not stir a hair, and the terror of that stillness grew to be less endurable than any other. [illustration: mrs. rossitur sat there alone.] fleda spoke to her,--it did not win the shadow of a reply,--again and again. she laid her hand then upon mrs. rossitur's shoulder, but the very significant answer to that was a shrinking gesture of the shoulder and neck, away from the hand. fleda growing desperate then implored an answer in words--prayed for an explanation--with an intensity of distress in voice and manner, that no one whose ears were not stopped with a stronger feeling could have been deaf to; but mrs. rossitur would not raise her head, nor slacken in the least the clasp of the fingers that supported it, that of themselves in their relentless tension spoke what no words could. fleda's trembling prayers were in vain, in vain. poor nature at last sought a woman's relief in tears--but they were heart-breaking, not heart-relieving tears--racking both mind and body more than they ought to bear, but bringing no cure. mrs. rossitur seemed as unconscious of her niece's mute agony as she had been of her agony of words; and it was from fleda's own self-recollection alone that she fought off pain and roused herself above weakness to do what the time called for. "aunt lucy," she said laying her hand upon her shoulder, and this time the voice was steady and the hand would not be shaken off,--"aunt lucy,--hugh will be in presently--hadn't you better rouse yourself and go up stairs--for awhile?--till you are better?--and not let him see you so?--" how the voice was broken and quivering before it got through! the answer this time was a low long-drawn moan, so exceeding plaintive and full of pain that it made fleda shake like an aspen. but after a moment she spoke again, bearing more heavily with her hand to mark her words. "i am afraid he will be in presently--he ought not to see you now--aunt lucy, i am afraid it might do him an injury he might not get over--" she spoke with the strength of desperation; her nerves were unstrung by fear, and every joint weakened so that she could hardly support herself. she had not however spoken in vain; one or two convulsive shudders passed over her aunt, and then mrs. rossitur suddenly rose turning her face from fleda; neither would she permit her to follow her. but fleda thought she had seen that one or two unfolded letters or papers of some kind, they looked like letters, were in her lap when she raised her head. left alone, fleda sat down on the floor by the easy-chair and rested her head there; waiting,--she could do nothing else,--till her extreme excitement of body and mind should have quieted itself. she had a kind of vague hope that time would do something for her before hugh came in. perhaps it did; for though she lay in a kind of stupor, and was conscious of no change whatever, she was able when she heard him coming to get up and sit in the chair in an ordinary attitude. but she looked like the wraith of herself an hour ago. "fleda!" hugh exclaimed as soon as he looked from the fire to her face,--"what is the matter?--what is the matter with you?" "i am not very well--i don't feel very well," said fleda speaking almost mechanically,--"i shall have a headache to-morrow--" "headache! but you look shockingly! what has happened to you? what is the matter, fleda?" "i am not ill--i shall be better by and by. there is nothing the matter with me that need trouble you, dear hugh." "nothing the matter with you!" said he,--and fleda might see how she looked in the reflection of his face,--"where's mother?" "she is up-stairs--you mustn't go to her, hugh!" said fleda laying a detaining hand upon him with more strength than she thought she had,--"i don't want anything." "why mustn't i go to her?" "i don't think she wants to be disturbed--" "i must disturb her--" "you musn't!--i know she don't--she isn't well--something has happened to trouble her--" "what?" "i don't know." "and is that what has troubled you too?" said hugh, his countenance changing as he gained more light on the subject;--"what is it, dear fleda?" "i don't know," repeated fleda, bursting into tears. hugh was quiet enough now, and sat down beside her, subdued and still, without even desiring to ask a question. fleda's tears flowed violently, for a minute,--then she checked them, for his sake; and they sat motionless, without speaking to one another, looking into the fire and letting it die out before them into embers and ashes, neither stirring to put a hand to it. as the fire died the moonlight streamed in,--how very dismal the room looked! "what do you think about having tea?" said barby opening the door of the kitchen. neither felt it possible to answer her. "mr. rossitur ain't come home, is he?" "no," said fleda shuddering. "so i thought, and so i told seth plumfield just now--he was asking for him--my stars! ha'n't you no fire here? what did you let it go out for?" barby came in and began to build it up. "it's growing cold i can tell you, so you may as well have something in the chimney to look at. you'll want it shortly if you don't now." "was mr. plumfield here, did you say, barby?" "yes." "why didn't he come in?" "i s'pose he hadn't a mind to," said barby. "twa'n't for want of being asked. i did the civil thing by him if he didn't by me;--but he said he didn't want to see anybody but mr. rossitur." did not wank to see anybody but mr. rossitur, when he had distinctly said he did not wish to see him? fleda felt sick, merely from the mysterious dread which could fasten upon nothing and therefore took in everything. "well what about tea?" concluded barby, when the fire was going according to her wishes. "will you have it, or will you wait longer?" "no--we won't wait--we will have it now, barby," said fleda, forcing herself to make the exertion; and she went to the window to put down the hangings. the moonlight was very bright, and fleda's eye was caught in the very act of letting down the curtain, by a figure in the road slowly passing before the courtyard fence. it paused a moment by the horse-gate, and turning paced slowly back till it was hid behind the rose acacias. there was a clump of shrubbery in that corner thick enough even in winter to serve for a screen. fleda stood with the curtain in her hand, half let down, unable to move, and feeling almost as if the very currents of life within her were standing still too. she thought, she was almost sure, she knew the figure; it was on her tongue to ask hugh to come and look, but she checked that. the form appeared again from behind the acacias, moving with the same leisurely pace the other way towards the horse-gate. fleda let down the curtain, then the other two quietly, and then left the room and stole noiselessly out at the front door, leaving it open that the sound of it might not warn hugh what she was about, and stepping like a cat down the steps ran breathlessly over the snow to the courtyard gate. there waited, shivering in the cold but not feeling it for the cold within,--while the person she was watching stood still a lew moments by the horse-gate and came again with leisurely steps towards her. "seth plumfield!"--said fleda, almost as much frightened at the sound of her own voice as he was. he stopped immediately, with a start, and came up to the little gate behind which she was standing. but said nothing. "what are you doing here?" "you oughtn't to be out without anything on," said he,--"you're fixing to take your death." he had good reason to say so. but she gave him no more heed than the wind. "what are you waiting here for? what do you want?" "i have nothing better to do with my time," said he;--"i thought i'd walk up and down here a little. you go in!" "are you waiting to see uncle rolf?" she said, with teeth chattering. "you mustn't stay out here," said he earnestly--"you're like nothing but a spook this minute--i'd rather see one, or a hull army of 'em. go in, go in!" "tell me if you want to see him, seth." "no i don't--i told you i didn't." "then why are you waiting for him?" "i thought i'd see if he was coming home to-night--i had a word to say if i could catch him before he got into the house." "_is_ he coming home to-night?" said fleda. "i don't know!" said he looking at her. "do you?" fleda burst open the gate between them and putting her hands on his implored him to tell her what was the matter. he looked singularly disturbed; his fine eye twinkled with compassion; but his face, never a weak one, shewed no signs of yielding now. "the matter is," said he pressing hard both her hands, "that you are fixing to be down sick in your bed by to-morrow. you mustn't stay another second." "come in then." "no--not to-night." "you won't tell me!--" "there is nothing i can tell you--maybe there'll be nothing to tell--run in, run in, and keep quiet." fleda hurried back to the house, feeling that she had gone to the limit of risk already. not daring to show herself to hugh in her chilled state of body and mind she went into the kitchen. "why what on earth's come over you?" was barby's terrified ejaculation when she saw her. "i have been out and got myself cold--" "cold!" said barby,--"you're looking dreadful! what on earth ails you, fleda?" "don't ask me, barby," said fleda hiding her face in her hands and shivering,--"i made myself very cold just now--aunt lucy doesn't feel very well and i got frightened," she added presently. "what's the matter with her?" "i don't know--if you'll make me a cup of tea i'll take it up to her, barby." "you put yourself down there," said barby placing her with gentle force in a chair,--"you'll do no such a thing till i see you look as if there was some blood in you. i'll take it up myself." but fleda held her, though with a hand much too feeble indeed for any but moral suasion. it was enough. barby stood silently and very anxiously watching her, till the fire had removed the outward chill at least. but even that took long to do, and before it was well done fleda again asked for the cup of tea. barby made it without a word, and fleda went to her aunt with it, taking her strength from the sheer emergency. her knees trembled under her as she mounted the stairs, and once a glimpse of those words flitted across her mind,--"patient continuance in well-doing." it was like a lightning flash in a dark night shewing the way one must go. she could lay hold of no other stay. her mind was full of one intense purpose--to end the suspense. she gently tried the door of her aunt's room; it was unfastened, and she went in. mrs. rossitur was lying on the bed; but her first mood had changed, for at fleda's soft word and touch she half rose up and putting both arms round her waist laid her face against her. there were no tears still, only a succession of low moans, so inexpressibly weak and plaintive that fleda's nature could hardly bear them without giving way. a more fragile support was never clung to. yet her trembling fingers, in their agony moved caressingly among her aunt's hair and over her brow as she begged her--when she could, she was not able at first--to let her know the cause that was grieving her. the straightened clasp of mrs. rossitur's arms and her increased moaning gave only an answer of pain. but fleda repeated the question. mrs. rossitur still neglecting it, then made her sit down upon the bed, so that she could lay her head higher, on fleda's bosom; where she hid it, with a mingling of fondness given and asked, a poor seeking for comfort and rest, that wrung her niece's heart. they sat so for a little time; fleda hoping that her aunt would by degrees come to the point herself. the tea stood cooling on the table, not even offered; not wanted there. "wouldn't you feel better if you told me, dear aunt lucy?" said fleda, when they had been for a little while perfectly still. even the moaning had ceased. "is your uncle come home?" whispered mrs. rossitur, but so low that fleda could but half catch the words. "not yet." "what o'clock is it?" "i don't know--not early--it must be near eight.--why?" "you have not heard anything of him?" "no--nothing." there was silence again for a little, and then mrs. rossitur said in a low fearful whisper, "have you seen anybody round the house?" fleda's thoughts flew to seth, with that nameless fear to which she could give neither shape nor direction, and after a moment's hesitation she said, "what do you mean?" "have you?" said mrs. rossitur with more energy. "seth plumfield was here a little while ago." her aunt had the clew that she had not, for with a half scream, half exclamation, she quitted fleda's arms and fell back upon the pillows, turning from her and hiding her face there. fleda prayed again for her confidence, as well as the weakness and the strength of fear could do; and mrs. rossitur presently grasping a paper that lay on the bed held it out to her, saying only as fleda was about quitting the room, "bring me a light." fleda left the letter there and went down to fetch one. she commanded herself under the excitement and necessity of the moment,--all but her face; that terrified barby exceedingly. but she spoke with a strange degree of calmness; told her mrs. rossitur was not alarmingly ill; that she did not need barby's services and wished to see nobody but herself and didn't want a fire. as she was passing through the hall again hugh came out of the sitting-room to ask after his mother. fleda kept the light from her face. "she does not want to be disturbed--i hope she will be better to-morrow." "what is the matter, fleda?" "i don't know yet." "and you are ill yourself, fleda!--you are ill!--" "no--i shall do very well--never mind me. hugh, take some tea--i will be down by and by." he went back, and fieda went up stairs. mrs. rossitur had not moved. fleda set down the light and herself beside it, with the paper her aunt had given her. it was a letter. "queechy, _thursday_-- "it gives me great concern, my dear madam, to be the means of bringing to you a piece of painful information--but it cannot be long kept from your knowledge and you may perhaps learn it better from me than by any other channel. may i entreat you not to be too much alarmed, since i am confident the cause will be of short duration. "pardon me for what i am about to say. "there are proceedings entered into against mr. rossitur--there are writs out against him--on the charge of having, some years ago, endorsed my father's name upon a note of his own giving.--why it has lain so long i cannot explain. there is unhappily no doubt of the fact. "i was in queechy some days ago, on business of my own, when i became aware that this was going on--my father had made no mention of it to me. i immediately took strict measures--i am happy to say i believe with complete success,--to have the matter kept a profound secret. i then made my way as fast as possible to new york to confer on the subject with the original mover of it--unfortunately i was disappointed. my father had left for a neighbouring city, to be absent several days. finding myself too late to prevent, as i had hoped to do, any open steps from being taken at queechy, i returned hither immediately to enforce secrecy of proceedings and to assure you, madam, that my utmost exertions shall not be wanting to bring the whole matter to a speedy and satisfactory termination. i entertain no doubt of being able to succeed entirely--even to the point of having the whole transaction remain unknown and unsuspected by the world. it is so entirely as yet, with the exception of one or two law-officers whose silence i have means of procuring. "may i confess that i am not entirely disinterested? may the selfishness of human nature ask its reward, and own its moving spring? may i own that my zeal in this cause is quickened by the unspeakable excellencies of mr. rossitur's lovely niece--which i have learned to appreciate with my whole _heart_--and be forgiven?--and may i hope for the kind offices and intercession of the lady i have the honour of addressing, with her niece miss ringgan, that my reward,--the single word of encouragement i ask for,--may be given me?--having that, i will promise anything--i will guaranty the success of any enterprise, however difficult, to which she may impel me,--and i will undertake that the matter which furnishes the painful theme of this letter shall never more be spoken or thought of, by the world, or my father, or by mrs. rossitur's obliged, grateful, and faithful servant, lewis thorn." fleda felt as she read as if icicles were gathering about her heart. the whirlwind of fear and distress of a little while ago which could take no definite direction, seemed to have died away and given place to a dead frost--the steady bearing down of disgrace and misery, inevitable, unmitigable, unchangeable; no lessening, no softening of that blasting power, no, nor ever any rising up from under it; the landscape could never be made to smile again. it was the fall of a bright star from their home constellation; but alas! the star was fallen long ago, and the failure of light which they had deplored was all too easily accounted for; yet now they knew that no restoration was to be hoped. and the mother and son--what would become of them? and the father--what would become of him? what further distress was in store?--_public_ disgrace?--and fleda bowed her head forward on her clasped hands with the mechanical, vain endeavour to seek rest or shelter from thought. she made nothing of mr. thorn's professions; she took only the facts of his letter; the rest her eye had glanced over as if she had no concern with it, and it hardly occurred to her that she had any. but the sense of his words she had taken in, and knew, better perhaps than her aunt, that there was nothing to look for from his kind offices. the weight on her heart was too great just then for her to suspect as she did afterwards that he was the sole mover of the whole affair. as the first confusion of thought cleared away, two images of distress loomed up and filled the view,--her aunt, broken under the news, and hugh still unknowing to them; her own separate existence fleda was hardly conscious of. hugh especially,--how was he to be told, and how could he bear to hear? with his most sensitive conformation of both physical and moral nature. and if an arrest should take place there that night!--fleda shuddered, and unable to go on thinking rose up and went to her aunt's bedside. it had not entered her mind till the moment she read mr. thorn's letter that seth plumfield was sheriff for the county. she was shaking again from head to foot with fear. she could not say anything--the touch of her lips to the throbbing temples, soft and tender as sympathy itself, was all she ventured. "have you heard anything of him?" mrs. rossitur whispered. "no--i doubt if we do at all to-night." there was a half breathed "oh!--" of indescribable pain and longing; and with a restless change of position mrs. rossitur gathered herself up on the bed and sat with her head leaning on her knees. fleda brought a large cloak and put it round her. "i am in no danger," she said,--"i wish i were!" again fleda's lips softly, tremblingly, touched her cheek. mrs. rossitur put her arm round her and drew her down to her side, upon the bed; and wrapped half of the big cloak about her; and they sat there still in each other's arms, without speaking or weeping, while quarter after quarter of an hour passed away,--nobody knew how many. and the cold bright moonlight streamed in on the floor, mocking them. "go!" whispered mrs. rossitur at last,--"go down stairs and take care of yourself--and hugh." "won't you come?" mrs. rossitur shook her head. "mayn't i bring you something?--do let me!" but mrs. rossitur's shake of the head was decisive. fleda crawled off the bed, feeling as if a month's illness had been making its ravages upon her frame and strength. she stood a moment to collect her thoughts; but alas, thinking was impossible; there was a palsy upon her mind. she went into her own room and for a minute kneeled down,--not to form a petition in words, she was as much beyond that; it was only the mute attitude of appeal, the pitiful outward token of the mind's bearing, that could not be forborne, a silent uttering of the plea she had made her own in happy days. there was something of comfort in the mere feeling of doing it; and there was more in one or two words that even in that blank came to her mind;--"_like as a father pitieth his children, so the lord pitieth them that fear him_;" and she again recollected that "providence runneth not upon broken wheels." nothing could be darker than the prospect before her, and these things did not bring light; but they gave her a sure stay to hold on by and keep her feet; a bit of strength to preserve from utterly fainting. ah! the storehouse must be filled and the mind well familiarized with what is stored in it while yet the days are bright, or it will never be able to find what it wants in the dark. fleda first went into the kitchen to tell barby to fasten the doors and not sit up. "i don't believe uncle rolf will be home to-night; but if he comes i will let him in." barby looked at her with absolutely a face of distress; but not daring to ask and not knowing how to propose anything, she looked in silence. "it must be nine o'clock now," fleda went on. "and how long be you going to sit up?" said barby. "i don't know--a while yet." "you look proper for it!" said barby half sorrowfully and half indignantly;--"you look as if a straw would knock you down this minute. there's sense into everything. you catch me a going to bed and leaving you up! it won't do me no hurt to sit here the hull night; and i'm the only one in the house that's fit for it, with the exception of philetus, and the little wit he has by day seems to forsake him at night. all the light that ever gets into his head, _i_ believe, comes from the outside; as soon as ever that's gone he shuts up his shutters. he's been snoozing a'ready now this hour and a half. go yourself off to bed, fleda," she added with a mixture of reproach and kindness, "and leave me alone to take care of myself and the house too." fleda did not remonstrate, for barby was as determined in her way as it was possible for anything to be. she went into the other room without a particle of notion what she should say or do. hugh was walking up and down the floor--a most unusual sign of perturbation with him. he met and stopped her as she came in. "fleda, i cannot bear it. what is the matter?--do you know?'" he said as her eyes fell. "yes.----" "what is it?" she was silent and tried to pass on to the fire. but he stayed her. "what is it?" he repeated. "oh i wish i could keep it from you!" said fleda bursting into tears. he was still a moment, and then bringing her to the arm-chair made her sit down, and stood himself before her, silently waiting, perhaps because he could not speak, perhaps from the accustomed gentle endurance of his nature. but fleda was speechless too. "you are keeping me in distress," he said at length. "i cannot end the distress, dear hugh," said fleda. she saw him change colour and he stood motionless still. "do you remember," said fleda, trembling even to her voice,--"what rutherford says about providence 'not running on broken wheels'?" he gave her no answer but the intent look of expectation. its intentness paralyzed fleda. she did not know how to go on. she rose from her chair and hung upon his shoulder. "believe it now, if you can--for oh, dear hugh!--we have something to try it." "it is strange my father don't come home," said he, supporting her with tenderness which had very little strength to help it,--"we want him very much." whether or not any unacknowledged feeling prompted this remark, some slight involuntary movement of fleda's made him ask suddenly, "is it about him?" he had grown deadly pale and fleda answered eagerly, "nothing that has happened to-day--it is not anything that has happened to-day--he is perfectly well, i trust and believe." "but it is about him?" fleda's head sank, and she burst into such an agony of tears that hugh's distress was for a time divided. "when did it happen, fleda?" "years ago." "and what?" fleda hesitated still, and then said, "it was something he did, hugh." "what?" "he put another person's name on the back of a note he gave." she did not look up, and hugh was silent for a moment. "how do you know?" "mr. thorn wrote it to aunt lucy--it was mr. thorn's father." hugh sat down and leaned his head on the table. a long, long, time passed,--unmeasured by the wild coursing of thought to and fro. then fleda came and knelt down at the table beside him, and put her arm round his neck. "dear hugh," she said--and if ever love and tenderness and sympathy could be distilled in tones, such drops were those that fell upon the mind's ear,--"can't you look up at me?" he did then, but he did not give her a chance to look at him. he locked his arms about her, bringing her close to his breast; and for a few minutes, in utter silence, they knew what strange sweetness pure affection can mingle even in the communion of sorrow. there were tears shed in those minutes that, bitter as they seemed at the time, memory knew had been largely qualified with another admixture. "dear hugh," said fleda,--"let us keep what we can--won't you go to bed and rest?" he looked dreadfully as if he needed it. but the usual calmness and sweetness of his face was not altered;--it was only deepened to very great sadness. mentally, fleda thought, he had borne the shock better than his mother; for the bodily frame she trembled. he had not answered and she spoke again. "you need it worse than i, poor fleda" "i will go too presently--i do not think anybody will be here tonight." "is--are there--is this what has taken him away?" said hugh. her silence and her look told him, and then laying her cheek again alongside of his she whispered, how unsteadily, "we have only one help, dear hugh." they were still and quiet again for minutes, counting the pulses of pain; till fleda came back to her poor wish "to keep what they could." she mixed a restorative of wine and water, which however little desired, she felt was necessary for both of them, and hugh went up stairs. she staid a few minutes to prepare another glass with particular care for her aunt. it was just finished, and taking her candle she had bid barby good-night, when there came a loud rap at the front door. fleda set down candle and glass, from the quick inability to hold them as well as for other reasons; and she and barby stood and looked at each other, in such a confusion of doubt and dread that some little time had passed before either stirred even her eyes. barby then threw down the tongs with which she had begun to make preparations for covering up the fire and set off to the front. "you mustn't open the door, barby," cried fleda, following her. "come in here and let us look out of one of the windows." before this could be reached however, there was another prolonged repetition of the first thundering burst. it went through fleda's heart, because of the two up stairs who must hear it. barby threw up the sash. "who's there?" "is this mr. rossitur's place?" enquired a gruff voice. "yes, it is." "well will you come round and open the door?" "who wants it open?" "a lady wants it open?" "a lady!--what lady?" "down yonder in the carriage." "what lady? who is she?" "i don't know who she is--she wanted to come to mr. rossitur's place--will you open the door for her?" barby and fleda both now saw a carriage standing in the road. "we must see who it is first," whispered fleda. "when the lady comes i'll open the door," was barby's ultimatum. the man withdrew to the carriage; and after a few moments of intense watching fleda and barby certainly saw something in female apparel enter the little gate of the court-yard and come up over the bright moonlit snow towards the house, accompanied by a child; while the man with whom they had had the interview came behind transformed into an unmistakeable baggage-carrier. chapter xl. zeal was the spring whence flowed her hardiment. fairfax. barby undid bolt and lock and fleda met the traveller in the hall. she was a lady; her air and dress shewed that, though the latter was very plain. "does mr. rossitur live here?" was her first word. fleda answered it, and brought her visitor into the sitting room. but the light falling upon a form and face that had seen more wear and tear than time, gave her no clue as to the who or what of the person before her. the stranger's hurried look round the room seemed to expect something. "are they all gone to bed?" "all but me," said fleda. "we have been delayed--we took a wrong road--we've been riding for hours to find the place--hadn't the right direction."--then looking keenly at fleda, from whose vision an electric spark of intelligence had scattered the clouds, she said; "i am marion rossitur." "i knew it!" said fleda, with lips and eyes that gave her already a sister's welcome; and they were folded in each other's arms almost as tenderly and affectionately, on the part of one at least, as if there had really been the relationship between them. but more than surprise and affection struck fleda's heart. "and where are they all, fleda? can't i see them?" "you must wait till i have prepared them--hugh and aunt lucy are not very well. i don't know that it will do for you to see them at all to-night, marion." "not to-night! they are not ill?" "no--only enough to be taken care of--not ill. but it would be better to wait" "and my father?" "he is not at home." marion exclaimed in sorrow, and fleda to hide the look that she felt was on her face stooped down to kiss the child. he was a remarkably fine-looking manly boy. "that is your cousin fleda," said his mother. "no--_aunt_ fleda," said the person thus introduced--"don't put me off into cousindom, marion. i am uncle hugh's sister--and so i am your aunt fleda. who are you?" "rolf rossitur schwiden." alas how wide are the ramifications of evil! how was what might have been very pure pleasure utterly poisoned and turned into bitterness. it went through fleda's heart with a keen pang when she heard that name and looked on the very fair brow that owned it, and thought of the ineffaceable stain that had come upon both. she dared look at nobody but the child. he already understood the melting eyes that were making acquaintance with his, and half felt the pain that gave so much tenderness to her kiss, and looked at her with a grave face of awakening wonder and sympathy. fleda was glad to have business to call her into the kitchen. "who is it?" was barby's immediate question. "aunt lucy's daughter." "she don't look much like her!" said barby intelligently. "they will want something to eat, barby." "i'll put the kettle on. it'll boil directly. i'll go in there and fix up the fire." a word or two more, and then fleda ran up to speak to her aunt and hugh. her aunt she found in a state of agitation that was frightful. even fleda's assurances, with all the soothing arts she could bring to bear were some minutes before they could in any measure tranquillize her. fleda's own nerves were in no condition to stand another shock when she left her and went to hugh's door. but she could get no answer from him though she spoke repeatedly. she did not return to her aunt's room. she went down stairs and brought up barby and a light from thence. hugh was lying senseless and white; not whiter than his adopted sister as she stood by his side. her eye went to her companion. "not a bit of it!" said barby--"he's in nothing but a faint--just run down stairs and get the vinegar bottle, fleda--the pepper vinegar.--is there any water here?--" fleda obeyed; and watched, she could do little more, the efforts of barby, who indeed needed no help, with the cold water, the vinegar, and rubbing of the limbs. they were for sometime unsuccessful; the fit was a severe one; and fleda was exceedingly terrified before any signs of returning life came to reassure her. "now you go down stairs and keep quiet!" said barby, when hugh was fairly restored and had smiled a faint answer to fleda's kiss and explanations,--"go, fleda! you ain't fit to stand. go and sit down some place, and i'll be along directly and see how the fire burns. don't you s'pose mis' rossitur could come in and sit in this easy-chair a spell without hurting herself?" it occurred to fleda immediately that it might do more good than harm to her aunt if her attention were diverted even by another cause of anxiety. she gently summoned her, telling her no more than was necessary to fit her for being hugh's nurse; and in a very few minutes she and barby were at liberty to attend to other claims upon them. but it sank into her heart, "hugh will not get over this!"--and when she entered the sitting-room, what mr. carleton years before had said of the wood-flower was come true in its fullest extent--"a storm-wind had beaten it to the ground." she was able literally to do no more than barby had said, sit down and keep herself quiet. miss elster was in her briskest mood; flew in and out; made up the fire in the sitting-room and put on the kettle in the kitchen, which she had been just about doing when called to see hugh. the much-needed supper of the travellers must be still waited for; but the fire was burning now, the room was cosily warm and bright, and marion drew up her chair with a look of thoughtful contentment. fleda felt as if some conjuror had been at work here for the last few hours--the room looked so like and felt so unlike itself. "are you going to be ill too, fleda?" said marion suddenly. "you are looking--very far from well!" "i shall have a headache to-morrow," said fleda quietly. "i generally know the day beforehand." "does it always make you look so?" "not always--i am somewhat tired." "where is my father gone?" "i don't know.--rolf, dear," said fleda bending forward to the little fellow who was giving expression to some very fidgety impatience,--"what is the matter? what do you want?" the child's voice fell a little from its querulousness towards the sweet key in which the questions had been put, but he gave utterance to a very decided wish for "bread and butter." "come here," said fleda, reaching out a hand and drawing him, certainly with no force but that of attraction, towards her easy-chair,--"come here and rest yourself in this nice place by me--see, there is plenty of room for you;--and you shall have bread and butter and tea, and something else too, i guess, just as soon as barby can get it ready." "who is barby?" was the next question, in a most uncompromising tone of voice. "you saw the woman that came in to put wood on the fire--that was barby--she is very good and kind and will do anything for you if you behave yourself." the child muttered, but so low as to shew some unwillingness that his words should reach the ears that were nearest him, that "he wasn't going to behave himself." fleda did not choose to hear; and went on with composing observations till the fair little face she had drawn to her side was as bright as the sun and returned her smile with interest. "you have an admirable talent at moral suasion, fleda," said the mother half smiling;--"i wish i had it." "you don't need it so much here." "why not?" "it may do very well for me, but i think not so well for you." "why?--what do you mean? i think it is the only way in the world to bring up children--the only way fit for rational beings to be guided." fleda smiled, though the faintest indication that lips could give, and shook her head,--ever so little. "why do you do that?--tell me." "because in my limited experience," said fleda as she passed her fingers through the boy's dark locks of hair,--"in every household where 'moral suasion' has been the law, the children have been the administrators of it. where is your husband?" "i have lost him--years ago--" said marion with a quick expressive glance towards the child. "i never lost what i at first thought i had, for i never had it. do you understand?" fleda's eyes gave a sufficient answer. "i am a widow--these five years--in all but what the law would require," marion went on. "i have been alone since then--except my child. he was two years old then; and since then i have lived such a life, fleda!--" "why didn't you come home?" "couldn't--the most absolute reason in the world. think of it!--come home! it was as much as i could do to stay there!" those sympathizing eyes were enough to make her go on. "i have wanted everything--except trouble. i have done everything--except ask alms. i have learned, fleda, that death is not the worst form in which distress can come." fleda felt stung, and bent down her head to touch her lips to the brow of little rolf. "death would have been a trifle!" said marion. "i mean,--not that _i_ should have wished to leave rolf alone in the world; but if i had been left--i mean i would rather wear outside than inside mourning." fleda looked up again, and at her. "o i was so mistaken, fleda!" she said clasping her hands,--"so mistaken!--in everything;--so disappointed,--in all my hopes. and the loss of my fortune was the cause of it all." nay verily! thought fleda; but she said nothing; she hung her head again; and marion after a pause went on to question her about an endless string of matters concerning themselves and other people, past doings and present prospects, till little rolf soothed by the uninteresting soft murmur of voices fairly forgot bread and butter and himself in a sound sleep, his head resting upon fleda. "here is one comfort for you, marion," she said looking down at the dark eyelashes which lay on a cheek rosy and healthy as ever seven years old knew;--"he is a beautiful child, and i am sure, a fine one." "it is thanks to his beauty that i have ever seen home again," said his mother. fleda had no heart this evening to speak words that were not necessary; her eyes asked marion to explain herself. "he was in hyde park one day--i had a miserable lodging not far from it, and i used to let him go in there, because he must go somewhere, you know,--i couldn't go with him--" "why not?" "couldn't!--oh fleda!--i have seen changes!--he was there one afternoon, alone, and had got into difficulty with some bigger boys--a little fellow, you know,--he stood his ground man-fully, but his strength wasn't equal to his spirit, and they were tyrannizing over him after the fashion of boys, who are i do think the ugliest creatures in creation!" said mme. schwiden, not apparently reckoning her own to be of the same gender,--"and a gentleman who was riding by stopped and interfered and took him out of their hands, and then asked him his name,--struck i suppose with his appearance. very kind, wasn't it? men so seldom bother themselves about what becomes of children, i suppose there were thousands of others riding by at the same time." "very kind," fleda said. "when he heard what his name was he gave his horse to his servant and walked home with rolf; and the next day he sent me a note, speaking of having known my father and mother and asking permission to call upon me.--i never was so mortified, i think, in my life," said marion after a moment's hesitation. "why?" said fleda, not a little at a loss to follow out the chain of her cousin's reasoning. "why i was in such a sort of a place--you don't know, fleda; i was working then for a fancy store-keeper, to support myself--living in a miserable little two rooms.--if it had been a stranger i wouldn't have cared so much, but somebody that had known us in different times--i hadn't a thing in the world to answer the note upon but a half sheet of letter paper." fleda's lips sought rolf's forehead again, with a curious rush of tears and smiles at once. perhaps marion had caught the expression of her countenance, for she added with a little energy, "it is nothing to be surprised at--you would have felt just the same; for i knew by his note, the whole style of it, what sort of a person it must be." "my pride has been a good deal chastened," fleda said gently. "i never want _mine_ to be, beyond minding everything," said marion; "and i don't believe yours is. i don't know why in the world i did not refuse to see him--i had fifty minds to--but he had won rolf's heart, and i was a little curious, and it was something strange to see the face of a friend, any better one than my old landlady, so i let him come." "was _she_ a friend?" said fleda. "if she hadn't been i should not have lived to be here--the best soul that ever was; but still, you know, she could do nothing for me but be as kind as she could live;--this was something different. so i let him come, and he came the next day." fleda was silent, a little wondering that marion should be so frank with her, beyond what she had ever been in former years; but as she guessed, mme. schwiden's heart was a little opened by the joy of finding herself at home and the absolute necessity of talking to somebody; and there was a further reason which fleda could not judge of, in her own face and manner. marion needed no questions and went on again after stopping a moment. "i was so glad in five minutes,--i can't tell you, fleda,--that i had let him come. i forget entirely about how i looked and the wretched place i was in. he was all that i had supposed, and a great deal more, but somehow he hadn't been in the room three minutes before i didn't care at all for all the things i had thought would trouble me. isn't it strange what a witchery some people have to make you forget everything but themselves!" "the reason is, i think, because that is the only thing they forget," said fleda, whose imagination however was entirely busy with the _singular_ number. "i shall never forget him," said marion. "he was very kind to me--i cannot tell how kind--though i never realized it till afterwards; at the time it always seemed only a sort of elegant politeness which he could not help. i never saw so elegant a person. he came two or three times to see me and he took rolf out with him i don't know how often, to drive; and he sent me fruit--such fruit!--and game, and flowers; and i had not had anything of the kind, not even seen it, for so long--i can't tell you what it was to me. he said he had known my father and mother well when they were abroad." "what, was his name?" said fleda quickly. "i don't know--he never told me--and i never could ask him. don't you know there are some people you can't do anything with but just what they please? there wasn't the least thing like stiffness--you never saw anybody less stiff,--but i never dreamed of asking him questions except when he was out of sight. why, do you know him?" she said suddenly. "when you tell me who he was i'll tell you," said fleda smiling. "have you ever heard this story before?" "certainly not!" "he is somebody that knows us very well," said marion, "for he asked after every one of the family in particular." "but what had all this to do with your getting home?" "i don't wonder you ask. the day after his last visit came a note saying that he owed a debt in my family which it had never been in his power to repay; that he could not give the enclosure to my father, who would not recognize the obligation; and that if i would permit him to place it in my hands i should confer a singular favour upon him." "and what was the enclosure?" "five hundred pounds." fleda's head went down again and tears dropped fast upon little rolf's shoulder. "i suppose my pride has been a little broken too," marion went on, "or i shouldn't have kept it. but then if you saw the person, and the whole manner of it--i don't know how i could ever have sent it back. literally i couldn't, though, for i hadn't the least clue. i never saw or heard from him afterwards." "when was this, marion?" "last spring." "last spring!--then what kept you so long?" "because of the arrival of eyes that i was afraid of. i dared not make the least move that would show i could move. i came off the very first packet after i was free." "how glad you must be!" said fleda. "glad!--" "glad of what, mamma?" said rolf, whose dreams the entrance of barby had probably disturbed. "glad of bread and butter," said his mother; "wake up--here it is." the young gentleman declared, rubbing his eyes, that he did not want it now; but however fleda contrived to dispel that illusion, and bread and butter was found to have the same dulcifying properties at queechy that it owns in all the rest of the world. little rolf was completely mollified after a hearty meal and was put with his mother to enjoy most unbroken slumbers in fleda's room. fleda herself, after a look at hugh, crept to her aunt's bed; whither barby very soon despatched mrs. rossitur, taking in her place the arm-chair and the watch with most invincible good-will and determination; and sleep at last took the joys and sorrows of that disturbed household into its kind custody. fleda was the first one awake, and was thinking how she should break the last news to her aunt, when mrs. rossitur put her arms round her and after a most affectionate look and kiss, spoke to what she supposed had been her niece's purpose. "you want taking care of more than i do, poor fleda!" "it was not for that i came," said fleda;--"i had to give up my room to the travellers." "travellers!--" a very few words more brought out the whole, and mrs. rossitur sprang out of bed and rushed to her daughter's room. fleda hid her face in the bed to cry--for a moment's passionate indulgence in weeping while no one could see. but a moment was all. there was work to do and she must not disable herself. she slowly got up, feeling thankful that her headache did not announce itself with the dawn, and that she would be able to attend to the morning affairs and the breakfast, which was something more of a circumstance now with the new additions to the family. more than that she knew from sure signs she would not be able to accomplish. it was all done and done well, though with what secret flagging of mind and body nobody knew or suspected. the business of the day was arranged, barby's course made clear, hugh visited and smiled upon; and then fleda set herself down in the breakfast-room to wear out the rest of the day in patient suffering. her little spaniel, who seemed to understand her languid step and faint tones and know what was coming, crept into her lap and looked up at her with a face of equal truth and affection; and after a few gentle acknowledging touches from the loved hand, laid his head on her knees, and silently avowed his determination of abiding her fortunes for the remainder of the day. they had been there for some hours. mrs. rossitur and her daughter were gathered in hugh's room; whither rolf also after sundry expressions of sympathy for fleda's headache, finding it a dull companion, had departed. pain of body rising above pain of mind had obliged as far as possible even thought to be still; when a loud rap at the front door brought the blood in a sudden flush of pain to fleda's face. she knew instinctively what it meant. she heard barby's distinct accents saying that somebody was "not well." the other voice was more smothered. but in a moment the door of the breakfast-room opened and mr. thorn walked in. the intensity of the pain she was suffering effectually precluded fleda from discovering emotion of any kind. she could not move. only king lifted up his head and looked at the intruder, who seemed shocked, and well he might. fleda was in her old headache position; bolt upright on the sofa, her feet on the rung of a chair while her hands supported her by their grasp upon the back of it. the flush had passed away leaving the deadly paleness of pain, which the dark rings under her eyes shewed to be well seated. "miss ringgan!" said the gentleman, coming up softly as to something that frightened him,--"my dear miss fleda!--i am distressed!--you are very ill--can nothing be done to relieve you?" fleda's lips rather than her voice said, "nothing." "i would not have come in on any account to disturb you if i had known--i did not understand you were more than a trifle ill--" fleda wished he would mend his mistake, as his understanding certainly by this time was mended. but that did not seem to be his conclusion of the best thing to do. "since i am here,--can you bear to hear me say three words? without too much pain?--i do not ask you to speak"-- a faint whispered "yes" gave him leave to go on. she had never looked at him. she sat like a statue; to answer by a motion of her head was more than could be risked. he drew up a chair and sat down, while king looked at him with eyes of suspicious indignation. "i am not surprised," he said gently, "to find you suffering. i knew how your sensibilities must feel the shock of yesterday--i would fain have spared it you--i will spare you all further pain on the same score if possible--dear miss ringgan, since i am here and time is precious may i say one word before i cease troubling you--take it for granted that you were made acquainted with the contents of my letter to mrs. rossitur?--with _all_ the contents?--were you?" again fleda's lips almost voicelessly gave the answer. "will you give me what i ventured to ask for?" said he gently,--"the permission to work _for you?_ do not trouble those precious lips to speak--the answer of these fingers will be as sure a warrant to me as all words that could be spoken that you do not deny my request." he had taken one of her hands in his own. but the fingers lay with unanswering coldness and lifelessness for a second in his clasp and then were drawn away and took determinate hold of the chair-back. again the flush came to fleda's cheeks, brought by a sharp pain,--oh, bodily and mental too!--and after a moment's pause, with a distinctness of utterance that let him know every word, she said, "a generous man would not ask it, sir." thorn sprang up, and several times paced the length of the room, up and down, before he said anything more. he looked at fleda, but the flush was gone again, and nothing could seem less conscious of his presence. pain and patience were in every line of her face, but he could read nothing more, except a calmness as unmistakably written. thorn gave that face repeated glances as he walked, then stood still and read it at leisure. then he came to her side again and spoke in a different voice. "you are so unlike anybody else," he said, "that you shall make me unlike myself. i will do freely what i hoped to do with the light of your smile before me. you shall hear no more of this affair, neither you nor the world--i have the matter perfectly in my own hands--it shall never raise a whisper again. i will move heaven and earth rather than fail--but there is no danger of my failing. i will try to prove myself worthy of your esteem even where a man is most excusable for being selfish." [illustration: barby's energies and fainting remedies were again put in use.] he took one of her cold hands again,--fleda could not help it without more force than she cared to use, and indeed pain would by this time almost have swallowed up other sensation if every word and touch had not sent it in a stronger throb to her very finger ends. thorn bent his lips to her hand, twice kissed it fervently, and then left her; much to king's satisfaction, who thereupon resigned himself to quiet slumbers. his mistress knew no such relief. excitement had dreadfully aggravated her disorder, at a time when it was needful to banish even thought as far as possible. pain effectually banished it now, and barby coming in a little after mr. thorn had gone found her quite unable to speak and scarce able to breathe, from agony. barby's energies and fainting remedies were again put in use; but pain reigned triumphant for hours, and when its hard rule was at last abated fleda was able to do nothing but sleep like a child for hours more. towards a late tea-time she was at last awake, and carrying on a very one-sided conversation with rolf, her own lips being called upon for little more than a smile now and then. king, not able to be in her lap, had curled himself up upon a piece of his mistress's dress and as close within the circle of her arms as possible, where fleda's hand and his head were on terms of mutual satisfaction. "i thought you wouldn't permit a dog to lie in your lap," said marion. "do you remember that?" said fleda with a smile. "ah i have grown tender-hearted, marion, since i have known what it was to want comfort myself. i have come to the conclusion that it is best to let everything have all the enjoyment it can in the circumstances. king crawled into my lap one day when i had not spirits enough to turn him out, and he has kept the place ever since.--little king!"--in answer to which word of intelligence king looked in her face and wagged his tail, and then earnestly endeavoured to lick all her fingers. which however was a piece of comfort she would not give him. "fleda," said barby putting her head in, "i wish you'd just step out here and tell me which cheese you'd like to have cut." "what a fool!" said marion. "let her cut them all if she likes." "she is no fool," said fleda. she thought barby's punctiliousness however a little ill-timed, as she rose from her sofa and went into the kitchen. "well you _do_ look as if you wa'n't good for nothing but to be taken care of!" said barby. "i wouldn't have riz you up if it hadn't been just tea-time, and i knowed you couldn't stay quiet much longer;"--and with a look which explained her tactics she put into fleda's hand a letter directed to her aunt. "philetus gave it to me," she said, without a glance at fleda's face,--"he said it was give to him by a spry little shaver who wa'n't a mind to tell nothin' about himself." "thank you, barby!" was fleda's most grateful return; and summoning her aunt up-stairs she took her into her own room and locked the door before she gave her the letter which barby's shrewdness and delicacy had taken such care should not reach its owner in a wrong way. fleda watched her as her eye ran over the paper and caught it as it fell from her fingers. "my dear wife, "that villain thorn has got a handle of me which he will not fail to use--you know it all i suppose, by this time--it is true that in an evil hour, long ago, when greatly pressed, i did what i thought i should surely undo in a few days--the time never came--i don't know why he has let it lie so long, but he has taken it up now, and he will push it to the extreme--there is but one thing left for me--i shall not see you again. the rascal would never let me rest, i know, in any spot that calls itself american ground. "you will do better without me than with me. "r. r." fleda mused over the letter for several minutes, and then touched her aunt who had fallen on a chair with her head sunk in her hands. "what does he mean?" said mrs. rossitur, looking up with a perfectly colourless face. "to leave the country." "are you sure? is that it?" said mrs. rossitur, rising and looking over the words again;--"he would do anything, fleda--" "that is what he means, aunt lucy;--don't you see he says he could not be safe anywhere in america?" mrs. rossitur stood eying with intense eagerness for a minute or two the note in her niece's hand. "then he is gone! now that it is all settled!--and we don't know where--and we can't get word to him--" her cheek which had a little brightened became perfectly white again. "he isn't gone yet--he can't be--he cannot have left queechy till to-day--he will be in new york for several days yet probably." "new york!--it may be boston?" "no, he would be more likely to go to new york--i am sure he would--he is accustomed to it." "we might write to both places," said poor mrs. rossitur. "i will do it and send them off at once." "but he might not get the letters," said fleda thoughtfully,--"he might not dare to ask at the post-office." his wife looked at that possibility, and then wrung her hands. "oh why didn't he give us a clew!" fleda put an arm round her affectionately and stood thinking; stood trembling might as well be said, for she was too weak to be standing at all. "what can we do, dear fleda?" said mrs. rossitur in great distress. "once out of new york and we can get nothing to him! if he only knew that there is no need, and that it is all over!--" "we must do everything, aunt lucy," said fleda thoughtfully, "and i hope we shall succeed yet. we will write, but i think the most hopeful other thing we could do would be to put advertisements in the newspapers--he would be very likely to see them." "advertisements!--but you couldn't--what would you put in?" "something that would catch his eye and nobody's else--_that_ is easy, aunt lucy." "but there is nobody to put them in, fleda,--you said uncle orrin was going to boston--" "he wasn't going there till next week, but he was to be in philadelphia a few days before that--the letter might miss him." "mr. plumfield!--couldn't he?" but fleda shook her head. "wouldn't do, aunt lucy--he would do all he could, but he don't know new york nor the papers--he wouldn't know how to manage it--he don't know uncle rolf--shouldn't like to trust it to him." "who then?--there isn't a creature we could ask--" fleda laid her cheek to her poor aunt's and said, "i'll do it." "but you must be in new york to do it, dear fleda,--you can't do it here." "i will go to new york." "when?" "to-morrow morning." "but dear fleda, you can't go alone! i can't let you, and you're not fit to go at all, my poor child!--" and between conflicting feelings mrs. rossitur sat down and wept without measure. "listen, aunt lucy," said fleda, pressing a hand on her shoulder,--"listen, and don't cry so!--i'll go and make all right, if efforts can do it. i am not going alone--i'll get seth to go with me; and i can sleep in the cars and rest nicely in the steamboat--i shall feel happy and well when i know that i am leaving you easier and doing all that can be done to bring uncle rolf home. leave me to manage, and don't say anything to marion,--it is one blessed thing that she need not know anything about all this. i shall feel better than if i were at home and had trusted this business to any other hands." "_you_ are the blessing of my life," said mrs. rossitur. "cheer up, and come down and let us have some tea," said fleda, kissing her; "i feel as if that would make me up a little; and then i'll write the letters. i sha'n't want but very little baggage; there'll be nothing to pack up." philetus was sent up the hill with a note to seth plumfield, and brought home a favorable answer. fleda thought as she went to rest that it was well the mind's strength could sometimes act independently of its servant the body, hers felt so very shattered and unsubstantial. chapter xli. i thank you for your company; but good faith, i had as lief have been myself alone.--as you like it. the first thing next morning seth plumfield came down to say that he had seen dr. quackenboss the night before and had chanced to find out that he was going to new york too, this very day; and knowing that the doctor would be just as safe an escort as himself, seth had made over the charge of his cousin to him; "calculating," he said, "that it would make no difference to fleda and that he had better stay at home with his mother." fleda said nothing and looked as little as possible of her disappointment, and her cousin went away wholly unsuspecting of it. "seth plumfield ha'n't done a smarter thing than that in a good while," barby remarked satirically as he was shutting the door. "i should think he'd ha' hurt himself." "i dare say the doctor will take good care of me," said fleda;--"as good as he knows how." "men beat all!" said barby impatiently.--"the little sense there is into them!--" fleda's sinking heart was almost ready to echo the sentiment; but nobody knew it. coffee was swallowed, her little travelling bag and bonnet on the sofa; all ready. then came the doctor. "my dear miss ringgan!--i am most happy of this delightful opportunity--i had supposed you were located at home for the winter. this is a sudden start." "is it sudden to you, dr. quackenboss?" said fleda. "why--a--not disagreeably so," said the doctor smiling;--"nothing could be that in the present circumstances,--but i--a--i hadn't calculated upon it for much of a spell beforehand." fleda was vexed, and looked,--only unconversable. "i suppose," said the doctor after a pause,--"that we have not much time to waste--a--in idle moments. which route do you intend to travel?" "i was thinking to go by the north river, sir." "but the ice has collected,--i am afraid,--" "at albany, i know; but when i came up there was a boat every other day, and we could get there in time by the stage--this is her day." "but we have had some pretty tight weather since, if you remember," said the doctor; "and the boats have ceased to connect with the stage. we shall have to go to greenfield to take the housatonic which will land us at bridgeport on the sound" "have we time to reach greenfield this morning?" "oceans of time?" said the doctor delightedly; "i've got my team here and they're jumping out of their skins with having nothing to do and the weather--they'll carry us there as spry as grasshoppers--now, if you're ready, my dear miss ringgan!" there was nothing more but to give and receive those speechless lip-messages that are out of the reach of words, and mrs. rossitur's half-spoken last charge, to take care of _herself_; and with these seals upon her mission fleda set forth and joined the doctor; thankful for one foil to curiosity in the shape of a veil and only wishing that there were any invented screen that she could place between her and hearing. "i hope your attire is of a very warm description," said the doctor as he helped her into the wagon;--"it friz pretty hard last night and i don't think it has got out of the notion yet. if i had been consulted in any other--a--form, than that of a friend, i should have disapprobated, if you'll excuse me, miss ringgan's travelling again before her 'rose of cassius' there was in blow. i hope you have heard no evil tidings? dr.--a--gregory, i hope, is not taken ill?" "i hope not, sir," said fleda. "he didn't look like it. a very hearty old gentleman. not very old either, i should judge. was he the brother of your mother or your father?" "neither, sir." "ah!--i misunderstood--i thought, but of course i was mistaken,--i thought i heard you speak to him under the title of uncle. but that is a title we sometimes give to elderly people as a term of familiarity--there is an old fellow that works for me,--he has been a long time in our family, and we always call him 'uncle jenk.'" fleda was ready to laugh, cry, and be angry, in a breath. she looked straight before her and was mum. "that 'rose of cassius' is a most exquisite thing!" said the doctor, recurring to the cluster of bare bushy stems in the corner of the garden. "did mr. rossitur bring it with him when he came to his present residence?" "yes sir." "where is mr. rossitur now?" fleda replied, with a jump of her heart, that business affairs had obliged him to be away for a few days. "and when does he expect to return?" said the doctor. "i hope he will be home as soon as i am," said fleda. "then you do not expect to remain long in the city this time?" "i shall not have much of a winter at home if i do," said fleda. "we are almost at january." "because," said the doctor, "in that case i should have no higher gratification than in attending upon your motions. i--a--beg you to believe, my dear miss ringgan, that it would afford me the--a--most particular--it would be most particularly grateful to me to wait upon you to--a--the confines of the world." fleda hastened to assure her officious friend that the time of her return was altogether uncertain; resolving rather to abide a guest with mrs. pritchard than to have dr. quackenboss hanging upon her motions every day of her being there. but in the mean time the doctor got upon capt. rossitur's subject; then came to mr. thorn; and then wanted to know the exact nature of mr. rossitur's business affairs in michigan; through all which matters poor fleda had to run the gauntlet of questions, interspersed with gracious speeches which she could bear even less well. she was extremely glad to reach the cars and take refuge in seeming sleep from the mongrel attentions, which if for the most part prompted by admiration owned so large a share of curiosity. her weary head and heart would fain have courted the reality of sleep, as a refuge from more painful thoughts and a feeling of exhaustion that could scarcely support itself; but the restless roar and jumble of the rail-cars put it beyond her power. how long the hours were--how hard to wear out, with no possibility of a change of position that would give rest; fleda would not even raise her head when they stopped, for fear of being talked to; how trying that endless noise to her racked nerves. it came to an end at last, though fleda would not move for fear they might be only taking in wood and water. "miss ringgan!" said the doctor in her ear,--"my dear miss ringgan!--we are here!--" "are we?" said fleda, looking up;--"what other name has the place, doctor?" "why bridgeport," said the doctor,--"we're at bridgeport--now we have leave to exchange conveyances. a man feels constrained after a prolonged length of time in a place. how have you enjoyed the ride?" "not very well--it has seemed long. i am glad we are at the end of it!" but as she rose and threw back her veil the doctor looked startled. "my dear miss ringgan!--are you faint?" "no sir." "you are not well, indeed!--i am very sorry--the ride has been--take my arm!--ma'am," said the doctor touching a black satin cloak which filled the passage-way,--"will you have the goodness to give this lady a passport?" but the black satin cloak preferred a straightforward manner of doing this, so their egress was somewhat delayed. happily faintness was not the matter. "my dear miss ringgan!" said the doctor as they reached the ground and the outer air,--"what was it?--the stove too powerful? you are looking--you are of a dreadfully delicate appearance!" "i had a headache yesterday," said fleda; "it always leaves me with a disagreeable reminder the next day. i am not ill." but he looked frightened, and hurried her, as fast as he dared, to the steamboat; and there proposed half a dozen restoratives; the simplest of which fleda took, and then sought delicious rest from him and from herself on the cushions of a settee. delicious!--though she was alone, in the cabin of a steamboat, with strange forms and noisy tongues around her, the closed eyelids shut it out all; and she had time but for one resting thought of "patient continuance in well-doing," and one happy heart-look up to him who has said that he cares for his children, a look that laid her anxieties down there,--when past misery and future difficulty faded away before a sleep that lasted till the vessel reached her moorings and was made fast. she was too weary and faint even to think during the long drive up to bleecker-st. she was fain to let it all go--the work she had to do and the way she must set about it, and rest in the assurance that nothing could be done that night. she did not so much as hear dr. quackenboss's observations, though she answered a few of them, till, at the door, she was conscious of his promising to see her to-morrow and of her instant conclusion to take measures to see nobody. how strange everything seemed. she walked through the familiar hall, feeling as if her acquaintance with every old thing was broken. there was no light in the back parlour, but a comfortable fire. "is my--is dr. gregory at home?" she asked of the girl who had let her in. "no ma'am; he hasn't got back from philadelphia." "tell mrs. pritchard a lady wants to see her." good mrs. pritchard was much more frightened than dr. quackenboss had been when she came into the back parlour to see "a lady" and found fleda in the great arm-chair taking off her things. she poured out questions, wonderings and lamentings, not "in a breath" but in a great many; quite forgot to be glad to see her, she looked so dreadfully; and "what _had_ been the matter?" fleda answered her,--told of yesterday's illness and to-day's journey; and met all her shocked enquiries with so composed a face and such a calm smile and bearing, that mrs. pritchard was almost persuaded not to believe her eyes. "my uncle is not at home?" "o no, miss fleda! i suppose he's in philadelphy--but his motions is so little to be depended on that i never know when i have him; maybe he'll stop going through to boston, and maybe no, and i don't know when; so anyhow i had to have a fire made and this room all ready; and ain't it lucky it was ready for you to-night!--and now he ain't here you can have the great chair all to yourself and make yourself comfortable--we can keep warmer here, i guess, than you can in the country," said the good housekeeper, giving some skilful admonishing touches to the fire;--"and you must just sit there and read and rest, and see if you can't get back your old looks again. if i thought it was _that_ you came for i'd be happy. i never _did_ see such a change in any one in five days!--" she stood looking down at her guest with a face of very serious concern, evidently thinking much more than she chose to give utterance to. "i am tired, mrs. pritchard," said fleda, smiling up at her. "i wish you had somebody to take care of you, miss fleda, that wouldn't let you tire yourself. it's a sin to throw your strength away so--and you don't care for looks nor nothing else when it's for other people. you're looking just as handsome, too, for all," she said, her mouth giving way a little, as she stooped down to take off fleda's overshoes, "but that's only because you can't help it. now what is there you'd like to have for supper!--just say and you shall have it--whatever would seem best--because i mightn't hit the right thing?" fleda declared her indifference to everything but a cup of tea, and her hostess bustled away to get that and tax her own ingenuity and kindness for the rest. and leaning her weary head back in the lounge fleda tried to think,--but it was not time yet; she could only feel; feel what a sad change had come over her since she had sat there last; shut her eyes and wish she could sleep again. but mrs. pritchard's hospitality must be gone through with first. the nicest of suppers was served in the bright little parlour and her hostess was a compound of care and good will; nothing was wanting to the feast but a merry heart. fleda could not bring that, so her performance was unsatisfactory and mrs. pritchard was distressed. fleda went to her own room promising better doings to-morrow. she awoke in the morning to the full burden of care and sorrow which sheer weakness and weariness the day before had in part laid down; to a quicker sense of the state of things than she had had yet. the blasting evil that had fallen upon them,--fleda writhed on her bed when she thought of it. the sternest, cruellest, most inflexible, grasp of distress. poverty may be borne, death may be sweetened, even to the survivors; but _disgrace_--fleda hid her head, as if she would shut the idea out with the light. and the ruin it had wrought. affection killed at the root,--her aunt's happiness withered, for this world,--hugh's life threatened,--the fair name of his family gone,--the wear and weariness of her own spirit,--but that had hardly a thought. himself?--oh no one could tell what a possible wreck, now that self-respect and the esteem of others, those two safe-guards of character, were lost to him. "so much security has any woman in a man without religion;" she remembered those words of her aunt miriam now; and she thought if mr. thorn had sought an ill wind to blow upon his pretensions he could not have pitched them better. what fairer promise, without religion, could be than her uncle had given? reproach had never breathed against his name, and no one less than those who knew him best could fancy that he had ever given it occasion. and who could have more at stake?--and the stake was lost--that was the summing up thought. no, it was not,--for fleda's mind presently sprang beyond,--to the remedy; and after a little swift and earnest flitting about of thought over feasibilities and contingencies, she jumped up and dressed herself with a prompt energy which shewed a mind made up to its course. and yet when she came down to the parlour, though bending herself with nervous intentness to the work she had to do, her fingers and her heart were only stayed in their trembling by some of the happy assurances she had been fleeing to;-- "commit thy works unto the lord, and all thy thoughts shall be established."-- "in all thy ways acknowledge him: he shall direct they paths."-- --assurances, not indeed that her plans should meet with success, but that they should have the issue best for them. she was early, but the room was warm and in order and the servant had left it. fleda sought out paper and pencil and sat down to fashion the form of an advertisement,--the first thing to be done. she had no notion how difficult a thing till she came to do it. "_r. r. is entreated to communicate with his niece at the old place in bleecker-street, on business of the greatest importance_." "it will not do," said fleda to herself as she sat and looked at it,--"there is not enough to catch his eye; and there is _too much_ if it caught anybody else's eye;--'r. r.', and 'his niece,' and 'bleecker-street,'--that would tell plain enough." "_dear uncle, f. has followed you here on business of the greatest importance. pray let her see you--she is at the old place_." "it will not do," thought fleda again,--"there is still less to catch his eye--i cannot trust it. and if i were to put 'queechy' over it, that would give the clue to the evelyns and everybody. but i had better risk anything rather than his seeing it--" the miserable needlessness of the whole thing, the pitiful weighing of sorrow against sorrow, and shame against shame overcame her for a little; and then dashing away the tears she had no time for and locking up the strong box of her heart, she took her pencil again. "_queechy_. "_let me see you at the old place. i have come here on urgent business_ for you. _do not deny me, for h---'s sake_!" with a trifle of alteration she thought this would do; and went on to make a number of fair copies of it for so many papers, this was done and all traces of it out of the way before mrs. pritchard came in and the breakfast; and after bracing herself with coffee, though the good housekeeper was still sadly dissatisfied with her indifference to some more substantial brace in the shape of chickens and ham, fleda prepared herself inwardly and outwardly to brave the wind and the newspaper offices, and set forth. it was a bright keen day; she was sorry; she would it had been cloudy. it seemed as if she could not hope to escape some eyes in such an atmosphere. she went to the library first, and there requested the librarian, whom she knew, to bring her from the reading-room the files of morning and evening papers. they were many more than she had supposed; she had not near advertisements enough. paper and ink were at hand however, and making carefully her list of the various offices, morning and evening separate, she wrote out a copy of the notice for each of them. the morning was well on by the time she could leave the library. it was yet far from the fashionable hour, however, and sedulously shunning the recognition of anybody, in hopes that it would be one step towards her escaping theirs, she made her way down the bright thoroughfare as far as the city hall, and then crossed over the park and plunged into a region where it was very little likely she would see a face that she knew. she saw nothing else either that she knew; in spite of having studied the map of the city in the library she was forced several times to ask her way, as she visited office after office, of the evening papers first, till she had placed her notice with each one of them. her courage almost failed her, her heart did quite, after two or three. it was a trial from which her whole nature shrank, to go among the people, to face the eyes, to exchange talk with the lips, that were at home in those purlieus; look at them she did not. making her slow way through the choked narrow streets, where the mere confusion of business was bewildering,--very, to any one come from queechy; among crowds, of what mixed and doubtful character, hurrying along and brushing with little ceremony past her; edging by loitering groups that filled the whole sidewalk, or perhaps edging through them, groups whose general type of character was sufficiently plain and unmixed; entering into parley with clerk after clerk who looked at such a visiter as an anomaly,--poor fleda almost thought so too, and shrank within herself; venturing hardly her eyes beyond her thick veil, and shutting her ears resolutely as far as possible to all the dissonant rough voices that helped to assure her she was where she ought not to be. sometimes she felt that it was _impossible_ to go on and finish her task; but a thought or two nerved her again to plunge into another untried quarter or make good her entrance to some new office through a host of loungers and waiting news-boys collected round the door. sometimes in utter discouragement she went on and walked to a distance and came back, in the hope of a better opportunity. it was a long business; and she often had to wait. the end of her list was reached at last, and the paper was thrown away; but she did not draw free breath till she had got to the west side of broadway again, and turned her back upon them all. it was late then, and the street was thinned of a part of its gay throng. completely worn, in body as well as mind, with slow faltering steps, fleda moved on among those still left; looking upon them with a curious eye as if they and she belonged to different classes of beings; so very far her sobered and saddened spirit seemed to herself from their stir of business and gayety; if they had been a train of lady-flies or black ants fleda would hardly have felt that she had less in common with them. it was a weary long way up to bleecker-street, as she was forced to travel it. the relief was unspeakable to find herself within her uncle's door with the sense that her dreaded duty was done, and well and thoroughly. now her part was to be still and wait. but with the relief came also a reaction from the strain of the morning. before her weary feet had well mounted the stairs her heart gave up its control; and she locked herself in her room to yield to a helpless outpouring of tears which she was utterly unable to restrain, though conscious that long time could not pass before she would be called to dinner. dinner had to wait. "miss fleda," said the housekeeper in a vexed tone when the meal was half over,--"i didn't know you ever did any thing wrong." "you are sadly mistaken, mrs. pritchard," said fleda half lightly, half sadly. "you're looking not a bit better than last night, and if anything rather worse," mrs. pritchard went on. "it isn't right, miss fleda. you oughtn't to ha' set the first step out of doors, i know you oughtn't, this blessed day; and you've been on your feet these seven hours,--and you shew it! you're just ready to drop." "i will rest to-morrow," said fleda,--"or try to." "you are fit for nothing but bed," said the housekeeper,--"and you've been using yourself, miss fleda, as if you had the strength of an elephant. now do you think you've been doing right?" fleda would have made some cheerful answer, but she was not equal to it; she had lost all command of herself, and she dropped knife and fork to burst into a flood of exceeding tears. mrs. pritchard equally astonished and mystified, hurried questions, apologies, and consolations, one upon another; and made up her mind that there was something mysterious on foot about which she had better ask no questions. neither did she, from that time. she sealed up her mouth, and contented herself with taking the best care of her guest that she possibly could. needed enough, but all of little avail. the reaction did not cease with that day. the next, sunday, was spent on the sofa, in a state of utter prostration. with the necessity for exertion the power had died. fleda could only lie upon the cushions, and sleep helplessly, while mrs. pritchard sat by, anxiously watching her; curiosity really swallowed up in kind feeling. monday was little better, but towards the after part of the day the stimulant of anxiety began to work again, and fleda sat up to watch for a word from her uncle, but none came, and tuesday morning distressed mrs. pritchard with its want of amendment. it was not to be hoped for, fleda knew, while this fearful watching lasted. her uncle might not have seen the advertisement--he might not have got her letter--he might be even then setting sail to quit home forever. and she could do nothing but wait. her nerves were alive to every stir; every touch of the bell made her tremble; it was impossible to read, to lie down, to be quiet or still anywhere. she had set the glass of expectancy for one thing in the distance; and all things else were a blur or a blank. they had sat down to dinner that tuesday, when a ring at the door which had made her heart jump was followed--yes, it was,--by the entrance of the maid-servant holding a folded bit of paper in her hand. fleda did not wait to ask whose it was; she seized it and saw; and sprang away up stairs. it was a sealed scrap of paper, that had been the back of a letter, containing two lines without signature. "i will meet you _at dinah's_--if you come there alone about sundown." enough! dinah was an old black woman who once had been a very attached servant in mr. rossitur's family, and having married and become a widow years ago, had set up for herself in the trade of a washerwoman, occupying an obscure little tenement out towards chelsea. fleda had rather a shadowy idea of the locality, though remembering very well sundry journeys of kindness she and hugh had made to it in days gone by. but she recollected it was in sloman-street and she knew she could find it; and dropping upon her knees poured out thanks too deep to be uttered and too strong to be even thought without a convulsion of tears. her dinner after that was but a mental thanksgiving; she was hardly conscious of anything beside; and a thankful rejoicing for all her weary labours. their weariness was sweet to her now. let her but see him;--the rest was sure. chapter xlii. how well appaid she was her bird to find. sidney. fleda counted the minutes till it wanted an hour of sundown; and then avoiding mrs. pritchard made her escape out of the house. a long walk was before her and the latter part of it through a region which she wished to pass while the light was good. and she was utterly unable to travel at any but a very gentle rate. so she gave herself plenty of time. it was a very bright afternoon and all the world was astir. fleda shielded herself with a thick veil and went up one of the narrow streets, not daring to venture into broadway; and passing waverly place which was almost as bright, turned down eighth-street. a few blocks now and she would be out of all danger of meeting any one that knew her. she drew her veil close and hurried on. but the proverb saith "a miss is as good as a mile," and with reason; for if fate wills the chances make nothing. as fleda set her foot down to cross fifth avenue she saw mr. carleton on the other side coming up from waverly place. she went as slowly as she dared, hoping that he would pass without looking her way, or be unable to recognize her through her thick wrapper. in vain,--she soon saw that she was known; he was waiting for her, and she must put up her veil and speak to him. "why i thought you had left new york," said he;--"i was told so." "i had left it--i have left it, sir," said fleda;--"i have only come back for a day or two--" "have you been ill?" he said with a sudden change of tone, the light in his eye and smile giving place to a very marked gravity. fleda would have answered with a half smile, but such a sickness of heart came over her that speech failed and she was very near bursting into tears. mr. carleton looked at her earnestly a moment, and then put the hand which fleda had forgotten he still held, upon his arm and began to walk forward gently with her. something in the grave tenderness with which this was done reminded fleda irresistibly of the times when she had been a child under his care; and somehow her thoughts went off on a tangent back to the further days of her mother and father and grandfather, the other friends from whom she had had the same gentle protection, which now there was no one in the world to give her. and their images did never seem more winning fair than just then,--when their place was left most especially empty. her uncle she had never looked up to in the same way, and whatever stay he had been was cut down. her aunt leaned upon _her_; and hugh had always been more of a younger than an elder brother. the quick contrast of those old happy childish days was too strong; the glance back at what she had had, made her feel the want. fleda blamed herself, reasoned and fought with herself;--but she was weak in mind and body, her nerves were unsteady yet, her spirits unprepared for any encounter or reminder of pleasure; and though vexed and ashamed she _could_ not hold her head up, and she could not prevent tear after tear from falling as they went along; she could only hope that nobody saw them. nobody spoke of them. but then nobody said anything; and the silence at last frightened her into rousing herself she checked her tears and raised her head; she ventured no more; she dared not turn her face towards her companion. he looked at her once or twice, as if in doubt whether to speak or not. "are you not going beyond your strength?" he said at length gently. fleda said no, although in a tone that half confessed his suspicion. he was silent again, however, and she cast about in vain for something to speak of; it seemed to her that all subjects of conversation in general had been packed up for exportation, neither eye nor memory could light upon a single one. block after block was passed, the pace at which he walked, and the manner of his care for her, alone shewing that he knew what a very light hand was resting upon his arm. "how pretty the curl of blue smoke is from that chimney," he said. it was said with a tone so carelessly easy that fleda's heart jumped for one instant in the persuasion that he had seen and noticed nothing peculiar about her. "i know it," she said eagerly,--"i have often thought of it--especially here in the city--" "why is it? what is it?--" fleda's eye gave one of its exploratory looks at his, such as he remembered from years ago, before she spoke. "isn't it contrast?--or at least i think that helps the effect here." "what do you make the contrast?" he said quietly. "isn't it," said fleda with another glance, "the contrast of something pure and free and upward-tending, with what is below it. i did not mean the mere painter's contrast. in the country smoke is more picturesque, but in the city i think it has more character." "to how many people do you suppose it ever occurred that smoke had a character?" said he smiling. "you are laughing at me, mr. carleton? perhaps i deserve it." "you do not think that," said he with a look that forbade her to think it. "but i see you are of lavater's mind, that everything has a physiognomy?" "i think he was perfectly right," said fleda. "don't you, mr. carleton?" "to some people, yes!--but the expression is so subtle that only very nice sensibilities, with fine training, can hope to catch it; therefore to the mass of the world lavater would talk nonsense." "that is a gentle hint to me. but if i talk nonsense i wish you would set me right, mr. carleton;--i am very apt to amuse myself with tracing out fancied analogies in almost everything, and i may carry it too far--too far--to be spoken of wisely. i think it enlarges one's field of pleasure very much. where one eye is stopped, another is but invited on." "so," said mr. carleton, "while that puff of smoke would lead one person's imagination only down the chimney to the kitchen fire, it would take another's----where did yours go?" said he suddenly turning round upon her. fleda met his eye again, without speaking; but her look had perhaps more than half revealed her thought, for she was answered with a smile so intelligent and sympathetic that she was abashed. "how very much religion heightens the enjoyments of life," mr. carleton said after a while. fieda's heart throbbed an answer; she did not speak. "both in its direct and indirect action. the mind is set free from influences that narrowed its range and dimmed its vision; and refined to a keener sensibility, a juster perception, a higher power of appreciation, by far, than it had before. and then, to say nothing of religion's own peculiar sphere of enjoyment, technically religious,--what a field of pleasure it opens to its possessor in the world of moral beauty, most partially known to any other,--and the fine but exquisite analogies of things material with things spiritual,--those _harmonies of nature_, to which, talk as they will, all other ears are deaf!" "you know," said fleda with full eyes that she dared not shew, "how henry martyn said that he found he enjoyed painting and music so much more after he became a christian." "i remember. it is the substituting a just medium for a false one--it is putting nature within and nature without in tune with each other, so that the chords are perfect now which were jarring before." "and yet how far people would be from believing you, mr. carleton." "yes--they are possessed with the contrary notion. but in all the creation nothing has a one-sided usefulness;--what a reflection it would be upon the wisdom of its author if godliness alone were the exception--if it were not 'profitable for the life that now is, as well as for that which is to come'!" "they make that work the other way, don't they?" said fleda.--"not being able to see how thorough religion should be for anybody's happiness, they make use of your argument to conclude that it is not what the bible requires. how i have heard that urged--that god intended his creatures to be happy--as a reason why they should disobey him. they lay hold on the wrong end of the argument and work backwards." "precisely. "'god intended his creatures to be happy. "'strict obedience would make them unhappy. "'therefore, he does not intend them to obey.'" "they never put it before them quite so clearly," said fleda. "they would startle at it a little. but so they would at the right stating of the case." "and how would that be, mr. carleton?" "it might be somewhat after this fashion-- "'god requires nothing that is not for the happiness of his people-- "'he requires perfect obedience-- "'therefore perfect obedience is for their happiness' "but unbelief will not understand that. did it ever strike you how much there is in those words 'come and see'?--all that argument can do, after all, is but to persuade to that. only faith will submit to terms and enter the narrrow gate; and only obedience knows what the prospect is on the other side." "but isn't it true, mr. carleton, that the world have some cause for their opinion?--judging as they do by the outside? the peculiar pleasures of religion, as you say, are out of sight, and they do not always find in religious people that enlargement and refinement of which you were speaking." "because they make unequal comparisons. recollect that, as god has declared, the ranks of religion are not for the most part filled from the wise and the great. in making your estimate you must measure things equal in other respects. compare the same man with himself before he was a christian or with his unchristianized fellows--and you will find invariably the refining, dignifying, ennobling, influence of true religion; the enlarged intelligence and the greater power of enjoyment." "and besides those causes of pleasure-giving that you mentioned," said fleda,--"there is a mind at ease; and how much that is alone. if i may judge others by myself,--the mere fact of being unpoised--unresting-- disables the mind from a thousand things that are joyfully relished by one entirely at ease." "yes," said he,--"do you remember that word--'the stones of the field shall be at peace with thee'?" "i am afraid people would understand you as little as they would me, mr. carleton," said fleda laughing. he smiled, rather a prolonged smile, the expression of which fleda could not make out; she felt that _she_ did not quite understand him. "i have thought," said he after a pause, "that much of the beauty we find in many things is owing to a hidden analogy--the harmony they make with some unknown string of the mind's harp which they have set a vibrating. but the music of that is so low and soft that one must listen very closely to find out what it is." "why that is the very theory of which i gave you a smoky illustration a little while ago," said fleda. "i thought i was on safe ground, after what you said about the characters of flowers, for that was a little--" "fanciful?" said he smiling. "what you please," said fleda colouring a little,--"i am sure it is true. the theory, i mean. i have many a time felt it, though i never put it in words. i shall think of that." "did you ever happen to see the very early dawn of a winter's morning?" said he. but he laughed the next instant at the comical expression of fleda's face as it was turned to him. "forgive me for supposing you as ignorant as myself. i have seen it--once." "appreciated it, i hope, that time?" said fleda. "i shall never forget it." "and it never wrought in you a desire to see it again?" "i might see many a dawn," said he smiling, "without what i saw then. it was very early--and a cloudy morning, so that night had still almost undisturbed possession of earth and sky; but in the south-eastern quarter, between two clouds, there was a space of fair white promise, hardly making any impression upon the darkness but only set off by it. and upon this one bright spot in earth or heaven, rode the planet of the morning--the sun's forerunner--bright upon the brightness. all else was dusky--except where overhead the clouds had parted again and shewed a faint old moon, glimmering down upon the night it could no longer be said to 'rule'." "beautiful!" said fleda. "there is hardly any time i like so well as the dawn of a winter morning with an old moon in the sky. summer weather has no beauty like it--in some things." "once," continued mr, carleton, "i should have seen no more than i have told you--the beauty that every cultivated eye must take in. but now, methought i saw the dayspring that has come upon a longer night--and from out of the midst of it there was the fair face of the morning star looking at me with its sweet reminder and invitation--looking over the world with its aspect of triumphant expectancy;--there was its calm assurance of the coming day,--its promise that the star of hope which now there were only a few watching eyes to see, should presently be followed by the full beams of the sun of righteousness making the kingdoms of the world his own.--your memory may bring to you the words that came to mine,--the promise 'to him that overcometh', and the beauty of the lips that made it--the encouragement to 'patient continuance in well-doing', 'till the day break and the shadows flee away.'--and there on the other hand was the substituted light of earth's wisdom and inventions, dominant yet, but waning and soon to be put out for ever." fleda was crying again, and perhaps that was the reason why mr. carleton was silent for some time. she was very sorry to shew herself so weak, but she could not help it; part of his words had come too close. and when she had recovered again she was absolutely silent too, for they were nearing sloman-street and she could not take him there with her. she did not know what to say, nor what he would think; and she said not another word till they came to the corner. there she must stop and speak. "i am very much obliged to you, mr. carleton," she said drawing her hand from his arm, "for taking care of me all this disagreeable way--i will not give you any more trouble." "you are not going to dismiss me?" said he looking at her with a countenance of serious anxiety. "i must," said fleda ingenuously,--"i have business to attend to here--" "but you will let me have the pleasure of waiting for you?" "o no," said fleda hesitating and flushing,--"thank you, mr. carleton,--but pray do not--i don't know at all how long i may be detained." he bowed, she thought gravely, and turned away, and she entered the little wretched street; with a strange feeling of pain that she could not analyze. she did not know where it came from, but she thought if there only had been a hiding-place for her she could have sat down and wept a whole heartful. the feeling must be kept back now, and it was soon forgotten in the throbbing of her heart at another thought which took entire possession. the sun was not down, there was time enough, but it was with a step and eye of hurried anxiety that fleda passed along the little street, for fear of missing her quest or lest dinah should have changed her domicil. yet would her uncle have named it for their meeting if he had not been sure of it? it was very odd he should have appointed that place at all, and fleda was inclined to think he must have seen dinah by some chance, or it never would have come into his head. still her eye passed unheeding over all the varieties of dinginess and misery in her way, intent only upon finding that particular dingy cellar-way which used to admit her to dinah's premises. it was found at last, and she went in. the old woman, herself most unchanged, did not know the young lady, but well remembered the little girl whom fleda brought to her mind. and then she was overjoyed to see her, and asked a multitude of questions, and told a long story of her having met mr. rossitur in the street the other day "in the last place where she'd have looked to see him;" and how old he had grown, and how surprised she had been to see the grey hairs in his head. fleda at last gave her to understand that she expected him to meet her there and would like to see him alone; and the good woman immediately took her work into another apartment, made up the fire and set up the chairs, and leaving her assured fleda she would lock up the doors "and not let no one come through." it was sundown, and later, fleda thought, and she felt as if every pulse was doing double duty. no matter--if she were shattered and the work done. but what work!--oh the needlessness, the cruelty, the folly of it! and how much of the ill consequences she might be unable after all to ward off. she took off her hat, to relieve a nervous smothered feeling; and walked, and sat down; and then sat still, from trembling inability to do anything else. dinah's poor little room, clean though it was, looked to her the most dismal place in the world from its association with her errand; she hid her face on her knees that she might have no disagreeableness to contend with but that which could not be shut out. it had lain there some time, till a sudden felling of terror at the growing lateness made her raise it to look at the window. mr. rossitur was standing still before her, he must have come in very softly,--and looking,--oh fleda had not imagined him looking so changed. all was forgotten,--the wrong, and the needlessness, and the indignation with which she had sometimes thought of it; fleda remembered nothing but love and pity, and threw herself upon his neck with such tears of tenderness and sympathy, such kisses of forgiveness and comfort-speaking, as might have broken a stouter heart than mr. rossitur's. he held her in his arms for a few minutes, passively suffering her caresses, and then gently unloosing her hold placed her on a seat; sat down a little way off, covered his face and groaned aloud. fleda could not recover herself at once. then shaking off her agitation she came and knelt down by his side and putting one arm over his shoulder laid her cheek against his forehead. words were beyond reach, but his forehead was wet with her tears; and kisses, of soft entreaty, of winning assurance, said all she could say. "what did you come here for, fleda?" said mr. rossitur at length, without changing his position. "to bring you home, uncle rolf." "home!" said he, with an accent between bitterness and despair. "yes, for it's all over, it's all forgotten--there is no more to be said about it at all," said fleda, getting her words out she didn't know how. "what is forgotten?" said he harshly. "all that you would wish, sir," replied fleda softly and gently;--"there is no more to be done about it; and i came to tell you if possible before it was too late. oh i'm so glad!--" and her arms and her cheek pressed closer as fresh tears stopped her voice. "how do you know, fleda?" said mr. rossitur raising his head and bringing hers to his shoulder, while his arms in turn enclosed her. fleda whispered, "he told me so himself." "who?" "mr. thorn." the words were but just spoken above her breath. mr. rossitur was silent for some time. "are you sure you understood him?" "yes, sir; it could not have been spoken plainer." "are you quite sure he meant what he said, fleda?" "perfectly sure, uncle rolf! i know he did." "what stipulation did he make beforehand?" "he did it without any stipulation, sir." "what was his inducement then? if i know him he is not a man to act without any." fleda's cheek was dyed, but except that she gave no other answer. "why has it been left so long?" said her uncle presently. "i don't know, sir--he said nothing about that. he promised that neither we nor the world should hear anything more of it." "the world?" said mr. rossitur. "no sir, he said that only one or two persons had any notion of it and that their secrecy he had the means of securing." "did he tell you anything more?" "only that he had the matter entirely under his control and that never a whisper of it should be heard again, no promise could be given more fully and absolutely." mr. rossitur drew a long breath, speaking to fleda's ear very great relief, and was silent. "and what reward is he to have for this, fleda?" he said after some musing. "all that my hearty thanks and gratitude can give, as far as i am concerned, sir." "is that what he expects, fleda?" "i cannot help what he expects," said fleda, in some distress. "what have you engaged yourself to, my child?" "nothing in the world, uncle rolf!" said fleda earnestly--"nothing in the world. i haven't engaged myself to anything. the promise was made freely, without any sort of stipulation." mr. rossitur looked thoughtful and disquieted. fleda's tears were pouring again. "i will not trust him," he said,--"i will not stay in the country!" "but you will come home, uncle?" said fleda, terrified. "yes my dear child--yes my dear child!" he said tenderly, putting his arms round fleda again and kissing, with an earnestness of acknowledgment that went to her heart, her lips and brow,--"you shall do what you will with me; and when i go, we will all go together." from queechy! from america!--but she had no time for that thought now. "you said 'for hugh's sake,'" mr. rossitur observed after a pause, and with some apparent difficulty;--"what of him?" "he is not well, uncle rolf," said fleda,--"and i think the best medicine will be the sight of you again." mr. rossitur looked pale and was silent a moment. "and my wife?" he said. his face, and the thought of those faces at home, were too much for fleda; she could not help it; "oh, uncle rolf," she said, hiding her face, "they only want to see you again now!" mr. rossitur leaned his head in his hands and groaned; and fleda could but cry; she felt there was nothing to say. "it was for marion," he said at length;--"it was when i was hard pressed and i was fearful if it were known that it might ruin her prospects.--i wanted that miserable sum--only four thousand dollars--that fellow schwiden asked to borrow it of me for a few days, and to refuse would have been to confess all. i dared not try my credit, and i just madly took that step that proved irretrievable--i counted at the moment upon funds that were coming to me only the next week, sure, i thought, as possible,--but the man cheated me, and our embarrassments thickened from that time; that thing has been a weight--oh a weight of deadening power!--round my neck ever since. i have died a living death these six years!--" "i know it, dear uncle--i know it all!" said fleda, bringing the sympathizing touch of her cheek to his again. "the good that it did has been unspeakably overbalanced by the evil--even long ago i knew that." "the good that it did"! it was no time _then_ to moralize, but he must know that marion was at home, or he might incautiously reveal to her what happily there was no necessity for her ever knowing. and the story must give him great and fresh pain---- "dear uncle rolf!" said fleda pressing closer to him, "we may be happier than we have been in a long time, if you will only take it so. the cloud upon you has been a cloud upon us." "i know it!" he exclaimed,--"a cloud that served to shew me that my jewels were diamonds!" "you have an accession to your jewels, uncle rolf." "what do you mean?" "i mean," said fleda trembling, "that there are two more at home." he held her back to look at her. "can't you guess who?" "no!" said he. "what do you mean?" "i must tell you, because they know nothing, and needn't know, of all this matter." "what are you talking about?" "marion is there----" "marion!" exclaimed mr. rossitur, with quick changes of expression,--" marion!--at queechy!--and her husband?" "no sir,--a dear little child." "marion!--and her husband--where is he?" fleda hesitated. "i don't know--i don't know whether she knows--" "is he dead?" "no sir--" mr. rossitur put her away and got up and walked, or strode, up and down, up and down, the little apartment. fleda dared not look at him, even by the faint glimmer that came from the chimney. but abroad it was perfectly dark--the stars were shining, the only lamps that illumined the poor little street, and for a long time there had been no light in the room but that of the tiny wood fire. dinah never could be persuaded of the superior cheapness of coal. fleda came at last to her uncle's side and putting her arm within his said, "how soon will you set off for home, uncle rolf?" "to-morrow morning." "you must take the boat to bridgeport now--you know the river is fast." "yes i know----" "then i will meet you at the wharf, uncle rolf,--at what o'clock?" "my dear child," said he, stopping and passing his hand tenderly over her cheek, "are you fit for it to-morrow? you had better stay where you are quietly for a few days--you want rest." "no, i will go home with you," said fleda, "and rest there. but hadn't we better let dinah in and bid her good bye? for i ought to be somewhere else to get ready." dinah was called, and a few kind words spoken, and with a more substantial remembrance, or reward, from fleda's hand, they left her. fleda had the support of her uncle's arm till they came within sight of the house, and then he stood and watched her while she went the rest of the way alone. [illustration: then he stood and watched her.] anything more white and spirit-looking, and more spirit-like in its purity and peacefulness, surely did not walk that night. there was music in her ear, and abroad in the star-light, more ethereal than ariel's, but she knew where it came from; it was the chimes of her heart that were ringing; and never a happier peal, nor never had the mental atmosphere been more clear for their sounding. thankfulness,--that was the oftenest note,--swelling thankfulness for her success,--joy for herself and for the dear ones at home,--generous delight at having been the instrument of their relief,--the harmonies of pure affections, without any grating now,--the hope well grounded she thought, of improvement in her uncle and better times for them all,--a childlike peace that was at rest with itself and the world,--these were mingling and interchanging their music, and again and again in the midst of it all, faith rang the last chime in heaven. chapter xliii. as some lone bird at day's departing hour sings in the sunbeam of the transient shower, forgetful though its wings are wet the while. bowles. happily possessed with the notion that there was some hidden mystery in fleda's movements, mrs. pritchard said not a word about her having gone out, and only spoke in looks her pain at the imprudence of which she had been guilty. but when fleda asked to have a carriage ordered to take her to the boat in the morning, the good housekeeper could not hold any longer. "miss fleda," said she with a look of very serious remonstrance,--"i don't know what you're thinking of, but _i_ know you're fixing to kill yourself. you are no more fit to go to queechy to-morrow than you were to be out till seven o'clock this evening; and if you saw yourself you wouldn't want me to say any more. there is not the least morsel of colour in your face, and you look as if you had a mind to get rid of your body altogether as fast as you can! you want to be in bed for two days running, now this minute." "thank you, dear mrs. pritchard," said fleda smiling; "you are very careful of me; but i must go home to-morrow, and go to bed afterwards." the housekeeper looked at her a minute in silence, and then said, "don't, dear miss fleda!"--with an energy of entreaty which brought the tears into fleda's eyes. but she persisted in desiring the carriage; and mrs. pritchard was silenced, observing however that she shouldn't wonder if she wasn't able to go after all. fleda herself was not without a doubt on the subject before the evening was over. the reaction, complete now, began to make itself felt; and morning settled the question. she was not able even to rise from her bed. the housekeeper was, in a sort, delighted; and fleda was in too passive a mood of body and mind to have any care on the subject. the agitation of the past days had given way to an absolute quiet that seemed as if nothing could ever ruffle it again, and this feeling was seconded by the extreme prostration of body. she was a mere child in the hands of her nurse, and had, mrs. pritchard said, "if she wouldn't mind her telling,--the sweetest baby-face that ever had so much sense belonging to it." the morning was half spent in dozing slumbers, when fleda heard a rush of footsteps, much lighter and sprightlier than good mrs. pritchard's, coming up the stairs and pattering along the entry to her room; and with little ceremony in rushed florence and constance evelyn. they almost smothered fleda with their delighted caresses, and ran so hard their questions about her looks and her illness, that she was well nigh spared the trouble of answering. "you horrid little creature!" said constance,--"why didn't you come straight to our house? just think of the injurious suspicions you have exposed us to!--to say nothing of the extent of fiction we have found ourselves obliged to execute. i didn't expect it of you, little queechy." fleda kept her pale face quiet on the pillow, and only smiled her incredulous curiosity. "but when did you come back, fleda?" said miss evelyn. "we should never have known a breath about your being here," constance went on. "we were sitting last night in peaceful unconsciousness of there being any neglected calls upon our friendship in the vicinity, when mr. carleton came in and asked for you. imagine our horror!--we said you had gone out early in the afternoon and had not returned." "you didn't say that!" said fleda colouring. "and he remarked at some length," said constance, "upon the importance of young ladies having some attendance when they are out late in the evening, and that you in particular were one of those persons--he didn't say, but he intimated, of a slightly volatile disposition,--whom their friends ought not to lose sight of." "but what brought you to town again, fleda?" said the elder sister. "what makes you talk so, constance?" said fleda. "i haven't told you the half!" said constance demurely. "and then mamma excused herself as well as she could, and mr. carleton said very seriously that he knew there was a great element of head-strongness in your character--he had remarked it, he said, when you were arguing with mr. stackpole." "constance, be quiet!" said her sister. "_will_ you tell me, fleda, what you have come to town for? i am dying with curiosity." "then it's inordinate curiosity, and ought to be checked, my dear," said fleda smiling. "tell me!" "i came to take care of some business that could not very well be attended to at a distance." "who did you come with?" "one of our queechy neighbours that i heard was coming to new york." "wasn't your uncle at home?" "of course not. if he had been, there would have been no need of my stirring." "but was there nobody else to do it but you?" "uncle orrin away, you know; and charlton down at his post--fort hamilton, is it?--i forget which fort--he is fast there." "he is not so very fast," said constance, "for i see him every now and then in broadway shouldering mr. thorn instead of a musket; and he has taken up the distressing idea that it is part of his duty to oversee the progress of florence's worsted-work--(i've made over that horrid thing to her, fleda)--or else his precision has been struck with the anomaly of blue stars on a white ground, and he is studying that,--i don't know which,--and so every few nights he rushes over from governor's island, or somewhere, to prosecute enquiries. mamma is quite concerned about him--she says he is wearing himself out." the mixture of amusement, admiration, and affection, with which the other sister looked at her and laughed with her was a pretty thing to see. "but where is your other cousin,--hugh?" said florence. "he was not well." "where is your uncle?" "he will be at home to-day i expect; and so should i have been--i meant to be there as soon as he was,--but i found this morning that i was not well enough,--to my sorrow." "you were not going alone!" "o no--a friend of ours was going to-day." "i never saw anybody with so many friends!" said florence. "but you are coming to us now, fleda. how soon are you going to get up?" "o by to-morrow," said fleda smiling;--"but i had better stay where i am the little while i shall be here--i must go home the first minute i can find an opportunity." "but you sha'n't find an opportunity till we've had you," said constance. "i'm going to bring a carriage for you this afternoon. i could bear the loss of your friendship, my dear, but not the peril of my own reputation. mr. carleton is under the impression that you are suffering from a momentary succession of fainting fits, and if we were to leave you here in an empty house to come out of them at your leisure, what would he think of us?" what would he think!--oh world! is this it? but fleda was not able to be moved in the afternoon; and it soon appeared that nature would take more revenge than a day's sleep for the rough handling she had had the past week. fleda could not rise from her bed the next morning; and instead of that a kind of nondescript nervous fever set in; nowise dangerous, but very wearying. she was nevertheless extremely glad of it, for it would serve to explain to all her friends the change of look which had astonished them. they would make it now the token of coming, not of past, evil. the rest she took with her accustomed patience and quietness, thankful for everything after the anxiety and the relief she had just before known. dr. gregory came home from philadelphia in the height of her attack, and aggravated it for a day or two with the fear of his questioning. but fleda was surprised at his want of curiosity. he asked her indeed what she had come to town for, but her whispered answer of "business," seemed to satisfy him, for he did not inquire what the business was. he did ask her furthermore what had made her get sick; but this time he was satisfied more easily still, with a very curious sweet smile which was the utmost reply fleda's wits at the moment could frame. "well, get well," said he kissing her heartily once or twice, "and i won't quarrel with you about it." the getting well however promised to be a leisurely affair. dr. gregory staid two or three days, and then went on to boston, leaving fleda in no want of him. mrs. pritchard was the tenderest and carefullest of nurres. the evelyns did everything _but_ nurse her. they sat by her, talked to her, made her laugh, and not seldom made her look sober too, with their wild tales of the world and the world's doings. but they were indeed very affectionate and kind, and fleda loved them for it. if they wearied her sometimes with their talk, it was a change from the weariness of fever and silence that on the whole was useful. she was quieting herself one morning, as well as she could, in the midst of both, lying with shut eyes against her pillow, and trying to fix her mind on pleasant things, when she heard mrs. pritchard open the door and come in. she knew it was mrs. pritchard, so she didn't move nor look. but in a moment, the knowledge that mrs. pritchard's feet had stopped just by the bed, and a strange sensation of something delicious saluting her made her open her eyes; when they lighted upon a huge bunch of violets, just before them and in most friendly neighbourhood to her nose. fleda started up, and her "oh!" fairly made the housekeeper laugh; it was the very quintessence of gratification. "where did you get them?" "i didn't get them indeed, miss fleda," said the housekeeper gravely, with an immense amount of delighted satisfaction. "delicious!--where did they come from?" "well they must have come from a greenhouse, or hot-house, or something of that kind, miss fleda,--these things don't grow nowhere out o' doors at this time." mrs. pritchard guessed fleda had got the clue, from her quick change of colour and falling eye. there was a quick little smile too; and "how kind!" was upon the end of fleda's tongue, but it never got any further. her energies, so far as expression was concerned, seemed to be concentrated in the act of smelling. mrs. pritchard stood by. "they must be put in water," said fleda,--"i must have a dish for them--dear mrs. pritchard, will you get me one?" the housekeeper went smiling to herself. the dish was brought, the violets placed in it, and a little table at fleda's request was set by the side of the bed close to her pillow, for them to stand upon. and fleda lay on her pillow and looked at them. there never were purer-breathed flowers than those. all the pleasant associations of fleda's life seemed to hang about them, from the time when her childish eyes had first made acquaintance with violets, to the conversation in the library a few days ago; and painful things stood aloof; they had no part. the freshness of youth, and the sweetness of spring-time, and all the kindly influences which had ever joined with both to bless her, came back with their blessing in the violets' reminding breath. fleda shut her eyes and she felt it; she opened her eyes, and the little double blue things smiled at her good humouredly and said, "here we are--you may shut them again." and it was curious how often fleda gave them a smile back as she did so. mrs. pritchard thought fleda lived upon the violets that day rather than upon food and medicine; or at least, she said, they agreed remarkably well together. and the next day it was much the same. "what will you do when they are withered?" she said that evening. "i shall have to see and get some more for you." "oh they will last a great while," said fleda smiling. but the next morning mrs. pritchard came into her room with a great bunch of roses, the very like of the one fleda had had at the evelyns'. she delivered them with a sort of silent triumph, and then as before stood by to enjoy fleda and the flowers together. but the degree of fleda's wonderment, pleasure, and gratitude, made her reception of them, outwardly at least, this time rather grave. "you may throw the others away now, miss fleda," said the housekeeper smiling. "indeed i shall not!--" "the violets, i suppose, is all gone," mrs. pritchard went on;--but i never _did_ see such a bunch of roses as that since i lived anywhere.--they have made a rose of you, miss fleda." "how beautiful!--" was fleda's answer. "somebody--he didn't say who--desired to know particularly how miss ringgan was to-day." "somebody is _very_ kind!" said fleda from the bottom of her heart. "but dear mrs. pritchard, i shall want another dish." somebody was kind, she thought more and more; for there came every day or two the most delicious bouquets, every day different. they were _at least_ equal in their soothing and refreshing influences to all the efforts of all the evelyns and mrs. pritchard put together. there never came any name with them, and there never was any need. those bunches of flowers certainly had a physiognomy; and to fleda were (not the flowers but the choosing, cutting, and putting of them together) the embodiment of an amount of grace, refined feeling, generosity, and kindness, that her imagination never thought of in connection with but one person. and his kindness was answered, perhaps mrs. pritchard better than fleda guessed how well, from the delighted colour and sparkle of the eye with which every fresh arrival was greeted as it walked into her room. by fleda's order the bouquets were invariably put out of sight before the evelyns made their first visit in the morning, and not brought out again till all danger of seeing them any more for the day was past. the regular coming of these floral messengers confirmed mrs. pritchard in her mysterious surmises about fleda, which were still further strengthened by this incomprehensible order; and at last she got so into the spirit of the thing that if she heard an untimely ring at the door she would catch up a glass of flowers and run as if they had been contraband, without a word from anybody. the evelyns wrote to mrs. rossitur, by fleda's desire, so as not to alarm her; merely saying that fleda was not quite well, and that they meant to keep her a little while to recruit herself; and that mrs. rossitur must send her some clothes. this last clause was tha particular addition of constance. the fever lasted a fortnight, and then went off by degrees, leaving her with a very small portion of her ordinary strength. fleda was to go to the evelyns as soon as she could bear it; at present she was only able to come down to the little back parlour and sit in the doctor's arm chair, and eat jelly, and sleep, and look at constance, and when constance was not there look at her flowers. she could hardly bear a book as yet. she hadn't a bit of colour in her face, mrs. pritchard said, but she looked better than when she came to town; and to herself the good housekeeper added, that she looked happier too. no doubt that was true. fleda's principal feeling, ever since she lay down in her bed, had been thankfulness; and now that the ease of returning health was joined to this feeling, her face with all its subdued gravity was as untroubled in its expression as the faces of her flowers. she was disagreeably surprised one day, after she had been two or three days down stairs, by a visit from mrs. thorn. in her well-grounded dread of seeing one person fleda had given strict orders that no _gentleman_ should be admitted; she had not counted upon this invasion. mrs. thorn had always been extremely kind to her, but though fleda gave her credit for thorough good-heartedness, and a true liking for herself, she could not disconnect her attentions from another thought, and therefore always wished them away; and never had her kind face been more thoroughly disagreeable to fleda than when it made its appearance in the doctor's little back parlour on this occasion. with even more than her usual fondness, or pleda's excited imagination fancied so, mrs. thorn lavished caresses upon her, and finally besought her to go out and take the air in her carriage. fleda tried most earnestly to get rid of this invitation, and was gently unpersuadable, till the lady at last was brought to promise that she should see no creature during the drive but herself. an ominous promise! but fleda did not know any longer how, to refuse without hurting a person for whom she had really a grateful regard. so she went. and doubted afterwards exceedingly whether she had done well. she took special good care to see nobody again till she went to the evelyns. but then precautions were at an end. it was no longer possible to keep herself shut up. she had cause, poor child, the very first night of her coming, to wish herself back again. this first evening she would fain have pleaded weakness as her excuse and gone to her room, but constance laid violent hands on her and insisted that she should stay at least a little while with them. and she seemed fated to see all her friends in a bevy. first came charlton; then followed the decaturs, whom she knew and liked very well, and engrossed her, happily before her cousin had time to make any enquiries; then came mr. carleton; then mr. stackpole. then mr. thorn, in expectation of whom fleda's breath had been coming and going painfully all the evening. she could not meet him without a strange mixture of embarrassment and confusion with the gratitude she wished to express, an embarrassment not at all lessened by the air of happy confidence with which he came forward to her. it carried an intimation that almost took away the little strength she had. and if anything could have made his presence more intolerable, it was the feeling she could not get rid of that it was the cause why mr. carleton did not come near her again; though she prolonged her stay in the drawing-room in the hope that he would. it proved to be for mr. thorn's benefit alone. "well you staid all the evening after all," said constance as they were going up stairs. "yes--i wish i hadn't," said fleda. "i wonder when i shall be likely to find a chance of getting back to queechy." "you're not fit yet, so you needn't trouble yourself about it," said constance. "we'll find you plenty of chances." fleda could not think of mr. thorn without trembling. his manner meant--so much more than it had any right, or than she had counted upon. he seemed--she pressed her hands upon her face to get rid of the impression--he seemed to take for granted precisely that which she had refused to admit; he seemed to reckon as paid for that which she had declined to set a price upon. her uncle's words and manner came up in her memory. she could see nothing best to do but to get home as fast as possible. she had no one here to fall back upon. again that vision of father and mother and grandfather flitted across her fancy; and though fleda's heart ended by resting down on that foundation to which it always recurred, it rested with a great many tears. for several days she denied herself absolutely to morning visitors of every kind. but she could not entirely absent herself from the drawing-room in the evening; and whenever the family were at home there was a regular levee. mr. thorn could not be avoided then. he was always there, and always with that same look and manner of satisfied confidence. fleda was as grave, as silent, as reserved, as she could possibly be and not be rude; but he seemed to take it in excellent good part, as being half indisposition and half timidity. fleda set her face earnestly towards home, and pressed mrs. evelyn to find her an opportunity, weak or strong, of going there; but for those days as yet none presented itself. mr. carleton was at the house almost as often as mr. thorn, seldom staying so long however, and never having any more to do with fleda than he had that first evening. whenever he did come in contact with her, he was, she thought, as grave as he was graceful. that was to be sure his common manner in company, yet she could not help thinking there was some difference since the walk they had taken together, and it grieved her. chapter xliv. the beat-laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft agley. burns. after a few days charlton verified what constance had said about his not being very _fast_ at fort hamilton, by coming again to see them one morning. fleda asked him if he could not get another furlough to go with her home, but he declared he was just spending one which was near out; and he could not hope for a third in some time; he must be back at his post by the day after to-morrow. "when do you want to go, coz?" "i would to-morrow, if i had anybody to go with me," said fleda sighing. "no you wouldn't," said constance,--"you are well enough to go out now, and you forget we are all to make mrs. thorn happy to-morrow night." "i am not," said fleda. "not? you can't help yourself; you must; you said you would." "i did not indeed." "well then i said it for you, and that will do just as well. why my dear, if you don't--just think!--the thorns will be in a state--i should prefer to go through a hedge of any description rather than meet the trying demonstrations which will encounter me on every side." "i am going to mrs. decatur's," said fleda;--"she invited me first, and i owe it to her, she has asked me so often and so kindly." "i shouldn't think you'd enjoy yourself there," said florence; "they don't talk a bit of english these nights. if i was going, my dear, i would act as your interpreter, but my destiny lies in another direction." "if i cannot make anybody understand my french i will get somebody to condescend to my english," said fleda. "why do you talk french?" was the instant question from both mouths. "unless she has forgotten herself strangely," said charlton. "talk! she will talk to anybody's satisfaction--that happens to differ from her; and i think her tongue cares very little which language it wags in. there is no danger about fleda's enjoying herself, where people are talking." fleda laughed at him, and the evelyns rather stared at them both. "but we are all going to mrs. thorn's? you can't go alone?" "i will make charlton take me," said fleda,--"or rather i will take him, if he will let me. will you, charlton? will you take care of me to mrs. decatur's to-morrow night?" "with the greatest pleasure, my dear coz, but i have another engagement in the course of the evening." "oh that is nothing," said fleda;--"if you will only go with me, that is all i care for. you needn't stay but ten minutes. and you can call for me," she added, turning to the evelyns,--"as you come back from mrs. thorn's." to this no objection could be made, and the ensuing raillery fleda bore with steadiness at least if not with coolness; for charlton heard it, and she was distressed. she went to mrs. decatur's the next evening in greater elation of spirits than she had known since she left her uncle's; delighted to be missing from the party at mrs. thorn's, and hoping that mr. lewis would be satisfied with this very plain hint of her mind. a little pleased too to feel quite free, alone from too friendly eyes, and ears that had too lively a concern in her sayings and doings. she did not in the least care about going to mrs. decatur's; her joy was that she was not at the other place. but there never was elation so outwardly quiet. nobody would have suspected its existence. the evening was near half over when mr. carleton came in. fleda had half hoped he would be there, and now immediately hoped she might have a chance to see him alone and to thank him for his flowers; she had not been able to do that yet. he presently came up to speak to her just as charlton, who had found attraction enough to keep him so long, came to tell he was going. "you are looking better," said the former, as gravely as ever, but with an eye of serious interest that made the word something. "i am better," said fleda gratefully. "so much better that she is in a hurry to make herself worse," said her cousin. "mr. carleton, you are a professor of medicine, i believe,--i have an indistinct impression of your having once prescribed a ride on horseback for somebody;--wouldn't you recommend some measure of prudence to her consideration?" "in general," mr. carleton answered gravely; "but in the present case i could not venture upon any special prescription, capt. rossitur." "as for instance, that she should remain in new york till she is fit to leave it?--by the way, what brought you here again in such a hurry, fleda? i haven't heard that yet." the question was rather sudden. fleda was a little taken by surprise; her face shewed some pain and confusion both. mr. carleton prevented her answer, she could not tell whether with design. "what imprudence do you charge your cousin with, capt. rossitur?" "why she is in a great hurry to get back to queechy, before she is able to go anywhere--begging me to find an escort for her. it is lucky i can't. i didn't know i ever should be glad to be 'posted up' in this fashion, but i am." "you have not sought very far, capt. rossitur," said the voice of thorn behind him. "here is one that will be very happy to attend miss fleda, whenever she pleases." fleda's shocked start and change of countenance was seen by more eyes than one pair. thorn's fell, and a shade crossed his countenance too, for an instant, that fleda's vision was too dazzled to see. mr. carleton moved away. "why are _you_ going to queechy?" said charlton astonished. his friend was silent a moment, perhaps for want of power to speak. fleda dared not look at him. "it is not impossible,--unless this lady forbid me. i am not a fixture." "but what brought you here, man, to offer your services?" said charlton;--"most ungallantly leaving so many pairs of bright eyes to shine upon your absence." "mr. thorn will not find himself in darkness here, capt. rossitur," said mrs. decatur. "it's my opinion he ought, ma'am," said charlton. "it is my opinion every man ought, who makes his dependance on gleams of sunshine," said mr. thorn rather cynically. "i cannot say i was thinking of brightness before or behind me." "i should think not," said charlton;--"you don't look as if you had seen any in a good while." "a light goes out every now and then," said thorn, "and it takes one's eyes some time to get accustomed to it. what a singular world we live in, mrs. decatur!" "that is so new an idea," said the lady laughing, "that i must request an explanation." "what new experience of its singularity has your wisdom made?" sid his friend. "i thought you and the world knew each other's faces pretty well before." "then you have not heard the news?" "what news?" "hum--i suppose it is not about yet," said thorn composedly. "no--you haven't heard it." "but what, man?" said charlton,--"let's hear your news, for i must be off." "why--but it is no more than rumour yet--but it is said that strange things are coming to light about a name that used to be held in very high respect." "in this city?" "in this city?--yes--it is said proceedings are afoot against one of our oldest citizens, on charge of a very grave offence." "who?--and what offence? what do you mean?" "is it a secret, mr. thorn?" said mrs. decatur. "if you have not heard, perhaps it is as well not to mention names too soon;--if it comes out it will be all over directly; possibly the family may hush it up, and in that case the less said the better; but those have it in hand that will not let it slip through their fingers." mrs. decatur turned away, saying "how shocking such things were;" and thorn, with a smile which did not however light up his face, said, "you may be off, charlton, with no concern for the bright eyes you leave behind you--i will endeavour to atone for my negligence elsewhere, by my mindfulness of them." "don't excuse you," said charlton;--but his eye catching at the moment another attraction opposite in the form of man or woman, instead of quitting the room he leisurely crossed it to speak to the new-comer; and thorn with an entire change of look and manner pressed forward and offered his arm to fleda, who was looking perfectly white. if his words had needed any commentary it was given by his eye as it met hers in speaking the last sentence to mrs. decatur. no one was near whom she knew and mr. thorn led her out to a little back room where the gentlemen had thrown off their cloaks, where the air was fresher, and placing her on a seat stood waiting before her till she could speak to him. "what do you mean, mr. thorn?" fleda looked as much as said, when she could meet his face. "i may rather ask you what _you_ mean, miss fleda," he answered gravely. fleda drew breath painfully. "i mean nothing," she said lowering her head again,--"i have done nothing--" "did you think i meant nothing when i agreed to do all you wished?" "i thought you said you would do it freely," she said, with a tone of voice that might have touched anybody, there was such a sinking of heart in it. "didn't you understand me?" "and is it all over now?" said fleda after a pause. "not yet--but it soon may be. a weak hand may stop it now,--it will soon be beyond the power of the strongest." "and what becomes of your promise that it should no more be heard of?" said fleda, looking up at him with a colourless face but eyes that put the question forcibly nevertheless. "is any promise bound to stand without its conditions?" "i made no conditions," said fleda quickly. "forgive me,--but did you not permit me to understand them?" "no!--or if i did i could not help it." "did you say that you wished to help it?" said he gently. "i must say so now, then, mr. thorn," said fleda withdrawing the hand he had taken;--"i did not mean or wish you to think so, but i was too ill to speak--almost to know what i did--it was not my fault--" "you do not make it mine, that i chose such a time, selfishly, i grant, to draw from your lips the words that are more to me than life?" "cannot you be generous?"--_for once_, she was very near saying. "where you are concerned, i do not know how." fleda was silent a moment, and then bowed her face in her hands. "may i not ask that question of you?" said he, bending down and endeavouring to remove them;--"will you not say--or look--that word that will make others happy beside me?" "i cannot, sir." "not for their sakes?" he said calmly. "can you ask me to do for theirs what i would not for my own?" "yes--for mine," he said, with a meaning deliberateness. fleda was silent, with a face of white determination. "it will be beyond _eluding_, as beyond recall, the second time. i may seem selfish--i am selfish--but dear miss ringgan you do not see all,--you who make me so can make me anything else with a touch of your hand--it is selfishness that would be bound to your happiness, if you did but entrust it to me." fleda neither spoke nor looked at him and rose up from her chair. "is this _your_ generosity?" he said, pointedly though gently. "that is not the question now, sir," said fleda, who was trembling painfully. "i cannot do evil that good may come." "but _evil_?" said he detaining her,--"what evil do i ask of you?--to _remove_ evil, i do." fleda clasped her hands, but answered calmly, "i cannot make any pretences, sir;--i cannot promise to give what is not in my power." "in whose power then?" said he quickly. a feeling of indignation came to fleda's aid, and she turned away. but he stopped her still. "do you think i do not understand?" he said with a covert sneer that had the keenness and hardness, and the brightness, of steel. "_i_ do not, sir," said fleda. "do you think i do not know whom you came here to meet?" fleda's glance of reproach was a most innocent one, but it did not check him. "has that fellow renewed his old admiration of you?" he went on in the same tone. "do not make me desire his old protection," said fleda, her gentle face roused to a flush of displeasure. "protection!" said charlton coming in,--"who wants protection? here it is--protection from what? my old friend lewis? what the deuce does this lady want of protection, mr. thorn?" it was plain enough that fleda wanted it, from the way she was drooping upon his arm. "you may ask the lady herself," said thorn, in the same tone he had before used,--"i have not the honour to be her spokesman." "she don't need one," said charlton,--"i addressed myself to you--speak for yourself, man." "i am not sure that it would be her pleasure i should," said thorn. "shall i tell this gentleman, miss ringgan, who needs protection, and from what?--" fleda raised her head, and putting her hand on his arm looked a concentration of entreaty--lips were sealed. "will you give me," said he gently taking the hand in his own, "your sign manual for capt. rossitur's security? it is not too late.--ask it of her, sir!" "what does this mean?" said charlton looking from his cousin to his friend. "you shall have the pleasure of knowing, sir, just so soon as i find it convenient." "i will have a few words with you on this subject, my fine fellow," said capt. rossitur, as the other was preparing to leave the room. "you had better speak to somebody else," said thorn. "but i am ready." charlton muttered an imprecation upon his absurdity, and turned his attention to fleda, who needed it. and yet desired anything else. for a moment she had an excuse for not answering his questions in her inability; and then opportunely mrs. decatur came in to look after her; and she was followed by her daughter. fleda roused all her powers to conceal and command her feelings; rallied herself; said she had been a little weak and faint; drank water, and declared herself able to go back into the drawing-room. to go home would have been her utmost desire, but at the instant her energies were all bent to the one point of putting back thought and keeping off suspicion. and in the first hurry and bewilderment of distress the dread of finding herself alone with charlton till she had had time to collect her thoughts would of itself have been enough to prevent her accepting the proposal. she entered the drawing-room again on mrs. decatur's arm, and had stood a few minutes talking or listening, with that same concentration of all her faculties upon the effort to bear up outwardly, when charlton came up to ask if he should leave her. fleda made no objection, and he was out of her sight, far enough to be beyond reach or recall, when it suddenly struck her that she ought not to have let him go without speaking to him,--without entreating him to see her in the morning before he saw thorn. the sickness of this new apprehension was too much for poor fleda's power of keeping up. she quietly drew her arm from mrs. decatur's, saying that she would sit down; and sought out a place for herself apart from the rest by an engraving stand; where for a little while, not to seem unoccupied, she turned over print after print that she did not see. even that effort failed at last; and she sat gazing at one of sir thomas lawrence's bright-faced children, and feeling as if in herself the tides of life were setting back upon their fountain preparatory to being still forever. she became sensible that some one was standing beside the engravings, and looked up at mr. carleton. "are you ill?" he said, very gently and tenderly. the answer was a quick motion of fleda's hand to her head, speaking sudden pain, and perhaps sudden difficulty of self-command. she did not speak. "will you have anything?" a whispered "no." "would you like to return to mrs. evelyn's?--i have a carriage here." with a look of relief that seemed to welcome him as her good angel, pleda instantly rose up, and took the arm he offered her. she would have hastened from the room then, but he gently checked her pace; and fleda was immediately grateful for the quiet and perfect shielding from observation that his manner secured her. he went with her up the stairs, and to the very door of the dressing-room. there fleda hurried on her shoes and mufflers in trembling fear that some one might come and find her, gained mr. carleton's arm again, and was placed in the carriage. the drive was in perfect silence, and fleda's agony deepened and strengthened with every minute. she had freedom to think, and thought did but carry a torch into chamber after chamber of misery. there seemed nothing to be done. she could not get hold of charlton; and if she could?--nothing could be less amenable than his passions to her gentle restraints. mr. thorn was still less approachable or manageable, except in one way, that she did not even think of. his insinuations about mr. carleton did not leave even a tinge of embarrassment upon her mind; they were cast from her as insulting absurdities, which she could not think of a second time without shame. the carriage rolled on with them a long time without a word being said. mr. carleton knew that she was not weeping nor faint. but as the light of the lamps was now and then cast within the carriage he saw that her face looked ghastly; and he saw too that its expression was not of a quiet sinking under sorrow, nor of an endeavour to bear up against it, but a wild searching gaze into the darkness of _possibilities_. they had near reached mrs. evelyn's. "i cannot see you so," he said, gently touching the hand which lay listlessly beside him. "you are ill!" again the same motion of the other hand to her face, the quick token of great pain suddenly stirred. "for the sake of old times, let me ask," said he, "can nothing be done?" those very gentle and delicate tones of sympathy and kindness were too much to bear. the hand was snatched away to be pressed to her face. oh that those old times were back again, and she a child that could ask his protection!--no one to give it now. he was silent a moment. fleda's head bowed beneath the mental pressure. "has dr. gregory returned?" the negative answer was followed by a half-uttered exclamation of longing,--checked midway, but sufficiently expressive of her want. "do you trust me?" he said after another second of pausing. "perfectly!" said fleda amidst her tears, too much excited to know what she was saying, and in her simplicity half forgetting that she was not a child still;--"more than any one in the world!" the few words he had spoken, and the manner of them, had curiously borne her back years in a minute; she seemed to be under his care more than for the drive home. he did not speak again for a minute; when he did his tone was very quiet and lower than before. "give me what a friend _can_ have in charge to do for you, and it shall be done." fleda raised her head and looked out of the window in a silence of doubt. the carriage stopped at mrs. evelyn's. "not now," said mr. carleton, as the servant was about to open the door;--"drive round the square--till i speak to you." fleda was motionless and almost breathless with uncertainty. if charlton could be hindered from meeting mr. thorn--but how, could mr. carleton effect it?--but there was that in him or in his manner which invariably created confidence in his ability, or fear of it, even in strangers; and how much more in her who had a childish but very clear recollection of several points in his character which confirmed the feeling. and might not something be done, through his means, to facilitate her uncle's escape? of whom she seemed to herself now the betrayer.--but to tell him the story i--a person of his high nice notions of character--what a distance it would put even between his friendship and her,--but that thought was banished instantly, with one glance at mr. thorn's imputation of ungenerousness. to sacrifice herself to _him_ would not have been generosity,--to lower herself in the esteem of a different character, she felt, called for it. there was time even then too for one swift thought of the needlessness and bitter fruits of wrong-doing. but here they were;--should she make them known?--and trouble mr. carleton, friend though he were, with these miserable matters in which he had no concern?--she sat with a beating heart and a very troubled brow, but a brow as easy to read as a child's. it was the trouble of anxious questioning. mr. carleton watched it for a little while,--undecided as ever, and more pained. "you said you trusted me," he said quietly, taking her hand again. "but--i don't know what you could do, mr. carleton," fleda said with a trembling voice. "will you let me be the judge of that?" "i cannot bear to trouble you with these miserable things--" "you cannot," said he with that same quiet tone, "but by thinking and saying so. i can have no greater pleasure than to take pains for you." fleda heard these words precisely and with the same simplicity as a child would have heard them, and answered with a very frank burst of tears,--soon, as soon as possible, according to her custom, driven back; though even in the act of quieting herself they broke forth again as uncontrollably as at first. but mr. carleton had not long to wait. she raised her head again after a short struggle, with the wonted look of patience sitting upon her brow, and wiping away her tears paused merely for breath and voice. he was perfectly silent. "mr. carleton, i will tell you," she began;--"i hardly know whether i ought or ought not,--" and her hand went to her forehead for a moment,--"but i cannot think to-night--and i have not a friend to apply to--" she hesitated; and then went on, with a voice that trembled and quavered sadly. "mr. thorn has a secret--of my uncle's--in his power--which he promised--without conditions--to keep faithfully; and now insists that he will not--but upon conditions--" "and cannot the conditions be met?" "no--and--o i may as well tell you at once?" said fleda in bitter sorrow,--"it is a crime that he committed--" "mr. thorn?" "no--oh no!" said fleda weeping bitterly,--"not he--" her agitation was excessive for a moment; then she threw it off, and spoke more collectedly, though with exceeding depression of manner. "it was long ago--when he was in trouble--he put mr. thorn's name to a note, and never was able to take it up;--and nothing was ever heard about it till lately; and last week he was going to leave the country, and mr. thorn promised that the proceedings should be entirely given up; and that was why i came to town, to find uncle rolf and bring him home; and i did, and he is gone; and now mr. thorn says it is all going on again and that he will not escape this time;--and i have done it!--" fleda writhed again in distress. "thorn promised without conditions?" "certainly--he promised freely--and now he insists upon them; and you see uncle rolf would have been safe out of the country now, if it hadn't been for me--" "i think i can undo this snarl," said mr. carleton calmly. "but that is not all," said fleda, a little quieted;--"charlton came in this evening when we were talking, and he was surprised to find me so, and mr. thorn was in a very ill humour, and some words passed between them; and charlton threatened to see him again; and oh if he does!" said poor fleda,--"that will finish our difficulties!--for charlton is very hot, and i know how it will end--how it must end--" "where is your cousin to be found?" "i don't know where he lodges when he is in town." "you did not leave him at mrs. decatur's. do you know where he is this evening?" "yes!" said fleda, wondering that she should have heard and remembered,--"he said he was going to meet a party of his brother officers at mme. fouché's--a sister-in-law of his colonel, i believe." "i know her. this note--was it the name of the young mr. thorn, or of his father that was used?" "of his father!--" "has _he_ appeared at all in this business?" "no," said fleda, feeling for the first time that there was something notable about it. "what sort of person do you take him to be?" "very kind--very pleasant, always, he has been to me, and i should think to everybody,--very unlike the son" mr. carleton had ordered the coachman back to mrs. evelyn's. "do you know the amount of the note? it may be desirable that i should not appear uninformed." "it was for four thousand dollars" fleda said in the low voice of shame. "and when given?" "i don't know exactly--but six years ago--some time in the winter of ' , it must have been." he said no more till the carriage stopped; and then before handing her out of it, lifted her hand to his lips. that carried all the promise fleda wanted from him. how oddly, how curiously, her hand kept the feeling of that kiss upon it all night. chapter xlv. heat not a furnace for your friend so hot that it may singe yourself. shakspeare. mr. carleton went to mme. fouché's, who received most graciously, as any lady would, his apology for introducing himself unlooked-for, and begged that he would commit the same fault often. as soon as practicable he made his way to charlton, and invited him to breakfast with him the next morning. mrs. carleton always said it never was known that guy was refused anything he had a mind to ask. charlton, though taken by surprise, and certainly not too much prepossessed in his favour, was won by an influence that where its owner chose to exert it was generally found irresistible; and not only accepted the invitation, but was conscious to himself of doing it with a good deal of pleasure. even when mr. carleton made the further request that capt. rossitur would in the mean time see no one on business, of any kind, intimating that the reason would then be given, charlton though startling a little at this restraint upon his freedom of motion could do no other than give the desired promise, and with the utmost readiness. guy then went to mr. thorn's.--it was by this time not early. "mr. lewis thorn--is he at home?" "he is, sir," said the servant admitting him rather hesitatingly. "i wish to see him a few moments on business." "it is no hour for business," said the voice of mr. lewis from over the balusters;--"i can't see anybody to-night." "i ask but a few minutes," said mr. carleton. "it is important." "it may be any thing!" said thorn. "i won't do business after twelve o'clock." mr. carleton desired the servant to carry his card, with the same request, to mr, thorn the elder. "what's that?" said thorn as the man came up stairs,--"my father?--pshaw! _he_ can't attend to it--well, walk up, sir, if you please!--may as well have it over and done with it." mr. carleton mounted the stairs and followed the young gentleman into an apartment to which he rapidly led the way. "you've no objections to this, _i_ suppose?" thorn remarked as he locked the door behind them. "certainly not," said mr. carleton coolly, taking out the key and putting it in his pocket;--"my business is private--it needs no witnesses." "especially as it so nearly concerns yourself," said thorn sneeringly. "which part of it, sir?" said mr. carleton with admirable breeding. it vexed at the same time that it constrained thorn. "i'll let you know presently!" he said, hurriedly proceeding to the lower end of the room where some cabinets stood, and unlocking door after door in mad haste. the place had somewhat the air of a study, perhaps thorn's private room. a long table stood in the middle of the floor, with materials for writing, and a good many books were about the room, in cases and on the tables, with maps and engravings and portfolios, and a nameless collection of articles, the miscellaneous gathering of a man of leisure and some literary taste. their owner presently came back from the cabinets with tokens of a very different kind about him. "there, sir!" he said, offering to his guest a brace of most inhospitable-looking pistols,--"take one and take your stand, as soon as you please--nothing like coming to the point at once!" he was heated and excited even more than his manner indicated. mr. carleton glanced at him and stood quietly examining the pistol he had taken. it was all ready loaded. "this is a business that comes upon me by surprise," he said calmly,--"i don't know what i have to do with this, mr. thorn." "well i do," said thorn, "and that's enough. take your place, sir! you escaped me once, but"--and he gave his words dreadful emphasis,--"you won't do it the second time!" "you do not mean," said the other, "that your recollection of such an offence has lived out so many years?" "no sir! no sir!" said thorn,--"it is not that. i despise it, as i do the offender. you have touched me more nearly." "let me know in what," said mr. carleton turning his pistol's mouth down upon the table and leaning on it. "you know already,--what do you ask me for?" said thorn who was foaming,--"if you say you don't you lie heartily. i'll tell you nothing but out of _this_--" "i have not knowingly injured you, sir,--in a whit." "then a carleton may be a liar," said thorn, "and you are one--dare say not the first. put yourself there, sir, will you?" "well," said guy carelessly,--"if it is decreed that i am to fight of course there's no help for it; but as i have business on hand that might not be so well done afterwards i must beg your attention to that in the first place." "no, sir," said thorn,--"i'll attend to nothing--i'll hear nothing from you. i know you!--i'll not hear a word. i'll see to the business!--take your stand." "i will not have anything to do with pistols," said mr. carleton coolly, laying his out of his hand;--"they make too much noise." "who cares for the noise?" said thorn. "it won't hurt you; and the door is locked." "but people's ears are not," said guy. neither tone nor attitude nor look had changed in the least its calm gracefulness. it began to act upon thorn. "well, in the devil's name, have your own way," said he, throwing down his pistol too, and going back to the cabinets at the lower end of the room,--"there are rapiers here, if you like them better--_i_ don't,--the shortest the best for me,--but here they are--take your choice." guy examined them carefully for a few minutes, and then laid them both, with a firm hand upon them, on the table. "i will choose neither, mr. thorn, till you have heard me. i came here to see you on the part of others--i should be a recreant to my charge if i allowed you or myself to draw me into anything that might prevent my fulfilling it. that must be done first." thorn looked with a lowering brow on the indications of his opponent's eye and attitude; they left him plainly but one course to take. "well speak and have done," he said as in spite of himself;--but i know it already." "i am here as a friend of mr. rossitur." "why don't you say a friend of somebody else, and come nearer the truth?" said thorn. there was an intensity of expression in his sneer, but pain was there as well as anger; and it was with even a feeling of pity that mr. carleton answered, "the truth will be best reached, sir, if i am allowed to choose my own words." there was no haughtiness in the steady gravity of this speech, whatever there was in the quiet silence he permitted to follow. thorn did not break it. "i am informed of the particulars concerning this prosecution of mr. rossitur--i am come here to know if no terms can be obtained." "no!" said thorn,--"no terms--i won't speak of terms. the matter will be followed up now till the fellow is lodged in jail, where he deserves to be." "are you aware, sir, that this, if done, will be the cause of very great distress to a family who have _not_ deserved it?" "that can't be helped," said thorn. "of course!--it must cause distress, but you can't act upon that. of course when a man turns rogue he ruins his family--that's part of his punishment--and a just one." "the law is just," said mr. carleton,--"but a friend may be merciful." "i don't pretend to be a friend," said thorn viciously,--"and i have no cause to be merciful. i like to bring a man to public shame when he has forfeited his title to anything else; and i intend that mr. rossitur shall become intimately acquainted with the interior of the state's prison." "did it ever occur to you that public shame _might_ fall upon other than mr. rossitur? and without the state prison?" thorn fixed a somewhat startled look upon the steady powerful eye of his opponent, and did not like its meaning. "you must explain yourself, sir," he said haughtily. "i am acquainted with _all_ the particulars of this proceeding, mr. thorn. if it goes abroad, so surely will they." "she told you, did she?" said thorn in a sudden flash of fury. mr. carleton was silent, with his air of imperturbable reserve, telling and expressing nothing but a cool independence that put the world at a distance. "ha!" said thorn,--"it is easy to see why our brave englishman comes here to solicit 'terms' for his honest friend rossitur--he would not like the scandal of franking letters to sing sing. come, sir," he said snatching up the pistol,--"our business is ended--come, i say! or i won't wait for you." but the pistol was struck from his baud. "not yet," said mr. carleton calmly,--"you shall have your turn at these,--mind, i promise you;--but my business must be done first--till then, let them alone!" "well what is it?" said thorn impatiently. "rossitur will be a convict, i tell you; so you'll have to give up all thoughts of his niece, or pocket her shame along with her. what more have you got to say? that's all your business, i take it." "you are mistaken, mr. thorn," said mr. carleton gravely. "am i? in what?" "in every position of your last speech." "it don't affect your plans and views, i suppose, personally, whether this prosecution is continued or not?" "it does not in the least." "it is indifferent to you, i suppose, what sort of a queen consort you carry to your little throne of a provinciality down yonder?" "i will reply to you, sir, when you come back to the subject," said mr. carleton coldly. "you mean to say that your pretensions have not been in the way of mine?" "i have made none, sir." "doesn't she like you?" "i have never asked her." "then what possessed her to tell you all this to-night?" "simply because i was an old friend and the only one at hand, i presume." "and you do not look for any reward of your services, of course?" "i wish for none, sir, but her relief." "well, it don't signify," said thorn with a mixture of expressions in his face,--"if i believed you, which i don't,--it don't signify a hair what you do, when once this matter is known. i should never think of advancing _my_ pretensions into a felon's family." "you know that the lady in whose welfare you take so much interest will in that case suffer aggravated distress as having been the means of hindering mr. rossitur's escape," "can't help it," said thorn, beating the table with a ruler;--"so she has; she must suffer for it. it isn't my fault." "you are willing then to abide the consequences of a full disclosure of all the circumstances?--for part will not come out without the whole?" "there is happily nobody to tell them," said thorn with a sneer. "pardon me--they will not only be told, but known thoroughly in all the circles in this country that know mr. thorn's name." "_the lady_" said thorn in the same tone, "would hardly relish such a publication of _her_ name--_her welfare_ would be scantily advantaged by it." "i will take the risk of that upon myself," said mr. carleton quietly; "and the charge of the other." "you dare not!" said thorn. "you shall not go alive out of this room to do it! let me have it, sir! you said you would--" his passion was at a fearful height, for the family pride which had been appealed to felt a touch of fear, and his other thoughts were confirmed again, besides the dim vision of a possible thwarting of all his plans. desire almost concentrated itself upon revenge against the object that threatened them. he had thrown himself again towards the weapons which lay beyond his reach, but was met and forcibly withheld from them. "stand back!" said mr. carleton. "i said i would, but i am not ready;--finish this business first." "what is there to finish?" said thorn furiously;--"you will never live to do anything out of these doors again--you are mocking yourself." "my life is not in your hands, sir, and i will settle this matter before i put it in peril. if not with you, with mr. thorn your father, to whom it more properly belongs." "you cannot leave the room to see him," said thorn sneeringly. "that is at my pleasure," said the other,--"unless hindered by means i do not think you will use." thorn was silent. "will you yield anything of justice, once more, in favour of this distressed family?" "that is, yield the whole, and let the guilty go free." "when the punishment of the offender would involve that of so many unoffending, who in this case would feel it with peculiar severity." "he deserves it, if it was only for the money he has kept me out of--he ought to be made to refund what he has stolen, if it took the skin off his back!" "that part of his obligation," said mr. carleton, "i am authorized to discharge, on condition of having the note given up. i have a cheque with me which i am commissioned to fill up, from one of the best names here. i need only the date of the note, which the giver of the cheque did not know." thorn hesitated, again tapping the table with the ruler in a troubled manner. he knew by the calm erect figure before him and the steady eye he did not care to meet that the threat of disclosure would be kept. he was not prepared to brave it,--in case his revenge should fail;--and if it did not---- "it is deuced folly," he said at length with a half laugh,--"for i shall have it back again in five minutes, if my eye don't play me a trick,--however, if you will have it so--i don't care. there are chances in all things--" he went again to the cabinets, and presently brought the endorsed note. mr. carleton gave it a cool and careful examination, to satisfy himself of its being the true one; and then delivered him the cheque; the blank duly filled up. "there are chances in nothing, sir," he said, as he proceeded to burn the note effectually in the candle. "what do you mean?" "i mean that there is a supreme disposer of all things, who among the rest has our lives in his hand. and now, sir, i will give you that chance at my life for which you have been so eagerly wishing." [illustration: "well, take your place," said thorn.] "well take your place," said thorn seizing his pistol,--"and take your arms--put yourself at the end of the table----!" "i shall stand here," said mr. carleton, quietly folding his arms;--"you may take your place where you please." "but you are not armed!" said thorn impatiently,--"why don't you get ready? what are you waiting for?" "i have nothing to do with arms," said mr. carleton smiling; "i have no wish to hurt you, mr. thorn; i bear you no ill-will. but you may do what you please with me." "but you promised!" said thorn in desperation. "i abide by my promise, sir." thorn's pistol hand fell; he looked _dreadfully_. there was a silence of several minutes. "well?"--said mr. carleton looking up and smiling. "i can do nothing unless you will," said thorn hoarsely, and looking hurriedly away. "i am at your pleasure, sir! but on my own part i have none to gratify." there was silence again, during which thorn's face was pitiable in its darkness. he did not stir. "i did not come here in enmity, mr. thorn," said guy after a little approaching him;--"i have none now. if you believe me you will throw away the remains of yours and take my hand in pledge of it." thorn was ashamed and confounded, in the midst of passions that made him at the moment a mere wreck of himself. he inwardly drew back exceedingly from the proposal. but the grace with which the words were said wrought upon all the gentlemanly character that belonged to him, and made it impossible not to comply. the pistol was exchanged for mr. carleton's hand. "i need not assure you," said the latter, "that nothing of what we have talked of to-night shall ever be known or suspected, in any quarter, unless by your means." thorn's answer was merely a bow, and mr. carleton withdrew, his quondam antagonist lighting him ceremoniously to the door. it was easy for mr. carleton the next morning to deal with his guest at the break fast-table. the appointments of the service were such as of themselves to put charlton in a good humour, if he had not come already provided with that happy qualification; and the powers of manner and conversation which his entertainer brought into play not only put them into the background of capt. rossitur's perceptions but even made him merge certain other things in fascination, and lose all thought of what probably had called him there. once before, he had known mr. carleton come out in a like manner, but this time he forgot to be surprised. the meal was two thirds over before the business that had drawn them together was alluded to. "i made an odd request of you last night, capt. rossitur," said his host;--"you haven't asked for an explanation." "i had forgotten all about it," said rossitur candidly. "i am _inconséquent_ enough myself not to think everything odd that requires an explanation." "then i hope you will pardon me if mine seem to touch upon what is not my concern. you had some cause to be displeased with mr. thorn's behaviour last night?" who told you as much?--was in rossitur's open eyes, and upon his tongue; but few ever asked naughty questions of mr carleton. charlton's eyes came back, not indeed to their former dimensions, but to his plate, in silence. "he was incomprehensible," he said after a minute,--"and didn't act like himself--i don't know what was the matter. i shall call him to account for it." "capt. rossitur, i am going to ask you a favour." "i will grant it with the greatest pleasure," said charlton,--"if it lie within my power." "a wise man's addition," said mr. carleton,--"but i trust you will not think me extravagant. i will hold myself much obliged to you if you will let mr. thorn's folly, or impertinence, go this time without notice." charlton absolutely laid down his knife in astonishment; while at the same moment this slight let to the assertion of his dignity roused it to uncommon pugnaciousness. "sir--mr. carleton--" he stammered,--"i would be very happy to grant anything in my power,--but this, sir,--really goes beyond it." "permit me to say," said mr. carleton, "that i have myself seen thorn upon the business that occasioned his discomposure, and that it has been satisfactorily arranged; so that nothing more is to be gained or desired from a second interview." who gave you authority to do any such thing?--was again in charlton's eyes, and an odd twinge crossed his mind; but as before his thoughts were silent. "_my_ part of the business cannot have been arranged," he said,--"for it lies in a question or two that i must put to the gentleman myself." "what will that question or two probably end in?" said mr. carleton significantly. "i can't tell!" said rossitur,--"depends on himself--it will end according to his answers." "is his offence so great that it cannot be forgiven upon my entreaty?" "mr. carleton!" said rossitur,--"i would gladly pleasure you, sir, but you see, this is a thing a man owes to himself." "what thing, sir?" "why, not to suffer impertinence to be offered him with impunity." "even though the punishment extend to hearts at home that must feel it far more heavily than the offender?" "would you suffer yourself to be insulted, mr. carleton?" said rossitur, by way of a mouth stopper. "not if i could help it," said mr. carleton smiling;--"but if such a misfortune happened, i don't know how it would be repaired by being made a matter of life and death." "but honour might," said rossitur. "honour is not reached, capt. rossitur. honour dwells in a strong citadel, and a squib against the walls does in no wise affect their security." "but also it is not consistent with honour to sit still and suffer it." "question. the firing of a cracker, i think, hardly warrants a sally." "it calls for chastisement though," said rossitur a little shortly. "i don't know that," said mr. carleton gravely. "we have it on the highest authority that it is the glory of man to _pass by_ a transgression." "but you can't go by that," said charlton a little fidgeted;--"the world wouldn't get along so;--men must take care of themselves." "certainly. but what part of themselves is cared for in this resenting of injuries?" "why, their good name!" "as how affected?--pardon me." "by the world's opinion," said rossitur,--"which stamps every man with something worse than infamy who cannot protect his own standing." "that is to say," said mr. carleton seriously,--"that capt. rossitur will punish a fool's words with death, or visit the last extremity of distress upon those who are dearest to him, rather than leave the world in any doubt of his prowess." "mr. carleton!" said rossitur colouring. "what do you mean by speaking so, sir?" "not to displease you, capt. rossitur." "then you count the world's opinion for nothing?" "for less than nothing--compared with the regards i have named." "you would brave it without scruple?" "i do not call him a brave man who would not, sir." "i remember," said charlton half laughing,--"you did it yourself once; and i must confess i believe nobody thought you lost anything by it." "but forgive me for asking," said mr. carleton,--"is this terrible world a party to _this_ matter? in the request which i made,--and which i have not given up, sir,--do i presume upon any more than the sacrifice of a little private feeling?" "why, yes,--" said charlton looking somewhat puzzled, "for i promised the fellow i would see to it, and i must keep my word." "and you know how that will of necessity issue." "i can't consider that, sir; that is a secondary matter. i must do what i told him i would." "at all hazards?" said mr. carleton. "what hazards?" "not hazard, but certainty,--of incurring a reckoning far less easy to deal with." "what, do you mean with yourself?" said rossitur. "no sir," said mr. carleton, a shade of even sorrowful expression crossing his face;--"i mean with one whose displeasure is a more weighty matter;--one who has declared very distinctly, 'thou shalt not kill.'" "i am sorry for it," said rossitur after a disturbed pause of some minutes,--"i wish you had asked me anything else; but we can't take this thing in the light you do, sir. i wish thorn had been in any spot of the world but at mrs. decatur's last night, or that fleda hadn't taken me there; but since he was, there is no help for it,--i must make him account for his behaviour, to her as well as to me. i really don't know how to help it, sir." "let me beg you to reconsider that," mr. carleton said with a smile which disarmed offence,--"for if you will not help it, i must." charlton looked in doubt for a moment and then asked "how he would help it?" "in that case, i shall think it my duty to have you bound over to keep the peace." he spoke gravely now, and with that quiet tone which always carries conviction. charlton stared unmistakably and in silence. "you are not in earnest?" he then said. "i trust you will permit me to leave you forever in doubt on that point," said mr. carleton, with again a slight giving way of the muscles of his face. "i cannot indeed," said rossitur. "do you mean what you said just now?" "entirely." "but mr. carleton," said rossitur, flushing and not knowing exactly how to take him up,--"is this the manner of one gentleman towards another?" he had not chosen right, for he received no answer but an absolute quietness which needed no interpretation. charlton was vexed and confused, but somehow it did not come into his head to pick a quarrel with his host, in spite of his irritation. that was perhaps because he felt it to be impossible. "i beg your pardon," he said, most unconsciously verifying fleda's words in his own person,--"but mr. carleton, do me the favour to say that i have misunderstood your words. they are incomprehensible to me, sir." "i must abide by them nevertheless, capt. rossitur," mr. carleton answered with a smile. "i will not permit this thing to be done, while, as i believe, i have the power to prevent it. you see," he said, smiling again,--"i put in practice my own theory." charlton looked exceedingly disturbed, and maintained a vexed and irresolute silence for several minutes, realizing the extreme disagreeableness of having more than his match to deal with. "come, capt. kossitur," said the other turning suddenly round upon him,--"say that you forgive me what you know was meant in no disrespect to you?" "i certainly should not," said rossitur, yielding however with a half laugh, "if it were not for the truth of the proverb that it takes two to make a quarrel." "give me your hand upon that. and now that the question of honour is taken out of your hands, grant not to me but to those for whom i ask it, your promise to forgive this man." charlton hesitated, but it was difficult to resist the request, backed as it was with weight of character and grace of manner, along with its intrinsic reasonableness; and he saw no other way so expedient of getting out of his dilemma. "i ought to be angry with somebody," he said, half laughing and a little ashamed;--"if you will point out any substitute for thorn i will let him go--since i cannot help myself--with pleasure." "i will bear it," said mr. carleton lightly. "give me your promise for thorn and hold me your debtor in what amount you please." "very well--i forgive him," said rossitur;--"and now mr. carleton i shall have a reckoning with you some day for this." "i will meet it. when you are next in england you shall come down to---- shire, and i will give you any satisfaction you please." they parted in high good-humour; but charlton looked grave as he went down the staircase; and very oddly all the way down to whitehall his head was running upon the various excellencies and perfections of his cousin fleda. chapter xlvi there is a fortune coming towards you, dainty, that will take thee thus, and set thee aloft. ben jonson. that day was spent by fleda in the never-failing headache which was sure to visit her after any extraordinary nervous agitation or too great mental or bodily trial. it was severe this time, not only from the anxiety of the preceding night but from the uncertainty that weighed upon her all day long. the person who could have removed the uncertainty came indeed to the house, but she was too ill to see anybody. the extremity of pain wore itself off with the day, and at evening she was able to leave her room and come down stairs. but she was ill yet, and could do nothing but sit in the corner of the sofa, with her hair unbound, and florence gently bathing her head with cologne. anxiety as well as pain had in some measure given place to exhaustion, and she looked a white embodiment of endurance which gave a shock to her friends' sympathy. visitors were denied,--and constance and edith devoted their eyes and tongues at least to her service, if they could do no more. it happened that joe manton was out of the way, holding an important conference with a brother usher next door, a conference that he had no notion would be so important when he began it; when a ring on his own premises summoned one of the maid-servants to the door. she knew nothing about "not at home," and unceremoniously desired the gentleman to "walk up,"--"the ladies were in the drawing-room." the door had been set wide open for the heat, and fleda was close in the corner behind it; gratefully permitting florence's efforts with the cologne, which yet she knew could avail nothing but the kind feelings of the operator; for herself patiently waiting her enemy's time. constance was sitting on the floor looking at her. "i can't conceive how you can bear so much," she said at length. fleda thought, how little she knew what was borne! "why you could bear it i suppose if you had to," said edith philosophically. "she knows she looks most beautiful," said florence, softly passing her cologned hands down over the smooth hair;--"she knows "'il faut souffrir pour être belle.'" "la migraine ne se guérit avec les douceurs," said mr. carleton entering;--"try something sharp, miss evelyn." "where are we to get it?" said constance springing up, and adding in a most lack-a-daisical aside to her mother, "(mamma!--the fowling piece!)--our last vinegar hardly comes under the appellation; and you don't expect to find anything volatile in this house, mr. carleton?" he smiled. "have you none for grave occasions, miss constance?" "i won't retort the question about 'something sharp,'" said constance arching her eyebrows, "because it is against my principles to make people uncomfortable; but you have certainly brought in some medicine with you, for miss ringgan's cheeks a little while ago were as pure as her mind--from a tinge of any sort--and now, you see--" "my dear constance," said her mother, "miss ringgan's cheeks will stand a much better chance if you come away and leave her in peace. how can she get well with such a chatter in her ears." "mr. carleton and i, mamma, are conferring upon measures of relief,--and miss ringgan gives token of improvement already." "for which i am very little to be thanked," said mr. carleton. "but i am not a bringer of bad news, that she should look pale at the sight of me." "are you a bringer of any news?" said constance, "o do let us have them, mr. carleton!--i am dying for news--i haven't heard a bit to-day." "what is the news, mr. carleton?" said her mother's voice, from the more distant region of the fire. "i believe there are no general news, mrs. evelyn." "are there any particular news?" said constance.--"i like particular news infinitely the best!" "i am sorry, miss constance, i have none for you. but--will this headache yield to nothing?" "fleda prophesied that it would to time," said florence;--"she would not let us try much beside." "and i must confess there has been no volatile agency employed at all," said constance;--"i never knew time have less of it; and fleda seemed to prefer him for her physician." "he hasn't been a good one to-day," said edith nestling affectionately to her side. "isn't it better, fleda?"--for she had covered her eyes with her hand. "not just now," said fleda softly. "it is fair to change physicians if the first fails," said mr. carleton. "i have had a slight experience in headache-curing,--if you will permit me, miss constance, i will supersede time and try a different prescription." he went out to seek it; and fleda leaned her head in her hand and tried to quiet the throbbing heart every pulsation of which was felt so keenly at the seat of pain. she knew from mr. carleton's voice and manner,--she _thought_ she knew,--that he had exceeding good tidings for her; once assured of that she would soon be better; but she was worse now. "where is mr. carleton gone?" said mrs. evelyn. "i haven't the least idea, mamma--he has ventured upon an extraordinary undertaking and has gone off to qualify himself, i suppose. i can't conceive why he didn't ask miss ringgan's permission to change her physician, instead of mine." "i suppose he knew there was no doubt about that." said edith, hitting the precise answer of fleda's thoughts. "and what should make him think there was any doubt about mine?" said constance tartly. "o you know," said her sister, "you are so odd nobody can tell what you will take a fancy to." "you are--extremely liberal in your expressions, at least, miss evelyn,--i must say," said constance, with a glance of no doubtful meaning.--"joe--did you let mr. carleton in?" "no, ma'am." "well let him in next time; and don't let in anybody else." whereafter the party relapsed into silent expectation. it was not many minutes before mr. carleton returned. "tell your friend, miss constance," he said putting an exquisite little vinaigrette into her hand,--"that i have nothing worse for her than that." "worse than this!" said constance examining it. "mr. carleton--i doubt exceedingly whether smelling this will afford miss ringgan any benefit." "why, miss constance?" "because--it has made me sick only to look at it!" "there will be no danger for her," he said smiling. "won't there?--well, fleda my dear--here, take it," said the young lady;--"i hope you are differently constituted from me, for i feel a sudden pain since i saw it;--but as you keep your eyes shut and so escape the sight of this lovely gold chasing, perhaps it will do you no mischief." "it will do her all the more good for that," said mrs. evelyn. the only ears that took the benefit of this speech were edith's and mr. carleton's; fleda's were deafened by the rush of feeling. she very little knew what she was holding. mr. carleton stood with rather significant gravity watching the effect of his prescription, while edith beset her mother to know why the outside of the vinaigrette being of gold should make it do fleda any more good; the disposing of which question effectually occupied mrs. evelyn's attention for some time. "and pray how long is it since you took up the trade of a physician, mr. carleton?" said constance. "it is--just about nine years, miss constance," he answered gravely. but that little reminder, slight as it was, overcame the small remnant of fleda's self-command; the vinaigrette fell from her hands and her face was hid in them; whatever became of pain, tears must flow. "forgive me," said mr. carleton gently, bending down towards her, "for speaking when i should have been silent.--miss evelyn, and miss constance, will you permit me to order that my patient be left in quiet." and he took them away to mrs. evelyn's quarter, and kept them all three engaged in conversation, too busily to trouble fleda with any attention; till she had had ample time to try the effect of the quiet and of the vinegar both. then he went himself to look after her. "are you better?" said he, bending down and speaking low. fleda opened her eyes and gave him, what a look!--of grateful feeling. she did not know the half that was in it; but he did. that she was better was a very small item. "ready for the coffee?" said he smiling. "o no," whispered fleda,--"it don't matter about that--never mind the coffee!" but he went back with his usual calmness to mrs. evelyn and begged that she would have the goodness to order a cup of rather strong coffee to be made. "but mr. carleton, sir," said that lady,--"i am not at all sure that it would be the best thing for miss ringgan--if she is better,--i think it would do her far more good to go to rest and let sleep finish her cure, before taking something that will make sleep impossible." "did you ever hear of a physician, mrs. evelyn," he said smiling, "that allowed his prescriptions to be interfered with? i must beg you will do me this favour." "i doubt very much whether it will be a favour to miss ringgan," said mrs. evelyn,--"however--" and she rang the bell and gave the desired order, with a somewhat disconcerted face. but mr. carleton again left fleda to herself and devoted his attention to the other ladies, with so much success, though with his usual absence of effort, that good humour was served long before the coffee. then indeed he played the physician's part again; made the coffee himself and saw it taken, according to his own pleasure; skilfully however seeming all the while, except to fleda, to be occupied with everything else. the group gathered round her anew; she was well enough to bear their talk by this time; by the time the coffee was drunk quite well. "is it quite gone?" asked edith. "the headache?--yes." "you will owe your physician a great many thanks, my dear fleda," said mrs. evelyn. fleda's only answer to this, however, was by a very slight smile; and she presently left the room to go up stairs and arrange her yet disarranged hair. "that is a very fine girl," remarked mrs. evelyn, preparing half a cup of coffee for herself in a kind of amused abstraction,--"my friend mr. thorn will have an excellent wife of her." "provided she marries him," said constance somewhat shortly. "i am sure i hope she won't," said edith,--"and i don't believe she will." "what do you think of his chances of success, mr. carleton?" "your manner of speech would seem to imply that they are very good, mrs. evelyn," he answered coolly. "well don't you think so?" said mrs. evelyn, coming back to her seat with her coffee-cup, and apparently dividing her attention between it and her subject,--"it's a great chance for her--most girls in her circumstances would not refuse it--_i_ think he's pretty sure of his ground." "so i think," said florence. "it don't prove anything, if he is," said constance dryly. "i hate people who are always sure of their ground!" "what do you think, mr. carleton?" said mrs. evelyn, taking little satisfied sips of her coffee. "may i ask, first, what is meant by the 'chance' and what by the 'circumstances.'" "why mr. thorn has a fine fortune, you know, and he is of an excellent family--there is not a better family in the city--and very few young men of such pretensions would think of a girl that has no name nor standing." "unless she had qualities that would command them," said mr. carleton. "but mr. carleton, sir," said the lady,--"do you think that can be? do you think a woman can fill gracefully a high place in society if she has had disadvantages in early life to contend with that were calculated to unfit her for it?" "but mamma," said constance,--"fleda don't shew any such thing." "no, she don't shew it," said mrs. evelyn,--"but i am not talking of fleda--i am talking of the effect of early disadvantages. what do you think, mr. carleton?" "disadvantages of what kind, mrs. evelyn?" "why, for instance--the strange habits of intercourse, on familiar terms, with rough and uncultivated people,--such intercourse for years--in all sorts of ways,--in the field and in the house,--mingling with them as one of them--it seems to me it must leave its traces on the mind and on the habits of acting and thinking?" "there is no doubt it does," he answered with an extremely unconcerned face. "and then there's the actual want of cultivation," said mrs. evelyn, warming;--"time taken up with other things, you know,--usefully and properly, but still taken up,--so as to make much intellectual acquirement and accomplishments impossible; it can't be otherwise, you know,--neither opportunity nor instructors; and i don't think anything can supply the want in after life--it isn't the mere things themselves which may be acquired--the mind should grow up in the atmosphere of them--don't you think so, mr. carleton?" he bowed. "music, for instance, and languages, and converse with society, and a great many things, are put completely beyond reach;--edith, my dear, you are not to touch the coffee,--nor constance either,--no i will not let you,--and there could not be even much reading, for want of books if for nothing else. perhaps i am wrong, but i confess i don't see how it is possible in such a case"-- she checked herself suddenly, for fleda with the slow noiseless step that weakness imposed had come in again and stood by the centre-table. "we are discussing a knotty question, miss ringgan," said mr. carleton with a smile, as he brought a bergère for her; "i should like to have your voice on it." there was no seconding of his motion. he waited till she had seated herself and then went on. "what in your opinion is the best preparation for wearing prosperity well?" a glance at mrs. evelyn's face which was opposite her, and at one or two others which had undeniably the air of being _arrested_, was enough for fleda's quick apprehension. she knew they had been talking of her. her eyes stopped short of mr. carleton's and she coloured and hesitated. no one spoke. "by prosperity you mean--?" "rank and fortune," said florence, without looking up. "marrying a rich man, for instance," said edith, "and having one's hands full." this peculiar statement of the case occasioned a laugh all round, but the silence which followed seemed still to wait upon fleda's reply. "am i expected to give a serious answer to that question?" she said a little doubtfully. "expectations are not stringent things," said her first questioner smiling. "that waits upon your choice." "they are horridly stringent, _i_ think," said constance. "we shall all be disappointed if you don't, fleda my dear." "by wearing it 'well' you mean, making a good use of it?" "and gracefully," said mrs. evelyn. "i think i should say then," said fleda after some little hesitation and speaking with evident difficulty,--"such an experience as might teach one both the worth and the worthlessness of money." mr. carleton's smile was a sufficiently satisfied one; but mrs. evelyn retorted, "the _worth_ and the _worthlessness!_--fleda my dear, i don't understand--" "and what experience teaches one the worth and what the worthlessness of money?" said constance;--"mamma is morbidly persuaded that i do not understand the first--of the second i have an indefinite idea from never being able to do more than half that i want with it." fleda smiled and hesitated again, in a way that shewed she would willingly be excused, but the silence left her no choice but to speak. "i think," she said modestly, "that a person can hardly understand the true worth of money,--the ends it can best subserve,--that has not been taught it by his own experience of the want; and--" "what follows?" said mr. carleton. "i was going to say, sir, that there is danger, especially when people have not been accustomed to it, that they will greatly overvalue and misplace the real worth of prosperity; unless the mind has been steadied by another kind of experience, and has learnt to measure things by a higher scale." "and how when they _have_ been accustomed to it?" said florence. "the same danger, without the 'especially'," said fleda, with a look that disclaimed any assuming. "one thing is certain," said constance,--"you hardly ever see _les nouveaux riches_ make a graceful use of anything.--fleda my dear, i am seconding all of your last speech that i understand. mamma, i perceive, is at work upon the rest." "i think we ought all to be at work upon it," said mrs. evelyn, "for miss ringgan has made it out that there is hardly anybody here that is qualified to wear prosperity well." "i was just thinking so," said florence. fleda said nothing, and perhaps her colour rose a little. "i will take lessons of her," said constance, with eyebrows just raised enough to neutralize the composed gravity of the other features,--"as soon as i have an amount of prosperity that will make it worth while." "but i don't think," said florence, "that a graceful use of things is consistent with such a careful valuation and considering of the exact worth of everything--it's not my idea of grace." "yet _propriety_ is an essential element of gracefulness, miss evelyn." "well," said florence,--"certainly; but what then?" "is it attainable, in the use of means, without a nice knowledge of their true value?" "but, mr. carleton, i am sure i have seen improper things--things improper in a way--gracefully done?" "no doubt; but, miss evelyn," said he smiling "the impropriety did not in those cases, i presume, attach itself to the other quality. the graceful _manner_ was strictly proper to its ends, was it not, however the ends might be false?" "i don't know," said florence;--"you have gone too deep for me. but do you think that close calculation, and all that sort of thing, is likely to make people use money, or anything else, gracefully? i never thought it did." "not close calculation alone," said mr. carleton. "but do you think it is _consistent_ with gracefulness?" "the largest and grandest views of material things that man has ever taken, miss evelyn, stand upon a basis of the closest calculation." florence worked at her worsted and looked very dissatisfied. "o mr. carleton," said constance as he was going,--"don't leave your vinaigrette--there it is on the table." he made no motion to take it up. "don't you know, miss constance, that physicians seldom like to have anything to do with their own prescriptions?" "it's very suspicious of them," said constance;--"but you must take it, mr. carleton, if you please, for i shouldn't like the responsibility of its being left here; and i am afraid it would be dangerous to our peace of mind, besides." "i shall risk that," he said laughing. "its work is not done." "and then, mr. carleton," said mrs. evelyn, and fleda knew with what a look,--"you know physicians are accustomed to be paid when their prescriptions are taken." but the answer to this was only a bow, so expressive in its air of haughty coldness that any further efforts of mrs. evelyn's wit were chilled for some minutes after he had gone. fleda had not seen this. she had taken up the vinaigrette, and was thinking with acute pleasure that mr. carleton's manner last night and to-night had returned to all the familiar kindness of old times. not as it had been during the rest of her stay in the city. she could be quite contented now to have him go back to england, with this pleasant remembrance left her. she sat turning over the vinaigrette, which to her fancy was covered with hieroglyphics that no one else could read; of her uncle's affair, of charlton's danger, of her own distress, and the kindness which had wrought its relief, more penetrating and pleasant than even the fine aromatic scent which fairly typified it,--constance's voice broke in upon her musings. "isn't it awkward?" she said as she saw fleda handling and looking at the pretty toy,--"isn't it awkward? i sha'n't have a bit of rest now for fear something will happen to that. i hate to have people do such things!" "fleda my dear," said mrs. evelyn,--"i wouldn't handle it, my love; you may depend there is some charm in it--some mischievous hidden influence,--and if you have much to do with it i am afraid you will find a gradual coldness stealing over you, and a strange forgetfulness of queechy, and you will perhaps lose your desire ever to go back there any more." the vinaigrette dropped from fleda's fingers, but beyond a heightened colour and a little tremulous gravity about the lip, she gave no other sign of emotion. "mamma," said florence laughing,--"you are too bad!" "mamma," said constance, "i wonder how any tender sentiment for you can continue to exist in fleda's breast!--by the way, fleda, my dear, do you know that we have heard of two escorts for you? but i only tell you because i know you'll not be fit to travel this age." "i should not be able to travel to-morrow," said fleda. "they are not going to-morrow," said mrs. evelyn quietly. "who are they?" "excellent ones," said mrs. evelyn. "one of them is your old friend mr. olmney," "mr. olmney!" said fleda. "what has brought him to new york?" "really," said mrs. evelyn laughing,--"i do not know. what should keep him away? i was very glad to see him, for my part. maybe he has come to take you home." "who is the other?" said fleda. "that's another old friend of yours--mrs. renney." "mrs. renney?--who is she?" said fleda. "why don't you know? mrs. renney--she used to live with your aunt lucy in some capacity--years ago,--when she was in new york,--housekeeper, i think; don't you remember her?" "perfectly, now," said fleda. "mrs. renney!--" "she has been housekeeper for mrs. schenck these several years, and she is going somewhere out west to some relation, her brother, i believe, to take care of his family; and her road leads her your way." "when do they go, mrs. evelyn?" "both the same day, and both the day after to-morrow. mr. olmney takes the morning train, he says, unless you would prefer some other,--i told him you were very anxious to go,--and mrs. renney goes in the afternoon. so there's a choice for you." "mamma," said constance, "fleda is not fit to go at all, either time." "i don't think she is," said mrs. evelyn. "but she knows best what she likes to do." thoughts and resolutions came swiftly one after another into fleda's mind and were decided upon in as quick succession. first, that she must go the day after to-morrow, at all events. second, that it should not be with mr. olmney. third, that to prevent that, she must not see him in the mean time, and therefore--yes, no help for it,--must refuse to see any one that called the next day; there was to be a party in the evening, so then she would be safe. no doubt mr. carleton would come, to give her a more particular account of what he had done, and she wished unspeakably to hear it; but it was not possible that she should make an exception in his favour and admit him alone. that could not be. if friends would only be simple and straightforward and kind,--one could afford to be straightforward too;--but as it was she must not do what she longed to do and they would be sure to misunderstand. there was indeed the morning of the day following left her if mr. olmney did not take it into his head to stay. and it might issue in her not seeing mr. carleton at all, to bid good-bye and thank him? he would not think her ungrateful, he knew better than that, but still--well! so much for kindness!-- "what _are_ you looking so grave about?" said constance. "considering ways and means," fleda said with a slight smile. "ways and means of what?" "going." "you don't mean to go the day after to-morrow?" "yes." "it's too absurd for anything! you sha'n't do it." "i must indeed." "mamma," said constance, "if you permit such a thing, i shall hope that memory will be a fingerboard of remorse to you, pointing to miss ringgan's pale cheeks." "i shall charge it entirely upon miss ringgan's own fingerboard," said mrs. evelyn, with her complacently amused face. "fleda, my dear,--shall i request mr. olmney to delay his journey for a day or two, my love, till you are stronger?" "not at all, mrs. evelyn! i shall go then;--if i am not ready in the morning i will take mrs. renney in the afternoon--i would quite as lief go with her." "then i will make mr. olmney keep to his first purpose," said mrs. evelyn. poor fleda, though with a very sorrowful heart, kept her resolutions, and for very forlornness and weariness slept away a great part of the next day. neither would she appear in the evening, for fear of more people than one. it was impossible to tell whether mrs. evelyn's love of mischief would not bring mr. olmney there, and the thorns, she knew, were invited. mr. lewis would probably absent himself, but fleda could not endure even the chance of seeing his mother. she wanted to know, but dared not ask, whether mr. carleton had been to see her. what if to-morrow morning should pass without her seeing him? fleda pondered this uncertainty a little, and then jumped out of bed and wrote him the heartiest little note of thanks and remembrance that tears would let her write; sealed it, and carried it herself to the nearest branch of the despatch post the first thing next morning. she took a long look that same morning at the little vinaigrette which still lay on the centre-table, wishing very much to take it up stairs and pack it away among her things. it was meant for her she knew, and she wanted it as a very pleasant relic from the kind hands that had given it; and besides, he might think it odd if she should slight his intention. but how odd it would seem to him if he knew that the evelyns had half appropriated it. and appropriate it anew, in another direction, she could not. she could not without their knowledge, and they would put their own absurd construction on what was a simple matter of kindness; she could not brave it. [illustration: "i told him, 'o you were not gone yet!'"] the morning, a long one it was, had passed away; fleda had just finished packing her trunk, and was sitting with a faint-hearted feeling of body and mind, trying to rest before being called to her early dinner, when florence came to tell her it was ready. "mr. carleton was here awhile ago," she said, "and he asked for you; but mamma said you were busy; she knew you had enough to tire you without coming down stairs to see him. he asked when you thought of going." "what did you tell him?" "i told him, 'o you were not gone yet!'--it's such a plague to be bidding people good-bye--_i_ always want to get rid of it. was i right?" fleda said nothing, but in her heart she wondered what possible concern it could be of her friends if mr. carleton wanted to see her before she went away. she felt it was unkind--they did not know how unkind, for they did not understand that he was a very particular friend and an old friend--they could not tell what reason there was for her wishing to bid him good-bye. she thought she should have liked to do it, very much. chapter xlvii. methought i was--there is no man can tell what. methought i was, and methought i had,--but man is but a patched fool, if he will offer to say what methought i had.--midsummer night's dream. mrs. evelyn drove down to the boat with fleda and did not leave her till she was safely put in charge of mrs. renney. fleda immediately retreated to the innermost depths of the ladies' cabin, hoping to find some rest for the body at least if not forgetfulness for the mind. the latter was not to be. mrs. renney was exceeding glad to see her and bent upon knowing what had become of her since those days when they used to know each other. "you're just the same, miss fleda, that you used to be--you're very little altered--i can see that--though you're looking a good deal more thin and pale--you had very pretty roses in your cheeks in those times.--yes, i know, i understood mrs. evelyn to say you had not been well; but allowing for that i can see you are just yourself still--i'm glad of it. do you recollect, miss fleda, what a little thing you was then?" "i recollect, very well," said fleda. "i'm sure of another thing--you're just as good as you used to be," said the housekeeper looking at her complacently. "do you remember how you used to come into my room to see me make jelly? i see it as well as if it was yesterday;--and you used to beg me to let you squeeze the lemons; and i never could refuse you, because you never did anything i didn't want you to; and do you mind how i used to tie you up in a big towel for fear you would stain your dress with the acid, and i'd stand and watch to see you putting all your strength to squeeze 'em clean, and be afraid that mrs. rossitur would be angry with me for letting you spoil your hands, but you used to look up and smile at me so, i couldn't help myself but let you do just whatever you had a mind. you don't look quite so light and bright as you did in those times; but to be sure, you ain't feeling well! see here--just let me pull some of these things onto this settee, and you put yourself down there and rest--pillows--let's have another pillow,--there, how's that?" oh if fleda might have silenced her! she thought it was rather hard that she should have two talkative companions on this journey of all others. the housekeeper paused no longer than to arrange her couch and see her comfortably laid down. "and then mr. hugh would come in to find you and carry you away--he never could bear to be long from you. how is mr. hugh, miss fleda? he used to be always a very delicate looking child. i remember you and him used to be always together--he was a very sweet boy! i have often said i never saw such another pair of children. how does mr. hugh have his health, miss fleda?" "not very well, just now," said fleda gently, and shutting her eyes that they might reveal less. there was need; for the housekeeper went on to ask particularly after every member of the family, and where they had been living, and as much as she conveniently could about how they had been living. she was very kind through it all, or she tried to be; but fleda felt there was a difference since the time when her aunt kept house in state street and mrs. renney made jellies for her. when her neighbours' affairs were exhausted mrs. renney fell back upon her own, and gave fleda a very circumstantial account of the occurrences that were drawing her westward; how so many years ago her brother had married and removed thither; how lately his wife had died; what in general was the character of his wife, and what, in particular, the story of her decease; how many children were left without care, and the state of her brother's business which demanded a great deal; and how finally, she, mrs. renney, had received and accepted an invitation to go on to belle rivière and be housekeeper de son chef. and as fleda's pale worn face had for some time given her no sign of attention the housekeeper then hoped she was asleep, and placed herself so as to screen her and have herself a good view of everything that was going on in the cabin. but poor fleda was not asleep, much as she rejoiced in being thought so. mind and body could get no repose, sadly as the condition of both called for it. too worn to sleep, perhaps;--too down-hearted to rest. she blamed herself for it, and told over to herself the causes, the recent causes, she had of joy and gratitude; but it would not do. grateful she could be and was; but tears that were not the distillation of joy came with her gratitude; came from under the closed eyelid in spite of her; the pillow was wet with them. she excused herself, or tried to, with thinking that she was weak and not very well, and that her nerves had gone through so much for a few days past it was no wonder if a reaction left her without her usual strength of mind. and she could not help thinking there had been a want of kindness in the evelyns to let her come away to-day to make such a journey, at such a season, under such guardianship. but it was not all that; she knew it was not. the journey was a small matter; only a little piece of disagreeableness that was well in keeping with her other meditations. she was going home and home had lost all its fair-seeming; its honours were withered. it would be pleasant indeed to be there again to nurse hugh; but nurse him for what?--life or death?--she did not like to think; and beyond that she could fix upon nothing at all that looked bright in the prospect; she almost thought herself wicked, but she could not. if she might hope that her uncle would take hold of his farm like a man, and redeem his character and his family's happiness on the old place,--that would have been something; but he had declared a different purpose, and fleda knew him too well to hope that he would be better than his word. then they must leave the old homestead, where at least the associations of happiness clung, and go to a strange land. it looked desolate to fleda, wherever it might be. leave queechy!--that she loved unspeakably beyond any other place in the world; where the very hills had been the friends of her childhood, and where she had seen the maples grow green and grow red through as many-coloured changes of her own fortunes; the woods where the shade of her grandfather walked with her and where the presence even of her father could be brought back by memory; where the air was sweeter and the sunlight brighter, by far, than in any other place, for both had some strange kindred with the sunny days of long ago. poor fleda turned her face from mrs. renney, and leaving doubtful prospects and withering comforts for a while as it were out of sight, she wept the fair outlines and the red maples of queechy as if they had been all she had to regret. they had never disappointed her. their countenance had comforted her many a time, under many a sorrow. after all, it was only fancy choosing at which shrine the whole offering of sorrow should be made. she knew that many of the tears that fell were due to some other. it was in vain to tell herself they were selfish; mind and body were in no condition to struggle with anything. it had fallen dark some time, and she had wept and sorrowed herself into a half-dozing state, when a few words spoken near aroused her. "it is snowing,"--was said by several voices. "going very slow, ain't we?" said fleda's friend in a suppressed voice. "yes, 'cause it's so dark, you see; the captain dursn't let her run." some poor witticism followed from a third party about the 'butterfly's' having run herself off her legs the first time she ever ran at all; and then mrs. renney went on. "is the storm so bad, hannah?" "pretty thick--can't see far ahead--i hope we'll make out to find our way in--that's all _i_ care for." "how far are we?" "not half way yet--i don't know--depends on what headway we make, you know;--there ain't much wind yet, that's a good thing." "there ain't any danger, is there?" this of course the chambermaid denied, and a whispered colloquy followed which fleda did not try to catch. a new feeling came upon her weary heart,--a feeling of fear. there was a sad twinge of a wish that she were out of the boat and safe back again with the evelyns, and a fresh sense of the unkindness of letting her come away that afternoon so attended. and then with that sickness of heart the forlorn feeling of being alone, of wanting some one at hand to depend upon, to look to. it is true that in case of real danger none such could be a real protection,--and yet not so neither, for strength and decision can live and make live where a moment's faltering will kill, and weakness must often falter of necessity. "all the ways of the lord are mercy and truth" to his people; she thought of that, and yet she feared, for his ways are often what we do not like. a few moments of sick-heartedness and trembling,--and then fleda mentally folded her arms about a few other words of the bible and laid her head down in quiet again.--"_the lord is my refuge and my fortress; my god; in him will i trust_." and then what comes after,--"_he shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust; his truth shall be thy shield and buckler_." fleda lay quiet till she was called to tea. "bless me, how pale you are!" said the housekeeper, as fleda raised herself up at this summons,--"do you feel very bad, miss fleda?" fleda said no. "are you frighted?" said the housekeeper;--"there's no need of that--hannah says there's no need--we'll be in by and by." "no, mrs. renney," said fleda smiling. "i believe i am not very strong yet." the housekeeper and hannah both looked at her with strangely touched faces, and again begged her to try the refreshment of tea. but fleda would not go down, so they served her up there with great zeal and tenderness. and then she waited patiently and watched the people in the cabin, as they sat gossiping in groups or stupefying in solitude; and thought how miserable a thing is existence where religion and refinement have not taught the mind to live in somewhat beyond and above its every-day concern. late at night the boat arrived safe at bridgeport. mrs. renney and fleda had resolved to stay on board till morning, when the former promised to take her to the house of a sister she had living in the town; as the cars would not leave the place till near eleven o'clock. kest was not to be hoped for meantime in the boat, on the miserable couch which was the best the cabin could furnish; but fleda was so thankful to have finished the voyage in safety that she took thankfully everything else, even lying awake. it was a wild night. the wind rose soon after they reached bridgeport, and swept furiously over the boat, rattling the tiller chains and making fleda so nervously alive to possibilities that she got up two or three times to see if the boat were fast to her moorings. it was very dark, and only by a fortunately placed lantern she could see a bit of the dark wharf and one of the posts belonging to it, from which the lantern never budged; so at last, quieted or tired out, nature had her rights, and she slept. it was not refreshing rest after all, and fleda was very glad that mrs. renney's impatience for something comfortable made her willing to be astir as early as there was any chance of finding people up in the town. few were abroad when they left the boat, they two. not a foot had printed the deep layer of snow that covered the wharf. it had fallen thick during the night. just then it was not snowing; the clouds seemed to have taken a recess, for they hung threatening yet; one uniform leaden canopy was over the whole horizon. "the snow ain't done yet," said mrs. renney. "no, but the worst of our journey is over," said fleda. "i am glad to be on the land." "i hope we'll get something to eat here," said mrs. renney as they stepped along over the wharf. "they ought to be ashamed to give people such a mess, when it's just as easy to have things decent. my! how it has snowed. i declare, if i'd ha' known i'd ha' waited till somebody had tracked a path for us. but i guess it's just as well we didn't,--you look as like a ghost as you can, miss fleda. you'll be better when you get some breakfast. you'd better catch on to my arm--i'll waken up the seven sleepers but what i'll have something to put life into you directly." fleda thanked her but declined the proffered accommodation, and followed her companion in the narrow beaten path a few travellers had made in the street, feeling enough like a ghost, if want of flesh and blood reality were enough. it seemed a dream that she was walking through the grey light and the empty streets of the little town; everything looked and felt so wild and strange. if it was a dream she was soon waked out of it. in the house where they were presently received and established in sufficient comfort, there was such a little specimen of masculine humanity as never shewed his face in dream land yet; a little bit of reality enough to bring any dreamer to his senses. he seemed to have been brought up on stove heat, for he was ail glowing yet from a very warm bed he had just tumbled out of somewhere, and he looked at the pale thin stranger by his mother's fireplace as if she were an anomaly in the comfortable world. if he could have contented himself with looking!--but he planted himself firmly on the rug just two feet from fleda, and with a laudable and most persistent desire to examine into the causes of what he could not understand he commenced inquiring, "are you cold?--say! are you cold?--say!"--in a tone most provokingly made up of wonder and dulness. in vain fleda answered him, that she was not very cold and would soon not be cold at all by that good fire;--the question came again, apparently in all its freshness, from the interrogator's mind,--"are you cold?--say!--" and silence and words, looking grave and laughing, were alike thrown away. fleda shut her eyes at length and used the small remnant of her patience to keep herself quiet till she was called to breakfast. after breakfast she accepted the offer of her hostess to go up stairs and lie down till the cars were ready; and there got some real and much needed refreshment of sleep and rest. it lasted longer than she bad counted upon. for the cars were not ready at eleven o'clock; the snow last night had occasioned some perplexing delays. it was not till near three o'clock that the often-despatched messenger to the dépôt brought back word that they might go as soon as they pleased. it pleased mrs. renney to be in a great hurry, for her baggage was in the cars she said, and it would be dreadful if she and it went different ways; so fleda and her companion hastened down to the station house and choose their places some time before anybody else thought of coming. they had a long, very tiresome waiting to go through, and room for some uneasy speculations about being belated and a night journey. but fleda was stronger now, and bore it all with her usual patient submission. at length, by degrees the people dropped in and filled the cars, and they get off. "how early do you suppose we shall reach greenfield?" said fleda. "why we ought to get there between nine and ten o'clock, i should think," said her companion. "i hope the snow will hold up till we get there," fleda thought it a hope very unlikely to be fulfilled. there were as yet no snow-flakes to be seen near by, but at a little distance the low clouds seemed already to enshroud every clump of trees and put a mist about every hill. they surely would descend more palpably soon. it was pleasant to be moving swiftly on again towards the end of their journey, if fleda could have rid herself of some qualms about the possible storm and the certain darkness; they might not reach greenfield by ten o'clock; and she disliked travelling in the night at any time. but she could do nothing, and she resigned herself anew to the comfort and trust she had built upon last night. she had the seat next the window, and with a very sober kind of pleasure watched the pretty landscape they were flitting by--misty as her own prospects,--darkening as they?--no, she would not allow that thought. "'surely i know that it shall be well with them that fear god;' and i can trust him." and she found a strange sweetness in that naked trust and clinging of faith, that faith never tried never knows. but the breath of daylight was already gone, though the universal spread of snow gave the eye a fair range yet, white, white, as far as the view could reach, with that light misty drapery round everything in the distance and merging into the soft grey sky; and every now and then as the wind served, a thick wreath of white vapour came by from the engine and hid all, eddying past the windows and then skimming off away over the snowy ground from which it would not lift; a more palpable veil for a moment of the distant things,--and then broken, scattered, fragmentary, lovely in its frailty and evanishing. it was a pretty afternoon, but a sober; and the bare black solitary trees near hand which the cars flew by, looked to fleda constantly like finger-posts of the past; and back at their bidding her thoughts and her spirits went, back and forward, comparing, in her own mental view, what had once been so gay and genial with its present bleak and chill condition. and from this, in sudden contrast, came a strangely fair and bright image of heaven--its exchange of peace for all this turmoil,--of rest for all this weary bearing up of mind and body against the ills that beset both,--of its quiet home for this unstable strange world where nothing is at a stand-still--of perfect and pure society for the unsatisfactory and wearying friendships that the most are here. the thought came to fleda like one of those unearthly clear northwestern skies from which a storm cloud has rolled away, that seem almost to mock earth with their distance from its defilement and agitations. "truly i know that it shall be well with them that fear god!"--she could remember hugh,--she could not think of the words without him,--and yet say them with the full bounding assurance. and in that weary and uneasy afternoon her mind rested and delighted itself with two lines of george herbert, that only a christian can well understand,-- "thy power and love,--my love and trust, make one place everywhere." but the night fell, and fleda at last could see nothing but the dim rail fences they were flying by, and the reflection from some stationary lantern on the engine or one of the forward cars, that always threw a bright spot of light on the snow. still she kept her eyes fastened out of the window; anything but the view _inboard_. they were going slowly now, and frequently stopping; for they were out of time, and some other trains were to be looked out for. nervous work; and whenever they stopped the voices which at other times were happily drowned in the rolling of the car-wheels, rose and jarred in discords far less endurable. fleda shut her ears to the words, but it was easy enough without words to understand the indications of coarse and disagreeable natures in whose neighbourhood she disliked to find herself; of whose neighbourhood she exceedingly disliked to be reminded. the muttered oath, the more than muttered jest, the various laughs that tell so much of head or heart emptiness,--the shadowy but sure tokens of that in human nature which one would not realize and which one strives to forget;--fleda shrank within herself and would gladly have stopped her ears; did sometimes covertly. oh if home could be but reached, and she out of this atmosphere! how well she resolved that never another time, by any motive, of delicacy or otherwise, she would be tempted to trust herself in the like again without more than womanly protection. the hours rolled wearily on; they heard nothing of greenfield yet. they came at length to a more obstinate stop than usual. fleda took her hands from her ears to ask what was the matter. "i don't know," said mrs. renney. "i hope they won't keep us a great while waiting here." the door swung open and the red comforter and tarpaulin hat of one of the brakemen shewed itself a moment. presently after "can't get on"--was repeated by several voices in the various tones of assertion, interrogation, and impatience. the women folks, having nobody to ask questions of, had nothing for it but to be quiet and use their ears. "can't get on!" said another man coming in,--"there's nothing but snow out o' doors--track's all foul." a number of people instantly rushed out to see. "can't get on any further to-night?" asked a quiet old gentleman of the news-bringer. "not another inch, sir;--worse off than old dobbs was in the mill-pond,--we've got half way but we can't turn and go back." "and what are we going to do?" said an unhappy wight not quick in drawing conclusions. "i s'pose we'll all be stiff by the morning," answered the other gravely,--"unless the wood holds out, which ain't likely." how much there is in even a cheery tone of voice, fleda was sorry when this man took his away with him. there was a most uncheering confusion of tongues for a few minutes among the people he had left, and then the car was near deserted; everybody went out to bring his own wits to bear upon the obstacles in the way of their progress. mrs. renney observed that she might as well warm her feet while she could, and went to the stove for the purpose. poor fleda felt as if she had no heart left. she sat still in her place and leaned her head upon the back of the deserted chair before her, in utter inability to keep it up. the night journey was bad enough, but _this_ was more than she had counted upon. danger, to be sure, there might be none in standing still there all night, unless perhaps the danger of death from the cold;--she had heard of such things;--but to sit there till morning among all those people and obliged to hear their unloosed tongues,--fleda felt almost that she could not bear it,--a most forlorn feeling, with which came anew a keen reflection upon the evelyns for having permitted her to run even the hazard of such trouble. and in the morning, if well it came, who would take care of them in all the subsequent annoyance and difficulty of getting out of the snow?-- it must have taken very little time for these thoughts to run through her head, for half a minute had not flown when the vacant seat beside her was occupied and a hand softly touched one of hers which lay in her lap. fleda started up in terror,--to have the hand taken and her eye met by mr. carleton. "mr. carleton!--o sir, how glad i am to see you!"--was said by eye and cheek as unmistakably as by word. "have you come from the clouds?" "i might rather ask that question of you," said he smiling. "you have been invisible ever since the night when i had the honour of playing the part of your physician." "i could not help it, sir,--i was sure you would believe it. i wanted exceedingly to see you and to thank you--as well as i could--but i was obliged to leave it--" she could hardly say so much. her swimming eye gave him more thanks than he wanted. but she scolded herself vigorously and after a few minutes was able to look and speak again. "i hoped you would not think me ungrateful, sir, but in case you might, i wrote to let you know that you were mistaken." "you wrote to me!" said he. "yes, sir--yesterday morning--at least it was put in the post yesterday morning." "it was more unnecessary than you are aware off," he said with a smile and turning one of his deep looks away from her. "are we fast here for all night, mr. carleton?" she said presently. "i am afraid so--i believe so--i have been out to examine and the storm is very thick." "you need not look so about it for me," said fleda;--"i don't care for it at all now." and a long-drawn breath half told how much she had cared for it, and what a burden was gone. "you look very little like breasting hardships," said mr. carleton, bending on her so exactly the look of affectionate care that she had often had from him when she was a child, that fleda was very near overcome again. "o you know," she said, speaking by dint of great force upon herself,--"you know the will is everything, and mine is very good--" but he looked extremely unconvinced and unsatisfied. "i am so comforted to see you sitting there, sir," fleda went on gratefully,--"that i am sure i can bear patiently all the rest." his eye turned away and she did not know what to make of his gravity. but a moment after he looked again and spoke with his usual manner. "that business you entrusted to me," he said in a lower tone,--"i believe you will have no more trouble with it." "so i thought!--so i gathered--the other night,--" said fleda, her heart and her face suddenly full of many things. "the note was given up--i saw it burned." fleda's two hands clasped each other mutely. "and will he be silent?" "i think he will choose to be so--for his own sake." the only sake that would avail in that quarter, fleda knew. how had mr. carleton ever managed it! "and charlton?" she said after a few minutes' tearful musing. "i had the pleasure of capt. rossitur's company to breakfast, the next morning,--and i am happy to report that there is no danger of any trouble arising there." "how shall i ever thank you, sir!" said fleda with trembling lips. his smile was so peculiar she almost thought he was going to tell her. but just then mrs. renney having accomplished the desirable temperature of her feet, came back to warm her ears, and placed herself on the next seat; happily not the one behind but the one before them, where her eyes were thrown away; and the lines of mr. carleton's mouth came back to their usual quiet expression. "you were in particular haste to reach home?" he asked. fleda said no, not in the abstract; it made no difference whether to-day or to-morrow. "you had heard no ill news of your cousin?" "not at all, but it is difficult to find an opportunity of making the journey, and i thought i ought to come yesterday." he was silent again; and the baffled seekers after ways and means who had gone out to try arguments upon the storm, began to come pouring back into the car. and bringing with them not only their loud and coarse voices with every shade of disagreeableness aggravated by ill-humour, but also an average amount of snow upon their hats and shoulders, the place was soon full of a reeking atmosphere of great coats. fleda was trying to put up her window, but mr. carleton gently stopped her and began bargaining with a neighbouring fellow-traveller for the opening of his. "well, sir, i'll open it if you wish it," said the man civilly, "but they say we sha'n't have nothing to make fires with more than an hour or two longer;--so maybe you'll think we can't afford to let any too much cold in." the gentleman however persisting in his wish and the wish being moreover backed with those arguments to which every grade of human reason is accessible, the window was opened. at first the rush of fresh air was a great relief; but it was not very long before the raw snowy atmosphere which made its way in was felt to be more dangerous, if it was more endurable, than the close pent-up one it displaced. mr. carleton ordered the window closed again; and fleda's glance of meek grateful patience was enough to pay any reasonable man for his share of the suffering. _her_ share of it was another matter. perhaps mr. carleton thought so, for he immediately bent himself to reward her and to avert the evil, and for that purpose brought into play every talent of manner and conversation that could beguile the time and make her forget what she was among. if success were his reward he had it. he withdrew her attention completely from all that was around her, and without tasking it; she could not have borne that. he did not seem to task himself; but without making any exertion he held her eye and ear and guarded both from communication with things disagreeable. he knew it. there was not a change in her eye's happy interest, till in the course of the conversation fleda happened to mention hugh, and he noticed the saddening of the eye immediately afterwards. "is he ill?" said mr. carleton. "i don't know," said fleda faltering a little,--"he was not--very,--but a few weeks ago--" her eye explained the broken sentences which there in the neighbourhood of other ears she dared not finish. "he will be better after he has seen you," said mr. carleton gently. "yes--" a very sorrowful and uncertain "yes," with an "if" in the speaker's mind which she did not bring out. "can you sing your old song yet,--" said mr. carleton softly,-- "'yet one thing secures us. whatever betide?'" but fleda burst into tears. "forgive me," he whispered earnestly,--"for reminding you of that,--you did not need it, and i have only troubled you." "no sir, you have not," said fleda,--"it did not trouble me--and hugh knows it better than i do. i cannot bear anything to-night, i believe--" "so you have remembered that, mr. carleton?" she said a minute after. "do you remember that?" said he, putting her old little bible into her hand. fleda seized it, but she could hardly bear the throng of images that started up around it. the smooth worn cover brought so back the childish happy days when it had been her constant companion--the shadows of the queechy of old, and cynthia and her grandfather; and the very atmosphere of those times when she had led a light-hearted strange wild life all alone with them, reading the encyclopædia and hunting out the wood-springs. she opened the book and slowly turned over the leaves where her father's hand had drawn those lines, of remark and affection, round many a passage,--the very look of them she knew; but she could not see it now, for her eyes were dim and tears were dropping fast into her lap,--she hoped mr. carleton did not see them, but she could not help it; she could only keep the book out of the way of being blotted. and there were other and later associations she had with it too,--how dear!--how tender!--how grateful! mr. carleton was quite silent for a good while--till the tears had ceased; then he bent towards her so as to be heard no further off. "it has been for many years my best friend and companion," he said in a low tone. fleda could make no answer, even by look. "at first," he went on softly, "i had a strong association of you with it; but the time came when i lost that entirely, and itself quite swallowed up the thought of the giver." a quick glance and smile told how well fleda understood, how heartily she was pleased with that. but she instantly looked away again. "and now," said mr. carleton after a pause,--"for some time past, i have got the association again; and i do not choose to have it so. i have come to the resolution to put the book back into your hands and not receive it again, unless the giver go with the gift." fleda looked up, a startled look of wonder, into his face, but the dark eye left no doubt of the meaning of his words; and in unbounded confusion she turned her own and her attention, ostensibly, to the book in her hand, though sight and sense were almost equally out of her power. for a few minutes poor fleda felt as if all sensation had retreated to her finger-ends. she turned the leaves over and over, as if willing to cheat herself or her companion into the belief that she had something to think of there, while associations and images of the past were gone with a vengeance, swallowed up in a tremendous reality of the present; and the book, which a minute ago was her father's bible, was now--what was it?--something of mr. carleton's which she must give back to him. but still she held it and looked at it--conscious of no one distinct idea but that, and a faint one besides that he might like to be repossessed of his property in some reasonable time--time like everything else was in a whirl; the only steady thing in creation seemed to be that perfectly still and moveless figure by her side--till her trembling fingers admonished her they would not be able to hold anything much longer; and gently and slowly, without looking, her hand put the book back towards mr. carleton. that both were detained together she knew but hardly felt;--the thing was that she had given it!-- there was no other answer; and there was no further need that mr. carleton should make any efforts for diverting her from the scene and the circumstances where they were. probably he knew that, for he made none. he was perfectly silent for a long time, and fleda was deaf to any other voice that could be raised, near or far. she could not even think. mrs. renney was happily snoring, and most of the other people had descended into their coat collars, or figuratively speaking had lowered their blinds, by tilting over their hats in some uncomfortable position that signified sleep; and comparative quiet had blessed the place for some time; as little noticed indeed by fleda as noise would have been. the sole thing that she clearly recognized in connection with the exterior world was that clasp in which one of her hands lay. she did not know that the car had grown quiet, and that only an occasional grunt of ill-humour, or waking-up colloquy, testified that it was the unwonted domicile of a number of human beings who were harbouring there in a disturbed state of mind. but this state of things could not last. the time came that had been threatened, when their last supply of extrinsic warmth was at an end. despite shut windows, the darkening of the stove was presently followed by a very sensible and fast-increasing change of temperature; and this addition to their causes of discomfort roused every one of the company from his temporary lethargy. the growl of dissatisfied voices awoke again, more gruff than before; the spirit of jesting had long languished and now died outright, and in its stead came some low and deep and bitter-spoken curses. poor mrs. renney shook off her somnolency and shook her shoulders, a little business shake, admonitory to herself to keep cool; and fleda came to the consciousness that some very disagreeable chills were making their way over her. "are you warm enough?" said mr. carleton suddenly, turning to her. "not quite," said fleda hesitating,--"i feel the cold a little. please don't, mr. carleton!--" she added earnestly as she saw him preparing to throw off his cloak, the identical black fox which constance had described with so much vivacity;--"pray do not! i am not very cold--i can bear a little--i am not so tender as you think me; i do not need it, and you would feel the want very much after wearing it.--i won't put it on." but he smilingly bade her "stand up," stooping down and taking one of her hands to enforce his words, and giving her at the same time the benefit of one of those looks of good humoured wilfulness to which his mother always yielded, and to which fleda yielded instantly, though with a colour considerably heightened at the slight touch of peremptoriness in his tone. "you are not offended with me, elfie?" he said in another manner, when she had sat down again and he was arranging the heavy folds of the cloak. offended!--a glance answered. "you shall have everything your own way," he whispered gently, as he stooped down to bring the cloak under her feet,--"_except yourself_." what good care should be taken of that exception was said in the dark eye at which fleda hardly ventured half a glance. she had much ado to command herself. she was shielded again from all the sights and sounds within reach. she was in a maze. the comfort of the fur cloak was curiously mixed with the feeling of something else, of which that was an emblem,--a surrounding of care and strength which would effectually be exerted for her protection,--somewhat that fleda had not known for many a long day,--the making up of the old want. fleda had it in her heart to cry like a baby. such a dash of sunlight had fallen at her feet that she hardly dared look at it for fear of being dazzled; but she could not look anywhere that she did not see the reflection. in the mean time the earful of people settled again into sullen quietude. the cold was not found propitious to quarrelling. those who could subsided anew into lethargy, those who could not gathered in their outposts to make the best defence they might of the citadel. most happily it was not an extreme night; cold enough to be very disagreeable and even (without a fur cloak) dangerous; but not enough to put even noses and ears in immediate jeopardy. mr. carleton had contrived to procure a comfortable wrapper for mrs. renney from a yankee who for the sake of being "a warm man" as to his pockets was willing to be cold otherwise for a time. the rest of the great coats and cloaks which were so alert and erect a little while ago were doubled up on every side in all sorts of despondent attitudes. a dull quiet brooded over the assembly; and mr. carleton walked up and down the vacant space. once he caught an anxious glance from fleda, and came immediately to her side. "you need not be troubled about me," he said with a most genial smile;--"i am not suffering--never was further from it in my life." fleda could neither answer nor look. "there are not many hours of the night to wear out," he said. "can't you follow your neighbour's example?" she shook her head. "this watching is too hard for you. you will have another headache to-morrow." "no--perhaps not," she said with a grateful look up. "you do not feel the cold now, elfie?" "not at all--not in the least--i am perfectly comfortable--i am doing very well--" he stood still, and the changing lights and shades on fleda's cheek grew deeper. "do you know where we are, mr. carleton?" "somewhere between a town the name of which i have forgotten and a place called quarrenton, i think; and quarrenton, they tell me, is but a few miles from greenfield. our difficulties will vanish, i hope, with the darkness." he walked again, and fleda mused, and wondered at herself in the black fox. she did not venture another look, though her eye took in nothing very distinctly but the outlines of that figure passing up and down through the car. he walked perseveringly; and weariness at last prevailed over everything else with fleda; she lost herself with her head leaning against the bit of wood between the windows. the rousing of the great coats, and the growing gray light, roused her before her uneasy sleep had lasted an hour. the lamps were out, the car was again spotted with two long rows of window-panes, through which the light as yet came but dimly. the morning had dawned at last, and seemed to have brought with it a fresh accession of cold, for everybody was on the stir. fleda put up her window to get a breath of fresh air and see how the day looked. a change of weather had come with the dawn. it was not fine yet. the snowing had ceased, but the clouds hung overhead still, though not with the leaden uniformity of yesterday; they were higher and broken into many a soft grey fold, that promised to roll away from the sky by and by. the snow was deep on the ground; every visible thing lapped in a thick white covering; a still, very grave, very pretty winter landscape, but somewhat dreary in its aspect to a trainful of people fixed in the midst of it out of sight of human habitation. fleda felt that, but only in the abstract; to her it did not seem dreary; she enjoyed the wild solitary beauty of the scene very much, with many a grateful thought of what might have been. as it was, she left difficulties entirely to others. as soon as it was light the various inmates of the strange dormitory gathered themselves up and set out on foot for quarrenton. by one of them mr. carleton sent an order for a sleigh, which in as short a time as possible arrived, and transported him and fleda and mrs. renney, and one other ill-bestead woman, safely to the little town of quarrenton. chapter xlviii. welcome the sour cup of prosperity! affliction may one day smile again, and till then, sit thee down, sorrow!--love's labour lost. it had been a wild night, and the morning looked scared. perhaps it was only the particular locality, for if ever a place shewed bleak and winter stricken the little town of quarrenton was in that condition that morning. the snow overlaid and enveloped everything, except where the wind had been at work; and the wind and the grey clouds seemed the only agencies abroad. nor a ray of sunlight to relieve the uniform sober tints, the universal grey and white, only varied where a black house-roof, partially cleared, or a blacker bare-branched tree, gave it a sharp interruption. there was not a solitary thing that bore an indication of comfortable life, unless the curls of smoke that went up from the chimneys; and fleda was in no condition to study their physiognomy. a little square hotel, perched alone on a rising ground, looked the especial bleak and unpromising spot of the place. it bore however the imposing title of the pocahontas; and there the sleigh set them down. they were ushered up-stairs into a little parlour furnished in the usual style, with one or two articles a great deal too showy for the place and a general dearth as to the rest. a lumbering mahogany sofa, that shewed as much wood and as little promise as possible; a marble-topped centre-table; chairs in the minority and curtains minus; and the hearth-rug providently turned bottom upwards. on the centre-table lay a pile of penny magazines, a volume of selections of poetry from various good authors, and a sufficient complement of newspapers. the room was rather cold, but of that the waiter gave a reasonable explanation in the fact that the fire had not been burning long. furs however might be dispensed with, or fleda thought so; and taking off her bonnet she endeavoured to rest her weary head against the sharp-cut top of the sofa-back, which seemed contrived expressly to punish and forbid all attempts at ease-seeking. the mere change of position was still comparative ease. but the black fox had not done duty yet. its ample folds were laid over the sofa, cushion-back and all, so as at once to serve for pillow and mattress, and fleda being gently placed upon it laid her face down again upon the soft fur, which gave a very kindly welcome not more to the body than to the mind. fleda almost smiled as she felt that. the furs were something more than a pillow for her cheek--they were the soft image of somewhat for her mind to rest on. but entirely exhausted, too much for smiles or tears, though both were near, she resigned herself as helplessly as an infant to the feeling of rest; and in five minutes was in a state of dreamy unconsciousness. mrs. renney, who had slept a great part of the night, courted sleep anew in the rocking-chair, till breakfast should be ready; the other woman had found quarters in the lower part of the house; and mr. carleton stood still with folded arms to read at his leisure the fair face that rested so confidingly upon the black fur of his cloak, looking so very fair in the contrast. it was the same face he had known in time past,--the same, with only an alteration that had added new graces but had taken away none of the old. not one of the soft outlines had grown hard under time's discipline; not a curve had lost its grace or its sweet mobility; and yet the hand of time had been there; for on brow and lip and cheek and eyelid there was that nameless grave composure which said touchingly that hope had long ago clasped hands with submission. and perhaps, that if hope's anchor had not been well placed, ay, even where it could not be moved, the storms of life might have beaten even hope from her ground and made a clean sweep of desolation over all she had left. not the storms of the last few weeks. mr. carleton saw and understood their work in the perfectly colourless and thin cheek. but these other finer drawn characters had taken longer to write. he did not know the instrument, but he read the hand-writing, and came to his own resolutions therefrom. yet if not untroubled she had remained unspotted by the world; that was as clear as the other. the slight eyebrow sat with its wonted calm purity of outline just where it used; the eyelid fell as quietly; the forehead above it was as unruffled; and if the mouth had a subdued gravity that it had taken years to teach, it had neither lost any of the sweetness nor any of the simplicity of childhood. it was a strange picture that mr. carleton was looking at,--strange for its rareness. in this very matter of simplicity, that the world will never leave those who belong to it. half sitting and half reclining, she had given herself to rest with the abandonment and self-forgetfulness of a child; her attitude had the very grace of a child's unconsciousness; and her face shewed that even in placing herself there she had lost all thought of any other presence or any other eyes than her own; even of what her hand and cheek lay upon, and what it betokened. it meant something to mr. carleton too; and if fleda could have opened her eyes she would have seen in those that were fixed upon her a happy promise for her future life. she was beyond making any such observations; and mrs. renney gave no interruption to his till the breakfast bell rang. mr. carleton had desired the meal to be served in a private room. but he was met with a speech in which such a confusion of arguments endeavoured to persuade him to be of another mind, that he had at last given way. it was asserted that the ladies would have their breakfast a great deal quicker and a great deal hotter with the rest of the company; and in the same breath that it would be a very great favour to the house if the gentleman would not put them to the inconvenience of setting a separate table; the reasons of which inconvenience were set forth in detail, or would have been if the gentleman would have heard them; and desirous especially of haste, on fleda's account, mr. carleton signified his willingness to let the house accommodate itself. following the bell a waiter now came to announce and conduct them to their breakfast. down the stairs, through sundry narrow turning passages, they went to a long low room at one corner of the house; where a table was spread for a very nondescript company, as it soon proved, many of their last night's companions having found their way thither. the two _ladies_, however, were given the chief posts at the head, as near as possible to a fiery hot stove, and served with tea and coffee from a neighbouring table by a young lady in long ringlets who was there probably for their express honour. but alas for the breakfast! they might as good have had the comfort of a private room, for there was none other to be had. of the tea and coffee it might be said as once it was said of two bad roads--"whichever one you take you will wish you had taken the other;" the beefsteak was a problem of impracticability; and the chickens--fleda could not help thinking that a well-to-do rooster which she saw flapping his wings in the yard, must in all probability be at that very moment endeavouring to account for a sudden breach in his social circle; and if the oysters had been some very fine ladies they could hardly have retained less recollection of their original circumstances. it was in vain to try to eat or to drink; and fleda returned to her sofa with even an increased appetite for rest, the more that her head began to take its revenge for the trials to which it had been put the past day and night. she had closed her eyes again in her old position. mrs. renney was tying her bonnet-strings. mr. carleton was pacing up and down. "aren't you going to get ready, miss ringgan?" said the former. "how soon will the cars be here?" exclaimed fleda starting up. "presently," said mr. carleton; "but," said he, coming up to her and taking her hands,--"i am going to prescribe for you again--will you let me?" fleda's face gave small promise of opposition. "you are not fit to travel now. you need some hours of quiet rest before we go any further." "but when shall we get home?" said fleda. "in good time--not by the railroad--there is a nearer way that will take us to queechy without going through greenfield. i have ordered a room to be made ready for you--will you try if it be habitable?" fleda submitted; and indeed there was in his manner a sort of gentle determination to which few women would have opposed themselves; besides that her head threatened to make a journey a miserable business. "you are ill now," said mr. carleton. "cannot you induce your companion to stay and attend you?" "i don't want her," said fleda. mr. carleton however mooted the question himself with mrs. renney, but she represented to him, though with much deference, that the care of her property must oblige her to go where and when it went. he rang and ordered the housekeeper to be sent. presently after a young lady in ringlets entered the room, and first taking a somewhat leisurely survey of the company, walked to the window and stood there looking out. a dim recollection of her figure and air made fleda query whether she were not the person sent for; but it was several minutes before it came into mr. carleton's head to ask if she belonged to the house. "i do, sir," was the dignified answer. "will you shew this lady the room prepared for her? and take care that she wants nothing." the owner of the ringlets answered not, but turning the front view of them full upon fleda seemed to intimate that she was ready to act as her guide. she hinted however that the rooms were very _airy_ in winter and that fleda would stand a better chance of comfort where she was. but this fleda would not listen to, and followed her adviser to the half warmed and certainly very airy apartment which had been got ready for her. it was probably more owing to something in her own appearance than to mr. carleton's word of admonition on the subject that her attendant was really assiduous and kind. "be you of this country?" she said abruptly, after her good offices as fleda thought were ended, and she had just closed her eyes. she opened them again and said "yes." "well, that ain't in the parlour, is he?" "what?" said fleda. "one of our folks?" "an american, you mean?--no." "i thought he wa'n't--what is he?" "he is english." "is he your brother?" "no." the young lady gave her a good look out of her large dark eyes, and remarking that "she thought they didn't look much like," left the room. the day was spent by poor fleda between pain and stupor, each of which acted in some measure to check the other; too much exhausted for nervous pain to reach the height it sometimes did, while yet that was sufficient to prevent stupor from sinking into sleep. beyond any power of thought or even fancy, with only a dreamy succession of images flitting across her mind, the hours passed she knew not how; that they did pass she knew from her handmaid in the long curls who was every now and then coming in to look at her and give her fresh water; it needed no ice. her handmaid told her that the cars were gone by--that it was near noon--then that it was past noon. there was no help for it; she could only lie still and wait; it was long past noon before she was able to move; and she was looking ill enough yet when she at last opened the door of the parlour and slowly presented herself. mr. carleton was there alone, mrs. renney having long since accompanied her baggage. he came forward instantly and led fleda to the sofa, with such gentle grave kindness that she could hardly bear it; her nerves had been in an unsteady state all day. a table was set and partially spread with evidently much more care than the one of the morning; and fleda sat looking at it afraid to trust herself to look anywhere else. for years she had been taking care of others; and now there was something so strange in this feeling of being cared for, that her heart was full. whatever mr. carleton saw or suspected of this, it did not appear. on the contrary his manner and his talk on different matters was as cool, as quiet, as graceful, as if neither he nor fleda had anything particular to think of; avoiding even an allusion to whatever might in the least distress her. fleda thought she had a great many reasons to be grateful to him, but she never thanked him for anything more than at that moment she thanked him for the delicacy which so regarded her delicacy and put her in a few minutes completely at her ease as she could be. the refreshments were presently brought, and fleda was served with them in a way that went as far as possible towards making them satisfactory; but though a great improvement upon the morning they furnished still but the substitute for a meal. there was a little pause then after the horses were ordered. "i am afraid you have wanted my former prescription to-day," said mr. carleton, after considering the little-improved colour of fleda's face. "i have indeed." "where is it?" fleda hesitated, and then in a little confusion said she supposed it was lying on mrs. evelyn's centre-table. "how happens that?" said he smiling. "because--i could not help it, mr. carleton," said fleda with no little difficulty;--"i was foolish--i could not bring it away." he understood and was silent. "are you fit to bear a long ride in the cold?" he said compassionately a few minutes after. "oh yes!--it will do me good." "you have had a miserable day, have you not?" "my head has been pretty bad,--" said fleda a little evasively. "well, what would you have?" said he lightly;--"doesn't that make a miserable day of it?" fleda hesitated and coloured,--and then conscious that her cheeks were answering for her, coloured so exceedingly that she was fain to put both her hands up to hide what they only served the more plainly to shew. no advantage was taken. mr. carleton said nothing; she could not see what answer might be in his face. it was only by a peculiar quietness in his tone whenever he spoke to her afterwards that fleda knew she had been thoroughly understood. she dared not lift her eyes. they had soon employment enough around her. a sleigh and horses better than anything else quarrenton had been known to furnish, were carrying her rapidly towards home; the weather had perfectly cleared off, and in full brightness and fairness the sun was shining upon a brilliant world. it was cold indeed, though the only wind was that made by their progress; but fleda had been again unresistingly wrapped in the furs and was for the time beyond the reach of that or any other annoyance. she eat silently and quietly enjoying; so quietly that a stranger might have questioned there being any enjoyment in the case. it was a very picturesque broken country, fresh-covered with snow; and at that hour, late in the day, the lights and shadows were a constantly varying charm to the eye. clumps of evergreens stood out in full disclosure against the white ground; the bare branches of neighbouring trees, in all their barrenness, had a wild prospective or retrospective beauty peculiar to themselves. on the wavy white surface of the meadow-land, or the steep hill-sides, lay every variety of shadow in blue and neutral tint; where they lay not the snow was too brilliant to be borne. and afar off, through a heaven bright and cold enough to hold the canopy over winter's head, the ruler of the day was gently preparing to say good-bye to the world. fleda's eye seemed to be new set for all forms of beauty, and roved from one to the other, as grave and bright as nature itself. for a little way mr. carleton left her to her musings and was as silent as she. but then he gently drew her into a conversation that broke up the settled gravity of her face and obliged her to divide her attention between nature and him, and his part of it he knew how to manage. but though eye and smile constantly answered him he could win neither to a straightforward bearing. they were about a mile from queechy when pleda suddenly exclaimed, "o mr. carleton, please stop the sleigh i--" the horses were stopped. "it is only earl douglass--our farmer," fleda said in explanation,--"i want to ask how they are at home." in answer to her nod of recognition mr. douglass came to the side of the vehicle; but till he was there, close, gave her no other answer by word or sign; when there, broke forth his accustomed guttural, "how d'ye do!" "how d'ye do, mr. douglass," said fleda. "how are they all at home?" "well, there ain't nothin' new among 'em, as i've heerd on," said earl, diligently though stealthily at the same time qualifying himself to make a report of mr. carleton,--"i guess they'll be glad to see you. _i_ be." "thank you, mr. douglass. how is hugh?" "he ain't nothin' different from what he's been for a spell back--at least i ain't heerd that he was.--maybe he is, but if he is i han't heerd speak of it, and if he was, i think i should ha' heerd speak of it. he _was_ pretty bad a spell ago--about when you went away--but he's been better sen. so they say. i ha'n't seen him.--well flidda," he added with somewhat of a sly gleam in his eye,--"do you think you're going to make up your mind to stay to hum this time?" "i have no immediate intention of running away, mr. douglass," said fleda, her pale cheeks turning rose as she saw him looking curiously up and down the edges of the black fox. his eye came back to hers with a good-humoured intelligence that she could hardly stand. "it's time you was back," said he. "your uncle's to hum,--but he don't do me much good, whatever he does to other folks--nor himself nother, as far as the farm goes; there's that corn"-- "very well, mr. douglass," said fleda,--"i shall be at home now and i'll see about it." "_very_ good!" said earl as he stepped back,--"queechy can't get along without you, that's no mistake." they drove on a few minutes in silence. "aren't you thinking, mr. carleton," said fleda, "that my countrymen are a strange mixture?" "i was not thinking of them at all at this moment. i believe such a notion has crossed my mind." "it has crossed mine very often," said fleda. "how do you read them? what is the basis of it?" [illustration: "how are they all at home?"] "i think,--the strong self-respect which springs from the security and importance that republican institutions give every man. but," she added colouring, "i have seen very little of the world and ought not to judge." "i have no doubt you are quite right," said mr. carleton smiling. "but don't you think an equal degree of self-respect may consist with giving honour where honour is due?" "yes--" said fleda a little doubtfully,--"where religion and not republicanism is the spring of it." "humility and not pride," said he. "yes--you are right." "my countrymen do yield honour where they think it is due," said fleda; "especially where it is not claimed. they must give it to reality, not to pretension. and i confess i would rather see them a little rude in their independence than cringing before mere advantages of external position;--even for my own personal pleasure." "i agree with you, elfie,--putting perhaps the last clause out of the question." "now that man," said fleda, smiling at his look,--"i suppose his address must have struck you as very strange; and yet there was no want of respect under it. i am sure he has a true thorough respect and even regard for me, and would prove it on any occasion." "i have no doubt of that." "but it does not satisfy you?" "not quite. i confess i should require more from any one under my control." "oh nobody is under control here," said fleda. "that is, i mean, individual control. unless so far as self-interest comes in. i suppose that is all-powerful here as elsewhere." "and the reason it gives less power to individuals is that the greater freedom of resources makes no man's interest depend so absolutely on one other man. that is a reason you cannot regret. no--your countrymen have the best of it, elfie. but do you suppose that this is a fair sample of the whole country?" "i dare not say that," said fleda. "i am afraid there is not so much intelligence and cultivation everywhere. but i am sure there are many parts of the land that will bear a fair comparison with it." "it is more than i would dare say for my own land." "i should think--" fleda suddenly stopped. "what?--" said mr. carleton gently. "i beg your pardon, sir,--i was going to say something very presumptuous." "you cannot," he said in the same tone. "i was going to say," said fleda blushing, "that i should think there might be a great deal of pleasure in raising the tone of mind and character among the people,--as one could who had influence over a large neighbourhood." his smile was very bright in answer. "i have been trying that, elfie, for the last eight years." fleda's eye looked now eagerly in pleasure and in curiosity for more. but he was silent. "i was thinking a little while ago," he said, "of the time once before when i rode here with you--when you were beginning to lead me to the problem i have been trying to work out ever since.--when i left you in paris i went to resolve with myself the question, what i had to do in the world?--your little bible was my invaluable help. i had read very little of it when i threw aside all other books; and my problem was soon solved. i saw that the life has no honour nor value which is not spent to the glory of god. i saw the end i was made for--the happiness i was fitted for--the dignity to which even a fallen creature may rise, through his dear redeemer and surety." fleda's eyes were down now. mr. carleton was silent a moment, watching one or two bright witnesses that fell from them. "the next conclusion was easy,--that my work was at home.--i have wanted my good fairy," mr. carleton went on smiling. "but i hope she will be contented to carry the standard of christianity, without that of republicanism." "but christianity tends directly to republicanism, mr. carleton," said fleda, trying to laugh. "i know that," said he smiling, "and i am willing to know it. but the leaven of truth is one thing, and the powder train of the innovator is another." fleda sat thinking that she had very little in common with the layers of powder trains. she did not know the sleigh was passing deepwater lake, till mr. carleton said,-- "i am glad, my dear elfie, for your sake, that we are almost at the end of your journey." "i should think you might be glad for your own sake, mr. carleton." "no--my journey is not ended--" "not?" "no--it will not be ended till i get back to new york, or rather till i find myself here again--i shall make very little delay there--" "but you will not go any further to-night?" said fleda, her eye this time meeting his fully. "yes--i must take the first train to new york. i have some reason to expect my mother by this steamer." "back to new york!" said fleda. "then taking care of me has just hindered you in your business." but even as she spoke she read the truth in his eye and her own fell in confusion. "my business?" said he smiling;--"you know it now, elfie. i arrived at mrs. evelyn's just after you had quitted it, intending to ask you to take the long talked of drive; and learned to my astonishment that you had left the city, and as edith kindly informed me, under no better guardianship than that in which i found you. i was just in time to reach the boat." "and you were in the boat night before last?" "certainly." "i should have felt a great deal easier if i had known that," said fleda. "so should i," said he, "but you were invisible, till i discerned you in the midst of a crowd of people before me in the car." fleda was silent till the sleigh stopped and mr. carleton had handed her out. "what's going to be done "i will send somebody down to help you with it," said fleda. "it is too heavy for one alone." "well i reckon it is," said he. "i guess you didn't know i was a cousin, did you?" "no," said fleda. "i believe i be." "who are you?" "i am pierson barnes. i live to quarrenton for a year back. squire joshua springer's your uncle, ain't he?" "yes, my father's uncle." "well he's mine too. his sister's my mother." "i'll send somebody to help you, mr. barnes." she took mr. carleton's arm and walked half the way up to the house without daring to look at him. "another specimen of your countrymen," he said smiling. there was nothing but quiet amusement in the tone, and there was not the shadow of anything else in his face. fleda looked, and thanked him mentally, and drew breath easier. at the house door he made a pause. "you are coming in, mr. carleton?" "not now." "it is a long drive to greenfield, mr. carleton;--you must not turn away from a country house till we have shewn ourselves unworthy to live in it. you will come in and let us give you something more substantial than those quarrenton oysters. do not say no," she said earnestly as she saw a refusal in his eye,--"i know what you are thinking of, but they do not know that you have been told anything--it makes no difference." she laid her gentle detaining hand, as irresistible in its way as most things, upon his arm, and he followed her in. only hugh was in the sitting-room, and he was in a great easy-chair by the fire. it struck to fleda's heart; but there was no time but for a flash of thought. he had turned his face and saw her. fleda meant to have controlled herself and presented mr. carleton properly, but hugh started up, he saw nothing but herself, and one view of the ethereal delicacy of his face made fleda for a moment forget everything but him. they were in each other's arms, and then still as death. hugh was unconscious that a stranger was there, and though fleda was very conscious that one was there who was no stranger,--there was so much in both hearts, so much of sorrow and joy, and gratitude and tenderness, on the one part and on the other, so much that even if they had been alone lips could only have said silently,--that for a little while they kissed each other and wept in a passionate attempt to speak what their hearts were too full of. fleda at last whispered to hugh that somebody else was there and turned to make as well as she might the introduction. but mr. carleton did not need it, and made his own with that singular talent which in all circumstances, wherever he chose to exert it, had absolute power. fleda saw hugh's countenance change, with a kind of pleased surprise, and herself stood still under the charm for a minute; then she recollected she might be dispensed with. she took up her little spaniel who was in an agony of gratulation at her feet, and went out into the kitchen. "well do you mean to say you are here at last?" said barby, her grey eyes flashing pleasure as she came forward to take the half hand which, owing to king's monopoly, was all fleda had to give her. "have you come home to stay, fleda?" "i am tired enough to be quiet," said fleda. "but dear barby, what have you got in the house?--i want supper as quickly as it can be had." "well you do look dreadful bad," said barby eying her. "why there ain't much particular, fleda; nobody's had any heart to eat lately; i thought i might a'most as well save myself the fuss of getting victuals. hugh lives like a bird, and mis' rossitur ain't much better, and i think all of 'em have been keeping their appetites till you came back; 'cept philetus and me; we keep it up pretty well. why you're come home hungry, ain't you?" "no, not i," said fleda, "but there's a gentleman here that came with me that must have something before he goes away again. what have you barby?" "who is he?" said barby. "a friend that took care of me on the way--i'll tell you about it,--but in the mean time, supper, barby." "is he a new yorker, that one must be curious for?" "as curious as you like," said fleda, "but he is not a new yorker." "where _is_ he from, then?" said barby, who was busily putting on the tea-kettle. "england." "england!" said barby facing about. "oh if he's an englishman i don't care for him, fleda." "but you care for me," said fleda laughing; "and for my sake don't let our hospitality fail to somebody who has been very kind to me, if he is an englishman; and he is in haste to be off." "well i don't know what we're a going to give him," said barby looking at her. "there ain't much in the pantry besides cold pork and beans that philetus and me made our dinner on--they wouldn't have it in there, and eat nothing but some pickerel the doctor sent down--and cold fish ain't good for much." "none of them left uncooked?" "yes, there's a couple--he sent a great lot--i guess he thought there was more in the family--but two ain't enough to go round; they're little ones." "no, but put them down and i'll make an omelette. just get the things ready for me, barby, will you, while i run up to see aunt lucy. the hens have begun to lay?" "la yes--philetus fetches in lots of eggs--he loves 'em, i reckon--but you ain't fit this minute to do a thing but rest, fleda." "i'll rest afterwards. just get the things ready for me, barby, and an apron; and the table--i'll be down in a minute. and barby, grind some coffee, will you?" but as she turned to run up stairs, her uncle stood in her way, and the supper vanished from fleda's head. his arms were open and she was silently clasped in them, with so much feeling on both sides that thought and well nigh strength for anything else on her part was gone. his smothered words of deep blessing overcame her. fleda could do nothing but sob, in distress, till she recollected barby. putting her arms round his neck then she whispered to him that mr. carleton was in the other room and shortly explained how he came to be there, and begged her uncle would go in and see him till supper should be ready. enforcing this request with a parting kiss on his cheek, she ran off up stairs. mr. rossitur looked extremely moody and cloudy for a few minutes, and then went in and joined his guest. mrs. rossitur and her daughter could not be induced to shew themselves. little rolf, however, had no scruples of any kind. he presently edged himself into the room to see the stranger whom he no sooner saw than with a joyous exclamation he bounded forward to claim an old friend. "why, mr. carleton," exclaimed mr. rossitur in surprise, "i was not aware that this young gentleman had the honour of your acquaintance." "but i have!" said rolf. "in london, sir, i had that pleasure," said mr. carleton. "i think it was _i_ had the pleasure," said rolf, pounding one hand upon mr. carleton's knee. "where is your mother?" "she wouldn't come down," said rolf,--"but i guess she will when she knows who is here--" and he was darting away to tell her, when mr. carleton, within whose arms he stood, quietly restrained him, and told him he was going away presently, but would come again and see his mother another time. "are you going back to england, sir?" "by and by." "but you will come here again first?" "yes--if mr. rossitur will let me." "mr. carleton knows he commands his own welcome," said that gentleman somewhat stately. "go and tell your aunt fleda that tea is ready, rolf." "she knows," said rolf. "she was making an omelette--i guess it was for this gentleman!" whose name he was not clear of yet. mr. rossitur looked vexed, but hugh laughed and asked if his aunt gave him leave to tell that. rolf entered forthwith into discussion on this subject, while mr. carleton who had not seemed to hear it engaged mr. rossitur busily in another; till the omelette and fleda came in. rolf's mind however was ill at ease. "aunt fleda," said he, as soon as she had fairly taken her place at the head of the table, "would you mind my telling that you made the omelette for this gentleman?" fleda cast a confused glance first at the person in question and then round the table, but mr. carleton without looking at her answered instantly, "don't you understand, rolf, that the same kindness which will do a favour for a friend will keep him in ignorance of it?" rolf pondered a moment and then burst forth, "why, sir, wouldn't you like it as well for knowing she made it?" it was hardly in human gravity to stand this. fleda herself laughed, but mr. carleton as unmoved as possible answered him, "certainly not!"--and rolf was nonplussed. the supper was over. hugh had left the room, and mr. rossitur had before that gone out to give directions about mr. carleton's horses. he and fleda were left alone. "i have something against you, fairy," said he lightly, taking her hand and putting it to his lips. "you shall not again do me such honour as you have done me to-day--i did not deserve it, elfie." the last words were spoken half reproachfully. fleda stood a moment motionless, and then by some curious revulsion of feeling put both her hands to her face and burst into tears. she struggled against them, and spoke almost immediately, "you will think me very foolish, mr. carleton,--i am ashamed of myself--but i have lived here so long in this way,--my spirits have grown so quieted by different things,--that it seems sometimes as if i could not bear anything.--i am afraid--" "of what, my dear elfie?" but she did not answer, and her tears came again. "you are weary and spent," he said gently, repossessing himself of one of her hands. "i will ask you another time what you are afraid of, and rebuke all your fears." "i deserve nothing but rebuke now," said fleda. but her hand knew, by the gentle and quiet clasp in which it lay, that there was no disposition to give it. "do not speak to me for a minute," she said hastily as she heard some one coming. she went to the window and stood there looking out till mr. carleton came to bid her good-bye. "will you permit me to say to mrs. evelyn," he said in a low tone, "that you left a piece of your property in her house and have commissioned me to bring it you?" "yes--" said fleda, hesitating and looking a little confused,--"but--will you let me write a note instead, mr. carleton?" "certainly!--but what are you thinking of, elfie? what grave doubt is lying under your brow?" all fleda's shadows rolled away before that clear bright eye. "i have found by experience," she said, smiling a little but looking down,--"that whenever i tell my secret thoughts to anybody i have some reason afterwards to be sorry for it." "you shall make me an exception to your rule, however, elfie." fleda looked up, one of her looks half questioning, half fearing, and then answered, a little hesitating, "i was afraid, sir, that if you went to mrs. evelyn's on that errand--i was afraid you would shew them you were displeased." "and what then?" said he quietly. "only--that i wanted to spare them what always gives me a cold chill." "gives you!" said mr. carleton. "no sir--only by sympathy--i thought my agency would be the gentlest." "i see i was right," she said, looking up as he did not answer,--"they don't deserve it,--not half so much as you think. they talk--they don't know what. i am sure they never meant half they said--never meant to annoy me with it, i mean,--and i am sure they have a true love for me; they have shewn it in a great many ways. constance especially never shewed me anything else. they have been very kind to me; and as to letting me come away as they did, i suppose they thought i was in a greater hurry to get home than i really was--and they would very likely not have minded travelling so themselves; i am so different from them that they might in many things judge me by themselves and yet judge far wrong." fleda was going on, but she suddenly became aware that the eye to which she was speaking had ceased to look at the evelyns, even in imagination, and she stopped short. "will you trust me, after this, to see mrs. evelyn without the note?" said he smiling. but fleda gave him her hand very demurely without raising her eyes again, and he went. barby who had come in to clear away the table took her stand at the window to watch mr. carleton drive off. fleda had retreated to the fire. barby looked in silence till the sleigh was out of sight. "is he going back to england now?" she said coming back to the table. "no." barby gathered a pile of plates together and then enquired, "is he going to settle in america?" "why no, barby! what makes you ask such a thing?" "i thought he looked as if he had dressed himself for a cold climate," said barby dryly. fleda sat down by hugh's easy-chair and laid her head on his breast. "i like your mr. carleton very much," hugh whispered after awhile. "do you?" said fleda, a little wondering at hugh's choice of that particular pronominal adjective. "very much indeed. but he has changed, fleda?" "yes--in some things--some great things." "he says he is coming again," said hugh. fleda's heart beat. she was silent. "i am very glad," repeated hugh, "i like him very much. but you won't leave me, fleda,--will you?" "leave you?" said fleda looking at him. "yes," said hugh smiling, and drawing her head down again;--i always thought what he came over here for. but you will stay with me while i want you, fleda?" "while you want me!" said fleda again. "yes.--it won't be long." "what won't be long?" "i," said hugh quietly. "not long. i am very glad i shall not leave you alone, dear fleda--very glad!--promise me you will not leave me any more." "don't talk so, dear hugh!" "but it is true, fleda," said hugh gently. "i know it. i sha'n't be here but a little while. i am so glad you are come home, dear fleda!--you will not let anybody take you away till i am gone first?" fleda drew her arm close around hugh's neck and was still,--still even to his ear,--for a good while. a hard battle must be fought, and she must not be weak, for his sake and for everybody's sake. others of the family had come or were coming into the room. hugh waited till a short breath, but freer drawn, told him he might speak. "fleda--" he whispered. "what?" "i am very happy.--i only want your promise about that." "i can't talk to you, hugh." "no, but promise me." "what?" "that you will not let anybody take you away while i want you." "i am sure he would not ask it," said fleda, hiding her cheeks and eyes at once in his breast. chapter xlix. do you think i shall not love a sad pamela as well as a joyful? sidney. mr. carleton came back without his mother; she had chosen to put off her voyage till spring. he took up his quarters at montepoole, which, far though it was, was yet the nearest point where his notions of ease could have freedom enough. one would have thought that saw him,--those most nearly concerned almost did think,--that in his daily coming to queechy mr. carleton sought everybody's pleasure rather than his own. he was fleda's most gentle and kind assistant in taking care of hugh, soon dearly valued by the sick one, who watched for and welcomed his coming as a bright spot in the day; and loved particularly to have mr. carleton's hand do anything for him. rather than almost any other. his mother's was too feeling; fleda's hugh often feared was weary; and his father's, though gentle to him as to an infant, yet lacked the mind's training. and though marion was his sister in blood, guy was his brother in better bonds. the deep blue eye that little fleda had admired hugh learned to love and rest on singularly. to the rest of the family mr. carleton's influence was more soothing and cheering than any cause beside. to all but the head of it. even mrs. rossitur, after she had once made up her mind to see him, could not bear to be absent when he was in the house. the dreaded contrast with old times gave no pain, either to her or marion. mr. carleton forgot so completely that there was any difference that they were charmed into forgetting it too. but mr. rossitur's pride lay deeper, or had been less humbled by sorrow; the recollections that his family let slip never failed to gall him when mr. carleton was present; and if now and then for a moment these were banished by his guest's graces of mind and manner, the next breath was a sigh for the circles and the pleasures they served to recall, now seeming for ever lost to him. mr. carleton perceived that his company gave pain and not pleasure to his host and for that reason was the less in the house, and made his visits to hugh at times when mr. rossitur was not in the way. fleda he took out of the house and away with him, for her good and his own. to fleda the old childish feeling came back, that she was in somebody's hands who had a marvellous happy way of managing things about her and even of managing herself. a kind of genial atmosphere, that was always doing her good, yet so quietly and so skilfully that she could only now and then get a chance even to look her thanks. quietly and efficiently he was exerting himself to raise the tone of her mind, to brighten her spirits, to reach those sober lines that years of patience had drawn round her eye and mouth, and charm them away. so gently, so indirectly, by efforts so wisely and gracefully aimed, he set about it, that fleda did not know what he was doing; but _he_ knew. he knew when he saw her brow unbend and her eye catch its old light sparkle, that his conversation and the thoughts and interests with which he was rousing her mind or fancy, were working, and would work all he pleased. and though the next day he might find the old look of patient gravity again, he hardly wished it not there, for the pleasure of doing it away. hugh's anxious question to fleda had been very uncalled for, and fleda's assurance was well-grounded; that subject was never touched upon. fleda's manner with mr. carleton was peculiar and characteristic. in the house, before others, she was as demure and reserved as though he had been a stranger; she never placed herself near him, nor entered into conversation with him, unless when he obliged her; but when they were alone there was a frank confidence and simplicity in her manner that most happily answered the high-bred delicacy that had called it out. one afternoon of a pleasant day in march fleda and hugh were sitting alone together in the sick room. hugh was weaker than usual, but not confined to his bed; he was in his great easy-chair which had been moved up-stairs for him again. fleda had been repeating hymns. "you are tired," hugh said. "no--" "there's something about you that isn't strong," said hugh fondly. "i wonder where is mr. carleton to-day. it is very pleasant, isn't it?" "very pleasant, and warm; it is like april; the snow all went off yesterday, and the ground is dry except in spots." "i wish he would come and give you a good walk. i have noticed how you always come back looking so much brighter after one of your walks or rides with him." "what makes you think so, dear hugh?" said fleda a little troubled. "only my eyes," said hugh smiling. "it does me as much good as you, fleda." "i _never_ want to go and leave you, hugh." "i am very glad there is somebody to take you. i wish he would come. you want it this minute." "i don't think i shall let him take me if he comes." "whither? and whom?" said another voice. "i didn't know you were there, sir," said fleda suddenly rising. "i am but just here--rolf admitted me as he passed out." coming in between them and still holding the hand of one mr. carleton bent down towards the other. "how is hugh, to-day?" it was pleasant to see, that meeting of eyes,--the grave kindliness on the one side, the confident affection on the other. but the wasted features said as plainly as the tone of hugh's gentle reply, that he was passing away,--fast. "what shall i do for you?" "take fleda out and give her a good walk. she wants it." "i will, presently. you are weary--what shall i do to rest you?" "nothing--" said hugh, closing his eyes with a very placid look;--"unless you will put me in mind of something about heaven, mr. carleton." "shall i read to you?--baxter,--or something else?" "no--just give me something to think of while you're gone,--as you have done before, mr. carleton." "i will give you two or three of the bible bits on that subject; they are but hints and indications you know--rather rays of light that stream out from the place than any description of it; but you have only to follow one of these indications and see whither it will lead you. the first i recollect is that one spoken to abraham, 'fear not--i am thy shield, and thy exceeding great reward.'" "don't go any further, mr. carleton," said hugh with a smile. "fleda--do you remember?" they sat all silent, quite silent, all three, for nobody knew how long. "you were going to walk," said hugh without looking at them. fleda however did not move till a word or two from mr. carleton had backed hugh's request; then she went. "is she gone?" said hugh. "mr. carleton, will you hand me that little desk." it was his own. mr. carleton brought it. hugh opened it and took out a folded paper which he gave to mr. carleton, saying that he thought he ought to have it. "do you know the handwriting, sir?" "no." "ah she has scratched it so. it is fleda's." hugh shut his eyes again and mr. carleton seeing that he had settled himself to sleep went to the window with the paper. it hardly told him anything he did not know before, though set in a fresh light. "cold blew the east wind and thick fell the rain, i looked for the tops of the mountains in vain; twilight was gathering and dark grew the west, and the woodfire's crackling toned well with the rest. "speak fire and tell me-- thy flickering flame fell on me in years past-- say, am i the same? has my face the same brightness in those days it wore?-- my foot the same lightness as it crosses the floor? "methinks there are changes-- am weary to-night,-- i once was as tireless as the bird on her flight; my bark in full measure threw foam from the prow;-- not even for pleasure would i care to move now. "tis not the foot only that lieth thus still,-- i am weary in spirit, i am listless in will. my eye vainly peereth through the darkness, to find some object that cheereth-- some light for the mind. "what shadows come o'er me-- what things of the past,-- bright things of my childhood that fled all too fast, the scenes where light roaming my foot wandered free, come back through the gloamin'-- come all back to me. "the cool autumn evening, the fair summer morn,-- the dress and the aspect some dear ones have worn,-- the sunshiny places-- the shady hill-side-- the words and the faces that might not abide.-- "die out little fire-- ay, blacken and pine!-- so have paled many lights that were brighter than thine. i can quicken thy embers again with a breath, but the others lie cold in the ashes of death." mr. carleton had read near through the paper before fleda came in. "i have kept you a long time, mr. carleton," she said coming up to the window; "i found aunt lucy wanted me." but she saw with a little surprise the deepening eye which met her, and which shewed, she knew, the working of strong feeling. her own eye went to the paper in search of explanation. "what have you there?--oh, mr. carleton," she said, putting her hand over it,--"please to give it to me!" fleda's face was very much in earnest. he took the hand but did not give her the paper, and looked his refusal. "i am ashamed you should see that!--who gave it to you?" "you shall wreak your displeasure on no one but me," he said smiling. "but have you read it?" "yes." "i am very sorry!" "i am very glad, my dear elfie." "you will think--you will think what wasn't true,--it was just a mood i used to get into once in a while--i used to be angry with myself for it, but i could not help it--one of those listless fits would take me now and then--" "i understand it, elfie." "i am very sorry you should know i ever felt or wrote so." "why?" "it was very foolish and wrong--" "is that a reason for my not knowing it?" "no--not a good one--but you have read it now,--won't you let me have it?" "no--i shall ask for all the rest of the portfolio, elfie," he said as he put it in a place of security. "pray do not!" said fleda most unaffectedly. "why?" "because i remember mrs. carleton says you always have what you ask for." "give me permission to put on your bonnet, then," said he laughingly, taking it from her hand. the air was very sweet, the footing pleasant. the first few steps of the walk were made by fleda in silence, with eager breath and a foot that grew lighter as it trod. "i don't think it was a right mood of mind i had when i wrote that," she said. "it was morbid. but i couldn't help it.--yet if one could keep possession of those words you quoted just now, i suppose one never would have morbid feelings, mr. carleton?" "perhaps not; but human nature has a weak hold of anything, and many things may make it weaker." "mine is weak," said fleda. "but it is possible to keep firm hold of those words, mr. carleton?" "yes--by strength that is not human nature's--and after all the firm hold is rather that in which we are held, or ours would soon fail. the very hand that makes the promise its own must be nerved to grasp it. and so it is best, for it keeps us looking off always to the author and finisher of our faith." "i love those words," said fleda. "but mr. carleton, how shall one be _sure_ that one has a right to those other words--those i mean that you told to hugh? one cannot take the comfort of them unless one is _sure_." her voice trembled. "my dear elfie, the promises have many of them their _double_--stamped with the very same signet--and if that sealed counterpart is your own, it is the sure earnest and title to the whole value of the promise." "well--in this case?" said fleda eagerly. "in this case,--god says, 'i am thy shield, and thy exceeding great reward.' now see if your own heart can give the countersign,--'_thou art my portion, o lord_!'" fleda's head sank instantly and almost lay upon his arm. "if you have the one, my dear elfie, the other is yours--it is the note of hand of the maker of the promise--sure to be honoured. and if you want proof here it is,--and a threefold cord is not soon broken.--'because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will i deliver him: i will set him on high, because he hath known my name. he shall call upon me, and i will answer him; i will be with him in trouble; i will deliver him, and honour him. with long life will i satisfy him, and shew him my salvation.'" there was a pause of some length. fleda had lifted up her head, but walked along very quietly, not seeming to care to speak. "have you the countersign, elfie?" fleda flashed a look at him, and only restrained herself from weeping again. "yes.--but so i had then, mr. carleton--only sometimes i got those fits of feeling--i forgot it, i suppose." "when were these verses written?" "last fall;--uncle rolf was away, and aunt lucy unhappy,--and i believe i was tired--i suppose it was that." for a matter of several rods each was busy with his own musings. but mr. carleton bethought himself. "where are you, elfie?" "where am i?" "yes--not at queechy?" "no indeed," said fleda laughing. "far enough away." "where?" "at paris--at the marché des innocens." "how did you get to paris?" "i don't know--by a bridge of associations, i suppose, resting one end on last year, and the other on the time when i was eleven years old." "very intelligible," said mr. carleton smiling. "do you remember that morning, mr. carleton?--when you took hugh and me to the marché des innocens?" "perfectly." "i have thanked you a great many times since for getting up so early that morning." "i think i was well paid at the time. i remember i thought i had seen one of the prettiest sights i had even seen in paris." "so i thought!" said fleda. "it has been a pleasant picture in my imagination ever since." there was a curious curl in the corners of mr. carleton's mouth which made fleda look an inquiry--a look so innocently wistful that his gravity gave way. "my dear elfie!" said he, "you are the very child you were then." "am i?" said fleda. "i dare say i am, for i feel so. i have the very same feeling i used to have then, that i am a child, and you taking the care of me into your own hands." "one half of that is true, and the other half nearly so." "how good you always were to me!" fleda said with a sigh. "not necessary to balance the debtor and creditor items on both sides," he said with a smile, "as the account bids fair to run a good while." a silence again, during which fleda is clearly _not_ enjoying the landscape nor the fine weather. "elfie,--what are you meditating?" she came back from her meditations with a very frank look. "i was thinking,--mr. carleton,--of your notions about female education." "well?--" they had paused upon a rising ground. fleda hesitated, and then looked up in his face. "i am afraid you will find me wanting, and when you do, will you put me in the way of being all you wish me to be?" her look was ingenuous and tender, equally. he gave her no answer, except by the eye of grave intentness that fixed hers till she could meet it no longer and her own fell. mr. carleton recollected himself. "my dear elfie," said he, and whatever the look had meant elfie was at no loss for the tone now,--"what do you consider yourself deficient in?" fleda spoke with a little difficulty. "i am afraid in a good many things--in general reading,--and in what are called accomplishments--" "you shall read as much as you please by and by," said he, "provided you will let me read with you; and as for the other want, elfie, it is rather a source of gratification to me." elfie very naturally asked why? "because as soon as i have the power i shall immediately constitute myself your master in the arts of riding and drawing, and in any other art or acquisition you may take a fancy to, and give you lessons diligently." "and will there be gratification in that?" said fleda. his answer was by a smile. but he somewhat mischievously asked her, "will there not?"--and fleda was quiet. chapter l. friends, i sorrow not to leave ye; if this life an exile be, we who leave it do but journey homeward to our family. spanish ballad. the first of april came. mr. rossitur had made up his mind not to abide at queechy, which only held him now by the frail thread of hugh's life. mr. carleton knew this, and had even taken some steps towards securing for him a situation in the west indies. but it was unknown to fleda; she had not heard her uncle say anything on the subject since she came home; and though aware that their stay was a doubtful matter, she still thought it might be as well to have the garden in order. philetus could not be trusted to do everything wisely of his own head, and even some delicate jobs of hand could not be safely left to his skill; if the garden was to make any headway fleda's head and hand must both be there, she knew. so as the spring opened she used to steal away from the house every morning for an hour or two, hardly letting her friends know what she was about, to make sure that peas and potatoes and radishes and lettuce were in the right places at the right times, and to see that the later and more delicate vegetables were preparing for. she took care to have this business well over before the time that mr. carleton ever arrived from the pool. one morning she was busy in dressing the strawberry beds, forking up the ground between the plants and filling the vacancies that the severe winter or some irregularities of fall dressing had made. mr. skillcorn was rendering a somewhat inefficient help, or perhaps amusing himself with seeing how she worked. the little old silver-grey hood was bending down over the strawberries, and the fork was going at a very energetic rate. "philetus--" "marm!" "will you bring me that bunch of strawberry plants that lies at the corner of the beds, in the walk?--and my trowel?" "i will!--" said mr. skillcorn. it was another hand however that brought them and laid them beside her; but fleda very intent upon her work and hidden under her close hood did not find it out. she went on busily putting in the plants as she found room for them, and just conscious, as she thought, that philetus was still standing at her side she called upon him from time to time, or merely stretched out her hand, for a fresh plant as she had occasion for it. "philetus," she said at length, raising her voice a little that it might win to him round the edge of her hood without turning her face,--"i wish you would get the ground ready for that other planting of potatoes--you needn't stay to help me any longer." "'tain't me, i guess," said the voice of philetus on the other side of her. fleda looked in astonishment to make sure that it really was mr. skillcorn proceeding along the garden path in that quarter, and turning jumped up and dropped her trowel and fork, to have her hands otherwise occupied. mr. skillcorn walked off leisurely towards the potato ground, singing to himself in a kind of consolatory aside,-- "i cocked up my beaver, and who but i!-- the lace in my hat was so gallant and so gay, that i flourished like a king in his own coun_tray_." "there is one of your countrymen that is an odd variety, certainly," said mr. carleton, looking after him with a very comic expression of eye. "is he not!" said fleda. "and hardly a common one. there never was a line more mathematically straight than the course of philetus's ideas; they never diverge, i think, to the right hand or the left, a jot from his own self-interest." "you will be an invaluable help to me, elfie, if you can read my english friends as closely." "i am afraid you will not let me come as close to them," said fleda laughing. "perhaps not. i shouldn't like to pay too high a premium for the knowledge. how is hugh, to-day?" fleda answered with a quick change of look and voice that he was much as usual. "my mother has written me that she will be here by the europa, which is due to-morrow--i must set off for new york this afternoon; therefore i came so early to queechy." fleda was instinctively pulling off her gardening gloves, as they walked towards the house. "aunt miriam wants to see you, mr. carleton--she begged i would ask you to come there some time--" "with great pleasure--shall we go there now, elfie?" "i will be ready in five minutes." mrs. rossitur was alone in the breakfast-room when they went in. hugh she reported was asleep, and would be just ready to see mr. carleton by the time they got back. they stood a few minutes talking, and then fleda went to get ready. both pair of eyes followed her as she left the room and then met with perfect understanding. "will you give your child to me, mrs. rossitur?" said the gentleman. "with all my heart!" exclaimed mrs. rossitur bursting into tears,--"even if i were left alone entirely--" her agitation was uncontrolled for a minute, and then she said, with feeling seemingly too strong to be kept in, "if i were only sure of meeting her in heaven, i could be content to be without her till then!--" "what is in the way, my dear madam?" said mr. carleton, with a gentle sympathy that touched the very spring he meant it should. mrs. rossitur waited a minute, but it was only till tears would let her speak, and then said like a child,-- "oh, it is all darkness!--" "except this," said he, gently and clearly, "that jesus christ is a sun and a shield; and those that put themselves at his feet are safe from all fear, and they who go to him for light shall complain of darkness no more." "but i do not know how--" "ask him and he will tell you." "but i am unworthy even to look up towards him," said mrs. rossitur, struggling, it seemed, between doubts and wishes. "he knows that, and yet he has bid you come to him. he knows that,--and knowing it, he has taken your responsibility and paid your debt, and offers you now a clean discharge, if you will take it at his hand;--and for the other part of this unworthiness, that blood cannot do away, blood has brought the remedy--'shall we who are evil give good things to our children, and shall not our father which is in heaven give his holy spirit to them that ask him?'" "but must i do nothing?" said mrs. rossitur, when she had remained quiet with her face in her hands for a minute or two after he had done speaking. "nothing but be willing--be willing to have christ in all his offices, as your teacher, your king, and your redeemer--give yourself to him, dear mrs. rossitur, and he will take care of the rest." "i am willing!" she exclaimed. fresh tears came, and came freely. mr. carleton said no more, till hearing some noise of opening and shutting doors above stairs mrs. rossitur hurriedly left the room, and fleda came in by the other entrance. "may i take you a little out of the way, mr. carleton?" she said when they had passed through the deepwater settlement.--"i have a message to carry to mrs. elster--a poor woman out here beyond the lake. it is not a disagreeable place." "and what if it were?" "i should not perhaps have asked you to go with me," said fleda a little doubtfully. "you may take me where you will, elfie," he said gently. "i hope to do as much by you some day." fleda looked up at the piece of elegance beside her, and thought what a change must have come over him if _he_ would visit poor places. he was silent and grave however, and so was she, till they arrived at the house they were going to. certainly it was not a disagreeable place. barby's much less strong minded sister had at least a good share of her practical nicety. the little board path to the door was clean and white still, with possibly a trifle less brilliant effect. the room and its old inhabitants were very comfortable and tidy; the patchwork counterpane as gay as ever. mrs. elster was alone, keeping company with a snug little wood fire, which was near as much needed in that early spring weather as it had been during the winter. mr. carleton had come back from his abstraction, and stood taking half unconscious note of these things, while fleda was delivering her message to the old woman. mrs. elster listened to her implicitly with every now and then an acquiescing nod or ejaculation, but so soon as fleda had said her say she burst out, with a voice that had never known the mufflings of delicacy and was now pitched entirely beyond its owner's ken. looking hard at mr. carleton, "fleda!--is _this_ the gentleman that's to be your--_husband?_" the last word elevated and brought out with emphatic distinctness of utterance. if the demand had been whether the gentleman in question was a follower of mahomet, it would hardly have been more impossible for fleda to give an affirmative answer; but mr. carleton laughed and bringing his face a little nearer the old crone, answered, "so she has promised, ma'am." [illustration: "is this the gentleman that's to be your husband?"] it was curious to see the lines of the old woman's face relax as she looked at him. "he's--worthy of you!--as far as looks goes," she said in the same key as before, apostrophizing fleda who had drawn back, but not stirring her eyes from mr. carleton all the time. and then she added to him with a little satisfied nod, and in a very decided tone of information, "she will make you a good wife!" "because she has made a good friend?" said mr. carleton quietly. "will you let me be a friend too?" he had turned the old lady's thoughts into a golden channel, whence, as she was an american, they had no immediate issue in words; and fleda and mr. carleton left the house without anything more. fleda felt nervous. but mr. carleton's first words were as coolly and as gravely spoken as if they had just come out from a philosophical lecture; and with an immediate spring of relief she enjoyed every step of the way and every word of the conversation which was kept up with great life, till they reached mrs. plumfield's door. no one was in the sitting-room. fleda left mr. carleton there and passed gently into the inner apartment, the door of which was standing ajar. but her heart absolutely leaped into her mouth, for dr. quackenboss and mr. olmney were there on either side of her aunt's bed. fleda came forward and shook hands. "this is quite a meeting of friends," said the doctor blandly, yet with a perceptible shading of the whilome broad sunshine of his face.--"your--a--aunt, my dear miss ringgan,--is in a most extraordinary state of mind!" fleda was glad to hide her face against her aunt's and asked her how she did. "dr. quackenboss thinks it extraordinary, fleda," said the old lady with her usual cheerful sedateness,--"that one who has trusted god and had constant experience of his goodness and faithfulness for forty years should not doubt him at the end of it." "you have no doubt--of any kind, mrs. plumfield?" said the clergyman. "not the shadow of a doubt!" was the hearty, steady reply. "you mistake, my dear madam," said dr. quackenboss,--"pardon me--it is not that--i would be understood to say, merely, that i do not comprehend how such--a--such security--can be attained respecting what seems so--a--elevated--and difficult to know." "only by believing," said mrs. plumfield with a very calm smile. "'he that believeth on him shall not be ashamed;'--'shall _not_ be ashamed!'" she repeated slowly. dr. quackenboss looked at fleda, who kept her eyes fixed upon her aunt. "but it seems to me--i beg pardon--perhaps i am arrogant--" he said with a little bow,--"but it appears to me almost--in a manner--almost presumptuous, not to be a little doubtful in such a matter until the time comes. am i--do you disapprove of me, mr. olmney?" mr. olmney silently referred him for his answer to the person he had first addressed, who had closed her eyes while he was speaking. "sir," she said, opening them,--"it can't be presumption to obey god, and he tells me to rejoice. and i do--i do!--'let all those that love thee rejoice in thee and be glad in thee!'--but mind!" she added energetically, fixing her strong grey eye upon him--"he does not tell _you_ to rejoice--do not think it--not while you stand aloof from his terms of peace. take god at his word, and be happy;--but if not, you have nothing to do with the song that i sing!" the doctor stared at her till she had done speaking, and then slunk out of her range of vision behind the curtains of the bed-post. not silenced however. "but--a--mr. olmney," said he hesitating--"don't you think that there is in general--a--a becoming modesty, in--a--in people that have done wrong, as we all have,--putting off being sure until they are so? it seems so to me!" "come here, dr. quackenboss," said aunt miriam. she waited till he came to her side, and then taking his hand and looking at him very kindly, she said, "sir, forty years ago i found in the bible, as you say, that i was a sinner, and that drove me to look for something else. i found then god's promise that if i would give my dependence entirely to the substitute he had provided for me and yield my heart to his service, he would for christ's sake hold me quit of all my debts and be my father, and make me his child. and, sir, i did it. i abhor every other dependence--the things you count good in me i reckon but filthy rags. at the same time, i know that ever since that day, forty years ago, i have lived in his service and tried to live to his glory. and now, sir, shall i disbelieve his promise? do you think he would be pleased if i did?" the doctor's mouth was stopped, for once. he drew back as soon as he could and said not another word. before anybody had broken the silence seth came in; and after shaking hands with fleda, startled her by asking whether that was not mr. carleton in the other room. "yes," fleda said,--"he came to see aunt miriam." "ain't you well enough to see him, mother?" "quite--and very happy," said she. seth immediately went back and invited him in. fleda dared not look up while the introductions were passing,--of "the rev. mr. olmney," and of "dr. quackenboss,"--the former of whom mr. carleton took cordially by the hand, while dr. quackenboss conceiving that his hand must be as acceptable, made his salutation with an indescribable air at once of attempted gracefulness and ingratiation. fleda saw the whole in the advancing line of the doctor's person, a vision of which crossed her downcast eye. she drew back then, for mr. carleton came where she was standing to take her aunt's hand; seth had absolutely stayed his way before to make the said introductions. mrs. plumfield was little changed by years or disease since he had seen her. there was somewhat more of a look of bodily weakness than there used to be; but the dignified, strong-minded expression of the face was even heightened; eye and brow were more pure and unclouded in their steadfastness. she looked very earnestly at her visiter and then with evident pleasure from the manner of his look and greeting. fleda watched her eye softening with a gratified expression and fixed upon him as he was gently talking to her. mr. olmney presently came round to take leave, promising to see her another time, and passing fleda with a frank grave pressure of the hand which gave her some pain. he and seth left the room. fleda was hardly conscious that dr. quackenboss was still standing at the foot of the bed making the utmost use of his powers of observation. he could use little else, for mr. carleton and mrs. plumfield after a few words on each side, had as it were by common consent come to a pause. the doctor, when a sufficient time had made him fully sensible of this, walked up to fleda, who wished heartily at the moment that she could have presented the reverse end of the magnet to him. perhaps however it was that very thing which by a perverse sort of attraction drew him towards her. "i suppose--a--we may conclude," said he with a somewhat saturnine expression of mischief,--that miss ringgan contemplates forsaking the agricultural line before a great while." "i have not given up my old habits, sir," said fleda, a good deal vexed. "no--i suppose not--but queechy air is not so well suited for them--other skies will prove more genial," he said; she could not help thinking, pleased at her displeasure. "what is the fault of queechy air, sir?" said mr. carleton, approaching them. "sir!" said the doctor, exceedingly taken aback, though the words had been spoken in the quietest manner possible,--'it--a--it has no fault, sir,--that i am particularly aware of--it is perfectly salubrious. mrs. plumfield, i will bid you good-day;--i--a--i _hope_ you will get well again!" "i hope not, sir!" said aunt miriam, in the same clear hearty tones which had answered him before. the doctor took his departure and made capital of his interview with mr. carleton; who he affirmed he could tell by what he had seen of him was a very deciduous character, and not always conciliating in his manners. fleda waited with a little anxiety for what was to follow the doctor's leave-taking. it was with a very softened eye that aunt miriam looked at the two who were left, clasping fleda's hand again; and it was with a very softened voice that she next spoke. "do you remember our last meeting, sir?" "i remember it well," he said. "fleda tells me you are a changed man since that time?" he answered only by a slight and grave bow. "mr. carleton," said the old lady,--"i am a dying woman--and this child is the dearest thing in the world to me after my own,--and hardly after him.--will you pardon me--will you bear with me, if that i may die in peace, i say, sir, what else it would not become me to say?--and it is for her sake." "speak to me freely as you would to her," he said with a look that gave her full permission. fleda had drawn close and hid her face in her aunt's neck. aunt miriam's hand moved fondly over her cheek and brow for a minute or two in silence; her eye resting there too. "mr. carleton, this child is to belong to you--how will you guide her?" "by the gentlest paths," he said with a smile. a whispered remonstrance from fleda to her aunt had no effect. "will her best interests be safe in your hands?" "how shall i resolve you of that, mrs. plumfield?" he said gravely. "will you help her to mind her mother's prayer and keep herself unspotted from the world?" "as i trust she will help me." a rogue may answer questions, but an eye that has never known the shadow of double-dealing makes no doubtful discoveries of itself. mrs. plumfield read it and gave it her very thorough respect. "mr. carleton--pardon me, sir,--i do not doubt you--but i remember hearing long ago that you were rich and great in the world--it is dangerous for a christian to be so--can she keep in your grandeur the simplicity of heart and life she has had at queechy?" "may i remind you of your own words, my dear madam? by the blessing of god all things are possible. these things you speak of are not in themselves evil; if the mind be set on somewhat else, they are little beside a larger storehouse of material to work with--an increased stewardship to account for." "she has been taking care of others all her life," said aunt miriam tenderly;--"it is time she was taken care of; and these feet are very unfit for rough paths; but i would rather she should go on struggling as she has done with difficulties and live and die in poverty, than that the lustre of her heavenly inheritance should be tarnished even a little.--i would, my darling!--" "but the alternative is not, so," said mr. carleton with gentle grace, touching fleda's hand who he saw was a good deal disturbed. "do not make her afraid of me, mrs. plumfield." "i do not believe i need," said aunt miriam, "and i am sure i could not,--but sir, you will forgive me?" "no madam--that is not possible." "one cannot stand where i do," said the old lady, "without learning a little the comparative value of things; and i seek my child's good,--that is my excuse. i could not be satisfied to take her testimony--" "take mine, madam," said mr. carleton. "i have learned the comparative value of things too; and i will guard her highest interests as carefully as i will every other--as earnestly as you can desire." "i thank you, sir," said the old lady gratefully. "i am sure of it. i shall leave her in good hands. i wanted this assurance. and if ever there was a tender plant that was not fitted to grow on the rough side of the world--i think this is one," said she, kissing earnestly the face that yet fleda did not dare to lift up. mr. carleton did not say what he thought. he presently took kind leave of the old lady and went into the next room, where fleda soon rejoined him and they set off homewards. fleda was quietly crying all the way down the hill. at the foot of the hill mr. carleton resolutely slackened his pace. "i have one consolation," he said, "my dear elfie--you will have the less to leave for me." she put her hand with a quick motion upon his, and roused her self. "she is a beautiful rebuke to unbelief. but she is hardly to be mourned for, elfie." "oh i was not crying for aunt miriam," said fleda. "for what then?" he said gently. "myself." "that needs explanation," he said in the same tone. "let me have it, elfie." "o--i was thinking of several things," said fleda, not exactly wishing to give the explanation. "too vague," said mr. carleton smiling. "trust me with a little more of your mind, elfie." fleda glanced up at him, half smiling, and yet with filling eyes, and then as usual, yielded to the winning power of the look that met her. "i was thinking," she said, keeping her head carefully down,--"of some of the things you and aunt miriam were saying just now,--and--how good for nothing i am." "in what respect?" said mr. carleton with praiseworthy gravity. fleda hesitated, and he pressed the matter no further; but more unwilling to displease him than herself she presently went on, with some difficulty; wording what she had to say with as much care as she could. "i was thinking--how gratitude--or not gratitude alone--but how one can be full of the desire to please another,--a fellow-creature,--and find it constantly easy to do or bear anything for that purpose; and how slowly and coldly duty has to move alone in the direction where it should be the swiftest and warmest." she knew he would take her words as simply as she said them; she was not disappointed. he was silent a minute and then said gravely,-- "is this a late discovery, elfie?" "no--only i was realizing it strongly just now." "it is a complaint we may all make. the remedy is, not to love less what we know, but to know better that of which we are in ignorance. we will be helps and not hindrances to each other, elfie." "you have said that before," said fleda still keeping her head down. "what?" "about my being a help to you!" "it will not be the first time," said he smiling,--"nor the second. your little hand first held up a glass to gather the scattered rays of truth that could not warm me into a centre where they must burn." "very innocently," said fleda with a little unsteady feeling of voice. "very innocently," said mr. carleton smiling. "a veritable lens could hardly have been more unconscious of its work or more pure of design." "i do not think that was quite so either, mr. carleton," said fleda. "it was so, my dear elfie, and your present speech is nothing against it. this power of example is always unconsciously wielded; the medium ceases to be clear so soon as it is made anything but a medium. the bits of truth you aimed at me wittingly would have been nothing if they had not come through that medium." "then apparently one's prime efforts ought to be directed to oneself." "one's first efforts, certainly. your silent example was the first thing that moved me." "silent example!" said fleda catching her breath a little. "mine ought to be very good, for i can never do good in any other way." "you used to talk pretty freely to me." "it wasn't my fault, i am certain," said fleda half laughing. "besides, i was sure of my ground. but in general i never can speak to people about what will do them any good." "yet whatever be the power of silent example there are often times when a word is of incalculable importance." "i know it," said fleda earnestly,--"i have felt it very often, and grieved that i could not say it, even at the very moment when i knew it was wanting." "is that right, elfie?" "no," said fleda, with quick watering eyes,--"it is not right at all;--but it is constitutional with me. i never can talk to other people of what concerns my own thoughts and feelings." "but this concerns other people's thoughts and feelings." "yes, but there is an implied revelation of my own." "do you expect to include me in the denomination of 'other people'?" "i don't know," said fleda laughing. "do you wish it?" fleda looked down and up, and coloured, and said she didn't know. "i will teach you," said he smiling. the rest of the day by both was given to hugh. chapter li. o what is life but a sum of love, and death but to lose it all? weeds be for those that are left behind, and not for those that fall! milnes. "here's something come, fleda," said barby walking into the sick room one morning a few days afterwards,--"a great bag of something--more than you can eat up in a fortnight--it's for hugh." "it's extraordinary that anybody should send _me_ a great bag of anything eatable," said hugh. "where did it come from?" said fleda. "philetus fetched it--he found it down to mr. sampion's when he went with the sheep-skins." "how do you know it's for me?" said hugh. "'cause it's written on, as plain as a pikestaff. i guess it's a mistake though." "why?" said fleda; "and what is it?" "o i don't much think 'twas meant for him," said barby. "it's oysters." "oysters!" "yes--come out and look at 'em--you never see such fine fellows. i've heerd say," said barby abstractedly as fleda followed her out and she displayed to view some magnificent ostraceans,--"i've heerd say that an english shilling was worth two american ones, but i never understood it rightly till now." to all intents and purposes those were english oysters, and worth twice as much as any others fleda secretly confessed. that evening, up in the sick room,--it was quite evening, and all the others of the family were taking rest or keeping mr. rossitur company down stairs,--fleda was carefully roasting some of the same oysters for hugh's supper. she had spread out a glowing bed of coals on the hearth, and there lay four or five of the big bivalves, snapping and sputtering in approbation of their quarters in a most comfortable manner; and fleda standing before the fire tended them with a double kind of pleasure. from one friend, and for another, those were most odorous oysters. hugh sat watching them and her, the same in happy simplicity that he had been at eleven years old. "how pleasant those oysters smell," said he. "fleda, they remind me so of the time when you and i used to roast oysters in mrs. renney's room for lunch--do you recollect?--and sometimes in the evening when everybody was gone out, you know; and what an airing we used to have to give the dining-room afterwards. how we used to enjoy them, fleda--you and i all alone." "yes," said fleda in a tone of doubtful enjoyment. she was shielding her face with a paper and making self-sacrificing efforts to persuade a large oyster-shell to stand so on the coals as to keep the juice. "don't!" said hugh;--"i would rather the oysters should burn than you. mr. carleton wouldn't thank me for letting you do so." "never mind!" said fleda arranging the oysters to her satisfaction,--"he isn't here to see. now hugh, my dear--these are ready as soon as i am." "i am ready," said hugh. "how long it is since we had a roast oyster, fleda!" "they look good, don't they?" a little stand was brought up between them with the bread and butter and the cups; and fleda opened oysters and prepared tea for hugh, with her nicest, gentlest, busiest of hands; making every bit to be twice as sweet, for her sympathizing eyes and loving smile and pleasant word commenting. she shared the meal with him, but her own part was as slender as his and much less thought of. his enjoyment was what she enjoyed, though it was with a sad twinge of alloy which changed her face whenever it was where he could not see it; when turned upon him it was only bright and affectionate, and sometimes a little too tender; but fleda was too good a nurse to let that often appear. "mr. carleton did not bargain for your opening his oysters, fleda. how kind it was of him to send them." "yes." "how long will he be gone, fleda?" "i don't know--he didn't say. i don't believe many days." hugh was silent a little while she was putting away the stand and the oyster-shells. then she came and sat down by him. "you have burnt yourself over those things," said he sorrowfully;--"you -shouldn't have done it. it is not right." "dear hugh," said fleda lightly, laying her head on his shoulder,--"i like to burn myself for you." "that's just the way you have been doing all your life." "hush!" she said softly. "it is true,--for me and for everybody else. it is time you were taken better care of, dear fleda." "don't, dear hugh!" "i am right though," said he. "you are pale and worn now with waiting upon me and thinking of me. it is time you were gone. but i think it is well i am going too, for what should i do in the world without you, fleda?" fleda was crying now, intensely though quietly; but hugh went on with feeling as calm as it was deep. "what should i have done all these years?--or any of us? how you have tired yourself for everybody--in the garden and in the kitchen and with earl douglass--how we could let you i don't know, but i believe we could not help it." fleda put her hand upon his mouth. but he took it away and went on-- "how often i have seen you sleeping all the evening on the sofa with a pale face, tired out--dear fleda," said he kissing her cheek, "i am glad there's to be an end put to it. and all the day you went about with such a bright face that it made mother and me happy to look at you; and i knew then, many a time, it was for our sakes-- "why do you cry so, fleda? i like to think of it, and to talk of it, now that i know you won't do so any more. i knew the whole truth, and it went to the bottom of my heart; but i could do nothing but love you--i did that!--don't cry so, fleda!--you ought not.--you have been the sunshine of the house. my spirit never was so strong as yours; i should have been borne to the ground, i know, in all these years, if it had not been for you; and mother--you have been her life." "you have been tired too," fleda whispered. "yes at the saw-mill. and then you would come up there through the sun to look at me, and your smile would make me forget everything sorrowful for the rest of the day--except that i couldn't help you." "oh you did--you did--you helped me always, hugh." "not much. i couldn't help you when you were sewing for me and father till your fingers and eyes were aching, and you never would own that you were anything but 'a little' tired--it made my heart ache. oh i knew it all, dear fleda.--i am very, very glad that you will have somebody to take care of you now that will not let you burn your fingers for him or anybody else. it makes me happy!" "you make me very unhappy, dear hugh." "i don't mean it," said hugh tenderly. "i don't believe there is anybody else in the world that i could be so satisfied to leave you with." fleda made no answer to that. she sat up and tried to recover herself. "i hope he will come back in time," said hugh, settling himself back in the easy-chair with a weary look, and closing his eyes. "in time for what?" "to see me again." "my dear hugh!--he will to be sure, i hope." "he must make haste," said hugh. "but i want to see him again very much, fleda." "for anything in particular?" "no--only because i love him. i want to see him once more." hugh slumbered; and fleda by his side wept tears of mixed feeling till she was tired. hugh was right. but nobody else knew it, and his brother was not sent for. it was about a week after this, when one night a horse and wagon came up to the back of the house from the road, the gentleman who had been driving leading the horse. it was late, long past mr. skillcorn's usual hour of retiring, but some errand of business had kept him abroad and he stood there looking on. the stars gave light enough. "can you fasten my horse where he may stand a little while, sir? without taking him out?" "i guess i can," replied philetus, with reasonable confidence,--"if there's a rope's end some place--" and forthwith he went back into the house to seek it. the gentleman patiently holding his horse meanwhile, till he came out. "how is mr. hugh to-night?" "well--he ain't just so smart, they say," responded philetus, insinuating the rope's end as awkwardly as possible among the horse's head-gear,--"i believe he's dying." instead of going round now to the front of the house, mr. carleton knocked gently at the kitchen door and asked the question anew of barby. "he's--come in, sir, if you please," she said, opening wide the door for him to enter,--"i'll tell 'em you're here." "do not disturb any one for me," said he. "i won't disturb 'em!" said barby, in a tone a little though unconsciously significant. mr. carleton neglected the chair she had placed for him, and remained standing by the mantelpiece, thinking of the scenes of his early introduction to that kitchen. it wore the same look it had done then; under barby's rule it was precisely the same thing it had been under cynthia's.--the passing years seemed a dream, and the passing generations of men a vanity, before the old house more abiding than they. he stood thinking of the people he had seen gathered by that fireplace and the little household fairy whose childish ministrations had given such a beauty to the scene,--when a very light step crossed the painted floor and she was there again before him. she did not speak a word; she stood still a moment trying for words, and then put her hand upon mr. carleton's arm and gently drew him out of the room with her. the family were all gathered in the room to which she brought him. mr. rossitur, as soon as he saw mr. carleton come in, shrunk back where he could be a little shielded by the bed-post. marion's face was hid on the foot of the bed. mrs. rossitur did not move. leaving mr. carleton on the near side of the bed fleda went round to the place she seemed to have occupied before, at hugh's right hand; and they were all still, for he was in a little doze, lying with his eyes closed, and the face as gently and placidly sweet as it had been in his boyhood. perhaps mr. rossitur looked at it; but no other did just then, except mr. carleton. his eye rested nowhere else. the breathing of an infant could not be more gentle; the face of an angel not more peacefully at rest. "so he giveth his beloved sleep,"--thought the gentleman, as he gazed on the brow from which all care, if care there had ever been, seemed to have taken flight. not yet--not quite yet; for hugh suddenly opened his eyes and without seeing anybody else, said, "father--" mr. rossitur left the bed-post and came close to where fleda was standing, and leaning forward, touched his son's head, but did not speak. "father--" said hugh, in a voice so gentle that it seemed as if strength must be failing,--"what will you do when you come to lie here?" mr. rossitur put his hands to his face. "father--i must speak now if i never did before--once i must speak to you,--what will you do when you come to lie where i do?--what will you trust to?" the person addressed was as motionless as a statue. hugh did not move his eyes from him. "father, i will be a living warning and example to you, for i know that i shall live in your memory--you shall remember what i say to you--that jesus christ is a dear friend to those that trust in him, and if he is not yours it will be because you will not let him. you shall remember my testimony, that he can make death sweeter than life--in his presence is fulness of joy--at his right hand there are pleasures for evermore. he is better,--he is more to me,--even than you all, and he will be to you a better friend than the poor child you are losing, though you do not know it now. it is he that has made my life in this world happy--only he--and i have nothing to look to but him in the world i am going to. but what will you do in the hour of death, as i am, if he isn't your friend, father?" mr. rossitur's frame swayed, like a tree that one sees shaken by a distant wind, but he said nothing. "will you remember me happily, father, if you come to die without having done as i begged you? will you think of me in heaven and not try to come there too? father, will you be a christian?--will you not?--for my sake--for _little hugh's_ sake, as you used to call him?--father?--" mr. rossitur knelt down and hid his face in the coverings; but he did not utter a word. hugh's eye dwelt on him for a moment with unspeakable expression, and his lip trembled. he said no more; he closed his eyes; and for a little time there was nothing to be heard but the sobs which could not be restrained, from all but the two gentlemen. it probably oppressed hugh, for after a while he said with a weary sigh and without opening his eyes, "i wish somebody would sing." nobody answered at first. "sing what, dear hugh?" said fleda, putting aside her tears and leaning her face towards him. "something that speaks of my want," said hugh. "what do you want, dear hugh?" "only jesus christ," he said with a half smile. but they were silent as death. fleda's face was in her hands and her utmost efforts after self-control wrought nothing but tears. the stillness had lasted a little while, when very softly and sweetly the notes of a hymn floated to their ears, and though they floated on and filled the room, the voice was so nicely modulated that its waves of sweetness broke gently upon the nearest ear. "jesus, the sinner's friend, to thee, lost and undone, for aid i flee; weary of earth, myself, and sin, open thine arms and take me in. "pity and save my sin-sick soul,-- 'tis thou alone canst make me whole; dark, till in me thine image shine, and lost i am, till thou art mine. "at length i own it cannot be, that i should fit myself for thee, here now to thee i all resign,-- thine is the work, and only thine. "what shall i say thy grace to move?-- lord, i am sin, but thou art love! i give up every plea beside,-- lord, i am lost,--but thou hast died!" they were still again after the voice had ceased; almost perfectly still; though tears might be pouring, as indeed they were from every eye, there was no break to the silence, other than a half-caught sob now and then from a kneeling figure whose head was in marion's lap. "who was that?" said hugh, when the singer had been silent a minute. nobody answered immediately; and then mr. carleton bending over him, said, "don't you know me, dear hugh?" "is it mr. carleton?" hugh looked pleased, and clasped both of his hands upon guy's which he laid upon his breast. for a second he closed his eyes and was silent. "was it you sang?" "yes." "you never sang for me before," he remarked. he was silent again. "are you going to take fleda away?" "by and by," said mr. carleton gently. "will you take good care of her?" mr. carleton hesitated, and then said, so low that it could reach but one other person's ear, "what hand and life can." "i know it," said hugh. "i am very glad you will have her. you will not let her tire herself any more." whatever became of fleda's tears she had driven them away and leaning forward she touched her cheek to his, saying with a clearness and sweetness of voice that only intensity of feeling could have given her at the moment, "i am not tired, dear hugh." hugh clasped one arm round her neck and kissed her--again and again, seeming unable to say anything to her in any other way; still keeping his hold of mr. carleton's hand. "i give all my part of her to you," he said at length. "mr. carleton, i shall see both of you in heaven?" "i hope so," was the answer, in those very calm and clear tones that have a singular effect in quieting emotion, while they indicate anything but the want of it. "i am the best off of you all," hugh said. he lay still for awhile with shut eyes. fleda had withdrawn herself from his arms and stood at his side, with a bowed head, but perfectly quiet. he still held mr. carleton's hand, as something he did not want to part with. "fleda," said he, "who is that crying?--mother--come here." mr. carleton gave place to her. hugh pulled her down to him till her face lay upon his, and folded both his arms around her. "mother," he said softly, "will you meet me in heaven?--say yes." "how can i, dear hugh?" "you can, dear mother," said he kissing her with exceeding tenderness of expression,--"my saviour will be yours and take you there. say you will give yourself to christ--dear mother!--sweet mother! promise me i shall see you again!--" mrs. rossitur's weeping it was difficult to hear. but hugh hardly shedding a tear still kissed her, repeating, "promise me, dear mother--promise me that you will;"--till mrs. rossitur in an agony sobbed out the word he wanted,--and hugh hid his face then in her neck. mr. carleton left the room and went down stairs. he found the sitting-room desolate, untenanted and cold for hours; and he went again into the kitchen. barby was there for some time, and then she left him alone. he had passed a long while in thinking and walking up and down, and he was standing musing by the fire, when fleda again came in. she came in silently, to his side, and putting her arm within his laid her face upon it with a simplicity of trust and reliance that went to his heart; and she wept there for a long hour. they hardly changed their position in all that time; and her tears flowed silently though incessantly, the only tokens of sympathy on his part being such a gentle caressing smoothing of her hair or putting it from her brow as he had used when she was a child. the bearing of her hand and head upon his arm in time shewed her increasingly weary. nothing shewed him so. "elfie--my dear elfie," he said at last very tenderly, in the same way that he would have spoken nine years before--"hugh gave his part of you to me--i must take care of it." fleda tried to rouse herself immediately. "this is poor entertainment for you, mr. carleton," she said, raising her head and wiping away the tears from her face. "you are mistaken," he said gently. "you never gave me such pleasure but twice before, elfie." fleda's head went down again instantly, and this time there was something almost caressing in the motion. "next to the happiness of having friends on earth," he said soothingly, "is the happiness of having friends in heaven. don't weep any more to-night, my dear elfie." "he told me to thank you--" said fleda. but stopping short and clasping with convulsive energy the arm she held, she shed more violent tears than she had done that night before. the most gentle soothing, the most tender reproof, availed at last to quiet her; and she stood clinging to his arm still and looking down into the fire. "i did not think it would be so soon," she said. "it was not soon to him, elfie." "he told me to thank you for singing. how little while it seems since we were children together--how little while since before that--when i was a little child here--how different!" "no, the very same," said he, touching his lips to her forehead,--"you are the very same child you were then; but it is time you were my child, for i see you would make yourself ill. no--" said he softly taking the hand fleda raised to her face,--"no more tonight--tell me how early i may see you in the morning--for, elfie, i must leave you after breakfast." fleda looked up inquiringly. "my mother has brought news that determines me to return to england immediately." "to england!" "i have been too long from home--i am wanted there." fleda looked down again and did her best not to shew what she felt. "i do not know how to leave you--and now--but i must. there are disturbances among the people, and my own are infected. i _must_ be there without delay." "political disturbances?" said fleda. "somewhat of that nature--but partly local. how early may i come to you?" "but you are not going away tonight? it is very late." "that is nothing--my horse is here." fleda would have begged in vain, if barby had not come in and added her word, to the effect that it would be a mess of work to look for lodgings at that time of night, and that she had made the west room ready for mr. carleton. she rejected with great sincerity any claim to the thanks with which fleda as well as mr. carleton repaid her; "there wa'n't no trouble about it," she said. mr. carleton however found his room prepared for him with all the care that barby's utmost ideas of refinement and exactness could suggest. it was still very early the next morning; when he left it and came into the sitting-room, but he was not the first there. the firelight glimmered on the silver and china of the breakfast table, all set; everything was in absolute order, from the fire to the two cups and saucers which were alone on the board. a still silent figure was standing by one of the windows looking out. not crying; but that mr. carleton knew from the unmistakable lines of the face was only because tears were waiting another time; quiet now, it would not be by and by. he came and stood at the window with her. "do you know," he said, after a little, "that mr. rossitur purposes to leave queechy?" "does he?" said fleda rather starting, but she added not another word, simply because she felt she could not safely. "he has accepted, i believe, a consulship at jamaica." "jamaica!" said fleda. "i have heard him speak of the west indies--i am not surprised--i know it was likely he would not stay here." how tightly her fingers that were free grasped the edge of the window-frame. mr. carleton saw it and softly removed them into his own keeping. "he may go before i can be here again. but i shall leave my mother to take care of you, elfie." "thank you," said fleda faintly. "you are very kind--" "kind to myself," he said smiling. "i am only taking care of my own. i need not say that you will see me again as early as my duty can make it possible;--but i may be detained, and your friends may be gone--elfie--give me the right to send if i cannot come for you. let me leave my wife in my mother's care." fleda looked down, and coloured, and hesitated; but the expression in her face was not that of doubt. "am i asking too much?" he said gently. "no sir," said fleda,--"and--but--" "what is in the way?" but it seemed impossible for fleda to tell him. "may i not know?" he said, gently putting away the hair from fleda's face, which looked distressed. "is it only your feeling?" "no sir," said fleda,--"at least--not the feeling you think it is--but--i could not do it without giving great pain." mr. carleton was silent. "not to anybody you know, mr. carleton," said fleda, suddenly fearing a wrong interpretation of her words,--"i don't mean that--i mean somebody else--the person--the only person you could apply to--" she said, covering her face in utter confusion. "do i understand you?" said he smiling. "has this gentleman any reason to dislike the sight of me?" "no sir," said fleda,--"but he thinks he has." "that only i meant," said he. "you are quite right, my dear elfie; i of all men ought to understand that." the subject was dropped, and in a few minutes his gentle skill had well nigh made fleda forget what they had been talking about. himself and his wishes seemed to be put quite out of his own view, and out of hers as far as possible; except that the very fact made fleda recognize with unspeakable gratitude and admiration the kindness and grace that were always exerted for her pleasure. if her good-will could have been put into the cups of coffee she poured out for him, he might have gone in the strength of them all the way to england. there was strength of another kind to be gained from her face of quiet sorrow and quiet self-command which were her very childhood's own. "you will see me at the earliest possible moment," he said when at last taking leave.--"i hope to be free in a short time; but it may not be. elfie--if i should be detained longer than i hope--if i should not be able to return in a reasonable time, will you let my mother bring you out?--if i cannot come to you will you come to me?" fleda coloured a good deal, and said, scarce intelligibly, that she hoped he would be able to come. he did not press the matter. he parted from her and was leaving the room. fleda suddenly sprang after him, before he had reached the door, and laid her hand on his arm. "i did not answer your question, mr. carleton," she said with cheeks that were dyed now,--"i will do whatever you please--whatever you think best." his thanks were most gratefully though silently spoken, and he went away. chapter lii. daughter, they seem to say, peace to thy heart! we too, yes, daughter, have been as thou art. hope-lifted, doubt-depressed, seeing in part,-- tried, troubled, tempted,-- sustained,--as thou art. unknown. mr. rossitur was disposed for no further delay now in leaving queechy. the office at jamaica, which mr. carleton and dr. gregory had secured for him, was immediately accepted; and every arrangement pressed to hasten his going. on every account he was impatient to be out of america, and especially since his son's death. marion was of his mind. mrs. rossitur had more of a home feeling, even for the place where home had not been to her as happy as it might. they were sad weeks of bustle and weariness that followed hugh's death; less sad perhaps for the weariness and the bustle. there was little time for musing, no time for lingering regrets. if thought and feeling played their eolian measures on fleda's harpstrings, they were listened to only by snatches, and she rarely sat down and cried to them. a very kind note had been received from mrs. carleton. april gave place to may. one afternoon fleda had taken an hour or two to go and look at some of the old places on the farm, that she loved and that were not too far to reach. a last look she guessed it might be, for it was weeks since she had had a spare afternoon, and another she might not he able to find. it was a doubtful pleasure she sought too, but she must have it. she visited the long meadow and the height that stretched along it, and even went so far as the extremity of the valley, at the foot of the twenty-acre lot, and then stood still to gather up the ends of memory. there she had gone chestnutting with mr. ringgan--thither she had guided mr. carleton and her cousin rossitur that day when they were going after wood-cock--there she had directed and overseen earl douglass's huge crop of corn. how many pieces of her life were connected with it. she stood for a little while looking at the old chestnut trees, looking and thinking, and turned away soberly with the recollection, "the world passeth away,--but the word of our god shall stand forever." and though there was one thought that was a continual well of happiness in the depth of fleda's heart, her mind passed it now, and echoed with great joy the countersign of abraham's privilege,--"thou art my portion, o lord!"--and in that assurance every past and every hoped-for good was sweet with added sweetness. she walked home without thinking much of the long meadow. it was a chill spring afternoon and fleda was in her old trim, the black cloak, the white shawl over it, and the hood of grey silk. and in that trim she walked into the sitting-room. a lady was there, in a travelling dress, a stranger. fleda's eye took in her outline and feature one moment with a kind of bewilderment, the next with perfect intelligence. if the lady had been in any doubt, fleda's cheeks alone would have announced her identity. but she came forward without hesitation after the first moment, pulling off her hood, and stood before her visiter, blushing in a way that perhaps mrs. carleton looked at as a novelty in her world. fleda did not know how she looked at it, but she had nevertheless an instinctive feeling, even at the moment, that the lady wondered how her son should have fancied particularly anything that went about under such a hood. whatever mrs. carleton thought, her son's fancies she knew were unmanageable; and she had far too much good breeding to let her thoughts be known; unless to one of those curious spirit thermometers that can tell a variation of temperature through every sort of medium. there might have been the slightest want of forwardness to do it, but she embraced fleda with great cordiality. "this is for the old time--not for the new, dear fleda," she said. "do you remember me?" "perfectly!--very well," said fleda, giving mrs. carleton for a moment a glimpse of her eyes.--"i do not easily forget." "your look promises me an advantage from that, which i do not deserve, but which i may as well use as another. i want all i can have, fleda." there was a half look at the speaker that seemed to deny the truth of that, but fleda did not otherwise answer. she begged her visiter to sit down, and throwing off the white shawl and black cloak, took tongs in hand and began to mend the fire. mrs. carleton sat considering a moment the figure of the fire-maker, not much regardful of the skill she was bringing to bear upon the sticks of wood. fleda turned from the fire to remove her visitor's bonnet and wrappings, but the former was all mrs. carleton would give her; she threw off shawl and tippet on the nearest chair. it was the same mrs. carleton of old,--fleda saw while this was doing,--unaltered almost entirely. the fine figure and bearing were the same; time had made no difference; even the face had paid little tribute to the years that had passed by it; and the hair held its own without a change. bodily and mentally she was the same. apparently she was thinking the like of fleda. "i remember you very well," she said with kindly accent when fleda sat down by her. "i have never forgotten you. a dear little creature you were. i always knew that." fleda hoped privately the lady would see no occasion to change her mind; but for the present she was bankrupt in words. "i was in the same room this morning at montepoole where we used to dine, and it brought back the whole thing to me--the time when you were sick there with us. i could think of nothing else. but i don't think i was your favourite, fleda." such a rush of blood again answered her as moved mrs. carleton in common kindness to speak of common things. she entered into a long story of her journey--of her passage from england--of the steamer that brought her--of her stay in new york;--all which fleda heard very indifferently well. she was more distinctly conscious of the handsome travelling dress which seemed all the while to look as its wearer had done, with some want of affinity upon the little grey hood which lay on the chair in the corner. still she listened and responded as became her, though for the most part with eyes that did not venture from home. the little hood itself could never have kept its place with less presumption, nor with less flutter of self-distrust. mrs. carleton came at last to a general account of the circumstances that had determined guy to return home so suddenly, where she was more interesting. she hoped he would not be detained, but it was impossible to tell. it was just as it might happen. "are you acquainted with the commission i have been charged with?" she said, when her narrations had at last lapsed into silence and fleda's eyes had returned to the ground. "i suppose so, ma'am," said fleda with a little smile. "it is a very pleasant charge," said mrs. carleton softly kissing her cheek. something in the face itself must have called forth that kiss, for this time there were no requisitions of politeness. "do you recognize my commission, fleda?" fleda did not answer. mrs. carleton sat a few minutes thoughtfully drawing back the curls from her forehead, mr. carleton's very gesture, but not by any means with his fingers; and musing perhaps on the possibility of a hood's having very little to do with what it covered. "do you know," she said, "i have felt as if i were nearer to guy since i have seen you." the quick smile and colour that answered this, both very bright, wrought in mrs carleton an instant recollection that her son was very apt to be right in his judgments and that probably the present case might prove him so. the hand which had played with fleda's hair was put round her waist, very affectionately, and mrs. carleton drew near her. "i am sure we shall love each other, fleda," she said. it was said like fleda, not like mrs. carleton, and answered as simply. fleda had gained her place. her head was in mrs. carleton's neck, and welcomed there. "at least i am sure i shall love you," said the lady kissing her,--"and i don't despair on my own account,--for somebody else's sake." "no--" said fleda,--but she was not fluent to-day. she sat up and repeated, "i have not forgotten old times either, mrs. carleton." "i don't want to think of the old time--i want to think of the new,"--she seemed to have a great fancy for stroking back those curls of hair;--"i want to tell you how happy i am, dear fleda." fleda did not say whether she was happy or unhappy, and her look might have been taken for dubious. she kept her eyes on the ground, while mrs. carleton drew the hair off from her flushing cheeks, and considered the face laid bare to her view; and thought it was a fair face--a very presentable face--delicate and lovely--a face that she would have no reason to be ashamed of, even by her son's side. her speech was not precisely to that effect. "you know now why i have come upon you at such a time. i need not ask pardon?--i felt that i should be hardly discharging my commission if i did not see you till you arrived in new york. my wishes i could have made to wait, but not my trust. so i came." "i am very glad you did!" she could fain have persuaded the lady to disregard circumstances and stay with her, at least till the next day, but mrs. carleton was unpersuadable. she would return immediately to montepoole. "and how long shall you be here now?" she said. "a few days--it will not be more than a week." "do you know how soon mr. rossitur intends to sail for jamaica?" "as soon as possible--he will make his stay in new york very short--not more than a fortnight perhaps,--as short as he can." "and then, my dear fleda, i am to have the charge of you--for a little while--am i not?" fleda hesitated and began to say, "thank you," but it was finished with a burst of very hearty tears. mrs. carleton knew immediately the tender spot she had touched. she put her arms about fleda and caressed her as gently as her own mother might have done. "forgive me, dear fleda!--i forgot that so much that is sad to you must come before what is so much pleasure to me.--look up and tell me that you forgive me." fleda soon looked up, but she looked very sorrowful, and said nothing. mrs. carleton watched her face for a little while, really pained. "have you heard from guy since he went away?" she whispered. "no, ma'am." "i have." and therewith she put into fleda's hand a letter,--not mrs. carleton's letter, as fleda's first thought was. it had her own name and the seal was unbroken. but it moved mrs. carleton's wonder to see fleda cry again, and longer than before. she did not understand it. she tried soothing, but she ventured no attempt at consoling, for she did not know what was the matter. "you will let me go now, i know," she said smilingly, when fleda was again recovered and standing before the fire with a face _not_ so sorrowful, mrs. carleton saw. "but i must say something--i shall not hurt you again." "oh no, you did not hurt me at all--it was not what you said." "you will come to me, dear fleda? i feel that i want you very much." "thank you--but there is my uncle orrin, mrs. carleton,--dr. gregory." "dr. gregory? he is just on the eve of sailing for europe--i thought you knew it." "on the _eve?_--so soon?" "very soon, he told me. dear fleda--shall i remind you of my commission, and who gave it to me?" fleda hesitated still; at least she stood looking into the fire and did not answer. "you do not own his authority yet," mrs. carleton went on,--"but i am sure his wishes do not weigh for nothing with you, and i can plead them." probably it was a source of some gratification to mrs. carleton to see those deep spots on fleda's cheeks. they were a silent tribute to an invisible presence that flattered the lady's affection,--or her pride. "what do you say, dear fleda--to him and to me?" she said smiling and kissing her. "i will come, mrs. carleton." the lady was quite satisfied and departed on the instant, having got, she said, all she wanted; and fleda--cried till her eyes were sore. the days were few that remained to them in their old home; not more than a week, as fleda had said. it was the first week in may. the evening before they were to leave queechy, fleda and mrs. rossitur went together to pay their farewell visit to hugh's grave. it was some distance off. they walked there arm in arm without a word by the way. the little country grave-yard lay alone on a hill-side, a good way from any house, and out of sight even of any but a very distant one. a sober and quiet place, no tokens of busy life immediately near, the fields around it being used for pasturing sheep, except an instance or two of winter grain now nearing its maturity. a by-road not much travelled led to the grave-yard, and led off from it over the broken country, following the ups and downs of the ground to a long distance away, without a moving thing upon it in sight near or far. no sound of stirring and active humanity. nothing to touch the perfect repose. but every lesson of the place could be heard more distinctly amid that silence of all other voices. except indeed nature's voice; that was not silent; and neither did it jar with the other. the very light of the evening fell more tenderly upon the old grey stones and the thick grass in that place. fleda and mrs. rossitur went softly to one spot where the grass was not grown and where the bright white marble caught the eye and spoke of grief fresh too. oh that that were grey and moss-grown like the others! the mother placed herself where the staring black letters of hugh's name could not remind her so harshly that it no more belonged to the living; and sitting down on the ground hid her face; to struggle through the parting agony once more with added bitterness. fleda stood awhile sharing it, for with her too it was the last time, in all likelihood. if she had been alone, her grief might have witnessed itself bitterly and uncontrolled; but the selfish relief was foregone, for the sake of another, that it might be in her power by and by to minister to a heart yet sorer and weaker than hers. the tears that fell so quietly and so fast upon the foot of hugh's grave were all the deeper-drawn and richer-fraught. awhile she stood there; and then passed round to a group a little way off, that had as dear and strong claims upon her love and memory. these were not fresh, not very; oblivion had not come there yet; only time's softening hand. was it softening?--for fleda's head was bent down further here, and tears rained faster. it was hard to leave these! the cherished names that from early years had lived in her child's heart,--from this their last earthly abiding-place she was to part company. her mother's and her father's graves were there, side by side; and never had fleda's heart so clung to the old grey stones, never had the faded lettering seemed so dear,--of the dear names and of the words of faith and hope that were their dying or living testimony. and next to them was her grandfather's resting-place; and with that sunshiny green mound came a throng of strangely tender and sweet associations, more even than with the other two. his gentle, venerable, dignified figure rose before her, and her heart yearned towards it. in imagination fleda pressed again to her breast the withered hand that had led her childhood so kindly; and overcome here for a little she kneeled down upon the sod and bent her head till the long grass almost touched it, in an agony of human sorrow. could she leave them?--and for ever in this world? and be content to see no more these dear memorials till others like them should be raised for herself, far away?--but then stole in consolations not human, nor of man's devising,--the words that were written upon her mother's tombstone,-- "_them that sleep in jesus will god bring with him_."--it was like the march of angel's feet over the turf. and her mother had been a meek child of faith, and her father and grandfather, though strong men, had bowed like little children to the same rule.--fleda's head bent lower yet, and she wept, even aloud, but it was one half in pure thankfulness and a joy that the world knows nothing of. doubtless they and she were one; doubtless though the grass now covered their graves, the heavenly bond in which they were held would bring them together again in light, to a new and more beautiful life that should know no severing. asleep in jesus;--and even as he had risen so should they,--they and others that she loved,--all whom she loved best. she could leave their graves; and with an unspeakable look of thanks to him who had brought life and immortality to light, she did; but not till she had there once again remembered her mother's prayer, and her aunt miriam's words, and prayed that rather anything might happen to her than that prosperity and the world's favour should draw her from the simplicity and humility of a life above the world. rather than not meet them in joy at the last,--oh let her want what she most wished for in this world. if riches have their poisonous snares, fleda carried away from this place a strong antidote. with a spirit strangely simple, pure, and calm she went back to her aunt. poor mrs. rossitur was not quieted, but at fleda's touch and voice, gentle and loving as the spirit of love and gentleness could make them, she tried to rouse herself; lifted up her weary head and clasped her arms about her niece. the manner of it went to fleda's heart, for there was in it both a looking to her for support and a clinging to her as another dear thing she was about to lose. fleda could not speak for the heart-ache. "it is harder to leave this place than all the rest," mrs. rossitur murmured, after some little time had passed on. "he is not here," said fleda's soothing voice. it set her aunt to crying again. "no--i know it--" she said. "we shall see him again. think of that." "you will," said mrs. rossitur very sadly. "and so will you, dear aunt lucy,--_dear_ aunt lucy--you promised him?" "yes--" sobbed mrs. rossitur,--"i promised him--but i am such a poor creature--" "so poor that jesus cannot save you?--or will not?--no, dear aunt lucy--you do not think that;--only trust him--you do trust him now, do you not?" a fresh gush of tears came with the answer, but it was in the affirmative; and after a few minutes mrs. rossitur grew more quiet. "i wish something were done to this," she said, looking at the fresh earth beside her;--"if we could have planted something--" "i have thought of it a thousand times," said fleda sighing;--i would have done it long ago if i could have got here;--but it doesn't matter, aunt lucy,--i wish i could have done it." "you?" said mrs. rossitur;--"my poor child! you have been wearing yourself out working for me,--i never was worth anything!"--she said, hiding her face again. "when you have been the dearest and best mother to me? now that is not right, aunt lucy--look up and kiss me." the pleading sweet tone of voice was not to be resisted. mrs. rossitur looked up and kissed her earnestly enough but with unabated self reproach. "i don't deserve to kiss you, for i have let you try yourself beyond your strength.--how you look!--oh how you look!--" "never mind how i look," said fleda bringing her face so close that her aunt could not see it. "you helped me all you could, aunt lucy--don't talk so--and i shall look well enough by and by. i am not so very tired." "you always were so!" exclaimed mrs. rossitur clapping her in her arms again;--"and now i am going to lose you too--my dear fleda!--that gives me more pleasure than anything else in the world!--" but it was a pleasure well cried over. "we shall all meet again, i hope,--i will hope,--" said mrs. rossitur meekly when fleda had risen from her arms; "dear aunty!--but before that--in england--you will come to see me--uncle rolf will bring you." even then fleda could not say even that without the blood mounting to her face. mrs. rossitur shook her head and sighed; but smiled a little too, as if that delightful chink of possibility let some light in. "i shouldn't like to see mr. carleton now," she said, "for i could not look him in the face; and i am afraid he wouldn't want to look in mine, he would be so angry with me." [illustration: slowly and lingeringly they moved away.] the sun was sinking low on that fair may afternoon and they had two miles to walk to get home. slowly and lingeringly they moved away. the talk with her aunt had shaken fleda's calmness and she could have cried now with all her heart; but she constrained herself. they stopped a moment at the fence to look the last before turning their backs upon the place. they lingered, and still mrs. rossitur did not move, and fleda could not take away her eyes. it was that prettiest time of nature which while it shows indeed the shade side of everything, makes it the occasion of a fair contrast the grave-stones cast long shadows over the ground, foretokens of night where another night was resting already; the longest stretched away from the head of hugh's grave. but the rays of the setting sun softly touching the grass and the face of the white tombstone seemed to say, "thy brother shall rise again." light upon the grave! the promise kissing the record of death!--it was impossible to look in calmness. fleda bowed her head upon the paling and cried with a straitened heart, for grief and gratitude together. mrs. rossitur had not moved when fleda looked up again. the sun was yet lower; the sunbeams, more slant, touched not only that bright white stone--they passed on beyond, and carried the promise to those other grey ones, a little further off; that she had left--yes, for the last time; and fleda's thoughts went forward swiftly to the time of the promise.--"_then_ shall be brought to pass the saying which is written, death is swallowed up in victory. o death, where is thy sting? o grave, where is thy victory? the sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin is the law. but thanks be to god, which giveth us the victory through our lord jesus christ."--and then as she looked, the sunbeams might have been a choir of angels in light singing, ever so softly, "glory to god in the highest, and on earth peace, good will towards men." with a full heart fleda clasped her aunt's arm, and they went gently down the lane without saying one word to each other, till they had left the graveyard far behind them and were in the high road again. fleda internally thanked mr. carleton for what he had said to her on a former occasion, for the thought of his words had given her courage, or strength, to go beyond her usual reserve in speaking to her aunt; and she thought her words had done good. chapter liii. use your pleasure: if your love do not persuade you to come, let not my letter. merchant of venice. on the way home mrs. rossitur and fleda went a trifle out of their road to say good-bye to mrs. douglass's family. fleda had seen her aunt miriam in the morning, and bid her a conditional farewell; for, as after mrs. rossitur's sailing she would be with mrs. carleton, she judged it little likely that she should see queechy again. they had time for but a minute at mrs. douglass's. mrs. rossitur had shaken hands and was leaving the house when mrs. douglass pulled fleda back. "be you going to the west indies too, fleda?" "no, mrs. douglass." "then why don't you stay here?" "i want to be with my aunt while i can," said fleda. "and then do you calculate to stop in new york?" "for awhile," said fleda colouring. "o go 'long!" said mrs. douglass, "i know all about it. now do you s'pose you're agoing to be any happier among all those great folks than you would be if you staid among little folks?" she added tartly; while catherine looked with a kind of incredulous admiration at the future lady of carleton. "i don't suppose that greatness has anything to do with happiness, mrs. douglass," said fleda gently. so gently,--and so calmly sweet the face was that said it that mrs. douglass's mood was overcome. "well you ain't agoing to forget queechy?" she said, shaking fleda's hand with a hearty grasp. "never--never!" "i'll tell you what i think," said mrs. douglass, the tears in her eyes answering those in fleda's.--"it'll be a happy house that gets you into it, wherever 'tis! i only wish it wa'n't out o' queechy." fleda thought on the whole as she walked home that she did not wish any such thing. queechy seemed dismantled, and she thought she would rather go to a new place now that she had taken such a leave of every thing here. two things remained however to be taken leave of; the house and barby. happily fleda had little time for the former. it was a busy evening, and the morning would be more busy; she contrived that all the family should go to rest before her, meaning then to have one quiet look at the old rooms by herself; a leave-taking that no other eyes should interfere with. she sat down before the kitchen fire-place, but she had hardly realized that she was alone when one of the many doors opened and barby's tall figure walked in. "here you be," she half whispered. "i knowed there wouldn't be a minute's peace to-morrow; so i thought i'd bid you good-bye to-night." fleda gave her a smile and a hand, but did not speak. barby drew up a chair beside her, and they sat silent for some time, while quiet tears from the eyes of each said a great many things. "well, i hope you'll be as happy as you deserve to be,"--were barby's first words, in a voice very altered from its accustomed firm and spirited accent. "make some better wish for me than that, dear barby." "i wouldn't want any better for myself," said barby determinately. "i would for you," said fleda. she thought of mr. carleton's words again, and went on in spite of herself. "it is a mistake, barby. the best of us do not deserve anything good; and if we have the sight of a friend's face, or the very sweet air we breathe, it is because christ has bought it for us. don't let us forget that, and forget him." "i do, always," said barby crying,--"forget everything. fleda, i wish you'd pray for me when you are far away, for i ain't as good as you be." "dear barby," said fleda, touching her shoulder affectionately, "i haven't waited to be far away to do that." barby sobbed for a few minutes with the strength of a strong nature that rarely gave way in that manner; and then dashed her tears right and left, not at all as if she were ashamed of them, but with a resolution not to be overcome. "there won't be nothing good left in queechy, when you're gone, you and mis' plumfield--without i go and look at the place where hugh lies--" "dear barby," said fleda with softening eyes, "won't you be something good yourself?" barby put up her hand to shield her face. fleda was silent for she saw that strong feeling was at work. "i wish i could," barby broke forth at last, "if it was only for your sake." "dear barby," said fleda, "you can do this for me--you can go to church and hear what mr. olmney says. i should go away happier if i thought you would, and if i thought you would follow what he says; for dear barby there is a time coming when you will wish you were a christian more than you do now; and not for my sake." "i believe there is, fleda." "then will you?--won't you give me so much pleasure?" "i'd do a'most anything to do you a pleasure." "then do it, barby." "well, i'll go," said barby. "but now just think of that, fleda, how you might have stayed in queechy all your days and done what you liked with everybody. i'm glad you ain't, though; i guess you'll be better off." fleda was silent upon that. "i'd like amazingly to see how you'll be fixed," said barby after a trifle of ruminating. "if 'twa'n't for my old mother i'd be 'most a mind to pull up sticks and go after you." "i wish you could, barby; only i am afraid you would not like it so well there as here." "maybe i wouldn't. i s'pect them english folks has ways of their own, from what i've heerd tell; they set up dreadful, don't they?" "not all of them," said fleda. "no, i don't believe but what i could get along with mr. carleton well enough--i never see any one that knowed how to behave himself better." fleda gave her a smiling acknowledgment of this compliment. "he's plenty of money, ha'n't he?" "i believe so." "you'll be sot up like a princess, and never have anything to do no more." "o no," said fleda laughing,--"i expect to have a great deal to do; if i don't find it, i shall make it." "i guess it'll be pleasant work," said barby. "well, i don't care! you've done work enough since you've lived here that wa'n't pleasant, to play for the rest of your days; and i'm glad on't. i guess he don't hurt himself. you wouldn't stand it much longer to do as you have been doing lately." "that couldn't be helped," said fleda; "but that i may stand it to-morrow i am afraid we must go to bed, barby." barby bade her good-night and left her. but fleda's musing mood was gone. she had no longer the desire to call back the reminiscences of the old walls. all that page of her life, she felt, was turned over; and after a few minutes' quiet survey of the familiar things, without the power of moralizing over them as she could have done half an hour before, she left them--for the next day had no eyes but for business. it was a trying week or two before mr. rossitur and his family were fairly on shipboard. fleda as usual, and more than usual,--with the eagerness of affection that felt its opportunities numbered and would gladly have concentrated the services of years into days,--wrought, watched, and toiled, at what expense to her own flesh and blood mrs. rossitur never knew, and the others were too busy to guess. but mrs. carleton saw the signs of it, and was heartily rejoiced when they were fairly gone and fleda was committed to her hands. for days, almost for weeks, after her aunt was gone fleda could do little but rest and sleep; so great was the weariness of mind and body, and the exhaustion of the animal spirits, which had been kept upon a strain to hide her feelings and support those of others. to the very last moment affection's sweet work had been done; the eye, the voice, the smile, to say nothing of the hands, had been tasked and kept in play to put away recollections, to cheer hopes, to soften the present, to lighten the future; and hardest of all, to do the whole by her own living example. as soon as the last look and wave of the hand were exchanged and there was no longer anybody to lean upon her for strength and support, fleda shewed how weak she was, and sank into a state of prostration as gentle and deep almost as an infant's. as sweet and lovely as a child too, mrs. carleton declared her to be; sweet and lovely as _she_ was when a child; and there was no going beyond that. as neither this lady nor fleda had changed essentially since the days of their former acquaintanceship, it followed that there was still as little in common between them, except indeed now the strong ground of affection. whatever concerned her son concerned mrs. carleton in almost equal degree; anything that he valued she valued; and to have a thorough appreciation of him was a sure title to her esteem. the consequence of all this was that fleda was now the most precious thing in the world to her after himself; especially since her eyes, sharpened as well as opened by affection, could find in her nothing that she thought unworthy of him. in her personally, country and blood mrs. carleton might have wished changed; but her desire that her son should marry, the strongest wish she had known for years, had grown so despairing that her only feeling now on the subject was joy; she was not in the least inclined to quarrel with his choice. fleda had from her the tenderest care, as well as the utmost delicacy that affection and good-breeding could teach. and fleda needed both, for she was slow in going back to her old health and strength; and stripped on a sudden of all her old friends, on this turning-point of her life, her spirits were in that quiet mood that would have felt any jarring most keenly. the weeks of her first languor and weariness were over, and she was beginning again to feel and look like herself. the weather was hot and the city disagreeable now, for it was the end of june; but they had pleasant rooms upon the battery, and fleda's windows looked out upon the waving tops of green trees and the bright waters of the bay. she used to lie gazing out at the coming and going vessels with a curious fantastic interest in them; they seemed oddly to belong to that piece of her life, and to be weaving the threads of her future fate as they flitted about in all directions before her. in a very quiet, placid mood, not as if she wished to touch one of the threads, she lay watching the bright sails that seemed to carry the shuttle of life to and fro; letting mrs. carleton arrange and dispose of everything and of her as she pleased. she was on her couch as usual, looking out one fair morning, when mrs. carleton came in to kiss her and ask how she did. fleda said better. "better! you always say 'better'," said mrs. carleton; "but i don't see that you get better very fast. and sober;--this cheek is too sober," she added, passing her hand fondly over it;--"i don't like to see it so." "that is just the way i have been feeling, ma'am--unable to rouse myself. i should be ashamed of it, if i could help it." "mrs. evelyn has been here begging that we would join her in a party to the springs--saratoga--how would you like that?" "i should like anything that you would like, ma'am," said fleda, with a thought how she would like to read montepoole for saratoga. "the city is very hot and dusty just now." "very, and i am sorry to keep you in it, mrs. carleton." "keep me, love?" said mrs. carleton bending down her face to her again;--" it's a pleasure to be kept anywhere by you." fleda shut her eyes, for she could hardly bear a little word now. "i don't like to keep _you_ here--it is not myself i am thinking of. i fancy a change would do you good." "you are very kind, ma'am." "very interested kindness," said mrs. carleton. "i want to see you looking a little better before guy comes--i am afraid he will look grave at both of us." but as she paused and stroked fleda's cheek it came into her mind to doubt the truth of the last assertion, and she ended off with, "i wish he would come!--" so fleda wished truly; for now, cut off as she was from her old associations, she longed for the presence of the one friend that was to take place of them all. "i hope we shall hear soon that there is some prospect of his getting free," mrs. carleton went on. "he has been gone now,--how many weeks?--i am looking for a letter to-day. and there it is!--" the maid at this moment entered with the steamer despatches. mrs. carleton pounced upon the one she knew and broke it open. "here it is!--and there is yours, fleda." with kind politeness she went off to read her own and left fleda to study hers at her leisure. an hour after she came in again. fleda's face was turned from her. "well what does he say?" she asked in a lively tone. "i suppose the same he has said to you, ma'am," said fleda. "i don't suppose it indeed," said mrs. carleton laughing, "he has given me sundry charges, which if he has given you it is morally certain we shall never come to an understanding." "i have received no charges." said fleda. "i am directed to be very careful to find out your exact wish in the matter and to let you follow no other. so what is it, my sweet fleda?" "i promised--" said fleda colouring and turning her letter over. but there she stopped. "whom and what?" said mrs. carleton after she had waited a reasonable time. "mr. carleton." "what did you promise, my dear fleda?" "that--i would do as he said." "but he wishes you to do as you please." fleda brought her eyes quick out of mrs. carleton's view, and was silent. "what do you say, dear fleda?" said the lady, taking her hand and bending over her. "i am sure we shall be expected," said fleda. "i will go." "you are a darling girl!" said mrs. carleton kissing her again and again. "i will love you forever for that. and i am sure it will be the best thing for you--the sea will do you good--and ne vous en déplaise, our own home is pleasanter just now than this dusty town. i will write by this steamer and tell guy we will be there by the next. he will have everything in readiness, i know, at all events; and in half an hour after you get there, my dear fleda, you will be established in all your rights--as well as if it had been done six months before. guy will know how to thank you. but after all, fleda, you might do him this grace--considering how long he has been waiting upon you." something in fleda's eyes induced mrs. carleton to say, laughing, "what's the matter?" "he never waited for me," said fleda simply. "didn't he?--but my dear fleda i--" said mrs. carleton in amused extremity,--"how long is it since you knew what he came out here for?" "i don't know now, ma'am," said fleda. but she became angelically rosy the next minute. "he never told you?" "no."-- "and you never asked him?" "why no, ma'am!" "he will be well suited in a wife," said mrs. carleton laughing. "but he can have no objection to your knowing now, i suppose. he never told me but at the latest. you must know, fleda, that it has been my wish for a great many years that guy would marry--and i almost despaired, he was so difficult to please--his taste in everything is so fastidious; but i am glad of it now," she added, kissing fleda's cheek. "last spring--not this last, but a year ago--one evening at home i was talking to him on this subject; but he met everything i said lightly--you know his way--and i saw my words took no hold. i asked him at last in a kind of desperation if he supposed there was a woman in the world that could please him; and he laughed, and said if there was he was afraid she was not in that hemisphere. and a day or two after he told me he was going to america." "did he say for what?" "no,--but i guessed as soon as i found he was prolonging his stay, and i was sure when he wrote me to come out to him. but i never knew till i landed, fleda my dear, any more than that. the first question i asked him was who he was going to introduce to me." the interval was short to the next steamer, but also the preparations were few. a day or two after the foregoing conversation, constance evelyn coming into fleda's room found her busy with some light packing. "my dear little creature!" she exclaimed ecstatically,--"are you going with us?" "no," said fleda. "where are you going then?" "to england." "england!--has--i mean, is there any addition to my list of acquaintances in the city?" "not that i know of," said fleda, going on with her work. "and you are going to england!--greenhouses will be a desolation to me!--" "i hope not," said fleda smiling;--"you will recover yourself, and your sense of sweetness, in time." "it will have nothing to act upon!--and you are going to england!--i think it is very mean of you not to ask me to go too and be your bridesmaid." "i don't expect to have such a thing," said fleda. "not?--horrid! i wouldn't be married so, fleda. you don't know the world, little queechy; the art _de vous faire valoir_ i am afraid is unknown to you." "so it may remain with my good will," said fleda. "why?" said constance. "i have never felt the want of it," said fleda simply. "when are you going?" said constance after a minute's pause. "by the europa." "but this is a very sudden move!" "yes--very sudden." "i should think you would want a little time to make preparations." "that is all happily taken off my hands," said fleda. "mrs. carleton has written to her sister in england to take care of it for me." "i didn't know that mrs. carleton had a sister.--what's her name?" "lady peterborough." constance was silent again. "what are you going to do about mourning, fleda? wear white, i suppose. as nobody there knows anything about you, you won't care." "i do not care in the least," said fleda calmly; "my feeling would quite as soon choose white as black. mourning so often goes alone, that i should think grief might be excused for shunning its company." "and as you have not put it on yet," said constance, "you won't feel the change. and then in reality after all he was only a cousin." fleda's quiet mood, sober and tender as it was, could go to a certain length of endurance, but this asked too much. dropping the things from her hands, she turned from the trunk beside which she was kneeling and hiding her face on a chair wept such tears as cousins never shed for each other. constance was startled and distressed; and fleda's quick sympathy knew that she must be, before she could see it. "you needn't mind it at all, dear constance," she said as soon as she could speak,--"it's no matter--i am in such a mood sometimes that i cannot bear anything. don't think of it," she said kissing her. constance however could not for the remainder of her visit get back her wonted light mood, which indeed had been singularly wanting to her during the whole interview. mrs. carleton counted the days to the steamer, and her spirits rose with each one. fleda's spirits were quiet to the last degree, and passive, too passive, mrs. carleton thought. she did not know the course of the years that had gone, and could not understand how strangely fleda seemed to herself now to stand alone, broken off from her old friends and her former life, on a little piece of time that was like an isthmus joining two continents. fleda felt it all exceedingly; felt that she was changing from one sphere of life to another; never forgot the graves she had left at queechy, and as little the thoughts and prayers that had sprung up beside them. she felt, with all mrs. carleton's kindness, that she was completely alone, with no one on her side the ocean to look to; and glad to be relieved from taking active part in anything she made her little bible her companion for the greater part of the time. "are you going to carry that sober face all the way to carleton?" said mrs. carleton one day pleasantly. "i don't know, ma'am." "what do you suppose guy will think of it?" but the thought of what he would think of it, and what he would say to it, and how fast he would brighten it, made fleda burst into tears. mrs. carleton resolved to talk to her no more, but to get her home as fast as possible. "i have one consolation," said charlton rossitur as he shook hands with her on board the steamer;--"i have received permission, from head-quarters, to come and see you in england; and to that i shall look forward constantly from this time." chapter liv. the full sum of me is sum of something; which to term in gross, is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractis'd; happy in this, she is not yet so old but she may learn; and happier than this, she is not bred so dull but she can learn; happiest of all, is that her gentle spirit commits itself to yours to be directed, as from her lord, her governor, her king. merchant of venice. they had a very speedy passage to the other side, and partly in consequence of that mr. carleton was _not_ found waiting for them in liverpool. mrs. carleton would not tarry there but hastened down at once to the country, thinking to be at home before the news of their arrival. it was early morning of one fair day in july when they were at last drawing near the end of their journey. they would have reached it the evening before but for a storm which had constrained them to stop and wait over the night at a small town about eight miles off. for fear then of passing guy on the road his mother sent a servant before, and making an extraordinary exertion was actually herself in the carriage by seven o'clock. nothing could be fairer than that early drive, if fleda might have enjoyed it in peace. the sweet morning air was exceeding sweet, and the summer light fell upon a perfect luxuriance of green things. out of the carriage fleda's spirits were at home, but not within it; and it was sadly irksome to be obliged to hear and respond to mrs. carleton's talk, which was kept up, she knew, in the charitable intent to divert her. she was just in a state to listen to nature's talk; to the other she attended and replied with a patient longing to be left free that she might steady and quiet herself. perhaps mrs. carleton's tact discovered this in the matter-of-course and uninterested manner of her rejoinders; for as they entered the park gates she became silent, and the long drive from them to the house was made without a word on either side. for a length of way the road was through a forest of trees of noble growth, which in some places closed their arms overhead and in all sentinelled the path in stately array. the eye had no scope beyond the ranks of this magnificent body; carleton park was celebrated for its trees; but magnificent though they were and dearly as fleda loved every form of forest beauty, she felt oppressed. the eye forbidden to range, so was the mind, shut in to itself; and she only felt under the gloom and shadow of those great trees the shadow of the responsibilities and of the change that were coming upon her. but after a while the ranks began to be thinned and the ground to be broken; the little touches of beauty with which the sun had enlivened the woodland began to grow broader and cheerfuller; and then as the forest scattered away to the right and left, gay streams of light came through the glades and touched the surface of the rolling ground, where in the hollows, on the heights, on the sloping sides of the dingles, knots of trees of yet more luxuriant and picturesque growth, planted or left by the cultivator's hand long ago and trained by no hand but nature's, stood so as to distract a painter's eye; and just now, in the fresh gilding of the morning and with all the witchery of the long shadows upon the uneven ground certainly charmed fleda's eye and mind both. fancy was dancing again, albeit with one hand upon gravity's shoulder, and the dancing was a little nervous too. but she looked and caught her breath as she looked, while the road led along the very edge of a dingle, and then was lost in a kind of enchanted open woodland--it seemed so--and then passing through a thicket came out upon a broad sweep of green turf that wiled the eye by its smooth facility to the distant screen of oaks and beeches and firs on its far border. it was all new. fleda's memory had retained only an indistinct vision of beauty, like the face of an angel in a cloud as painters have drawn it; now came out the beautiful features one after another, as if she had never seen them. so far nature had seemed to stand alone. but now another hand appeared, not interfering with nature but adding to her. the road came upon a belt of the shrubbery where the old tenants of the soil were mingled with lighter and gayer companionship and in some instances gave it place; though in general the mingling was very graceful. there was never any crowding of effects; it seemed all nature still, only as if several climes had joined together to grace one. then that was past; and over smooth undulating ground, bearing a lighter growth of foreign wood with here and there a stately elm or ash that disdained their rivalry, the carriage came under the brown walls and turrets of the house. fleda's mood had changed again; and as the grave outlines rose above her, half remembered and all the more for that imposing, she trembled at the thought of what she had come there to do and to be. she felt very nervous and strange and out of place, and longed for the familiar free and voice that would bid her be at home. mrs. carleton, now, was not enough of a stand-by. with all that, fleda descended from the carriage with her usual quiet demureness; no one that did not know her well would have seen in her any other token of emotion than a somewhat undue and wavering colour. they were welcomed, at least one of them was, with every appearance of sincerity by the most respectable-looking personage who opened to them and whom fleda remembered instantly. the array of servants in the hall would almost have startled her if she had not recollected the same thing on her first coming to carleton. she stepped in with a curious sense of that first time, when she had come there a little child. "where is your master?' was mrs. carleton's immediate demand. "mr. carleton set off this morning for liverpool." mrs. carleton gave a quick glance at fleda, who kept her eyes at home. "we did not meet him--we have not passed him--how long ago?" were her next rapid words. "my master left carleton as early as five o'clock--he gave orders to drive as fast as possible." "then he had gone through hollonby an hour before we left it," said mrs. carleton looking again to her companion;--"but he will hear of us at carstairs--we stopped there yesterday afternoon--he will be back again in a few hours i am sure. then we have been expected?" "yes ma'am--my master gave orders that you should be expected." "is all well, popham?" "all is well, madam!" "is lady peterborough here?" "his lordship and lady peterborough arrived the day before yesterday," was the succint reply. drawing fleda's arm within hers and giving kind recognition to the rest who stood around, mrs. carleton led her to the stairs and mounted them, repeating in a whisper, "he will be here presently again." they went to mrs. carleton's dressing room, fleda wondering in an interval fever whether "orders had been given" to expect her also; from the old butler's benign look at her as he said "all is well!" she could not help thinking it. if she maintained her outward quiet it was the merest external crust of seeming; there was nothing like quiet beneath it; and mrs. carleton's kiss and fond words of welcome were hardly composing. mrs. carleton made her sit down, and with very gentle hands was busy arranging her hair, when the housekeeper came in; to pay her more particular respects and to offer her services. fleda hardly ventured a glance to see whether _she_ looked benign. she was a dignified elderly person, as stately and near as handsome as mrs. carleton herself. "my dear fleda," said the latter when she had finished the hair,--"i am going to see my sister--will you let mrs. fothergill help you in anything you want, and take you then to the library--you will find no one, and i will come to you there. mrs. fothergill, i recommend you to the particular care of this lady." the recommendation was not needed, fleda thought, or was very effectual; the housekeeper served her with most assiduous care, and in absolute silence. fleda hurried the finishing of her toilet. "are the people quiet in the country?" she forced herself to say. "perfectly quiet, ma'am. it needed only that my master should be at home to make them so." "how is that?" "he has their love and their ear, ma'am, and so it is that he can just do his pleasure with them." "how is it in the neighbouring country?" "they're quiet, ma'am, i believe,--mostly--there's been some little disturbance in one place and another, and more fear of it, as well as i can make out, but it's well got over, as it appears. the noblemen and gentlemen in the country around were very glad, all of them i am told, of mr. carleton's return. is there nothing more i can do for you, ma'am?" the last question was put with an indefinable touch of kindliness which had not softened the respect of her first words. fleda begged her to show the way to the library, which mrs. fothergill immediately did, remarking as she ushered her in that "those were mr. carleton's favourite rooms." fleda did not need to be told that; she put the remark and the benignity together, and drew a nervous inference. but mrs. fothergill was gone and she was alone. nobody was there, as mrs. carleton had said. fleda stood still in the middle of the floor, looking around her, in a bewildered effort to realize the past and the present; with all the mind in the world to cry, but there was too great a pressure of excitement and too much strangeness of feeling at work. nothing before her in the dimly familiar place served at all to lessen this feeling, and recovering from her maze she went to one of the glazed doors, which stood open, and turned her back upon the room with its oppressive recollections. her eye lighted upon nothing that was not quiet now. a secluded piece of smooth green, partially bordered with evergreens and set with light shrubbery of rare kinds, exquisitely kept; over against her a sweetbriar that seemed to have run wild, indicating, fleda was sure, the entrance of the path to the rose garden, that her memory alone would hardly have helped her to find. all this in the bright early summer morning, and the sweet aromatic smell of firs and flowers coming with every breath. there were draughts of refreshment in the air. it composed her, and drinking it in delightedly fleda stood with folded arms in the doorway, half forgetting herself and her position, and going in fancy from the firs and the roses over a very wide field of meditation indeed. so lost, that she started fearfully on suddenly becoming aware that a figure had come just beside her. it was an elderly and most gentlemanly-looking man, as a glance made her know. fleda was reassured and ashamed in a breath. the gentleman did not notice her confusion, however, otherwise than by a very pleasant and well-bred smile, and immediately entered into some light remarks on the morning, the place, and the improvements mr. carleton had made in the latter. though he said the place was one of those which could bear very well to want improvement; but carleton was always finding something to do which excited his admiration. "landscape gardening is one of the pleasantest of amusements," said fleda. "i have just knowledge enough in the matter to admire;--to originate any ideas is beyond me; i have to depend for them upon my gardener,--and my wife--and so i lose a pleasure, i suppose; but every man has his own particular hobby. carleton, however, has more than his share--he has half a dozen, i think." "half a dozen hobbies!" said fleda. "perhaps i should not call them hobbies, for he manages to ride them all skilfully; and a hobby-horse, i believe, always runs away with the man?" fleda could hardly return his smile. she thought people were possessed with an unhappy choice of subjects in talking to her that morning. but fancying that she had very ill kept up her part in the conversation and must have looked like a simpleton, she forced herself to break the silence which followed the last remark, and asked the same question she had asked mrs. fothergill,--if the country was quiet? "outwardly quiet," he said;--"o yes--there is no more difficulty--that is, none which cannot easily be handled. there was some danger a few months ago, but it is blown over; all was quiet on carleton's estates so soon as he was at home, and that of course had great influence on the neighbourhood. no, there is nothing to be apprehended. he has the hearts of his people completely, and one who has their hearts can do what he pleases with their heads, you know. well he deserves it--he has done a great deal for them." fleda was afraid to ask in what way,--but perhaps he read the question in her eyes. "that's one of his hobbies--ameliorating the condition of the poorer classes on his estates. he has given himself to it for some years back; he has accomplished a great deal for them--a vast deal indeed! he has changed the face of things, mentally and morally, in several places, with his adult schools, and agricultural systems, and i know not what; but the most powerful means i think after all has been the weight of his personal influence, by which he can introduce and carry through any measure; neither ignorance nor prejudice nor obstinacy seem to make head against him. it requires a peculiar combination of qualities, i think,--very peculiar and rare,--to deal successfully with the mind of the masses." "i should think so indeed," said fleda. "he has it--i don't comprehend it--and i have not studied his machinery enough to understand that; but i have seen the effects. never should have thought he was the kind of man either--but there it is!--i don't comprehend him. there is only one fault to be found with him though." "what is that?" said fleda smiling. "he has built a fine dissenting chapel down here towards hollonby," he said gravely, looking her in the face,--"and what is yet worse, his uncle tells me, he goes there half the time himself!" fleda could not help laughing, nor colouring, at his manner. "i thought it was always considered a meritorious action to build a church," she said. "indubitably.--but you see, this was a chapel." the laugh and the colour both grew more unequivocal--fleda could not help it. "i beg your pardon, sir--i have not learned such nice distinctions--perhaps a chapel was wanted just in that place." "that is presumable. but _he_ might be wanted somewhere else. however," said the gentleman with a good-humoured smile,--"his uncle forgives him; and if his mother cannot influence him,--i am afraid nobody else will. there is no help for it. and i should be very sorry to stand ill with him. i have given you the dark side of his character." "what is the other side in the contrast?" said fleda, wondering at herself for her daring. "it is not for me to say," he answered with a slight shrug of the shoulders and an amused glance at her;--"i suppose it depends upon people's vision,--but if you will permit me, i will instance a bright spot that was shewn to me the other day, that i confess, when i look at it, dazzles my eyes a little." fleda only bowed; she dared not speak again. "there was a poor fellow--the son of one of mr. carleton's old tenants down here at enchapel,--who was under sentence of death, lying in prison at carstairs. the father, i am told, is an excellent man and a good tenant; the son had been a miserable scapegrace, and now for some crime--i forget what--had at last been brought to justice. the evidence against him was perfect and the offence was not trifling--there was not the most remote chance of a pardon, but it seemed the poor wretch had been building up his dependence upon that hope and was resting on it; and consequently was altogether indisposed and unfit to give his attention to the subjects that his situation rendered proper for him. "the gentleman who gave me this story was requested by a brother clergyman to go with him to visit the prisoner. they found him quite stupid--unmovable by all that could be urged, or rather perhaps the style of the address, as it was described to me, was fitted to confound and bewilder the man rather than enlighten him. in the midst of all this mr. carleton came in--he was just then on the wing for america, and he had heard of the poor creature's condition in a visit to his father. he came,--my informant said,--like a being of a different planet. he took the man's hand,--he was chained foot and wrist,--'my poor friend,' he said, 'i have been thinking of you here, shut out from the light of the sun, and i thought you might like to see the face of a friend';--with that singular charm of manner which he knows how to adapt to everybody and every occasion. the man was melted at once--at his feet, as it were;--he could do anything with him. carleton began then, quietly, to set before him the links in the chain of evidence which had condemned him--one by one--in such a way as to prove to him, by degrees but irresistibly, that he had no hope in this world. the man was perfectly subdued--sat listening and looking into those powerful eyes that perhaps you know,--taking in all his words and completely in his hand. and then carleton went on to bring before him the considerations that he thought should affect him in such a case, in a way that this gentleman said was indescribably effective and winning; till that hardened creature was broken down,--sobbing like a child,--actually sobbing!--" fleda did her best, but she was obliged to hide her face in her hands, let what would be thought of her. "it was the finest exhibition of eloquence, this gentleman said, he had ever listened to.--for me it was an exhibition of another kind. i would have believed such an account of few men, but of all the men i know i would least have believed it of guy carleton a few years ago; even now i can hardly believe it. but it is a thing that would do honour to any man."-- fleda felt that the tears were making their way between her fingers, but she could not help it; and she presently knew that her companion had gone and she was left alone again. who was this gentleman? and how much did he know about her? more than that she was a stranger, fleda was sure; and dreading his return, or that somebody else might come and find her with tokens of tears upon her face, she stepped out upon the greensward and made for the flaunting sweet-briar that seemed to beckon her to visit its relations. the entrance of a green path was there, or a grassy glade, more or less wide, leading through a beautiful growth of firs and larches. no roses, nor any other ornamental shrubs; only the soft, well-kept footway through the woodland. fleda went gently on and on, admiring, where the trees sometimes swept back, leaving an opening, and at other places stretched their graceful branches over her head. the perfect condition of everything to the eye, the rich coloured vegetation,--of varying colour above and below,--the absolute retirement, and the strong pleasant smell of the evergreens, had a kind of charmed effect upon senses and mind too. it was a fairyland sort of place. the presence of its master seemed everywhere; it was like him; and fleda pressed on to see yet livelier marks of his character and fancy beyond. by degrees the wood began to thin on one side; then at once the glade opened into a bright little lawn rich with roses in full bloom. fleda was stopped short at the sudden vision of loveliness. there was the least possible appearance of design; no dry beds were to be seen; the luxuriant clumps of provence and white roses, with the varieties of the latter, seemed to have chosen their own places; only to have chosen them very happily. one hardly imagined that they had submitted to dictation, if it were not that queen flora never was known to make so effective a disposition of her forces without help. the screen of trees was very thin on the border of this opening, so thin that the light from beyond came through. on a slight rocky elevation which formed the further side of it sat an exquisite little moorish temple, about which and the face of the rock below some noisette and multiflora climbers were vying with each other; and just at the entrance of the further path a white dog-rose had thrown itself over the way, covering the lower branches of the trees with its blossoms. fleda stood spell bound a good while, with a breath oppressed with pleasure. but what she had seen excited her to see more, and a dim recollection of the sea-view from somewhere in the walk drew her on. roses met her now frequently. now and then a climber, all alone, seemed to have sought protection in a tree by the path-side, and to have displayed itself thence in the very wantonness of security, hanging out its flowery wreaths, fearless of hand or knife. clusters of noisettes, or of french or damask roses, where the ground was open enough, stood without a rival and needing no foil, other than the beautiful surrounding of dark evergreen foliage. but the distance was not long before she came out upon a wider opening and found what she was seeking--the sight of the sea. the glade, here, was upon the brow of high ground, and the wood disappearing entirely for a space left the eye free to go over the lower tree-tops and the country beyond to the distant shore and sea-line. roses were here too; the air was full of the sweetness of damask and bourbon varieties; and a few beautiful banksias, happily placed, contrasted without interfering with them. it was very still;--it was very perfect;--the distant country was fresh-coloured with the yet early light which streamed between the trees and laid lines of enchantment upon the green turf; and the air came up from the sea-board and bore the breath of the roses to fleda every now and then with a gentle puff of sweetness. such light--she had seen none such light since she was a child. was it the burst of mental sunshine that had made it so bright?--or was she going to be really a happy child again? no--no,--not that; and yet something very like it. so like it that she almost startled at herself. she went no further. she could not have borne, just then, to see any more; and feeling her heart too full she stood even there, with hands crossed upon her bosom, looking away from the roses to the distant sea-line. [illustration: the roses could not be sweeter to any one.] that said something very different. that was very sobering; if she had needed sobering, which she did not. but it helped her to arrange the scattered thoughts which had been pressing confusedly upon her brain. "look away from the roses" indeed she could not, for the same range of vision took in the sea and them,--and the same range of thought. these might stand for an emblem of the present; that, of the future,--grave, far-off, impenetrable;--and passing as it were the roses of time fleda fixed upon that image of eternity; and weighing the one against the other, felt, never in her life more keenly, how wild it would be to forget in smelling the roses her preparations for that distant voyage that must be made from the shores where they grow. with one eye upon this brightest bits of earth before her, the other mentally was upon hugh's grave. the roses could not be sweeter to any one; but in view of the launching away into that distant sea-line, in view of the issues on the other shore, in view of the welcome that might be had there,--the roses might fade and wither, but her happiness could not go with their breath. they were something to be loved, to be used, to be thankful for,--but not to live upon; something too that whispered of an increased burden of responsibility, and never more deeply than at that moment did fleda remember her mother's prayer; never more simply recognized that happiness could not be made of these things. she might be as happy at queechy as here. it depended on the sunlight of undying hopes, which indeed would give wonderful colour to the flowers that might be in her way;--on the possession of resources the spring of which would never dry;--on the peace which secures the continual feast of a merry heart. fleda could take her new honours and advantages very meekly, and very soberly, with all her appreciation of them. the same work of life was to be done here as at queechy. to fulfil the trust committed to her, larger here--to keep her hope for the future--undeceived by the sunshine of earth to plant her roses where they would bloom everlastingly. the weight of these things bowed fleda to the ground and made her bury her face in her hands. but there was one item of happiness from which her thoughts never even in imagination dissevered themselves, and round it they gathered now in their weakness. a strong mind and heart to uphold hers,--a strong hand for here to rest in,--that was a blessing; and fleda would have cried heartily but that her feelings were too high wrought. they made her deaf to the light sound of footsteps coming over the grass,--till two hands gently touched hers and lifted her up, and then fleda was at home. but surprised and startled she could hardly lift up her face. mr. carleton's greeting was as grave and gentle as if she had been a stray child. "do not fancy i am going to thank you for the grace you have shewn me," said he lightly. "i know you would never have done it if circumstances had not been hard pleaders in my cause. i will thank you presently when you have answered one or two questions for me." "questions?" said fleda looking up. but she blushed the next instant at her own simplicity. he was leading her back on the path she had come. no further however than to the first opening, where the climbing dog-rose hung over the way. there he turned aside crossing the little plot of greensward, and they ascended some steps cut in the rock to the pavilion fleda had looked at from a distance. it stood high enough to command the same sea-view. on that side it was entirely open, and of very light construction on the others. several people were there; fleda could hardly tell how many; and when lord peterborough was presented to her she did not find out that he was her morning's acquaintance. her eye only took in besides that there were one or two ladies, and a clergyman in the dress of the church of england; she could not distinguish. yet she stood beside mr. carleton with all her usual quiet dignity, though her eye did not leave the ground and her words were in no higher key than was necessary, and though she could hardly bear the unchanged easy tone of his. the birds were in a perfect ecstasy all about them; the soft breeze came through the trees, gently waving the branches and stirring the spray wreaths of the roses, the very fluttering of summer's drapery; some roses looked in at the lattice, and those which could not be there sent in their congratulations on the breath of the wind, while the words were spoken that bound them together. mr. carleton then dismissing his guests to the house, went with fleda again the other way. he had felt the extreme trembling of the hand which he took, and would not go in till it was quieted. he led her back to the very rose-bush where he had found her, and in his own way, presently brought her spirit home from its trembling and made it rest; and then suffered her to stand a few minutes quite silent, looking out again over the fair rich spread of country that lay between them and the sea. "now tell me, elfie," said he softly, drawing back with the same old caressing and tranquillizing touch the hair that hung over her brow,--"what you were thinking about when i found you here?--in the very luxury of seclusion--behind a rose-bush." fleda looked a quick look, smiled, and hesitated, and then said it was rather a confusion of thoughts. "it will be a confusion no longer when you have disentangled them for me." "i don't know--" said fleda. and she was silent, but so was he, quietly waiting for her to go on. "perhaps you will wonder at me, mr. carleton," she said, hesitating and colouring. "perhaps," he said smiling;--"but if i do i will not keep you in ignorance, elfie." "i was almost bewildered, in the first place,--with beauty--and then--" "do you like the rose garden?" "like it!--i cannot speak of it!" "i don't want you to speak of it," said he smiling at her. "what followed upon liking it, elfie?" "i was thinking," said fleda, looking resolutely away from him,--"in the midst of all this,--that it is not these things which make people happy." "there is no question of that," he replied. "i have realized it thoroughly for a few months past." "no, but seriously, i mean," said fleda pleadingly. "and seriously you are quite right, dear elfie. what then?" "i was thinking," said fieda, speaking with some difficulty, "of hugh's grave,--and of the comparative value of things; and afraid, i believe,--especially--here--" "of making a wrong estimate?" "yes--and of not doing and being just what i ought." mr. carleton was silent for a minute, considering the brow from which his fingers drew off the light screen. "will you trust me to watch over and tell you?" fleda did not trust her voice to tell him, but her eyes did it. "as to the estimate--the remedy is to 'keep ourselves in the love of god;' and then these things are the gifts of our father's hand and will never be put in competition with him. and they are never so sweet as when taken so." "oh i know that!" "this is a danger i share with you. we will watch over each other." fleda was silent with filling eyes. "we do not seek our happiness in these things," he said tenderly. "i never found it in them. for years, whatever others may have judged, i have felt myself a poor man; because i had not in the world a friend in whom i could have entire sympathy. and if i am rich now, it is not in any treasure that i look to enjoy in this world alone." "oh do not, mr. carleton!" exclaimed fleda, bowing her head in distress, and giving his hand an earnest entreaty. "what shall i not do?" said he half laughing and half gently, bringing her face near enough for his lips to try another kind of eloquence. "you shall not do this, elfie, for any so light occasion.--was this the whole burden of those grave thoughts?" "not quite--entirely--" she said stammering. "but grave thoughts are not always unhappy." "not always. i want to know what gave yours a tinge of that colour this morning." "it was hardly that.--you know what foster says about 'power to its very last particle being duty'--i believe it frightened me a little." "if you feel that as strongly as i do, elfie, it will act as a strong corrective to the danger of false estimates." "i do feel it," said fleda. "one of my fears was that i should not feel it enough." "one of my cares will be that you do not act upon it too fiercely," said he smiling. "the power being limited so is the duty. but you shall have power enough, elfie, and work enough. i have precisely what i have needed--my good sprite back again." "with a slight difference." "what difference?" "she is to act under direction now." "not at all--only under safe control," he said laughing. "i am very glad of the difference, mr. carleton," said fleda, with a grave and grateful remembrance of it. "if you think the sprite's old office is gone, you are mistaken," said he. "what were your other fears?--one was that you should not feel enough your responsibility, and the other that you might forget it." "i don't know that there were any other particular fears," said fleda;--"i had been thinking of all these things--" "and what else?" her colour and her silence begged him not to ask. he said no more, and let her stand still again looking off through the roses, while her mind more quietly and lightly went over the same train of thoughts that had moved it before; gradually calmed; came back from being a stranger to being at home, at least in one presence; and ended, her action even before her look told him where, as her other hand unconsciously was joined to the one already on his arm. a mute expression of feeling the full import of which he read, even before her eye coming back from its musings was raised to him, perhaps unconsciously too, with all the mind in it; its timidity was not more apparent than its simplicity of clinging affection and dependence. mr. carleton's answer was in three words, but in the tone and manner that accompanied them there was a response to every part of her appeal; so perfect that fleda was confused at her own frankness. they began to move towards the house, but fleda was in a maze again and could hardly realize anything. "his wife"!--was she that?--had so marvellous a change really been wrought in her?--the little asparagus cutter of queechy transformed into the mistress of all this domain, and of the stately mansion of which they caught glimpses now and then, as they drew near it by another approach into which mr. carleton had diverged. and his wife!--that was the hardest to realize of all. she was as far from realizing it when she got into the house. they entered now at once into the breakfast-room where the same party were gathered whom she had met once before that morning. mr. carleton the elder, and lord peterborough and lady peterborough, she had met without seeing. but fleda could look at them now; and if her colour came and went as frankly as when she was a child, she could speak to them and meet their advances with the same free and sweet self-possession as then; the rare dignity of a little wood-flower, that is moved by a breath, but recovers as easily and instantly its quiet standing. there were one or two who looked a little curiously at first to see whether this new member of the family were worthy of her place and would fill it to satisfy them. not mr. carleton; he never sought to ascertain the value of anything that belonged to him by a popular vote; and his own judgment always stood carelessly alone. but mrs. carleton was less sure of her own ground or of others. for five minutes she noted fleda's motions and words, her blushes and smiles, as she stood talking to one and another;--for five minutes, and then with a little smile at her sister mrs. carleton moved off to the breakfast-table, well pleased that lady peterborough was too engaged to answer her. fleda had won them all. mr. carleton's intervening shield of grace and kindness was only needed here against the too much attention or attraction that might distress her. he was again, now they were in presence of others, exactly what he had been to her when she was a child, the same cool and efficient friend and protector. nobody in the room shewed less thought of her _except_ in action; a great many little things done for her pleasure or comfort, so quietly that nobody knew it but one person, and she hardly noticed it at the time. all could not have the same tact. there was an uninterrupted easy flow of talk at the table, which fleda heard just enough to join in where it was necessary; the rest of the time she sat in a kind of abstraction, dipping enormous strawberries one by one into white sugar, with a curious want of recognition between them and the ends of her fingers; it never occurred to her that they had picked baskets full. "i have done something for which you will hardly thank me, mr. carleton," said lord peterborough. "i have driven this lady to tears within the first hour of her being in the house." "if she will forgive you, i will, my lord," mr. carleton answered carelessly. "i will confess myself though," continued his lordship looking at the face that was so intent over the strawberries. "i was under the impression when i first saw a figure in the window that it was lady peterborough. i own as soon as i found it was a stranger i had my suspicions--which did not lack confirmation in the course of the interview--i trust i am forgiven the means i used." "it seems you had your curiosity too, my lord," said mr. carleton the uncle. "which ought in all justice to have lacked gratification," said lady peterborough. "i hope fleda will not be too ready to forgive you." "i expect forgiveness nevertheless," said he looking at fleda. "must i wait for it?" "i am much obliged to you, sir." and then she gave him a very frank smile and blush as she added, "i beg pardon--you know my tongue is american." "i don't like that," said his lordship gravely. "out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh," said the elder carleton. "the heart being english, we may hope the tongue will become so too." "i will not assure you of that, sir," fleda said laughingly, though her cheeks showed the conversation was not carried on without effort. oddly enough nobody saw it with any dissatisfaction. "of what, madam?" said lord peterborough. "that i will not always keep a rag of the stars and stripes flying somewhere." but that little speech had almost been too much for her equanimity. "like queen elizabeth who retained the crucifix when she gave up the profession of popery." "very unlike indeed!" said fleda, endeavouring to understand what mr. carleton was saying to her about wood strawberries and hautbois. "will you allow that, carleton?" "what, my lord?" "a rival banner to float alongside of st. george's?" '"the flags are friendly, my lord." "hum--just now,--they may seem so.--has your little standard-bearer anything of a rebellious disposition?" "not against any lawful authority, i hope," said fleda. "then there is hope for you, mr. carleton, that you will be able to prevent the introduction of mischievous doctrines." "for shame, lord peterborough!" said his wife,--"what atrocious suppositions you are making. i am blushing, i am sure, for your want of discernment." "why--yes--" said his lordship, looking at another face whose blushes were more unequivocal,--"it may seem so--there is no appearance of anything untoward, but she is a woman after all. i will try her. mrs. carleton, don't you think with my lady peterborough that in the present nineteenth century women ought to stand more on that independent footing from which lordly monopoly has excluded them?" the first name fleda thought belonged to another person, and her downcast eyelids prevented her seeing to whom it was addressed. it was no matter, for any answer was anticipated. "the boast of independence is not engrossed by the boldest footing, my lord." "she has never considered the subject," said lady peterborough. "it is no matter," said his lordship. "i must respectfully beg an answer to my question." the silence made fleda look up. "don't you think that the rights of the weak ought to be on a perfect equality with those of the strong?" "the rights of the weak _as such_--yes, my lord." the gentlemen smiled; the ladies looked rather puzzled. "i have no more to say, mr. carleton," said his lordship, "but that we must make an englishwoman of her!" "i am afraid she will never be a perfect cure," said mr. carleton smiling. "i conceive it might require peculiar qualities in the physician,--but i do not despair. i was telling her of some of your doings this morning, and happy to see that they met with her entire disapproval." mr. carleton did not even glance towards fleda and made no answer, but carelessly gave the conversation another turn; for which she thanked him unspeakably. there was no other interruption of any consequence to the well-bred flow of talk and kindliness of manner on the part of all the company, that put fleda as much as possible at her ease. still she did not realize anything, and yet she did realize it so strongly that her woman's heart could not rest till it bad eased itself in tears. the superbly appointed table at which she sat,--her own, though mrs. carleton this morning presided,--the like of which she had not seen since she was at carleton before; the beautiful room with its arrangements, bringing back a troop of recollections of that old time; all the magnificence about her, instead of elevating sobered her spirits to the last degree. it pressed home upon her that feeling of responsibility, of the change that come over her; and though beneath it all very happy, fleda hardly knew it, she longed so to be alone and to cry. one person's eyes, however little seemingly observant of her, read sufficiently well the unusual shaded air of her brow and her smile. but a sudden errand of business called him abroad immediately after breakfast. the ladies seized the opportunity to carry fleda up and introduce her to her dressing-room and take account of lady peterborough's commission, and ladies and ladies' maids soon formed a busy committee of dress and decorations. it did not enliven fleda, it wearied her, though she forgave them the annoyance in gratitude for the pleasure they took in looking at her. even the delight her eye had from the first minute she saw it, in the beautiful room, and her quick sense of the carefulness with which it had been arranged for her, added to the feeling with which she was oppressed; she was very passive in the hands of her friends. in the midst of all this the housekeeper was called in and formally presented, and received by fleda with a mixture of frankness and bashfulness that caused mrs. fothergill afterwards to pronounce her "a lady of a very sweet dignity indeed." "she is just such a lady as you might know my master would have fancied," said mr. spenser. "and what kind of a lady is that?" said mrs. fothergill. but mr. spenser was too wise to enter into any particulars and merely informed mrs. fothergill that she would know in a few days. "the first words mrs. carleton said when mr. carleton got home," said the old butler,--"she put both her hands on his arms and cried out, 'guy, i am delighted with her!'" "and what did _he_ say?" said mrs. fothergill. "he!" echoed mr. spenser in a tone of indignant intelligence,--"what should _he_ say?--he didn't say anything; only asked where she was, i believe." in the midst of silks, muslins and jewels mr. carleton found fleda still on his return; looking pale and even sad, though nobody but himself through her gentle and grateful bearing would have discerned it. he took her out of the hands of the committee and carried her down to the little library, adjoining the great one, but never thrown open,--_his_ room, as it was called, where more particularly art and taste had accumulated their wealth of attractions. "i remember this very well," said fleda. "this beautiful room!" "it is as free to you as to me, elfie; and i never gave the freedom of it to any one else." "i will not abuse it," said fleda. "i hope not, my dear elfie," said he smiling,--"for the room will want something to me now when you are not in it; and a gift is abused that is not made free use of." a large and deep bay window in the room looked upon the same green lawn and fir wood with the windows of the library. like those this casement stood open, and mr. carleton leading fleda there remained quietly beside her for a moment, watching her face which his last words had a little moved from its outward composure. then, gently and gravely as if she had been a child, putting his arm round her shoulders and drawing her to him he whispered, "my dear elfie,--you need not fear being misunderstood--" fleda started and looked up to see what he meant. but his face said it so plainly, in its perfect intelligence and sympathy with her, that her barrier of self-command and reserve was all broken down; and hiding her head in her hands upon his breast she let the pent-up burden upon her heart come forth in a flood of unrestrained tears. she could not help herself. and when she would fain have checked them after the first burst and bidden them, according to her habit to wait another time, it was out of her power; for the same kindness and tenderness that had set them a flowing, perhaps witting of her intent, effectually hindered its execution. he did not say a single word, but now and then a soft touch of his hand or of his lips upon her brow, in its expressive tenderness would unnerve all her resolution and oblige her to have no reserve that time at least in letting her secret thoughts and feelings be known, as far as tears could tell them. she wept, at first in spite of herself and afterwards in the very luxury of indulged feeling; till she was as quiet as a child, and the weight of oppression was all gone. mr. carleton did not move, nor speak, till she did. "i never knew before how good you were, mr. carleton," said fleda raising her head at length, as soon as she dared, but still held fast by that kind arm. "what new light have you got on the subject?" said he, smiling. "why," said fleda, trying as hard as ever did sunshine to scatter the remnants of a cloud,--it was a bright cloud too by this time, "i have always heard that men cannot endure the sight of a woman's tears." "you shall give me a reward then. elfie." "what reward?" said fleda. "promise me that you will shed them nowhere else." "nowhere else?--" "but here--in my arms." "i don't feel like crying any more now," said fleda evasively;--at least."--for drops were falling rather fast again,--" not sorrowfully." "promise me, elfie," said mr. carleton after a pause. but fleda hesitated still and looked dubious. "come!--" he said smiling,--"you know you promised a little while ago that you would have a particular regard to my wishes." fleda's cheeks answered that appeal with sufficient brightness, but she looked down and said demurely, "i am sure one of your wishes is that i should not say anything rashly." "well?--" "one cannot answer for such wilful things as tears." "and for such wilful things as men?" said he smiling. but fleda was silent. "then i will alter the form of my demand. promise me that no shadow of anything shall come over your spirit that you do not let me either share or remove." there was no trifling in the tone,--full of gentleness as it was; there could be no evading its requisition. but the promise demanded was a grave one. fleda was half afraid to make it. she looked up, in the very way he had seen her do when a child, to find a warrant for her words before she uttered them. but the full, clear, steadfast eye into which she looked for two seconds, authorized as well as required the promise; and hiding her face again on his breast fleda gave it, amid a gush of tears every one of which was illumined with heart-sunshine. the end. the hole in the wall by arthur morrison london eyre & spottiswoode the hole in the wall was first published in first published in the century library, the century library is printed in england by billing and sons ltd., guildford and esher, for eyre & spottiswoode (publishers) ltd., bedford street, london, w.c. , and bound by james burn and company ltd., royal mills, esher _to_ mrs. charles eardley-wilmot contents i. stephen's tale ii. in blue gate iii. stephen's tale iv. stephen's tale v. in the highway vi. stephen's tale vii. stephen's tale viii. stephen's tale ix. stephen's tale x. stephen's tale xi. stephen's tale xii. in the club-room xiii. stephen's tale xiv. stephen's tale xv. stephen's tale xvi. stephen's tale xvii. in blue gate xviii. on the cop xix. on the cop xx. stephen's tale xxi. in the bar-parlour xxii. on the cop xxiii. on the cop xxiv. on the cop xxv. stephen's tale xxvi. stephen's tale xxvii. in the bar-parlour xxviii. stephen's tale xxix. stephen's tale xxx. stephen's tale chapter i stephen's tale my grandfather was a publican--and a sinner, as you will see. his public-house was the hole in the wall, on the river's edge at wapping; and his sins--all of them that i know of--are recorded in these pages. he was a widower of some small substance, and the hole in the wall was not the sum of his resources, for he owned a little wharf on the river lea. i called him grandfather nat, not to distinguish him among a multitude of grandfathers--for indeed i never knew another of my own--but because of affectionate habit; a habit perhaps born of the fact that nathaniel kemp was also my father's name. my own is stephen. to remember grandfather nat is to bethink me of pear-drops. it is possible that that particular sort of sweetstuff is now obsolete, and i cannot remember how many years have passed since last i smelt it; for the pear-drop was a thing that could be smelt farther than seen, and oftener; so that its smell--a rather fulsome, vulgar smell i now believe--is almost as distinct to my imagination while i write as it was to my nose thirty years ago. for pear-drops were an unfailing part of the large bagful of sticky old-fashioned lollipops that my grandfather brought on his visits, stuffed into his overcoat pocket, and hard to get out without a burst and a spill. his custom was invariable, so that i think i must have come to regard the sweets as some natural production of his coat pocket; insomuch that at my mother's funeral my muddled brain scarce realised the full desolation of the circumstances till i discovered that, for the first time in my experience, my grandfather's pocket was void of pear-drops. but with this new bereavement the world seemed empty indeed, and i cried afresh. associated in my memory with my grandfather's bag of sweets, almost more than with himself, was the gap in the right hand where the middle finger had been; for it was commonly the maimed hand that hauled out the paper bag, and the gap was plain and singular against the white paper. he had lost the finger at sea, they told me; and as my notion of losing a thing was derived from my noah's ark, or dropping a marble through a grating, i was long puzzled to guess how anything like that could have happened to a finger. withal the circumstance fascinated me, and added vastly to the importance and the wonder of my grandfather in my childish eyes. he was perhaps a little over the middle height, but so broad and so deep of chest and, especially, so long of arm, as to seem squat. he had some grey hair, but it was all below the line of his hat-brim; above that it was as the hair of a young man. so that i was led to reason that colour must be washed out of hair by exposure to the weather; as perhaps in his case it was. i think that his face was almost handsome, in a rough, hard-bitten way, and he was as hairy a man as i ever saw. his short beard was like curled wire; but i can remember that long after i had grown to resent being kissed by women, being no longer a baby, i gladly climbed his knee to kiss my grandfather, though his shaven upper-lip was like a rasp. in these early days i lived with my mother in a little house of a short row that stood on a quay, in a place that was not exactly a dock, nor a wharf, nor a public thoroughfare; but where people from the dock trying to find a wharf, people from a wharf looking for the dock, and people from the public thoroughfare in anxious search of dock and wharves, used to meet and ask each other questions. it was a detached piece of blackwall which had got adrift among locks and jetties, and was liable to be cut off from the rest of the world at any moment by the arrival of a ship and the consequent swinging of a bridge, worked by two men at a winch. so that it was a commonplace of my early childhood (though the sight never lost its interest) to observe from a window a ship, passing as it were up the street, warped into dock by the capstans on the quay. and the capstan-songs of the dockmen--_shenandore_, _mexico is covered with snow_, _hurrah for the black ball line_, and the like--were as much my nursery rhymes as _little boy blue_ and _sing a song o' sixpence_. these things are done differently nowadays; the cottages on the quay are gone, and the neighbourhood is a smokier place, where the work is done by engines, with no songs. my father was so much at sea that i remember little of him at all. he was a ship's officer, and at the time i am to tell of he was mate of the brig _juno_, owned by viney and marr, one of the small shipowning firms that were common enough thirty years ago, though rarer now; the sort of firm that was made by a pushing skipper and an ambitious shipping clerk, beginning with a cheap vessel bought with money raised mainly by pawning the ship. such concerns often did well, and sometimes grew into great lines; perhaps most of them yielded the partners no more than a comfortable subsistence; and a good few came to grief, or were kept going by questionable practices which have since become illegal--sometimes in truth by what the law called crime, even then. viney had been a ship's officer--had indeed served under grandfather nat, who was an old skipper. marr was the business man who had been a clerk. and the firm owned two brigs, the _juno_ and another; though how much of their value was clear property and how much stood for borrowed money was matter of doubt and disagreement in the conversation of mates and skippers along thames shore. what nobody disagreed about, however, was that the business was run on skinflint principles, and that the vessels were so badly found, so ill-kept, and so grievously under-manned, that the firm ought to be making money. these things by the way, though they are important to remember. as i was saying, i remember little of my father, because of his long voyages and short spells at home. but my mother is so clear and so kind in my recollection that sometimes i dream of her still, though she died before i was eight. it was while my father was on a long voyage with the _juno_ that there came a time when she took me often upon her knee, asking if i should like a little brother or sister to play with; a thing which i demanded to have brought, instantly. there was a fat woman called mrs. dann, who appeared in the household and became my enemy. she slept with my mother, and my cot was thrust into another room, where i lay at night and brooded--sometimes wept with jealousy thus to be supplanted; though i drew what consolation i might from the prospect of the promised playmate. then i could not go near my mother at all, for she was ill, and there was a doctor. and then ... i was told that mother and baby-brother were gone to heaven together; a thing i would not hear of, but fought savagely with mrs. dann on the landing, shouting to my mother that she was not to die, for i was coming. and when, wearied with kicking and screaming--for i fought with neighbours as well as with the nurse and the undertaker, conceiving them to be all in league to deprive me of my mother--when at last the woman from next door took me into the bedroom, and i saw the drawn face that could not smile, and my tiny brother that could not play, lying across the dead breast, i so behaved that the good soul with me blubbered aloud; and i had an added grief in the reflection that i had kicked her shins not half an hour before. i have never seen that good woman since; and i am ashamed to write that i cannot even remember her name. i have no more to say of my mother, and of her funeral only so much as records the least part of my grief. some of her relations came, whom i cannot distinctly remember seeing at any other time: a group of elderly and hard-featured women, who talked of me as "the child," very much as they might have talked of some troublesome article of baggage; and who turned up their noses at my grandfather: who, for his part, was uneasily respectful, calling each of them "mum" very often. i was not attracted by my mother's relations, and i kept as near my grandfather as possible, feeling a vague fear that some of them might have a design of taking me away. though indeed none was in the least ambitious of that responsibility. they were not all women, for there was one quiet little man in their midst, who, when not eating cake or drinking wine, was sucking the bone handle of a woman's umbrella, which he carried with him everywhere, indoors and out. he was in the custody of the largest and grimmest of ladies, whom the others called aunt martha. he was so completely in her custody that after some consideration i judged he must be her son; though indeed he seemed very old for that. i now believe him to have been her husband; but i cannot remember to have heard his name, and i cannot invent him a better one than uncle martha. uncle martha would have behaved quite well, i am convinced, if he had been left alone, and would have acquitted himself with perfect propriety in all the transactions of the day; but it seemed to be aunt martha's immovable belief that he was wholly incapable of any action, even the simplest and most obvious, unless impelled by shoves and jerks. consequently he was shoved into the mourning carriage--we had two--and jerked into the corner opposite to the one he selected; shoved out--almost on all fours--at the cemetery; and, perceiving him entering the little chapel of his own motion, aunt martha overtook him and jerked him in there. this example presently impressed the other ladies with the expediency of shoving uncle martha at any convenient opportunity; so that he arrived home with us at last in a severely jostled condition, faithful to the bone-handled umbrella through everything. grandfather nat had been liberal in provision for the funeral party, and the cake and port wine, the gin and water, the tea and the watercress, occupied the visitors for some time; a period illuminated by many moral reflections from a rather fat relation, who was no doubt, like most of the others, an aunt. "ah well," said the fat aunt, shaking her head, with a deep sigh that suggested repletion; "ah well; it's what we must all come to!" there had been a deal of other conversation, but i remember this remark because the fat aunt had already made it twice. "ah, indeed," assented another aunt, a thin one; "so we must, sooner or later." "yes, yes; as i often say, we're all mortal." "yes, indeed!" "we've all got to be born, an' we've all got to die." "that's true!" "rich an' poor--just the same." "ah!" "in the midst of life we're in the middle of it." "ah yes!" grandfather nat, deeply impressed, made haste to refill the fat aunt's glass, and to push the cake-dish nearer. aunt martha jerked uncle martha's elbow toward his glass, which he was neglecting, with a sudden nod and a frown of pointed significance--even command. "it's a great trial for all of the family, i'm sure," pursued the fat aunt, after applications to glass and cake-dish; "but we must bear up. not that we ain't had trials enough, neither." "no, indeed," replied aunt martha with a snap at my grandfather, as though he were the trial chiefly on her mind; which grandfather nat took very humbly, and tried her with watercress. "well, she's better off, poor thing," the fat aunt went on. some began to say "ah!" again, but aunt martha snapped it into "well, let's hope so!"--in the tone of one convinced that my mother couldn't be much worse off than she had been. from which, and from sundry other remarks among the aunts, i gathered that my mother was held to have hurt the dignity of her family by alliance with grandfather nat's. i have never wholly understood why; but i put the family pride down to the traditional wedding of an undoubted auctioneer with aunt martha's cousin. so aunt martha said "let's hope so!" and, with another sudden frown and nod, shoved uncle martha toward the cake. "what a blessing the child was took too!" was the fat aunt's next observation. "ah, that it is!" murmured the chorus. but i was puzzled and shocked to hear such a thing said of my little brother. "and it's a good job there's only one left." the chorus agreed again. i began to feel that i had seriously disobliged my mother's relations by not dying too. "and him a boy; boys can look after themselves." this was a thin aunt's opinion. "ah, and that's a blessing," sighed the fat aunt; "a great blessing." "of course," said aunt martha. "and it's not to be expected that his mother's relations can be burdened with him." "why, no indeed!" said the fat aunt, very decisively. "i'm sure it wouldn't be poor ellen's wish to cause more trouble to her family than she has!" and aunt martha, with a frown at the watercress, gave uncle martha another jolt. it seemed to me that he had really eaten all he wanted, and would rather leave off; and i wondered if she always fed him like that, or if it were only when they were visiting. "and besides, it 'ud be standing in the child's way," aunt martha resumed, "with so many openings as there is in the docks here, quite handy." perhaps it was because i was rather dull in the head that day, from one cause and another; at any rate i could think of no other openings in the docks but those between the ships and the jetties, and at the lock-sides, which people sometimes fell into, in the dark; and i gathered a hazy notion that i was expected to make things comfortable by going out and drowning myself. "yes, of course it would," said the fat aunt. "it stands to reason," said a thin one. "anybody can see _that_," said the others. "and many a boy's gone out to work no older." "ah, and been members o' parliament afterwards, too." the prospect of an entry into parliament presented so stupefying a contrast with that of an immersion in the dock that for some time the ensuing conversation made little impression on me. on the part of my mother's relations it was mainly a repetition of what had gone before, very much in the same words; and as to my grandfather, he had little to say at all, but expressed himself, so far as he might, by furtive pats on my back; pats increasing in intensity as the talk of the ladies pointed especially and unpleasingly to myself. till at last the food and drink were all gone. whereupon the fat aunt sighed her last moral sentiment, uncle martha was duly shoved out on the quay, and i was left alone with grandfather nat. "well stevy, ol' mate," said my grandfather, drawing me on his knee; "us two's left alone; left alone, ol' mate." i had not cried much that day--scarce at all in fact, since first meeting my grandfather in the passage and discovering his empty pocket--for, as i have said, i was a little dull in the head, and trying hard to think of many things. but now i cried indeed, with my face against my grandfather's shoulder, and there was something of solace in the outburst; and when at last i looked up i saw two bright drops hanging in the wiry tangle of my grandfather's beard, and another lodged in the furrow under one eye. "'nough done, stevy," said my grandfather; "don't cry no more. you'll come home along o' me now, won't ye? an' to-morrow we'll go in the london dock, where the sugar is." i looked round the room and considered, as well as my sodden little head would permit. i had never been in the london dock, which was a wonderful place, as i had gathered from my grandfather's descriptions: a paradise where sugar lay about the very ground in lumps, and where you might eat it if you would, so long as you brought none away. but here was my home, with nobody else to take care of it, and i felt some muddled sense of a new responsibility. "i'm 'fraid i can't leave the place, gran'fa' nat," i said, with a dismal shake of the head. "father might come home, an' he wouldn't know, an'----" "an' so--an' so you think you've got to stop an' keep house?" my grandfather asked, bending his face down to mine. the prospect had been oppressing my muzzy faculties all day. if i escaped being taken away, plainly i must keep house, and cook, and buy things and scrub floors, at any rate till my father came home; though it seemed a great deal to undertake alone. so i answered with a nod and a forlorn sniff. "good pluck! good pluck!" exclaimed my grandfather, exultantly, clapping his hand twice on my head and rubbing it vigorously. "stevy, ol' mate, me an' you'll get on capital. i knowed you'd make a plucked 'un. but you won't have to keep house alone jest yet. no. you an' me'll keep house together, stevy, at the hole in the wall. your father won't be home a while yet; an' i'll settle all about this here place. but lord! what a pluck for a shaver!" and he brightened wonderfully. in truth there had been little enough of courage in my poor little body, and grandfather nat's words brought me a deal of relief. beyond the vague terrors of loneliness and responsibility, i had been troubled by the reflection that housekeeping cost money, and i had none. for though my mother's half-pay note had been sent in the regular way to viney and marr a week before, there had been neither reply nor return of the paper. the circumstance was unprecedented and unaccountable, though the explanation came before very long. for the present, however, the difficulty was put aside. i put my hand in my grandfather's, and, the door being locked behind us and the key in his pocket, we went out together, on the quay, over the bridge and into the life that was to be new for us both. chapter ii in blue gate while his mother's relations walked out of stephen's tale, and left his grandfather in it, the tales of all the world went on, each man hero in his own. viney and marr were owners of the brig _juno_, away in tropic seas, with stephen's father chief mate; and at this time the tale of viney and marr had just divided into two, inasmuch as the partners were separated and the firm was at a crisis--the crisis responsible for the withholding of mrs. kemp's half-pay. no legal form had dissolved the firm, indeed, and scarce half a mile of streets lay between the two men; but in truth marr had left his partner with uncommon secrecy and expedition, carrying with him all the loose cash he could get together; and a man need travel a very little way to hide in london. so it was that mr. viney, left alone to bear the firm's burdens, was loafing, sometimes about his house in commercial road, stepney, sometimes in the back streets and small public-houses hard by; pondering, no doubt, the matter contained in a paper that had that afternoon stricken the colour from the face of one crooks, ship-chandler, of shadwell, and had hardly less disquieted others in related trades. while marr, for the few days since his flight no more dressed like the business partner in a shipowning concern, nor even like a clerk, but in serge and anklejacks, like a foremast hand, was playing up to his borrowed character by being drunk in blue gate. the blue gate is gone now--it went with many places of a history only less black when ratcliff highway was put to rout. as you left high street, shadwell, for the highway--they made one thoroughfare--the blue gate was on your right, almost opposite an evil lane that led downhill to the new dock. blue gate fields, it was more fully called, though there was as little of a field as of a gate, blue or other, about the place, which was a street, narrow, foul and forbidding, leading up to back lane. it was a bad and a dangerous place, the worst in all that neighbourhood: worse than frederick street--worse than tiger bay. the sailor once brought to anchor in blue gate was lucky to get out with clothes to cover him--lucky if he saved no more than his life. yet sailors were there in plenty, hilarious, shouting, drunk and drugged. horrible draggled women pawed them over for whatever their pockets might yield, and murderous ruffians were ready at hand whenever a knock on the head could solve a difficulty. front doors stood ever open in the blue gate, and some houses had no front doors at all. at the top of one of the grimy flights of stairs thus made accessible from the street, was a noisy and ill-smelling room; noisy because of the company it held; ill-smelling partly because of their tobacco, but chiefly because of the tobacco and the liquor of many that had been there before, and because of the aged foulness of the whole building. there were five in the room, four men and a woman. one of the men was marr, though for the present he was not using that name. he was noticeable amid the group, being cleaner than the rest, fair-haired, and dressed like a sailor ashore, though he lacked the sunburn that was proper to the character. but sailor or none, there he sat where many had sat before him, a piece of the familiar prey of blue gate, babbling drunk and reasonless. the others were watchfully sober enough, albeit with a great pretence of jollity; they had drunk level with the babbler, but had been careful to water his drink with gin. as for him, he swayed and lolled, sometimes on the table before him, sometimes on the shoulder of the woman at his side. she was no beauty, with her coarse features, dull eyes, and tousled hair, her thick voice and her rusty finery; but indeed she was the least repulsive of that foul company. on the victim's opposite side sat a large-framed bony fellow, with a thin, unhealthy face that seemed to belong to some other body, and dress that proclaimed him long-shore ruffian. the woman called him dan, and nods and winks passed between the two, over the drooping head between them. next dan was an ugly rascal with a broken nose; singular in that place, as bearing in his dress none of the marks of waterside habits, crimpery and the highway, but seeming rather the commonplace town rat of shoreditch or whitechapel. and, last, a blind fiddler sat in a corner, fiddling a flourish from time to time, roaring with foul jest, and roiling his single white eye upward. "no, i won'av another," the fair-haired man said, staring about him with uncertain eyes. "got bishness 'tend to. i say, wha' pubsh this? 'tain' brown bear, ish't? ish't brown bear?" "no, you silly," the woman answered playfully. "'tain't the brown bear; you've come 'ome along of us." "o! come home--come home.... i shay--this won' do! mus'n' go 'ome yet--get collared y'know!" this with an owlish wink at the bottle before him. dan and the woman exchanged a quick look; plainly something had gone before that gave the words significance. "no," marr went on, "mus'n' go 'ome. i'm sailor man jus' 'shore from brig _juno_ in from barbadoes.... no, not _juno_, course not. dunno _juno_. 'tain' _juno_. d'year? 'tain' _juno_, ye know, my ship. never heard o' _juno_. mine's 'nother ship.... i say, wha'sh name my ship?" "you're a rum sailor-man," said dan, "not to know the name of your own ship ten minutes together. why, you've told us about four different names a'ready." the sham seaman chuckled feebly. "why, i don't believe you're a sailor at all, mate," the woman remarked, still playfully. "you've just bin a-kiddin' of us fine!" the chuckle persisted, and turned to a stupid grin. "ha, ha! ha, ha! have it y'r own way." this with a clumsily stealthy grope at the breast pocket--a movement that the others had seen before, and remembered. "have it y'r own way. but i say; i say, y'know"--suddenly serious--"you're all right, ain't you? eh? all right, you know, eh? i s-say--i hope you're--orright?" "awright, mate? course we are!" and dan clapped him cordially on the shoulder. "awright, mate?" shouted the blind man, his white eye rolling and blinking horribly at the ceiling. "right as ninepence! an' a 'a'penny over, damme!" "_we're_ awright," growled the broken-nosed man, thickly. "_we_ don't tell no secrets," said the woman. "thash all very well, but i was talkin' about the _juno_, y'know. was'n i talkin' about _juno_?" a look of sleepy alarm was on the fair man's face as he turned his eyes from one to another. "ay, that's so," answered the fellow at his side. "brig _juno_ in from barbadoes." "ah! thash where you're wrong; she _ain't_ in--see?" marr wagged his head, and leered the profoundest sagacity. "she _ain't_ in. what's more, 'ow d'you know she ever will come in, eh? 'ow d'ye know that? thash one for ye, ole f'ler! whar'll ye bet me she ever gets as far as--but i say, i say; i say, y'know, you're all right, ain't you? qui' sure you're orrigh'?" there was a new and a longer chorus of reassurance, which dan at last ended with: "go on; the _juno_ ain't ever to come back; is that it?" marr turned and stared fishily at him for some seconds. "wha'rr you mean?" he demanded, at length, with a drivelling assumption of dignity. "wha'rr you mean? n-never come back? nishe remark make 'spectable shipowner! whassor' firm you take us for, eh?" the blind fiddler stopped midway in a flourish and pursed his lips silently. dan looked quickly at the fiddler, and as quickly back at the drunken man. marr's attitude and the turn of his head being favourable, the woman quietly detached his watch. "whassor' firm you take us for?" he repeated. "d'ye think 'cause we're--'cause i come here--'cause i come 'ere an'----" he stopped foolishly, and tailed off into nothing, smiling uneasily at one and another. the woman held up the watch behind him--a silver hunter, engraved with marr's chief initial--a noticeably large letter m. dan saw it, shook his head and frowned, pointed and tapped his own breast pocket, all in a moment. and presently the woman slipped the watch back into the pocket it came from. "'ere, 'ave another drink," said dan hospitably. "'ave another all round for the last, 'fore the fiddler goes. 'ere y'are, george, reach out." "eh?" ejaculated the fiddler. "eh? i ain't goin'! didn't the genelman ask me to come along? come, i'll give y' a toon. i'll give y' a chant as 'll make yer 'air curl!" "take your drink, george," dan insisted, "we don't want our 'air curled." the fiddler groped for and took the drink, swallowed it, and twangled the fiddle-strings. "will y'ave _black jack_?" he asked. "no," dan answered with a rising voice. "we won't 'ave black jack, an' what's more we won't 'ave blind george, see? you cut your lucky, soon as ye like!" "awright, awright, cap'en," the fiddler remonstrated, rising reluctantly. "you're 'ard on a pore blind bloke, damme. ain't i to get nothin' out o' this 'ere? i ask ye fair, didn't the genelman tell me to come along?" marr, ducking and lolling over the table, here looked up and said, "whassup? fiddler won' go? gi'm twopence an' kick'm downstairs. 'ere y'are!" and he pulled out some small change between his fingers, and spilt it on the table. dan and the broken-nosed man gathered it up and thrust it into the blind man's hand. "this ain't the straight game," he protested, in a hoarse whisper, as they pushed him through the doorway. "i want my reg'lars out o' that lot. d'ye 'ear? i want my reg'lars!" but they shut the door on him, whereupon he broke into a torrent of curses on the landing; and presently, having descended several of the stairs, reached back to let drive a thump at the door with his stick; and so went off swearing into the street. marr sniggered feebly. "chucked out fiddler," he said. "whash we do now? i won'ave any more drink. i 'ad 'nough.... think i'll be gett'n' along.... here, what you after, eh?" he clapped his hand again to his breast pocket, and turned suspiciously on the woman. "you keep y'r hands off," he said. "wha' wan' my pocket?" "awright, mate," the woman answered placidly. "i ain't a touchin' yer pockets. why, look there--yer watchguard's 'angin'; you'll drop that presently an' say it's me, i s'pose!" "you'd better get away from the genelman if you can't behave yourself civil," interposed dan, pushing the woman aside and getting between them. "'ere, mate, you got to 'ave another drink along o' me. i'll turn her out arter the fiddler, if she ain't civil." "i won'ave another drink," said marr, thickly, struggling unsteadily to his feet and dropping back instantly to his chair. "i won'avanother." "we'll see about that," replied dan. "'ere, you get out," he went on, addressing the woman as he hauled her up by the shoulders. "you get out; we're goin' to be comf'table together, us two an' 'im. out ye go!" he thrust her toward the door and opened it. "i'm sick o' foolin' about," he added in an angry undertone; "quick's the word." "o no, dan--don't," the woman pleaded, whispering on the landing. "not that way! not again! i'll get it from him easy in a minute! don't do it, dan!" "shut yer mouth! i ain't askin' you. you shove off a bit." "don't, dan!" but the door was shut. "i tell ye i won'avanother!" came marr's voice from within. the woman went down the stairs, her gross face drawn as though she wept, though her eyes were dry. at the door she looked back with something like a shudder, and then turned her steps down the street. * * * * * the two partners in viney and marr were separated indeed; but now it was by something more than half a mile of streets. chapter iii stephen's tale i had never been home with grandfather nat before. i fancy that some scruples of my mother's, in the matter of the neighbourhood and the character of the company to be seen and heard at the hole in the wall, had hitherto kept me from the house, and even from the sugary elysium of the london dock. now i was going there at last, and something of eager anticipation overcame the sorrow of the day. we went in an omnibus, which we left in commercial road. here my grandfather took order to repair my disappointment in the matter of pear-drops; and we left the shop with such a bagful that it would not go into the accustomed pocket at all. a little way from this shop, and on the opposite side of the way, stood a house which my mother had more than once pointed out to me already; and as we came abreast of it now, grandfather nat pointed it out also. "know who lives there, stevy?" he asked. "yes," i said; "mr. viney, that father's ship belongs to." there was a man sitting on the stone baluster by the landing of the front steps, having apparently just desisted from knocking at the door. he was pale and agitated, and he slapped his leg distractedly with a folded paper. "why," said my grandfather, "that's crooks, the ship-chandler. he looks bad; wonder what's up?" with that the door opened, and a servant-girl, in bonnet and shawl, emerged with her box, lifting and dragging it as best she might. the man rose and spoke to her, and i supposed that he was about to help. but at her answer he sank back on the balustrade, and she hauled the box to the pavement by herself. the man looked worse than ever, now, and he moved his head from side to side; so that it struck me that it might be that his mother also was dead; perhaps to-day; and at the thought all the flavour went from the pear-drop in my mouth. we turned up a narrow street which led us to a part where the river plainly was nearer at every step; for well i knew the curious smell that grew as we went, and that had in it something of tar, something of rope and junk, something of ships' stores, and much of a blend of unknown outlandish merchandise. we met sailors, some with parrots and accordions, and many with undecided legs; and we saw more of the hang-dog fellows who were not sailors, though they dressed in the same way, and got an inactive living out of sailors, somehow. they leaned on posts, they lurked in foul entries, they sat on sills, smoking; and often one would accost and hang to a passing sailor, with a grinning, trumped-up cordiality that offended and repelled me, child as i was. and there were big, coarse women, with flaring clothes, and hair that shone with grease; though for them i had but a certain wonder; as for why they all seemed to live near the docks; why they all grew so stout; and why they never wore bonnets. as we went where the street grew fouler and more crooked, and where dark entries and many turnings gave evidence of the complication of courts and alleys about us, we heard a hoarse voice crooning a stave of a sea-song, with the low scrape of a fiddle striking in here and there, as it were at random. and presently there turned a corner ahead and faced toward us a blind man, with his fiddle held low against his chest, and his face lifted upward, a little aside. he checked at the corner to hit the wall a couple of taps with the stick that hung from his wrist, and called aloud, with fouler words than i can remember or could print: "now then, damn ye! ain't there ne'er a christian sailor-man as wants a toon o' george? who'll 'ave a toon o' george? ain't ye got no money, damn ye? not a brown for pore blind george? what a dirty mean lot it is! who'll 'ave a 'ornpipe? who'll 'ave a song o' pore george?... o damn y' all!" and so, with a mutter and another tap of the stick, he came creeping along, six inches at a step, the stick dangling loose again, and the bow scraping the strings to the song:-- fire on the fore-top, fire on the bow, fire on the main-deck, fire down below! fire! fire! fire down below! fetch a bucket o' water; fire down below! the man's right eye was closed, but the left was horribly wide and white and rolling, and it quite unpleasantly reminded me of a large china marble that lay at that moment at the bottom of my breeches pocket, under some uniform buttons, a key you could whistle on, a brass knob from a fender, and a tangle of string. so much indeed was i possessed with this uncomfortable resemblance in later weeks, when i had seen blind george often, and knew more of him, that at last i had no choice but to fling the marble into the river; though indeed it was something of a rarity in marbles, and worth four "alleys" as big as itself. my grandfather stopped his talk as we drew within earshot of the fiddler; but blind men's ears are keen beyond the common. the bow dropped from the fiddle, and blind george sang out cheerily: "why, 'ere comes cap'en nat, 'ome from the funeral; and got 'is little grandson what 'e's goin' to take care of an' bring up so moral in 'is celebrated 'ouse o' call!" all to my extreme amazement: for what should this strange blind man know of me, or of my mother's funeral? grandfather nat seemed a little angry. "well, well," he said, "your ears are sharp, blind george; they learn a lot as ain't your business. if your eyes was as good as your ears you'd ha' had your head broke 'fore this--a dozen times!" "if my eyes was as good as my ears, cap'en nat kemp," the other retorted, "there's many as wouldn't find it so easy to talk o' breakin' my 'ed. other people's business! lord! i know enough to 'ang some of 'em, that's what i know! i could tell you some o' _your_ business if i liked,--some as you don't know yourself. look 'ere! you bin to a funeral. well, it ain't the last funeral as 'll be wanted in your family; see? the kid's mother's gone; don't you be too sure 'is father's safe! i bin along o' some one you know, an' _'e_ don't look like lastin' for ever, 'e don't; 'e ain't in 'ealthy company." grandfather nat twitched my sleeve, and we walked on. "awright!" the blind man called after us, in his tone of affable ferocity. "awright, go along! you'll see things, some day, near as well as i can, what's blind!" "that's a bad fellow, stevy," grandfather nat said, as we heard the fiddle and the song begin again. "don't you listen to neither his talk nor his songs. somehow it don't seem nat'ral to see a blind man such a bad 'un. but a bad 'un he is, up an' down." i asked how he came to know about the funeral, and especially about my coming to wapping--a thing i had only learned of myself an hour before. my grandfather said that he had probably learned of the funeral from somebody who had been at the hole in the wall during the day, and had asked the reason of the landlord's absence; and as to myself, he had heard my step, and guessed its meaning instantly. "he's a keen sharp rascal, stevy, an' he makes out all of parties' business he can. he knew your father was away, an' he jumped the whole thing at once. that's his way. but i don't stand him; he don't corne into my house barrin' he comes a customer, which i can't help." of the meaning of the blind man's talk i understood little. but he shocked me with a sense of insult, and more with one of surprise. for i had entertained a belief, born of sunday-school stories, that blindness produced saintly piety--unless it were the piety that caused the blindness--and that in any case a virtuous meekness was an essential condition of the affliction. so i walked in doubt and cogitation. and so, after a dive down a narrower street than any we had yet traversed (it could scarce be dirtier), and a twist through a steep and serpentine alley, we came, as it grew dusk, to the hole in the wall. of odd-looking riverside inns i can remember plenty, but never, before or since, have i beheld an odder than this of grandfather nat's. it was wooden and clap-boarded, and, like others of its sort, it was everywhere larger at top than at bottom. but the hole in the wall was not only top-heavy, but also most alarmingly lopsided. by its side, and half under it, lay a narrow passage, through which one saw a strip of the river and its many craft, and the passage ended in hole-in-the-wall stairs. all of the house that was above the ground floor on this side rested on a row of posts, which stood near the middle of the passage; and the burden of these posts, twisted, wavy, bulging, and shapeless, hung still more toward the opposite building; while the farther side, bounded by a later brick house, was vertical, as though a great wedge, point downward, had been cut away to permit the rise of the newer wall. and the effect was as of a reeling and toppling of the whole construction away from its neighbour, and an imminent downfall into the passage. and when, later, i examined the side looking across the river, supported on piles, and bulging and toppling over them also, i decided that what kept the hole in the wall from crashing into the passage was nothing but its countervailing inclination to tumble into the river. painted large over the boards of the front, whose lapped edges gave the letters ragged outlines, were the words the hole in the wall; and below, a little smaller, nathaniel kemp. i felt a certain pride, i think, in the importance thus given the family name, and my esteem of my grandfather increased proportionably with the size of the letters. there was a great noise within, and grandfather nat, with a quick look toward the entrance, grunted angrily. but we passed up the passage and entered by a private door under the posts. this door opened directly into the bar parlour, the floor whereof was two steps below the level of the outer paving; and the size whereof was about thrice that of a sentry-box. the din of a quarrel and a scuffle came from the bar, and my grandfather, thrusting me into a corner, and giving me his hat, ran out with a roar like that of a wild beast. at the sound the quarrel hushed in its height. "what's this?" my grandfather blared, with a thump on the counter that made the pots jump. "what sort of a row's this in my house? damme, i'll break y' in halves, every mother's son of ye!" i peeped through the glass partition, and saw, first, the back of the potman's head (for the bar-floor took another drop) and beyond that and the row of beer-pulls, a group of rough, hulking men, one with blood on his face, and all with an odd look of sulky guilt. "out you go!" pursued grandfather nat, "every swab o' ye! can't leave the place not even to go to--not for nothin', without a row like this, givin' the house a bad name! go on, jim crute! unless i'm to chuck ye!" the men had begun filing out awkwardly, with nothing but here and there: "awright, guv'nor"--"awright, cap'en." "goin', ain't i?" and the like. but one big ruffian lagged behind, scowling and murmuring rebelliously. in a flash grandfather nat was through the counter-wicket. with a dart of his long left arm he had gripped the fellow's ear and spun him round with a wrench that i thought had torn the ear from the head; and in the same moment had caught him by the opposite wrist, so as to stretch the man's extended arm, elbow backward, across his own great chest; a posture in which the backward pull against the elbow joint brought a yell of agony from the victim. only a man with extraordinarily long arms could have done the thing exactly like that. the movement was so savagely sudden that my grandfather had kicked open the door and flung jim crute headlong into the street ere i quite understood it; when there came a check in my throat and tears in my eyes to see the man so cruelly handled. grandfather nat stood a moment at the door, but it seemed that his customer was quelled effectually, for presently he turned inward again, with such a grim scowl as i had never seen before. and at that a queer head appeared just above the counter--i had supposed the bar to be wholly cleared--and a very weak and rather womanish voice said, in tones of over-inflected indignation: "serve 'em right, cap'en kemp, i'm sure. lot o' impudent vagabones! ought to be ashamed o' theirselves, that they ought. pity every 'ouse ain't kep' as strict as this one is, that's what i say!" and the queer head looked round the vacant bar with an air of virtuous defiance, as though anxious to meet the eye of any so bold as to contradict. it was anything but a clean face on the head, and it was overshadowed by a very greasy wideawake hat. grubbiness and unhealthy redness contended for mastery in the features, of which the nose was the most surprising, wide and bulbous and knobbed all over; so that ever afterward, in any attempt to look mr. cripps in the face, i found myself wholly disregarding his eyes, and fixing a fascinated gaze on his nose; and i could never recall his face to memory as i recalled another, but always as a nose, garnished with a fringe of inferior features. the face had been shaved--apparently about a week before; and by the sides hung long hair, dirtier to look at than the rest of the apparition. my grandfather gave no more than a glance in the direction of this little man, passed the counter and re-joined me, pulling off his coat as he came. something of my tingling eyes and screwed mouth was visible, i suppose, for he stooped as he rolled up his shirt-sleeves and said: "why, stevy boy, what's amiss?" "you--you--hurt the man's ear," i said, with a choke and a sniff; for till then grandfather nat had seemed to me the kindest man in the world. grandfather nat looked mightily astonished. he left his shirt-sleeve where it was, and thrust his fingers up in his hair behind, through the grey and out at the brown on top. "what?" he said. "hurt 'im? hurt 'im? why, s'pose i did? he ain't a friend o' yours, is he, young 'un?" i shook my head and blinked. there was a gleam of amusement in my grandfather's grim face as he sat in a chair and took me between his knees. "hurt 'im?" he repeated. "why, lord love ye, _i'd_ get hurt if i didn't hurt some of 'em, now an' then. they're a rough lot--a bitter bad lot round here, an' it's hurt or be hurt with them, stevy. i got to frighten 'em, my boy--an' i do it, too." i was passing my fingers to and fro in the matted hair on my grandfather's arm, and thinking. he seemed a very terrible man now, and perhaps something of a hero; for, young as i was, i was a boy. so presently i said, "did you ever kill a man, gran'fa' nat?" chapter iv stephen's tale many small matters of my first few hours at the hole in the wall were impressed on me by later events. in particular i remember the innocent curiosity with which i asked: "did you ever kill a man, gran'fa' nat?" there was a twitch and a frown on my grandfather's face, and he sat back as one at a moment's disadvantage. i thought that perhaps he was trying to remember. but he only said, gruffly, and with a quick sound like a snort: "very nigh killed myself once or twice, stevy, in my time," and rose hastily from his chair to reach a picture of a ship that was standing on a shelf. "there," he said, "that's a new 'un, just done; pretty picter, ain't it? an' that there," pointing to another hanging on the wall, "that's the _juno_, what your father's on now." i had noticed that the walls, both of the bar and of the bar-parlour, were plentifully hung with paintings of ships; ships becalmed, ships in full sail, ships under bare spars; all with painful blue skies over them, and very even-waved seas beneath; and ships in storms, with torn sails, pursued by rumbustious piles of sooty cloud, and pelted with lengths of scarlet lightning. i fear i should not have recognised my father's ship without help, but that was probably because i had only seen it, months before, lying in dock, battered and dingy, with a confusion of casks and bales about the deck, and naked yards dangling above; whereas in the picture (which was a mile too small for the brig) it was booming along under a flatulent mountain of clean white sail, and bulwarks and deck-fittings were gay with lively and diversified colour. i said something about its being a fine ship, or a fine picture, and that there were a lot of them. "ah," he said, "they do mount up, one arter another. it's one gentleman as did 'em all--him out in the bar now, with the long hair. sometimes i think i'd rather a-had money; but it's a talent, that's what it is!" the artist beyond the outer bar had been talking to the potman. now he coughed and said: "ha--um! cap'en kemp, sir! cap'en kemp! no doubt as you've 'eard the noos to-day?" "no," said grandfather nat, finishing the rolling of his shirt-sleeves as he stepped down into the bar; "not as i know on. what is it?" "not about viney and marr?" "no. what about 'em?" mr. cripps rose on his toes with the importance of his information, and his eyes widened to a moment's rivalry with his nose. "gone wrong," he said, in a shrill whisper that was as loud as his natural voice. "gone wrong. unsolvent. cracked up. broke. busted, in a common way o' speakin'." and he gave a violent nod with each synonym. "no," said grandfather nat; "surely not viney and marr?" "fact, cap'en; i can assure you, on 'igh a'thority. it's what i might call the universal topic in neighbourin' circles, an' a gen'ral subjick o' local discussion. you'd 'a 'eard it 'fore this if you'd bin at 'ome." my grandfather whistled, and rested a hand on a beer-pull. "not a stiver for nobody, they say," mr. cripps pursued, "not till they can sell the wessels. what there was loose marr's bolted with; or, as you might put it, absconded; absconded with the proceeds. an' gone abroad, it's said." "i see the servant gal bringin' out her box from viney's just now," said grandfather nat. "an' crooks the ship-chandler was on the steps, very white in the gills, with a paper. well, well! an' you say marr's bolted?" "absconded, cap'en kemp; absconded with the proceeds; 'opped the twig. viney says 'e's robbed 'im as well as the creditors, but i 'ear some o' the creditors' observation is 'gammon.' an' they say the wessels is pawned up to their r'yals. up to their r'yals!" "well," commented my grandfather, "i wouldn't ha' thought it. the _juno_ was that badly found, an' they did everything that cheap, i thought they made money hand over fist." "flyin' too 'igh, cap'en kemp, flyin' too 'igh. you knowed viney long 'fore 'e elevated hisself into a owner, didn't you? what was he then? why, 'e was your mate one voy'ge, wasn't he?" "ay, an' more." "so i've 'eard tell. well, arter that surely 'e was flyin' too 'igh! an' now marr's absconded with the proceeds!" the talk in the bar went on, being almost entirely the talk of mr. cripps; who valued himself on the unwonted importance his news gave him, and aimed at increasing it by saying the same thing a great many times; by saying it, too, when he could, in terms and phrases that had a strong flavour of the sunday paper. but as for me, i soon ceased to hear, for i discovered something of greater interest on the shelf that skirted the bar-parlour. it was a little model of a ship in a glass case, and it was a great marvel to me, with all its standing and running rigging complete, and a most ingenious and tumultuous sea about it, made of stiff calico cockled up into lumps and ridges, and painted the proper colour. much better than either of the two we had at home, for these latter were only half-models, each nothing but one-half of a little ship split from stem to stern, and stuck against a board, on which were painted sky, clouds, seagulls, and (in one case) a lighthouse; an exasperating make-believe that had been my continual disappointment. but this was altogether so charming and delightful and real, and the little hatches and cuddy-houses so thrilled my fancy, that i resolved to beg of my grandfather to let me call the model my own, and sometimes have the glass case off. so i was absorbed while the conversation in the bar ranged from the ships and their owners to my father, and from him to me; as was plain when my grandfather called me. "here he is," said my grandfather, with a deal of pride in his voice, putting his foot on a stool and lifting me on his knee. "here he is, an' a plucked 'un; ain't ye, stevy?" he rubbed his hand over my head, as he was fond of doing. "plucked? ah! why, he was agoin' to keep house all by hisself, with all the pluck in life, till his father come home! warn't ye, stevy boy? but he's come along o' me instead, an' him an' me's goin' to keep the hole in the wall together, ain't we? pardners: eh, stevy?" i think i never afterwards saw my grandfather talking so familiarly with his customers. i perceived now that there was another in the bar in addition to mr. cripps; a pale, quiet, and rather ragged man who sat in an obscure corner with an untouched glass of liquor by him. "come," said my grandfather, "have one with me, mr. cripps, an' drink the new pardner's health. what is it? an' you--you drink up too, an' have another." this last order grandfather nat flung at the man in the corner, just in the tones in which i had heard a skipper on a ship tell a man to "get forrard lively" with a rope fender, opposite our quay at blackwall. "i'm sure 'ere's wishin' the young master every 'ealth an' 'appiness," said mr. cripps, beaming on me with a grin that rather frightened than pleased me, it twisted the nose so. "every 'ealth and 'appiness, i'm sure!" the pale man in the corner only looked up quickly, as if fearful of obtruding himself, gulped the drink that had been standing by him, and receiving another, put it down untasted where the first had stood. "that ain't drinkin' a health," said my grandfather, angrily. "there--that's it!" and he pointed to the new drink with the hand that held his own. the pale man lifted it hurriedly, stood up, looked at me and said something indistinct, gulped the liquor and returned the glass to the counter; whereupon the potman, without orders, instantly refilled it, and the man carried it back to his corner and put it down beside him, as before. i began to wonder if the pale man suffered from some complaint that made it dangerous to leave him without a drink close at hand, ready to be swallowed at a moment's notice. but mr. cripps blinked, first at his own glass and then at the pale man's; and i fancy he thought himself unfairly treated. howbeit his affability was unconquerable. he grinned and snapped his fingers playfully at me, provoking my secret indignation; since that was what people did to please babies. "an' a pretty young gent 'e is too," said mr. cripps, "of considerable personal attractions. goin' to bring 'im up to the trade, i s'pose, cap'en kemp?" "why, no," said grandfather nat, with some dignity. "no. something better than that, i'm hopin'. pardners is all very well for a bit, but stevy's goin' to be a cut above his poor old gran'father, if i can do it. eh, boy?" he rubbed my head again, and i was too shy, sitting there in the bar, to answer. "eh, boy? boardin' school an' a gentleman's job for this one, if the old man has his way." mr. cripps shook his head sagaciously, and could plainly see that i was cut out for a statesman. he also lifted his empty glass, looked at it abstractedly, and put it down again. nothing coming of this, he complimented my personal appearance once more, and thought that my portrait should certainly be painted, as a memorial in my future days of greatness. this notion seemed to strike my grandfather rather favourably, and he forthwith consulted a slate which dangled by a string; during his contemplation of which, with its long rows of strokes, mr. cripps betrayed a certain anxious discomfort. "well," said grandfather nat at length, "you are pretty deep in, you know, an' it might as well be that as anything else. but what about that sign? ain't i ever goin' to get that?" mr. cripps knitted his brows and his nose, turned up his eyes and shook his head. "it ain't come to me yet, cap'en kemp," he said; "not yet. i'm still waiting for what you might call an inspiration. but when it comes, cap'en kemp--when it comes! ah! you'll 'ave a sign then! sich a sign! you'll 'ave sich a sign as'll attract the 'ole artistic feelin' of wapping an' surroundin' districks of the metropolis, i assure you. an' the signs on the other 'ouses--phoo!" mr. cripps made a sweep of the hand, which i took to indicate generally that all other publicans, overwhelmed with humiliation, would have no choice but straightway to tear down their own signs and bury them. "umph! but meanwhile i haven't got one at all," objected grandfather nat; "an' they have." "ah, yes, sir--some sort o' signs. but done by mere jobbers, and poor enough too. my hart, cap'en kemp--i respect my hart, an' i don't rush at a job like that. it wants conception, sir, a job like that--conception. the common sort o' sign's easy enough. you go at it, an' you do it or hexicute it, an' when it's done or hexicuted--why there it is. a ship, maybe, or a crown, or a turk's 'ed or three cats an' a fryin' pan. simple enough--no plannin', no composition, no invention. but a 'ole in a wall, cap'en kemp--it takes a hartist to make a picter o' that; an' it takes study, an' meditation, an' invention!" "simplest thing o' the lot," said captain nat. "a wall, an' a hole in it. simplest thing o' the lot!" "as you observe, cap'en kemp, it may seem simple enough; that's because you're thinkin' o' subjick, instead o' treatment. a common jobber, if you'll excuse my sayin' it, 'ud look at it just in that light--a wall with a 'ole in it, an' 'e'd give it you, an' p'rhaps you'd be satisfied with it. but i soar 'igher, sir, 'igher. what i shall give you'll be a 'ole in the wall to charm the heye and delight the intelleck, sir. a dramatic 'ole in the wall, sir, a hepic 'ole in the wall; a 'ole in the wall as will elevate the mind and stimilate the noblest instinks of the be'older. cap'en kemp, i don't 'esitate to say that my 'ole in the wall, when you get it, will be--ah! it'll be the moral palladium of wapping!" "_when_ i get it," my grandfather replied with a chuckle, "anything might happen without surprisin' me. i think p'rhaps i might be so startled as to forget the bit you've had on account, an' pay full cash." mr. cripps's eyes brightened at the hint. "you're always very 'andsome in matters o' business, cap'en kemp," he said, "an' i always say so. which reminds me, speakin' of 'andsome things. this morning goin' to see my friend as keeps the mortuary, i see as 'andsome a bit o' panel for to paint a sign as ever i come across. a lovely bit o' stuff to be sure--enough to stimulate anybody's artistic invention to look at it, that it was. not dear neither--particular moderate in fact. i'm afraid it may be gone now; but if i'd 'a 'ad the money----" a noise of trampling and singing without neared the door, and with a bang and a stagger a party of fresh customers burst in and swept mr. cripps out of his exposition. two were sun-browned sailors, shouting and jovial, but the rest, men and women, sober and villainous in their mock jollity, were land-sharks plain to see. the foremost sailor drove against mr. cripps, and having almost knocked him down, took him by the shoulders and involved him in his flounderings; apologising, meanwhile, at the top of his voice, and demanding to know what mr. cripps would drink. whereupon grandfather nat sent me back to the bar-parlour and the little ship, and addressed himself to business and the order of the bar. and so he was occupied for the most of the evening. sometimes he sat with me and taught me the spars and rigging of the model, sometimes i peeped through the glass at the business of the house. the bar remained pretty full throughout the evening, in its main part, and my grandfather ruled its frequenters with a strong voice and an iron hand. but there was one little space partitioned off, as it might be for the better company: which space was nearly always empty. into this quieter compartment i saw a man come, rather late in the evening, furtive and a little flustered. he was an ugly ruffian with a broken nose; and he was noticeable as being the one man i had seen in my grandfather's house who had no marks of seafaring or riverside life about him, but seemed merely an ordinary london blackguard from some unmaritime neighbourhood. he beckoned silently to grandfather nat, who walked across and conferred with him. presently my grandfather left the counter and came into the bar-parlour. he had something in his closed hand, which he carried to the lamp to examine, so that i could see it was a silver watch; while the furtive man waited expectantly in the little compartment. the watch interested me, for the inward part swung clean out from the case, and hung by a single hinge, in a way i had never seen before. i noticed, also, that a large capital letter m was engraved on the back. grandfather nat shut the watch and strode into the bar. "here you are," he said aloud, handing it to the broken-nosed man. "here you are. it seems all right--good enough watch, i should say." the man was plainly disconcerted--frightened, indeed--by this public observation; and answered with an eager whisper. "what?" my grandfather replied, louder than ever; "want me to buy it? not me. this ain't a pawnshop. i don't want a watch; an' if i did, how do i know where you got it?" much discomposed by this rebuff, the fellow hurried off. whereupon i was surprised to see the pale man rise from the corner of the bar, put his drink, still untasted, in a safe place on the counter, beyond the edge of the partition, and hurry out also. cogitating this matter in my grandfather's arm-chair, presently i fell asleep. what woke me at length was the loud voice of grandfather nat, and i found that it was late, and he was clearing the bar before shutting up. i rubbed my eyes and looked out, and was interested to see that the pale man had come back, and was now swallowing his drink at last before going out after the rest. whereat i turned again, drowsily enough, to the model ship. but a little later, when grandfather nat and i were at supper in the bar-parlour, and i was dropping to sleep again, i was amazed to see my grandfather pull the broken-nosed man's watch out of his pocket and put it in a tin cash-box. at that i rubbed my eyes, and opened them so wide on the cash-box, that grandfather nat said, "hullo, stevy! woke up with a jump? time you was in bed." chapter v in the highway the hole in the wall being closed, its customers went their several ways; the sailors, shouting and singing, drifting off with their retinue along wapping wall toward ratcliff; mr. cripps, fuller than usual of free drinks--for the sailors had come a long voyage and were proportionally liberal--scuffling off, steadily enough, on the way that led to limehouse; for mr. cripps had drunk too much and too long ever to be noticeably drunk. and last of all, when the most undecided of the stragglers from captain nat kemp's bar had vanished one way or another, the pale, quiet man moved out from the shadow and went in the wake of the noisy sailors. the night was dark, and the streets. the lamps were few and feeble, and angles, alleys and entries were shapes of blackness that seemed more solid than the walls about them. but instead of the silence that consorts with gloom, the air was racked with human sounds; sounds of quarrels, scuffles, and brawls, far and near, breaking out fitfully amid the general buzz and whoop of discordant singing that came from all wapping and ratcliff where revellers rolled into the open. a stone's throw on the pale man's way was a swing bridge with a lock by its side, spanning the channel that joined two dock-basins. the pale man, passing along in the shadow of the footpath, stopped in an angle. three policemen were coming over the bridge in company--they went in threes in these parts--and the pale man, who never made closer acquaintance with the police than he could help, slunk down by the bridge-foot, as though designing to make the crossing by way of the narrow lock; no safe passage in the dark. but he thought better of it, and went by the bridge, as soon as the policemen had passed. a little farther and he was in ratcliff highway, where it joined with shadwell high street, and just before him stood paddy's goose. the house was known by that name far beyond the neighbourhood, among people who were unaware that the actual painted sign was the white swan. paddy's goose was still open, for its doors never closed till one; though there were a few houses later even than this, where, though the bars were cleared and closed at one, in accordance with act of parliament, the doors swung wide again ten minutes later. there was still dancing within at paddy's goose, and the squeak of fiddles and the thump of feet were plain to hear. the pale man passed on into the dark beyond its lights, and soon the black mouth of blue gate stood on his right. blue gate gave its part to the night's noises, and more; for a sudden burst of loud screams--a woman's--rent the air from its innermost deeps; screams which affected the pale man not at all, nor any other passenger; for it might be murder or it might be drink, or sudden rage or fear, or a quarrel; and whatever it might be was common enough in blue gate. paddy's goose had no monopoly of music, and the common plenty of street fiddlers was the greater as the early houses closed. scarce eighty yards from blue gate stood blind george, fiddling his hardest for a party dancing in the roadway. many were looking on, drunk or sober, with approving shouts; and every face was ghastly phosphorescent in the glare of a ship's blue-light that a noisy negro flourished among the dancers. close by, a woman and a man were quarrelling in the middle of a group; but the matter had no attention till of a sudden it sprang into a fight, and the man and another were punching and wrestling in a heap, bare to the waist. at this the crowd turned from the dancers, and the negro ran yelping to shed his deathly light on the new scene. the crowd howled and scrambled, and a drunken sailor fell in the mud. quick at the chance, a ruffian took him under the armpits and dragged him from among the trampling feet to a near entry, out of the glare. there he propped his prey, with many friendly words, and dived among his pockets. the sailor was dazed, and made no difficulty; till the thief got to the end of the search in a trouser pocket, and thence pulled a handful of silver. with that the victim awoke to some sense of affairs, and made a move to rise; but the other sprang up and laid him over with a kick on the head, just as the pale man came along. the thief made off, leaving a few shillings and sixpences on the ground, which the pale man instantly gathered up. he looked from the money to the man, who lay insensible, with blood about his ear; and then from the man to the money. then he stuffed some few of the shillings into the sailor's nearest pocket and went off with the rest. the fight rose and fell, the crowd grew, and the blue light burned down. in twenty seconds the pale man was back again. he bent over the bleeding sailor, thrust the rest of the silver into the pocket, and finally vanished into the night. for, indeed, though the pale man was poor, and though he got a living now in a way scarce reputable: yet he had once kept a chandler's shop. he had kept it till neither sand in the sugar nor holes under the weights would any longer induce it to keep him; and then he had fallen wholly from respectability. but he had drawn a line--he had always drawn a line. he had never been a thief; and, with a little struggle, he remembered it now. back in blue gate the screams had ceased. for on a black stair a large bony man shook a woman by the throat, so that she could scream no more. he cursed in whispers, and threatened her with an end of all noise if she opened her mouth again. "ye stop out of it all this time," he said, "an' when ye come ye squall enough to bring the slops from arbour square!" "o! o!" the woman gasped. "i fell on it, dan! i fell on it! i fell on it in the dark!..." * * * * * there was nothing commoner in the black streets about the highway than the sight of two or three men linked by the arms, staggering, singing and bawling. many such parties went along the highway that night, many turned up its foul tributaries; some went toward and over the bridge by the lock that was on the way to the hole in the wall. but they were become fewer, and the night noises of the highway were somewhat abated, when a party of three emerged from the mouth of blue gate. of them that had gone before the songs were broken and the voices unmelodious enough; yet no other song sung that night in the highway was so wild as the song of these men--or rather of two of them, who sang the louder because of the silence of the man between them; and no other voices were so ill-governed as theirs. the man on the right was large, bony and powerful; he on the left was shorter and less to be noticed, except that under some rare and feeble lamp it might have been perceived that his face was an ugly one, with a broken nose. but what reveller so drunk, what drunkard so insensible, what clod so silent as the man they dragged between them? his feet trailed in the mire, and his head, hidden by a ragged hat, hung forward on his chest. so they went, reeling ever where the shadows were thickest, toward the bridge; but in all their reelings there was a stealthy hasting forward, and an anxious outlook that went ill with their song. the song itself, void alike of tune and jollity, fell off altogether as they neared the bridge, and here they went the quicker. they turned down by the bridge foot, though not for the reason the pale man had, two hours before, for now no policeman was in sight; and soon were gone into the black shadow about the lock-head.... it was the deep of the night, and as near quiet as the highway ever knew; with no more than a cry here or there, a distant fiddle, and the faint hum of the wind in the rigging of ships. off in blue gate the woman sat on the black stair, with her face in her hands, waiting for company before returning to the room where she had fallen over something in the dark. chapter vi stephen's tale high under the tiles of the hole in the wall, i had at first a night of disturbed sleep. i was in my old familiar cot, which had been brought during the evening, on a truck. but things were strange, and, in particular, my grandfather, who slept on the opposite side of the room, snored so amazingly, and with a sound so unlike anything i had ever heard before, that i feared he must be choking to death, and climbed out of bed, once, to see. there were noises from without too, sometimes of discordant singing, sometimes of quarrels; and once, from a distance, a succession of dreadful screams. then the old house made curious sounds of its own; twice i was convinced of stealthy steps on the stair, and all night the very walls creaked aloud. so for long, sleepy as i was, i dozed and started and rolled and lay awake, wondering about the little ship in the bar-parlour, and mr. cripps, and the pale man, and the watch with the m on it. also i considered again the matter of my prayers, which i had already discussed with grandfather nat, to his obvious perplexity, by candle-light. for i was urgent to know if i must now leave my mother out, and if i might not put my little dead brother in; being very anxious to include them both. my grandfather's first opinion was, that it was not the usual thing; which opinion he expressed with hesitation, and a curious look of the eyes that i wondered at. but i argued that god could bless them just as well in heaven as here; and grandfather nat admitted that no doubt there was something in that. whereupon i desired to know if they would hear if i said in my prayers that i was quite safe with him, at the hole in the wall; or if i should rather ask god to tell them. and at that my grandfather stood up and turned away, with a rub and a pat on my head, toward his own bed; telling me to say whatever i pleased, and not to forget grandfather nat. so that now, having said what i pleased, and having well remembered grandfather nat, and slept and woke and dozed and woke again, i took solace from his authority and whispered many things to my little dead brother, whom i could never play with: of the little ship in the glass case, and the pictures, and of how i was going to the london dock to-morrow; and so at last fell asleep soundly till morning. grandfather nat was astir early, and soon i was looking from the window by his bed at the ships that lay so thick in the pool, tier on tier. below me i could see the water that washed between the slimy piles on which the house rested, and to the left were the narrow stairs that terminated the passage at the side. several boats were moored about these stairs, and a waterman was already looking out for a fare. out in the pool certain other boats caught the eye as they dodged about among the colliers, because each carried a bright fire amidships, in a brazier, beside a man, two small barrels of beer, and a very large handbell. the men were purlmen, grandfather nat told me, selling liquor--hot beer chiefly, in the cold mornings--to the men on the colliers, or on any other craft thereabout. it struck me that the one thing lacking for perfect bliss in most rowing boats was just such a brazier of cosy fire as the purl-boat carried; so that after very little consideration i resolved that when i grew up i would not be a sailor, nor an engine-driver, nor any one of a dozen other things i had thought of, but a purlman. the staircase would have landed one direct into the bar-parlour but for an enclosing door, which strangers commonly mistook for that of a cupboard. a step as light as mine was possibly a rarity on this staircase; for, coming down before my grandfather, i startled a lady in the bar-parlour who had been doing something with a bottle which involved the removal of the cork; which cork she snatched hastily from a shelf and replaced, with no very favourable regard to myself; and straightway dropped on her knees and went to work with a brush and a dustpan. she was scarce an attractive woman, i thought, being rusty and bony, slack-faced and very red-nosed. she swept the carpet and dusted the shelves with an air of angry contempt for everything she touched, and i got into the bar out of her way as soon as i could. the potman was flinging sawdust about the floor, and there, in the same corner, sat the same pale, ragged man that was there last night, with the same full glass of liquor--or one like it--by his side: like a trade fixture that had been there all night. when grandfather nat appeared, i learned the slack-faced woman's name. "this here's my little gran'son, mrs. grimes," he said, "as is goin' to live here a bit, 'cordin' as i mentioned yesterday." "hindeed?" said mrs. grimes, with a glance that made me feel more contemptible than the humblest article she had dusted that morning. "hindeed? then it'll be more work more pay, cap'en kemp." "very well, mum," my grandfather replied. "if you reckon it out more work----" "ho!" interjected mrs. grimes, who could fill a misplaced aspirate with subtle offence; "reckon or not, i s'pose there's another bed to be made? an' buttons to be sewed? an' plates for to be washed? an' dirt an' litter for to be cleared up everywhere? to say nothink o' crumbs--which the biscuit-crumbs in the bar-parlour this mornin' was thick an' shameful!" _i_ had had biscuits, and i felt a reprobate. "very well, mum," grandfather nat said, peaceably; "we'll make out extry damages, mum. a few days'll give us an idea. shall we leave it a week an' see how things go?" "ham i to consider that a week's notice, captain kemp?" mrs. grimes demanded, with a distinct rise of voice. "ham i or ham i not?" "notice!" my grandfather was puzzled, and began to look a trifle angry. "why, damme, who said notice? what----" "because notice is as easy give as took, cap'en kemp, as i'd 'ave you remember. an' slave i may be though better brought up than slave-drivers any day, but swore at vulgar i won't be, nor trampled like dirt an' litter beneath the feet, an' will not endure it neither!" and with a great toss of the head mrs. grimes flounced through the staircase door, and sniffed and bridled her way to the upper rooms. her exit relieved my mind; first, because i had a wretched consciousness that i was causing all the trouble, and a dire fear that grandfather nat might dislike me for it; and second, because when he looked angry i had a fearful foreboding vision of mrs. grimes being presently whirled round by the ear and flung into the street, as jim crute had been. but it was not long ere i learned that mrs. grimes was one of those persons who grumble and clamour and bully at everything and everybody on principle, finding that, with a concession here and another there, it pays very well on the whole; and so nag along very comfortably through life. as for herself, as i had seen, mrs. grimes did not lack the cunning to carry away any fit of virtuous indignation that seemed like to push her employer out of his patience. my grandfather looked at the bottle that mrs. grimes had recorked. "that rum shrub," he said, "ain't properly mixed. it works in the bottle when it's left standing, an' mounts to the cork. i notice it almost every morning." * * * * * the day was bright, and i resigned myself with some impatience to wait for an hour or two till we could set out for the docks. it was a matter of business, my grandfather explained, that he must not leave the bar till a fixed hour--ten o'clock; and soon i began to make a dim guess at the nature of the business, though i guessed in all innocence, and suspected not at all. contrary to my evening observation, at this early hour the larger bar was mostly empty, while the obscure compartment at the side was in far greater use than it had been last night. four or five visitors must have come there, one after another: perhaps half a dozen. and they all had things to sell. two had watches--one of them was a woman; one had a locket and a boatswain's silver call; and i think another had some silver spoons. grandfather nat brought each article into the bar-parlour, to examine, and then returned it to its owner; which behaviour seemed to surprise none of them as it had surprised the man last night; so that doubtless he was a stranger. to those with watches my grandfather said nothing but "yes, that seems all right," or "yes, it's a good enough watch, no doubt." but to the man with the locket and the silver call he said, "well, if ever you want to sell 'em you might get eight bob; no more"; and much the same to him with the spoons, except that he thought the spoons might fetch fifteen shillings. each of the visitors went out with no more ado; and as each went, the pale man in the larger bar rose, put his drink safely on the counter, just beyond the partition, and went out too; and presently he came back, with no more than a glance at grandfather nat, took his drink, and sat down again. at ten o'clock my grandfather looked out of the bar and said to the pale man: "all right--drink up." whereupon the pale man--who would have been paler if his face had been washed--swallowed his drink at last, flat as it must have been, and went out; and grandfather nat went out also, by the door into the passage. he was gone scarce two minutes, and when he returned he unlocked a drawer below the shelf on which the little ship stood, and took from it the cash box i had seen last night. his back was turned toward me, and himself was interposed between my eyes and the box, which he rested on the shelf; but i heard a jingling that suggested spoons. so i said, "did the man go to buy the spoons for you, gran'fa' nat?" my grandfather looked round sharply, with something as near a frown as he ever directed on me. then he locked the box away hastily, with a gruff laugh. "you won't starve, stevy," he said, "as long as wits finds victuals. but see here," he went on, becoming grave as he sat and drew me to his knee; "see here, stevy. what you see here's my business, private business; understand? you ain't a tell-tale, are you? not a sneak?" i repudiated the suggestion with pain and scorn; for i was at least old enough a boy to see in sneakery the blackest of crimes. "no, no, that you ain't, i know," grandfather nat went on, with a pinch of my chin, though he still regarded me earnestly. "a plucked 'un's never a sneak. but there's one thing for you to remember, stevy, afore all your readin' an' writin' an' lessons an' what not. you must never tell of anything you see here, not to a soul--that is, not about me buyin' things. i'm very careful, but things don't always go right, an' i might get in trouble. i'm a straight man, an' i pay for all i have in any line o' trade; i never stole nor cheated not so much as a farden all my life, nor ever bought anything as i _knew_ was stole. see?" i nodded gravely. i was trying hard to understand the reason for all this seriousness and secrecy, but at any rate i was resolved to be no tale-bearer; especially against grandfather nat. "why," he went on, justifying himself, i fancy, more for his own satisfaction than for my information; "why, even when it's on'y just suspicious i won't buy--except o' course through another party. that's how i guard myself, stevy, an' every man has a right to buy a thing reasonable an' sell at a profit if he can; that's on'y plain trade. an' yet nobody can't say truthful as he ever sold me anything over that there counter, or anywhere else, barrin' what i have reg'lar of the brewer an' what not. i may look at a thing or pass an opinion, but what's that? nothin' at all. but we've got to keep our mouths shut, stevy, for fear o' danger; see? you wouldn't like poor old grandfather nat to be put in gaol, would ye?" the prospect was terrible, and i put my hands about my grandfather's neck and vowed i would never whisper a word. "that's right, stevy," the old man answered, "i know you won't if you don't forget yourself--so don't do that. don't take no notice, not even to me." there was a knock at the back door, which opened, and disclosed one of the purlmen, who had left his boat in sight at the stairs, and wanted a quart of gin in the large tin can he brought with him. he was a short, red-faced, tough-looking fellow, and he needed the gin, as i soon learned, to mix with his hot beer to make the purl. he had a short conversation with my grandfather when the gin was brought, of which i heard no more than the words "high water at twelve." but as he went down the passage he turned, and sang out: "you got the news, cap'en, o' course?" "what? viney and marr?" the man nodded, with a click and a twitch of the mouth. then he snapped his fingers, and jerked them expressively upward. after which he ejaculated the single word "marr," and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. by which i understood him to repeat, with no waste of language, the story that it was all up with the firm, and the junior partner had bolted. "that," said grandfather nat, when the man was gone--"that's bill stagg, an' he's the on'y purlman as don't come ashore to sleep. sleeps in his boat, winter an' summer, does bill stagg. how'd you like that, stevy?" i thought i should catch cold, and perhaps tumble overboard, if i had a bad dream; and i said so. "ah well, bill stagg don't mind. he was a.b. aboard o' me when mr. viney was my mate many years ago, an' a good a.b. too. bill stagg, he makes fast somewhere quiet at night, an' curls up snug as a weevil. mostly under the piles o' this here house, when the wind ain't east. saves him rent, ye see; so he does pretty well." and with that my grandfather put on his coat and reached the pilot cap that was his everyday wear. chapter vii stephen's tale we walked first to the head of the stairs, where opened a wide picture of the thames and all its traffic, and where the walls were plastered with a dozen little bills, each headed "found drowned," and each with the tale of some nameless corpse under the heading. "that's my boat, stevy," said my grandfather, pointing to a little dinghy with a pair of sculls in her; "our boat, if you like, seeing as we're pardners. now you shall do which you like; walk along to the dock, where the sugar is, or come out in our boat." it was a hard choice to make. the glory and delight of the part ownership of a real boat dazzled me like another sun in the sky; but i had promised myself the docks and the sugar for such a long time. so we compromised; the docks to-day and the boat to-morrow. out in the street everybody seemed to know grandfather nat. those who spoke with him commonly called him captain kemp, except a few old acquaintances to whom he was captain nat. loafers and crimps gazed after him and nodded together; and small ship-chandlers gave him good morning from their shop-doors. a hundred yards from the hole in the wall, at a turn, there was a swing bridge and a lock, such as we had by the old house in blackwall. at the moment we came in hail the men were at the winch, and the bridge began to part in the middle; for a ship was about to change berth to the inner dock. "come, stevy," said my grandfather, "we'll take the lock 'fore they open that. not afraid if i'm with you, are you?" no, i was not afraid with grandfather nat, and would not even be carried. though the top of the lock was not two feet wide, and was knotted, broken and treacherous in surface and wholly unguarded on one side, where one looked plump down into the foul dock-water; and though on the other side there was but a slack chain strung through loose iron stanchions that staggered in their sockets. grandfather nat gripped me by the collar and walked me before him; but relief tempered my triumph when i was safe across; my feet never seemed to have twisted and slipped and stumbled so much before in so short a distance--perhaps because in that same distance i had never before recollected so many tales of men drowned in the docks by falling off just such locks, in fog, or by accidental slips. a little farther along, and we came upon ratcliff highway. i saw the street then for the first time, and in truth it was very wonderful. i think there could never have been another street in this country at once so foul and so picturesque as ratcliff highway at the time i speak of. much that i saw i could not understand, child as i was; and by so much the more was i pleased with it all, when perhaps i should have been shocked. from end to end of the highway and beyond, and through all its tributaries and purlieus everything and everybody was for, by, and of, the sailor ashore; every house and shop was devoted to his convenience and inconvenience; in the highway it seemed to me that every other house was a tavern, and in several places two stood together. there were shops full of slops, sou'westers, pilot-coats, sea-boots, tin pannikins, and canvas kit-bags like giants' bolsters; and rows of big knives and daggers, often engraved with suggestive maxims. a flash of memory recalls the favourite: "never draw me without cause, never sheathe me without honour." i have since seen the words "cause" and "honour" put to uses less respectable. the pawn-shops had nothing in them that had not come straight from a ship--sextants and boatswain's pipes being the choice of the stock. and pawn-shops, slop-shops, tobacco-shops--every shop almost--had somewhere in its window a selection of those curiosities that sailors make abroad and bring home: little ship-models mysteriously erected inside bottles, shells, albatross heads, saw-fish snouts, and bottles full of sand of different colours, ingeniously packed so as to present a figure or a picture when viewed from without. men of a dozen nations were coming or going in every score of yards. the best dressed, and the worst, were the negroes; for the black cook who was flush went in for adornments that no other sailor-man would have dreamed of: a white shirt, a flaming tie, a black coat with satin facings--even a white waistcoat and a top hat. while the cleaned-out and shipless nigger was a sad spectacle indeed. then there were spaniards, swart, long-haired, bloodshot-looking fellows, whose entire shore outfit consisted commonly of a red shirt, blue trousers, anklejacks with the brown feet visible over them, a belt, a big knife, and a pair of large gold ear-rings. big, yellow-haired, blue-eyed swedes, who were full pink with sea and sun, and not brown or mahogany-coloured, like the rest; slight, wicked-looking malays; lean, spitting yankees, with stripes, and felt hats, and sing-song oaths; sometimes a chinaman, petticoated, dignified, jeered at; a lascar, a greek, a russian; and everywhere the english jack, rolling of gait--sometimes from habit alone, sometimes for mixed reasons--hard, red-necked, waistcoatless, with his knife at his belt, like the rest: but more commonly a clasp-knife than one in a sheath. to me all these strangely bedight men were matter of delight and wonder; and i guessed my hardest whence each had come last, what he had brought in his ship, and what strange and desperate adventures he had encountered on the way. and wherever i saw bare, hairy skin, whether an arm, or the chest under an open shirt, there were blue devices of ships, of flags, of women, of letters and names. grandfather nat was tattooed like that, as i had discovered in the morning, when he washed. he had been a fool to have it done, he said, as he flung the soapy water out of window into the river, and he warned me that i must be careful never to make such a mistake myself; which made me sorry, because it seemed so gallant an embellishment. but my grandfather explained that you could be identified by tattoo-marks, at any length of time, which might cause trouble. i remembered that my own father was tattooed with an anchor and my mother's name; and i hoped he would never be identified, if it were as bad as that. in the street oyster-stalls stood, and baked-potato cans; one or two sailors were buying, and one or two fiddlers, but mostly the customers were the gaudy women, who seemed to make a late breakfast in this way. some had not stayed to perform a greater toilet than to fling clothes on themselves unhooked and awry, and to make a straggling knot of their hair; but the most were brilliant enough in violet or scarlet or blue, with hair oiled and crimped and hung in thick nets, and with bright handkerchiefs over their shoulders--belcher yellows and kingsmen and blue billies. and presently we came on one who was dancing with a sailor on the pavement, to the music of one of the many fiddlers who picked up a living hereabouts; and she wore the regular dancing rig of the highway--short skirts and high red morocco boots with brass heels. she covered the buckle and grape-vined with great precision, too, a contrast with her partner, whose hornpipe was unsteady and vague in the figures, for indeed he seemed to have "begun early"--perhaps had not left off all night. two more pairs of these red morocco boots we saw at a place next a public house, where a shop front had been cleared out to make a dancing room, with a sort of buttery-hatch communicating with the tavern; and where a flushed sailor now stood with a pot in each hand, roaring for a fiddler. but if the life and the picturesqueness of the highway in some sort disguised its squalor, they made the more hideously apparent the abomination of the by-streets: which opened, filthy and menacing, at every fifty yards as we went. the light seemed greyer, the very air thicker and fouler in these passages; though indeed they formed the residential part whereof the highway was the market-place. the children who ran and tumbled in these places, the boy of nine equally with the infant crawling from doorstep to gutter, were half naked, shoeless, and disguised in crusted foulness; so that i remember them with a certain sickening, even in these latter days; when i see no such pitiably neglected little wretches, though i know the dark parts of london well enough. at the mouth of one of these narrow streets, almost at the beginning of the highway, grandfather nat stopped and pointed. it was a forbidding lane, with forbidding men and women hanging about the entrance; and far up toward the end there appeared to be a crowd and a fight; in the midst whereof a half-naked man seemed to be rushing from side to side of the street. "that's the blue gate," said my grandfather, and resumed his walk. "it's dangerous," he went on, "the worst place hereabout--perhaps anywhere. wuss'n tiger bay, a mile. you must never go near blue gate. people get murdered there, stevy--murdered--many's a man; sailor-men mostly; an' nobody never knows. pitch them in the dock sometimes, sometimes in the river, so's they're washed away. i've known 'em taken to hole-in-the-wall stairs at night." i gripped my grandfather's hand tighter, and asked, in all innocence, if we should see any, if we kept watch out of window that night. he laughed, thought the chance scarce worth a sleepless night, and went on to tell me of something else. but i overheard later in a bar conversation a ghastly tale of years before; of a murdered man's body that had been dragged dripping through the streets at night by two men who supported its arms, staggering and shouting and singing, as though the three were merely drunk; and how it was dropped in panic ere it was brought to the waterside, because of a collision with three live sailors who really were drunk. one or two crimps' carts came through from the docks as we walked, drawn by sorry animals, and piled high with shouting sailors and their belongings--chief among these the giant bolster-bags. the victims went to their fate gloriously enough, hailing and chaffing the populace on the way, and singing, each man as he list. also we saw a shop with a window full of parrots and monkeys; and a very sick kangaroo in a wooden cage being carried in from a van. and so we came to the london dock at last. and there, in the sugar-sheds, stood more sugar than ever i had dreamed of in my wildest visions--thousands of barrels, mountains of sacks. and so many of the bags were rat-bitten, or had got a slit by accidentally running up against a jack-knife; and so many of the barrels were defective, or had stove themselves by perverse complications with a crowbar; that the heavy, brown, moist stuff was lying in heaps and lumps everywhere; and i supposed that it must be called "foot-sugar" because you couldn't help treading on it. it was while i was absorbed in this delectable spectacle, that i heard a strained little voice behind me, and turned to behold mr. cripps greeting my grandfather. "good mornin', cap'en kemp, sir," said mr. cripps. "i been a-lookin' at the noo blue crosser--the _emily riggs_. she ought to be done, ye know, an' a han'some picter she'd make; but the skipper seems busy. why, an' there's young master stephen, i do declare; 'ow are ye, sir?" as he bent and the nose neared, i was seized with a horrid fear that he was going to kiss me. but he only shook hands, after all--though it was not at all a clean hand that he gave. "why, cap'en kemp," he went on, "this is what i say a phenomenal coincidence; rather unique, in fact. why, you'll 'ardly believe as i was a thinkin' o' you not 'arf an hour ago, scarcely! now you wouldn't 'a' thought that, would ye?" there was a twinkle in grandfather nat's eye. "all depends," he said. "comin' along from the mortuary, i see somethink----" "ah, something in the mortuary, no doubt," my grandfather interrupted, quizzically. "well, what was in the mortuary? i bet there was a corpse in the mortuary." "quite correct, cap'en kemp, so there was; three of 'em, an' a very sad sight; decimated, cap'en kemp, by the watery element. but it wasn't them i was----" "what! it wasn't a corpse as reminded you of me? that's rum. then i expect somebody told you some more about viney and marr. come, what's the latest about viney an' marr? tell us about that." grandfather nat was humorously bent on driving mr. cripps from his mark, and mr. cripps deferred. "well, it's certainly a topic," he said, "a universal topic. crooks the ship-chandler's done for, they say--unsolvent. the _minerva's_ reported off prawle point in to-day's list, an' they say as she'll be sold up as soon as she's moored. but there--she's hypotenused, cap'en kemp; pawned, as you might say; up the flue. it's a matter o' gen'ral information that she's pawned up to 'er r'yals--up to 'er main r'yals, sir. which reminds me, speakin' o' r'yals, there's a timber-shop just along by the mortuary----" "ah, no doubt," grandfather nat interrupted, "they must put 'em somewhere. any news o' the _juno_?" "no, sir, she ain't reported; not doo barbadoes yet, or mail not in, any'ow. they'll sell 'er too, but the creditors won't get none of it. she's hypotenused as deep as the other--up to her r'yals; an' there's nothin' else to sell. so it's the gen'ral opinion there won't be much to divide, marr 'avin' absconded with the proceeds. an' as regards what i was agoin' to----" "yes, you was goin' to tell me some more about marr, i expect," my grandfather persisted. "heard where he's gone?" mr. cripps shook his head. "they don't seem likely to ketch 'im, cap'en nat. some says 'e's absconded out o' the country, others says 'e's 'idin' in it. nobody knows 'im much, consequence o' viney doin' all the outdoor business--i on'y see 'im once myself. viney, 'e thinks 'e's gone abroad, they say; an' 'e swears marr's the party as 'as caused the unsolvency, 'avin' bin a-doin' of 'im all along; 'im bein' in charge o' the books. an' it's a fact, cap'en kemp, as you never know what them chaps may get up to with the proceeds as 'as charge o' books. the paper's full of 'em every week--always absconding with somebody's proceeds! an' by the way, speakin' o' proceeds----" this time captain nat made no interruption, but listened with an amused resignation. "speakin' o' proceeds," said mr. cripps, "it was bein' temp'ry out o' proceeds as made me think o' you as i come along from the mortuary. for i see as 'andsome a bit o' panel for to paint a sign on as ever i come across. it was----" "yes, i know. enough to stimilate you to paint it fine, only to look at it, wasn't it?" "well, yes, cap'n kemp, so it was." "not dear, neither?" "no--not to say dear, seein' 'ow prices is up. if i'd 'ad----" "well, well, p'raps prices'll be down a bit soon," said grandfather nat, grinning and pulling out a sixpence. "i ain't good for no more than that now, anyhow!" and having passed over the coin he took my hand and turned away, laughing and shaking his head. seeing that my grandfather wanted his sign, it seemed to me that he was losing an opportunity, and i said so. "what!" he said, "let him buy the board? why, he's had half a dozen boards for that sign a'ready!" "half a dozen?" i said. "six boards? what did he do with them?" "ate 'em!" said grandfather nat, and laughed the louder when i stared. chapter viii stephen's tale i found it quite true that one might eat the loose sugar wherever he judged it clean enough--as most of it was. and nothing but grandfather nat's restraining hand postponed my first bilious attack. thus it was that i made acquaintance with the highway, and with the london docks, in their more picturesque days, and saw and delighted in a thousand things more than i can write. port was drunk then, and hundreds of great pipes lay in rows on a wide quay where men walked with wooden clubs, whacking each pipe till the "shive" or wooden bung sprang into the air, to be caught with a dexterity that pleased me like a conjuring trick. and many a thirsty dock-labourer, watching his opportunity, would cut a strip of bread from his humble dinner as he strolled near a pipe, and, absorbed in the contemplation of the indefinite empyrean, absently dip his sippet into the shive-hole as he passed; recovering it in a state so wet and discoloured that its instant consumption was imperative. and so at last we came away from the docks by the thoroughfare then called tanglefoot lane; not that that name, or anything like it, was painted at the corner; but because it was the road commonly taken by visitors departing from the wine-vaults after bringing tasting-orders. as we passed blue gate on our way home, i saw, among those standing at the corner, a coarse-faced, untidy woman, talking to a big, bony-looking man with a face so thin and mean that it seemed misplaced on such shoulders. the woman was so much like a score of others then in sight, that i should scarce have noted her, were it not that she and the man stopped their talk as we passed, with a quick look, first at my grandfather, and then one at the other; and then the man turned his back and walked away. presently the woman came after us, walking quickly, glancing doubtfully at grandfather nat as she passed; and at last, after twice looking back, she turned and waited for us to come up. "beg pardon, cap'en kemp," she said in a low, but a very thick voice, "but might i speak to you a moment, sir?" my grandfather looked at her sharply. "well," he said, "what is it?" "in regards to a man as sold you a watch las' night----" "no," grandfather nat interrupted with angry decision, "he didn't." "beg pardon, sir, jesso sir--'course not; which i mean to say 'e sold it to a man near to your 'ouse. is it brought true as that party--not meanin' you, sir, 'course not, but the party in the street near your 'ouse--is it brought true as that party'll buy somethink more--somethink as i needn't tell now, sir, p'raps, but somethink spoke of between that party an' the other party--i mean the party as sold it, an' don't mean you, sir, 'course not?" it was plain that the woman, who had begun in trepidation, was confused and abashed the more by the hard frown with which captain nat regarded her. the frown persisted for some moments; and then my grandfather said: "don't know what you mean. if somebody bought anything of a friend o' yours, an' your friend wants to sell him something else, i suppose he can take it to him, can't he? and if it's any value, there's no reason he shouldn't buy it, so far as i know." and grandfather nat strode on. the woman murmured some sort of acknowledgment, and fell back, and in a moment i had forgotten her; though i remembered her afterward, for good reason enough. in fact, it was no later than that evening. i was sitting in the bar-parlour with grandfather nat, who had left the bar to the care of the potman. my grandfather was smoking his pipe, while i spelled and sought down the narrow columns of _lloyd's list_ for news of my father's ship. it was my grandfather's way to excuse himself from reading, when he could, on the plea of unsuitable eyes; though i suspect that, apart from his sight, he found reading a greater trouble than he was pleased to own. "there's nothing here about the _juno_, grandfather nat," i said. "nothing anywhere." "ah," said my grandfather, "la guaira was the last port, an' we must keep eyes on the list for barbadoes. maybe the mail's late." most of lloyd's messages came by mail at that time. "let's see," he went on; "belize, la guaira, barbadoes"; and straightway began to figure out distances and chances of wind. grandfather nat had been considering whether or not we should write to my father to tell him that my mother was dead, and he judged that there was little chance of any letter reaching the _juno_ on her homeward passage. "belize, la guaira, barbadoes," said grandfather nat, musingly. "it's the rough reason thereabout, an' it's odds she may be blown out of her course. but the mail----" he stopped and turned his head. there was a sudden stamp of feet outside the door behind us, a low and quick voice, a heavy thud against the door, and then a cry--a dreadful cry, that began like a stifled scream and ended with a gurgle. grandfather nat reached the door at a bound, and as he flung it wide a man came with it and sank heavily at his feet, head and one shoulder over the threshold, and an arm flung out stiffly, so that the old man stumbled across it as he dashed at a dark shadow without. i was hard at my grandfather's heels, and in a flash of time i saw that another man was rising from over the one on the doorsill. but for the stumble grandfather nat would have had him. in that moment's check the fellow spun round and dashed off, striking one of the great posts with his shoulder, and nearly going down with the shock. all was dark without, and what i saw was merely confused by the light from the bar-parlour. my grandfather raised a shout and rushed in the wake of the fugitive, toward the stairs, and i, too startled and too excited to be frightened yet, skipped over the stiff arm to follow him. at the first step i trod on some object which i took to be my grandfather's tobacco-pouch, snatched it up, and stuffed it in my jacket pocket as i ran. several men from the bar were running in the passage, and down the stairs i could hear captain nat hallooing across the river. "ahoy!" came a voice in reply. "what's up?" and i could see the fire of a purl-boat coming in. "stop him, bill!" my grandfather shouted. "stop him! stabbed a man! he's got my boat, and there's no sculls in this damned thing! gone round them barges!" and now i could distinguish my grandfather in a boat, paddling desperately with a stretcher, his face and his shirt-sleeves touched with the light from the purl-man's fire. the purl-boat swung round and shot off, and presently other boats came pulling by, with shouts and questions. then i saw grandfather nat, a black form merely, climbing on a barge and running and skipping along the tier, from one barge to another, calling and directing, till i could see him no more. there were many men on the stairs by this time, and others came running and jostling; so i made my way back to the bar-parlour door. it was no easy thing to get in here, for a crowd was gathering. but a man from the bar who recognised me made a way, and as soon as i had pushed through the crowd of men's legs i saw that the injured man was lying on the floor, tended by the potman; while mr. cripps, his face pallid under the dirt, and his nose a deadly lavender, stood by, with his mouth open and his hands dangling aimlessly. * * * * * the stabbed man lay with his head on a rolled-up coat of my grandfather's, and he was bad for a child to look at. his face had gone tallowy; his eyes, which turned (and frightened me) as i came in, were now directed steadily upward; he breathed low and quick, and though joe the potman pressed cloths to the wound in his chest, there was blood about his lips and chin, and blood bubbled dreadfully in his mouth. but what startled me most, and what fixed my regard on his face despite my tremors, so that i could scarce take my eyes from it, was the fact that, paleness and blood and drawn cheeks notwithstanding, i saw in him the ugly, broken-nosed fellow who had been in the private compartment last night, with a watch to sell; the watch, with an initial on the back, that now lay in grandfather nat's cash-box. chapter ix stephen's tale somebody had gone for a doctor, it was said, but a doctor was not always easy to find in wapping. mrs. grimes, who was at some late work upstairs, was not disturbed at first by the noise, since excitement was not uncommon in the neighbourhood. but now she came to the stairfoot door, and peeped and hurried back. for myself, i squeezed into a far corner and stared, a little sick; for there was a deal of blood, and joe the potman was all dabbled, like a slaughterman. my grandfather returned almost on the doctor's heels, and with my grandfather were some river police, in glazed hats and pilot coats. the doctor puffed and shook his head, called for cold water, and cloths, and turpentine, and milk. cold water and cloths were ready enough, and turpentine was easy to get, but ere the milk came it was useless. the doctor shook his head and puffed more than ever, wiped his hands and pulled his cuffs down gingerly. i could not see the man on the floor, now, for the doctor was in the way; but i heard him, just before the doctor stood up. the noise sent my neck cold at the back; though indeed it was scarce more than the noise made in emptying a large bottle by up-ending it. the doctor stood up and shook his head. "gone," he said. "and i couldn't have done more than keep him alive a few minutes, at best. it was the lung, and bad--two places. have they got the man?" "no," said grandfather nat, "nor ain't very likely, i'd say. never saw him again, once he got behind a tier o' lighters. waterside chap, certain; knows the river well enough, an' these stairs. i couldn't ha' got that boat o' mine off quicker, not myself." "ah," said one of the river policemen, "he's a waterside chap, that's plain enough. any other 'ud a-bolted up the street. never said nothing, did he--this one?" he was bending over the dead man; while the others cleared the people back from the door, and squeezed mr. cripps out among them. "no, not a word," answered joe the potman. "couldn't. tried to nod once when i spoke to 'im, but it seemed to make 'im bleed faster." "know him, cap'en nat?" asked the sergeant. "no," answered my grandfather, "i don't know him. might ha' seen him hanging about p'raps. but then i see a lot doin' that." i wondered if grandfather nat had already forgotten about the silver watch with the m on it, or if he had merely failed to recognise the man. but i remembered what he had said in the morning, after he had bought the spoons, and i reflected that i had best hold my tongue. and now voices without made it known that the shore police were here, with a stretcher; and presently, with a crowding and squeezing in the little bar-parlour that drove me deeper into my corner and farther under the shelf, the uncomely figure was got from the floor to the stretcher, and so out of the house. it was plain that my grandfather was held in good regard by the police; and i think that his hint that a drop of brandy was at the service of anybody who felt the job unpleasant might have been acted on, if there had not been quite as many present at once. when at last they were gone, and the room clear, he kicked into a heap the strip of carpet that the dead man had lain on; and as he did it, he perceived me in my corner. "what--you here all the time, stevy?" he said. "i thought you'd gone upstairs. here--it ain't right for boys in general, but you've got a turn; drink up this." i believe i must have been pale, and indeed i felt a little sick now that the excitement was over. the thing had been very near, and the blood tainted the very air. so that i gulped the weak brandy and water without much difficulty, and felt better. out in the bar mr. cripps's thin voice was raised in thrilling description. feeling better, as i have said, and no longer faced with the melancholy alternatives of crying or being ill, i bethought me of my grandfather's tobacco-pouch. "you dropped your pouch, gran'father nat," i said, "and i picked it up when i ran out." and with that i pulled out of my jacket pocket--not the pouch at all; but a stout buckled pocket-book of about the same size. "that ain't a pouch, stevy," said grandfather nat; "an' mine's here in my pocket. show me." he opened the flap, and stood for a moment staring. then he looked up hastily, turned his back to the bar, and sat down. "whew! stevy!" he said, with amazement in his eyes and the pocket-book open in his hand; "you're in luck; luck, my boy. see!" once more he glanced quickly over his shoulder, toward the bar; and then took in his fingers a folded bunch of paper, and opened it. "notes!" he said, in a low voice, drawing me to his side. "bank of england notes, every one of 'em! fifties, an' twenties, an' tens, an' fives! where was it?" i told him how i had run out at his heels, had trodden on the thing in the dark, and had slipped it into my pocket, supposing it to be his old leather tobacco-pouch, from which he had but just refilled his pipe; and how i had forgotten about it, in my excitement, till the people were gone, and the brandy had quelled my faintness. "well, well," commented grandfather nat, "it's a wonderful bit o' luck, anyhow. this is what the chap was pulling away from him when i opened the door, you can lay to that; an' he lost it when he hit the post, i'll wager; unless the other pitched it away. but that's neither here nor there.... what's that?" he turned his head quickly. "that stairfoot door ain't latched again, stevy. made me jump: fancied it was the other." there was nothing else in the pocket-book, it would seem, except an old photograph. it was a faded, yellowish thing, and it represented a rather stout woman, seated, with a boy of about fourteen at her side; both very respectably dressed in the fashion of twenty years earlier. grandfather nat put it back, and slipped the pocket-book into the same cash-box that had held the watch with the m engraved on its back. the stairfoot door clicked again, and my grandfather sent me to shut it. as i did so i almost fancied i could hear soft footsteps ascending. but then i concluded i was mistaken; for in a few moments mrs. grimes was plainly heard coming downstairs, with an uncommonly full tread; and presently she presented herself. "good law, cap'en kemp," exclaimed mrs. grimes, with a hand clutching at her chest, and her breath a tumultuous sigh; "good law! i am that bad! what with extry work, an' keepin' on late, an' murders under my very nose, i cannot a-bear it--no!" and she sank into a chair by the stairfoot door, letting go her brush and dustpan with a clatter. grandfather nat turned to get the brandy-bottle again. mrs. grimes's head drooped faintly, and her eyelids nearly closed. nevertheless i observed that the eyes under the lids were very sharp indeed, following my grandfather's back, and traversing the shelf where he had left the photograph; yet when he brought the brandy, he had to rouse her by a shake. chapter x stephen's tale i went to bed early that night--as soon as mrs. grimes was gone, in fact. my grandfather had resolved that such a late upsitting as last night's must be no more than an indulgence once in a way. he came up with me, bringing the cash-box to put away in the little wall-cupboard against his bed-head where it always lay, at night, with a pistol by its side. grandfather nat peeped to see the pocket-book safe once more, and chuckled as he locked it away. this done, he sat by my side, and talked till i began to fall asleep. the talk was of the pocket-book, and what should be done with the money. eight hundred pounds was the sum, and two five-pound notes over, and i wondered why a man with so much money should come, the evening before, to sell his watch. "looks as though the money wasn't his, don't it?" commented grandfather nat. "though anyhow it's no good to him now. you found it, an' it's yours, stevy." i remembered certain lessons of my mother's as to one's proper behaviour toward lost property, and i mentioned them. but grandfather nat clearly resolved me that this was no case in point. "it can't be his, because he's dead," captain nat argued; "an' if it's the other chap's--well, let him come an' ask for it. that's fair enough, you know, stevy. an' if he don't come--it ain't likely he will, is it?--then it's yours; and i'll keep it to help start you in life when you grow up. i won't pay it into the bank--not for a bit, anyhow. there's numbers on bank notes: an' they lead to trouble, often. but they're as good one time as another, an' easy sent abroad later on, or what not. so there you are, my boy! eight hundred odd to start you like a gentleman, with as much more as grandfather nat can put to it. eh?" he kissed me and rubbed his hands in my curls, and i took the occasion to communicate my decision as to being a purlman. grandfather nat laughed, and patted my head down on the pillow; and for a little i remembered no more. i awoke in an agony of nightmare. the dead man, with blood streaming from mouth and eyes, was dragging my grandfather down into the river, and my mother with my little dead brother in her arms called me to throw out the pocket-book, and save him; and throw i could not, for the thing seemed glued to my fingers. so i awoke with a choke and a cry, and sat up in bed. all was quiet about me, and below were the common evening noises of the tavern; laughs, argumentation, and the gurgle of drawn beer; though there was less noise now than when i had come up, and i judged it not far from closing time. out in the street a woman was singing a ballad; and i got out of bed and went to the front room window to see and to hear; for indeed i was out of sorts and nervous, and wished to look at people. at the corner of the passage there was a small group who pointed and talked together--plainly discussing the murder; and as one or two drifted away, so one or two more came up to join those remaining. no doubt the singing woman had taken this pitch as one suitable to her ware--for she sang and fluttered at length in her hand one of the versified last dying confessions that even so late as this were hawked about ratcliff and wapping. what murderer's "confession" the woman was singing i have clean forgotten; but they were all the same, all set to a doleful tune which, with modifications, still does duty, i believe, as an evening hymn; and the burden ran thus, for every murderer and any murder:-- take warning by my dreadful fate, the truth i can't deny; this dreadful crime that i are done i are condemned to die. the singular grammar of the last two lines i never quite understood, not having noticed its like elsewhere; but i put it down as a distinguishing characteristic of the speech of murderers. i waited till the woman had taken her ballads away, and i had grown uncommonly cold in the legs, and then crept back to bed. but now i had fully awakened myself, and sleep was impossible. presently i got up again, and looked out over the river. very black and mysterious it lay, the blacker, it seemed, for the thousand lights that spotted it, craft and shore. no purlmen's fires were to be seen, for work on the colliers was done long ago, but once a shout and now a hail came over the water, faint or loud, far or near; and up the wooden wall i leaned on came the steady sound of the lapping against the piles below. i wondered where grandfather nat's boat--our boat--lay now; if the murderer were still rowing in it, and would row and row right away to sea, where my father was, in his ship; or if he would be caught, and make a dying confession with all the "haves" and "ams" replaced by "ares"; or if, indeed, he had already met providential retribution by drowning. in which case i doubted for the safety of the boat, and grandfather would buy another. and my legs growing cold again, i retreated once more. i heard the customers being turned into the street, and the shutters going up; and then i got under the bed-clothes, for i recalled the nightmare, and it was not pleasant. it grew rather worse, indeed, for my waking fancy enlarged and embellished it, and i longed to hear the tread of grandfather nat ascending the stair. but he was late to-night. i heard joe the potman, who slept off the premises, shut the door and go off up the street. for a few minutes grandfather nat was moving about the bar and the bar-parlour; and then there was silence, save for the noises--the clicks and the creaks--that the old house made of itself. i waited and waited, sometimes with my head out of the clothes, sometimes with no more than a contrived hole next my ear, listening. till at last i could wait no longer, for the house seemed alive with stealthy movement, and i shook with the indefinite terror that comes, some night or another, to the most unimaginative child. i thought, at first, of calling to my grandfather, but that would seem babyish; so i said my prayers over again, held my breath, and faced the terrors of the staircase. the boards sang and creaked under my bare feet, and the black about me was full of dim coloured faces. but i pushed the door and drew breath in the honest lamplight of the bar-parlour at last. nobody was there, and nobody was in the bar. could he have gone out? was i alone in the house, there, where the blood was still on the carpet? but there was a slight noise from behind the stairs, and i turned to look farther. behind the bar-parlour and the staircase were two rooms, that projected immediately over the river, with their frames resting on the piles. one was sometimes used as a parlour for the reception of mates and skippers, though such customers were rare; the other held cases, bottles and barrels. to this latter i turned, and mounting the three steps behind the staircase, pushed open the door; and was mightily astonished at what i saw. there was my grandfather, kneeling, and there was one half of bill stagg the purlman, standing waist-deep in the floor. for a moment it was beyond me to guess what he was standing on, seeing that there was nothing below but water; but presently i reasoned that the tide was high, and he must be standing in his boat. he was handing my grandfather some small packages, and he saw me at once and pointed. grandfather nat turned sharply, and stared, and for a moment i feared he was angry. then he grinned, shook his finger at me, and brought it back to his lips with a tap. "all right--my pardner," he whispered, and bill stagg grinned too. the business was short enough, and in a few seconds bill stagg, with another grin at me, and something like a wink, ducked below. my grandfather, with noiseless care, put back in place a trap-door--not a square, noticeable thing, but a clump of boards of divers lengths that fell into place with as innocent an aspect as the rest of the floor. this done, he rolled a barrel over the place, and dropped the contents of the packages into a row of buckets that stood near. "what's that, grandfather nat?" i ventured to ask, when all was safely accomplished. my grandfather grinned once more, and shook his head. "go on," he said, "i'll tell you in the bar-parlour. may as well now as let ye find out." he blew out the light of his candle and followed me. "well," he said, wrapping my cold feet in my nightgown as i sat on his knee. "what brought ye down, stevy? did we make a noise?" i shook my head. "i--i felt lonely," i said. "lonely? well, never mind. an' so ye came to look for me, eh? well, now, this is another one o' the things as you mustn't talk about, stevy--a little secret between ourselves, bein' pardners." "the stuff in the pail, gran'fa' nat?" "the stuff in the pail, an' the hole in the floor. you're sure you won't get talkin', an' get your poor old gran'father in trouble?" yes, i was quite sure; though i could not see as yet what there was to cause trouble. "the stuff bill stagg brought, stevy, is 'bacca. 'bacca smashed down so hard that a pound ain't bigger than that matchbox. an' i pitch it in the water to swell it out again; see?" i still failed to understand the method of its arrival. "did bill stagg steal it, gran'father?" i asked. grandfather nat laughed. "no, my boy," he said; "he bought it, an' i buy it. it comes off the dutch boats. but it comes a deal cheaper takin' it in that way at night-time. there's a big place i'll show you one day, stevy--big white house just this side o' london bridge. there's a lot o' gentlemen there as wants to see all the 'bacca that comes in from aboard, an' they take a lot o' trouble over it, and charge too, fearful. so they're very angry if parties--same as you an' me--takes any in without lettin' 'em know, an' payin' 'em the money. an' they can get you locked up." this seemed a very unjust world that i had come into, in which grandfather nat was in danger of such terrible penalties for such innocent transactions--buying a watch, or getting his tobacco cheap. so i said: "i think people are very wicked in this place." "ah!" said my grandfather, "i s'pose none of us ain't over good. but there--i've told you about it now, an' that's better than lettin' you wonder, an' p'raps go asking other people questions. so now you know, stevy. we've got our little secrets between us, an' you've got to keep 'em between us, else--well, you know. nothing about anything i buy, nor about what i take in _there_,"--with a jerk of the thumb--"nor about 'bacca in buckets o' water." "nor about the pocket-book, gran'fa' nat?" "lord no. 'specially not about that. you see, stevy, pardners is pardners, an' they must stick together, eh? we'll stick together, won't we?" i nodded hard and reached for my grandfather's neck. "ah, that we will. what others like to think they can; they can't prove nothing, nor it wouldn't be their game. but we're pardners, an' i've told you what--well, what you might ha' found out in a more awkward way. an' it ain't so bad a thing to have a pardner to talk to, neither. i never had one till now--not since your gran'mother died, that you never saw, stevy; an' that was twenty years ago. i been alone most o' my life--not even a boy, same as it might be you. 'cause why? when your father was your age, an' older, i was always at sea, an' never saw him, scarcely; same as him an' you now." and indeed grandfather nat and i knew each other better than my father knew either of us. and so we sat for a few minutes talking of ourselves, and once more of the notes in the pocket-book upstairs; till the tramp of the three policemen on the beat stayed in the street without, and we heard one of the three coming down the passage. he knocked sharply at the bar-parlour door, and grandfather nat put me down and opened it. "good evenin', cap'en kemp," said the policeman. "we knew you was up, seein' a bit o' light." then he leaned farther in, and in a lower voice, said: "he ain't been exactly identified yet, but it's thought some of our chaps knows 'im. know if anything's been picked up?" my heart gave a jump, as probably did my grandfather's. "picked up?" he repeated. "why, what? what d'ye mean?" "well, there was nothing partic'lar on the body, an' our chaps didn't see the knife. we thought if anybody about 'ad picked up anything, knife or what not, you might 'ear. so there ain't nothing?" "no," grandfather nat answered blankly. "i've seen no knife, nor heard of none." "all right, cap'en kemp--if you do hear of anything, give us the tip. good night!" grandfather nat looked oddly at me, and i at him. i think we had a feeling that our partnership was sealed. and so with no more words we went to bed. chapter xi stephen's tale i had never seen either of the partners in the firm of viney and marr: as i may have said already. on the day after the man was stabbed at our side door i saw them both. that morning the tide was low, and hole-in-the-wall stairs ended in a causeway in the midst of a little flat of gravel and mud. so, since the mud was nowhere dangerous, and there was no deep water to fall into, i was allowed to go down the steps alone and play on the foreshore while grandfather nat was busy with his morning's affairs; the two or three watermen lying by the causeway undertaking to keep an eye on me. and there i took my pleasure as i would, now raking in the wet pebbles, and heaving over big stones that often pulled me on to all-fours, now climbing the stairs to peep along the alley, and once or twice running as far as the bar-parlour door to report myself to grandfather nat, and inform him of my discoveries. the little patch of foreshore soon rendered up all its secrets, and its area grew less by reason of the rising tide; so that i turned to other matters of interest. out in mid-stream a cluster of lighters lay moored, waiting for the turn of the tide. presently a little tug came puffing and fussing from somewhere alongshore, and after much shoving and hauling and shouting, scuffled off, trailing three of the lighters behind it; from which i conjectured that their loads were needed in a hurry. but the disturbance among the rest of the lighters was not done with when the tug had cleared the three from their midst; for a hawser had got foul of a rudder, and two or three men were at work with poles and hooks, recrimination and forcible words, to get things clear. though the thing seemed no easy job; and it took my attention for some time. but presently i tired of it, and climbed the steps to read the bills describing the people who had been found drowned. there were eleven of the bills altogether, fresh and clean; and fragments of innumerable others, older and dirtier, were round about them. ten men and one woman had been picked up, it would seem, and all within a week or two, as i learned when i had spelled out the dates. i pored at these bills till i had read them through, being horribly fascinated by the personal marks and peculiarities so baldly set forth; the scars, the tattoo marks, the colour of the dead eyes; the clothes and boots and the contents of the pockets--though indeed most of the pockets would seem to have been empty. the woman--they guessed her age at twenty-two--wore one earring; and i entangled myself in conjectures as to what had become of the other. i was disturbed by a shout from the causeway. i looked and saw bill stagg in his boat. "is your gran'father there?" shouted bill stagg. "tell him they've found his boat." this was joyful news, and i rushed to carry it. "they've found our boat, grandfather nat," i cried. "bill stagg says so!" grandfather nat was busy in the bar, and he received the information with calmness. "ah," he said, "i knew it 'ud turn up somewhere. bill stagg there?" and he came out leisurely in his shirt sleeves, and stood at the head of the stairs. "p'lice galley found your boat, cap'en," bill stagg reported. "you'll have to go up to the float for it." "right. know where it was?" "up agin elephant stairs"--bill stagg pointed across the river--"turned adrift and jammed among the lighters." grandfather nat nodded serenely. bill stagg nodded in reply, shoved off from the causeway and went about his business. the hawser was still foul among the lighters out in the stream, and a man had pulled over in a boat to help. i had told grandfather of the difficulty, and how long it had baffled the lightermen, and was asking the third of a string of questions about it all, when there was a step behind, and a voice: "good mornin', cap'en nat." my grandfather turned quickly. "mr. viney!" he said. "well.... good mornin'." i turned also, and i was not prepossessed by mr. viney. his face--a face no doubt originally pale and pasty, but too long sun-burned to revert to anything but yellow in these later years of shore-life--his yellow face was ever stretched in an uneasy grin, a grin that might mean either propitiation or malice, and remained the same for both. he had the watery eyes and the goatee beard that were not uncommon among seamen, and in total i thought he much resembled one of those same hang-dog fellows that stood at corners and leaned on posts in the neighbourhood, making a mysterious living out of sailors; one of them, that is to say, in a superior suit of clothes that seemed too good for him. i suppose he may have been an inch taller than grandfather nat; but in the contrast between them he seemed very small and mean. he offered his hand with a stealthy gesture, rather as though he were trying to pick my grandfather's waistcoat pocket; so that the old man stared at the hand for a moment, as if to see what he would be at, before he shook it. "down in the world again, cap'en nat," said viney, with a shrug. "ay, i heard," answered captain nat. "i'm very sorry; but there--perhaps you'll be up again soon...." * * * * * "i come to ask you about something," viney proceeded, as they walked away toward the bar-parlour door. "something you'll tell me, bein' an old shipmate, if you can find out, i'm sure. can we go into your place? no, there's a woman there." "only one as does washin' up an' such. i'll send her upstairs if you like." "no, out here's best; we'll walk up and down; people get hangin' round doors an' keyholes in a place like that. here we can see who's near us." "what, secrets?" "ay." viney gave an ugly twist to his grin. "i know some o' yours--one big un' at any rate, cap'en nat, don't i? so i can afford to let you into a little 'un o' mine, seein' i can't help it. now i'd like to know if you've seen anything of marr." "no,--haven't seen him for months. bolted, they tell me, an'--well you know better'n me, i expect." "i don't know," viney replied with emphasis. "i ought to know, but i don't. see here now. less than a week ago he cleared out, an' then i filed my petition. he might ha' been gone anywhere--bolted. might be abroad, as would seem most likely. in plain fact he was only coming down in these parts to lie low. see? round about here a man can lie low an' snug, an' safer than abroad, if he likes. and he had money with him--all we could get together. see?" and viney frowned and winked, and glanced stealthily over his shoulder. "ah," remarked captain nat, drily, "i see. an' the creditors----" "damn the creditors! see here, cap'en nat kemp. remember a man called dan webb?" captain nat paled a little, and tightened his lips. "remember a man called dan webb?" viney repeated, stopping in his walk and facing the other with the uneasy grin unchanged. "a man called dan webb, aboard o' the _florence_ along o' you an' me? 'cause i do, anyhow. that's on'y my little hint--we're good friends altogether, o' course, cap'en nat; but you know what it means. well, marr had money with him, as i said. he was to come to a quiet anchorage hereabout, got up like a seaman, an' let me know at once." captain nat, his mouth still set tight, nodded, with a grunt. "well, he didn't let me know. i heard nothing at all from him, an' it struck me rather of a heap to think that p'raps he'd put the double on me, an' cleared out in good earnest. but yesterday i got news. a blind fiddler chap gave me some sort o' news." captain nat remembered the meeting at the street corner in the evening after the funeral. "blind george?" he queried. "yes, that was all the name he gave me; a regular thick 'un, that blind chap, an' a flow o' language as would curl the sheathing off a ship's bottom. he came the evening before, it seems, but found the place shut up--servant gal took her hook. well now, he'd done all but see marr down here at the blue gate--he'd seen him as clear as a blind man could, he said, with his ears: an' he came to me to give me the tip an' earn anything i'd give him for it. it amounted to this. it was plain enough marr had come along here all right, an' pitched on some sort o' quarters; but it was clear he wasn't fit to be trusted alone in such a place at all. for the blind chap found him drunk, an' in tow with as precious a pair o' bully-boys as blue gate could show. not only drunk, neither, but drunk with a slack jaw--drunk an' gabbling, drunk an' talkin' business--_my_ business--an' lettin' out all there was to let,--this an' that an' t'other an' lord knows what! it was only because of his drunken jabber that the blind man found out who he was." "and this was the day before yesterday?" asked captain nat. "yes." captain nat shook his head. "if he was like that the day before yesterday," he said, "in tow with such chaps as you say,--well, whatever he had on him ain't on him now. an' it 'ud puzzle a cleverer man than me to find it. you may lay to that." viney swore, and stamped a foot, and swore again. "but see," he said, "ain't there a chance? it was in notes, all of it. them chaps'll be afraid to pass notes. couldn't most of it be got back on an arrangement to cash the rest? you can find 'em if you try, with all your chances. come--i'll pay fair for what i get, to you an' all." "see how you've left it," remarked captain nat; and viney swore again. "this was all done the day before yesterday. well, you don't hear of it yourself till yesterday, an' now you don't come to me till to-day." viney swore once more, and grinned twice as wide in his rage. "yes," he said, "that was blind george's doing. i sent him back to see what _he_ could do, an' ain't seen him since. like as not he's standing in with the others." "ay, that's likely," the old man answered, "very likely. blind george is as tough a lot as any in blue gate, for all he's blind. you'd never ha' heard of it at all if they'd ha' greased him a bit at first. i expect they shut him out, to keep the plant to themselves; an' so he came to you for anything he could pick up. an' now----" viney cursed them all, and blind george and himself together; but most he cursed marr; and so talking, the two men walked to and fro in the passage. * * * * * i could see that viney was angry, and growing angrier still. but i gave all my attention to the work at the fouled hawser. the man in the boat, working patiently with a boat-hook, succeeded suddenly and without warning, so that he almost pitched headlong into the river. the rope came up from its entanglement with a spring and a splash, flinging some amazing great object up with it, half out of water; and the men gave a cry as this thing lapsed heavily to the surface. the man in the boat snatched his hook again and reached for the thing as it floated. somebody threw him a length of line, and with this he made it fast to his boat, and began pulling toward the stairs, towing it. i was puzzled to guess what the object might be. it was no part of the lighter's rudder, for it lay in, rather than on, the water, and it rolled and wallowed, and seemed to tug heavily, so that the boatman had to pull his best. i wondered if he had caught some curious water-creature--a porpoise perhaps, or a seal, such as had been flung ashore in a winter storm at blackwall a year before. viney and grandfather nat had turned their steps toward the stairs, and as they neared, my grandfather, lifting his eyes, saw the boatman and his prize, and saw the watermen leaving their boats for the foreshore. with a quick word to viney he hastened down the stairs; and viney himself, less interested, followed half way down, and waited. the boatman brought up alongside the foreshore, and he and another hauled at the tow-rope. the thing in the water came in, rolling and bobbing, growing more hideously distinct as it came; it checked at the mud and stones, turned over, and with another pull lay ashore, staring and grey and streaming: a dead man. the lips were pulled tight over the teeth, and, the hair being fair, it was the plainer to see that one side of the head and forehead was black and open with a great wound. the limbs lay limp and tumbled, all; but one leg fell aside with so loose a twist that plainly it was broken, and i heard, afterwards, that it was the leg that had caused the difficulty with the hawser. grandfather nat, down at the waterside, had no sooner caught sight of the dead face than with wide eyes he turned to viney, and shouted the one word "look!" then he went and took another view, longer and closer; and straightway came back in six strides to the stairs, whereon viney was no longer standing, but sitting, his face tallowy and his grin faded. "see him?" cried grandfather nat in a hushed voice. "see him! it's marr himself, if i know him at all! come--come and see!" viney pulled his arm from the old man's grasp, turned, and crawled up a stair or two. "no," he said faintly, "i--i won't, now--i--they'd know me p'raps, some of them." his breath was short, and he gulped. "good god," he said presently, "it's him--it's him sure enough. and the clothes he had on.... but ... cap'en--cap'en nat; go an' try his pockets.--go on. there's a pocket-book--leather pocket-book.... go on!" "what's the good?" asked captain nat, with a lift of the eyebrows, and the same low voice. "what's the good? i can't fetch it away, with all them witnesses. go yourself, an' say you're his pardner; you'd have a chance then." "no--no. i--it ain't good enough. you know 'em; i don't. i'll stand in with you--give you a hundred if it's all there! square 'em--you know 'em!" "if they're to be squared you can do it as well as me. there'll be an inquest on this, an' evidence. i ain't going to be asked what i did with the man's pocket-book. no. i don't meddle in this, mr. viney. if it ain't good enough for you to get it for yourself, it ain't good enough for me to get it for you." "kemp, i'll go you halves--there! get it, an' there's four hundred for you. eight hundred an' odd quid, in a pocket-book. come, that's worth it, ain't it? eight hundred an' odd quid--in a leather pocket-book! an' i'll go you halves." captain nat started at the words, and stood for a moment, staring. "eight hundred!" he repeated under his breath. "eight hundred an' odd quid. in a leather pocket-book. ah!" and the stare persisted, and grew thoughtful. "yes," replied viney, now a little more himself. "now you know; and it's worth it, ain't it? don't waste time--they're turning him over themselves. you can manage all these chaps. go on!" "i'll see if anything's there," answered captain nat. "more i can't; an' if there's nothing that's an end of it." he went down to where the men were bending over the body, to disengage the tow-line. he looked again at the drawn face under the gaping forehead, and said something to the men; then he bent and patted the soddened clothes, now here, now there; and at last felt in the breast-pocket. meantime viney stood feverishly on the stairs, watching; fidgeting nervously down a step, and then down another, and then down two more. and so till captain nat returned. the old man shook his head. "cleaned out," he reported. "cleaned out, o' course. hit on the head an' cleaned out, like many a score better men before him, down these parts. not a thing in the pockets anywhere. flimped clean." viney's eyes were wild. "nothing at all left?" he said. "nothing of his own? not a watch, nor anything?" "no, not a watch, nor anything." viney stood staring at space for some moments, murmuring many oaths. then he asked suddenly, "where's this blind chap? where can i find blind george?" grandfather nat shook his head. "he's all over the neighbourhood," he answered. "try the highway; i can't give you nearer than that." and with no more counsel to help him, mr. viney was fain to depart. he went grinning and cursing up the passage and so toward the bridge, without another word or look. and when i turned to my grandfather i saw him staring fixedly at me, lost in thought, and rubbing his hand up in his hair behind, through the grey and out at the brown on top. chapter xii in the club-room by the side of the bills stuck at the corner of hole-in-the-wall stairs--the bills that had so fascinated stephen--a new one appeared, with the heading "body found." it particularised the personal marks and description of the unhappy marr; his "fresh complexion," his brown hair, his serge suit and his anklejacks. the bill might have stood on every wall in london till it rotted, and never have given a soul who knew him a hint to guess the body his: except viney, who knew the fact already. and the body might have been buried unidentified ere viney would have shown himself in the business, were it not for the interference of mr. cripps. for industry of an unprofitable kind was a piece of mr. cripps's nature; and, moreover, he was so regular a visitor at the mortuary as to have grown an old friend of the keeper. his persistent prying among the ghastly liers-in-state, at first on plea of identifying a friend--a contingency likely enough, since his long-shore acquaintance was wide--and later under the name of friendly calls, was an indulgence that had helped him to consideration as a news-monger, and twice had raised him to the elevation of witness at an inquest; a distinction very gratifying to his simple vanity. he entertained high hopes of being called witness in the case of the man stabbed at the side door of the hole in the wall; and was scarce seen at captain nat's all the next day, preferring to frequent the mortuary. so it happened that he saw the other corpse that was carried thence from hole-in-the-wall stairs. "there y'are," said the mortuary-keeper. "there's a fresh 'un, just in from the river, unknown. _you_ dunno 'im either, i expect." but mr. cripps was quite sure that he did. curious and eager, he walked up between the two dead men, his grimy little body being all that divided them in this their grisly reunion. "i _do_ know 'im," he insisted, thoughtfully. "leastways i've seen 'im somewheres, i'm sure." the little man gazed at the dreadful head, and then at the rafters: then shut his eyes with a squeeze that drove his nose into amazing lumps and wrinkles; then looked at the head again, and squeezed his eyelids together once more; and at last started back, his eyes rivalling his very nose itself for prominence. "why!" he gasped, "it is! it is, s'elp me!... it's mr. marr, as is pardners with mr. viney! i on'y see 'im once in my life, but i'll swear it's 'im!... lord, what a phenomenal go!" and with that mr. cripps rushed off incontinent to spread the news wherever anybody would listen. he told the police, he told the loafers, he told captain nat and everybody in his bar; he told the watermen at the stairs, he shouted it to the purlmen in their boats, and he wriggled into conversation with perfect strangers to tell them too. so that it came to pass that viney, being called upon by the coroner's officer, was fain to swallow his reluctance and come forward at the inquest. that was held at the hole in the wall twenty-four hours after the body had been hauled ashore. the two inquests were held together, in fact, marr's and that of the broken-nosed man, stabbed in the passage. two inquests, or even three, in a day, made no uncommon event in those parts, where perhaps a dozen might be held in a week, mostly ending with the same doubtful verdict--found drowned. but here one of the inquiries related to an open and witnessed murder, and that fact gave some touch of added interest to the proceedings. accordingly a drifting group hung about the doors of the hole in the wall at the appointed time,--just such an idle, changing group as had hung there all the evening after the man had been stabbed; and in the midst stood blind george with his fiddle, his vacant white eye rolling upward, his mouth full of noisy ribaldry, and his fiddle playing punctuation and chorus to all he said or sang. he turned his ear at the sound of many footsteps leaving the door near him. "there they go!" he sang out; "there they go, twelve on 'em!" and indeed it was the jury going off to view the bodies. "there they go, twelve good men an' true, an' bloomin' proud they are to fancy it! got a copper for blind george, gentlemen? not a brown for pore george?... not them; not a brass farden among the 'ole dam good an' lawful lot.... ahoy! ain't gubbins there,--the good an' lawful pork-butcher as 'ad to pay forty bob for shovin' a lump o' fat under the scales? tell the crowner to mind 'is pockets!" the idlers laughed, and one flung a copper, which blind george snatched almost before it had fallen. "ha! ha!" he cried, "there's a toff somewhere near, i can tell by the sound of his money! here goes for a stave!" and straightway be broke into:-- o they call me hanging johnny, with my hang, boys, hang! the mortuary stood at no great distance and soon the jury were back in the club-room over the bar, and at work on the first case. the police had had some difficulty as to identification of the stabbed man. the difficulty arose not only because there were no relations in the neighbourhood to feel the loss, but as much because the persons able to make the identification kept the most distant possible terms with the police, and withheld information from them as a matter of principle. albeit a reluctant ruffian was laid hold of who was induced sulkily to admit that he had known the deceased to speak to, and lodged near him in blue gate; that the deceased was called bob kipps; that he was quite lately come into the neighbourhood; and that he had no particular occupation, as far as witness knew. it needed some pressure to extract the information that kipps, during the short time he was in blue gate, chiefly consorted with one dan ogle, and that witness had seen nothing of ogle that day, nor the day before. there was also a woman called to identify--a woman more reluctant than the man; a woman of coarse features, dull eyes, tousled hair, and thick voice, sluttish with rusty finery. name, margaret flynn; though at the back of the little crowd that had squeezed into the court she was called musky mag. it was said there, too, that mag, in no degree one of the fainting sort, had nevertheless swooned when taken into the mortuary--gone clean off with a flop; true, she explained it, afterward, by saying that she had only expected to see one body, but found herself brought face to face with two; and of course there was the other there--marr's. but it was held no such odds between one corpse and two that an outer-and-outer like mag should go on the faint over it. this was reasonable enough, for the crowd. but not for a woman who had sat to drink with three men, and in a short hour or so had fallen over the battered corpse of one of them, in the dark of her room; who had been forced, now, to view the rent body of a second, and in doing it to meet once again the other, resurrected, bruised, sodden and horrible; and who knew that all was the work of the last of the three, and that man in peril of the rope: the man, too, of all the world, in her eye.... her evidence, given with plain anxiety and a nervous unsteadiness of the mouth, added nothing to the tale. the man was bob kipps; he was a stranger till lately--came, she had heard tell, from shoreditch or hoxton; saw him last a day or two ago: knew nothing of his death beyond what she had heard; did not know where dan ogle was (this very vehemently, with much shaking of the head); had not seen him with deceased--but here the police inspector handed the coroner a scribbled note, and the coroner having read it and passed it back, said no more. musky mag stood aside; while the inspector tore the note into small pieces and put the pieces in his pocket. nathaniel kemp, landlord of the house, told the story of the murder as he saw it, and of his chase of the murderer. did not know deceased, and should be unable to identify the murderer if he met him again, having seen no more than his figure in the dark. all this time mr. cripps had been standing, in eager trepidation, foremost among the little crowd, nodding and lifting his hand anxiously, strenuous to catch the coroner's officer's attention at the dismissal of each witness, and fearful lest his offer of evidence, made a dozen times before the coroner came, should be forgotten. now at last the coroner's officer condescended to notice him, and being beckoned, mr. cripps swaggered forward, his greasy widewake crushed under his arm, and his face radiant with delighted importance. he bowed to the coroner, kissed the book with a flourish, and glanced round the court to judge how much of the due impression was yet visible. the coroner signified that he was ready to hear whatever mr. cripps knew of this matter. mr. cripps "threw a chest," stuck an arm akimbo, and raised the other with an oratorical sweep so large that his small voice, when it came, seemed all the smaller. "hi was in the bar, sir," he piped, "the bar, sir, of this 'ouse, bein' long acquainted with an' much respectin' cap'en kemp, an' in the 'abit of visitin' 'ere in the intervals of the pursoot of my hart. hem! hi was in the bar, sir, when my attention was attracted by a sudden noise be'hind, or as i may say, in the rear of, the bar-parlour. hi was able to distinguish, gentlemen of the jury, what might be called, in a common way o' speakin', a bump or a bang, sich as would be occasioned by an unknown murderer criminally shoving his un'appy victim's 'ed agin the back-door of a public-'ouse. hi was able to distinguish it, sir, from a 'uman cry which follered: a 'uman cry, or as it might be, a holler, sich as would be occasioned by the un'appy victim 'avin' 'is 'ed shoved agin the back-door aforesaid. genelmen, i 'esitated not a moment. i rushed forward." mr. cripps paused so long to give the statement effect that the coroner lost patience. "yes," he said, "you rushed forward. do you mean you jumped over the bar?" for a moment mr. cripps's countenance fell; truly it would have been more imposing to have jumped over the bar. but he was on his oath, and he must do his best with the facts. "no, sir," he explained, a little tamely, "not over the bar, but reether the opposite way, so to speak, towards the door. i rushed forward, genelmen, in a sort of rearwards direction, through the door, an' round into the alley. immediate as i turned the corner, genelmen, i be'eld with my own eyes the unknown murderer; i see 'im a-risin' from over 'is un'appy victim, an' i see as the criminal tragedy had transpired. i--i rushed forward." the sensation he looked for being slow in coming, another rush seemed expedient; but it fell flat as the first, and mr. cripps struggled on, desperately conscious that he had nothing else to say. "i rushed forward, sir; seein' which the miscreant absconded--absconded, no doubt with--with the proceeds; an' seein' cap'en kemp abscondin' after him, i turned an' be'eld the un'appy victim--the corpse now in custody, sir--a-layin' in the bar-parlour, 'elpless an'--an' decimated.... i--rushed forward." it was sad to see how little the coroner was impressed; there was even something in his face not unlike a smile; and mr. cripps was at the end of his resources. but if he could have seen the face of musky mag, in the little crowd behind him, he might have been consoled. she alone, of all who heard, had followed his rhetoric with an agony of attention, word by word: even as she had followed the earlier evidence. now her strained face was the easier merely by contrast with itself when mr. cripps was in full cry; and a moment later it was tenser than ever. "yes, yes, mr. cripps," the coroner said; "no doubt you were very active, but we don't seem to have increased the evidence. you say you saw the man who stabbed the deceased in the passage. did you know him at all? ever see him before?" here, mayhap, was some chance of an effect after all. mr. cripps could scarce have distinguished the murderer from one of the posts in the alley; but he said, with all the significance he could give the words: "well, sir, i won't go so far as to swear to 'is name, sir; no, sir, not to 'is _name_, certainly not." and therewith he made his sensation at last, bringing upon himself the twenty-four eyes of the jury all together. the coroner looked up sharply. "oh," he said, "you know him by sight then? does he belong to the neighbourhood?" now it was not mr. cripps who had said he knew the murderer by sight, but the coroner. far be it from him, thought the aspirant for fame, to contradict the coroner, and so baulk himself of the credit thus thrust upon him. so he answered with the same cautious significance and a succession of portentous nods. "your judgment, sir, is correct; quite correct." "come then, this is important. you would be able to recognise him again, of course?" there was no retreat--mr. cripps was in for it. it was an unforeseen consequence of the quibble, but since plunge he must he plunged neck and crop. "i'd know 'im anywhere," he said triumphantly. there was an odd sound in the crowd behind, and a fall. captain nat strode across, and the crowd wondered; for musky mag had fainted again. the landlord lifted her, and carried her to the stairs. when the door had closed behind them, and the coroner's officer had shouted the little crowd into silence, the inquest took a short course to its end. mr. cripps, in the height of his consequence, began to feel serious misgivings as to the issue of his stumble beyond the verities; and the coroner's next words were a relief. "i think that will be enough, mr. cripps," the coroner said; "no doubt the police will be glad of your assistance." and with that he gave the jury the little summing up that the case needed. there was the medical evidence, and the evidence of the stabbing, and that evidence pointed to an unmistakable conclusion. nobody was in custody, nor had the murderer been positively identified, and such evidence as there was in this respect was for the consideration of the police. he thought the jury would have no difficulty in arriving at a verdict. the jury had none; and the verdict was murder by some person or persons unknown. the other inquest gave even less trouble. mr. henry viney, shipowner, had seen the body, and identified it as that of his partner lewis marr. marr had suddenly disappeared a week ago, and an examination of his accounts showed serious defalcations, in consequence of which witness had filed his petition in bankruptcy. whether or not marr had taken money with him witness could not say, as deceased had entire charge of the accounts; but it seemed more likely that embezzlement had been going on for some time past, and marr had fled when detection could no longer be averted. this might account for his dressing, and presumably seeking work, as a sailor. the divisional surgeon of police had examined the body, and found a large wound on the head, fully sufficient to have caused death, inflicted either by some heavy, blunt instrument, or by a fall from a height on a hard substance. one thigh was fractured, and there were other wounds and contusions, but these, as well as the broken thigh, were clearly caused after death. the blow on the head might have been caused by an accident on the riverside, or it might have been inflicted wilfully by an assailant. then there was the evidence of the man who had found the body foul of a rudder and a hawser, and of the police who had found nothing on the body. and there was no more evidence at all. the coroner having sympathised deeply with mr. viney, gave the jury the proper lead, and the jury with perfect propriety returned the open verdict that the doctor's evidence and the coroner's lead suggested. the case, except for the circumstances of marr's flight, was like a hundred others inquired upon thereabout in the course of a few weeks, and in an hour it was in a fair way to be forgotten, even by the little crowd that clumped downstairs to try both cases all over again in the bar of the hole in the wall. to the coroner, the jury, and the little crowd, these were two inquests with nothing to connect them but the accident of time and the convenience of the hole in the wall club-room. but blind george, standing in the street with his fiddle, and getting the news from the club-room in scraps between song and patter, knew more and guessed better. chapter xiii stephen's tale i found it a busy morning at the hole in the wall, that of the two inquests. i perceived that, by some occult understanding, business in one department was suspended; the pale man idled without, and nobody came into the little compartment to exhibit valuables. grandfather nat had a deal to do in making ready the club-room over the bar, and then in attending the inquests. and it turned out that mrs. grimes had settled on this day in particular to perform a vast number of extra feats of housewifery in the upper floors. notwithstanding the disturbance of this additional work, mrs. grimes was most amazingly amiable, even to me; but she was so persistent in requiring, first the key of one place, then of another, next of a chest of drawers, and again of a cupboard, that at last my grandfather distractedly gave her the whole bunch, and told her not to bother him any more. the bunch held all she could require--indeed i think it comprised every key my grandfather had, except that of his cash-box--and she went away with it amiable still, notwithstanding the hastiness of his expressions; so that i was amazed to find mrs. grimes so meek, and wondered vaguely and childishly if it were because she felt ill, and expected to die shortly. mr. cripps was in the bar as soon as the doors were open, in a wonderful state of effervescence. he was to make a great figure at the inquest, it appeared, and the pride and glory of it kept him nervously on the strut, till the coroner came, and mr. cripps mounted to the club-room with the jury. he was got up for his part as completely as circumstances would allow; grease was in his hair, his hat stood at an angle, and his face exhibited an unfamiliar polish, occasioned by a towel. for my own part, i sat in the bar-parlour and amused myself as i might. blind george was singing in the street, and now and again i could hear the guffaw that signalised some sally that had touched his audience. above, things were quiet enough for some while, and then my grandfather came heavily downstairs carrying a woman who had fainted. i had not noticed the woman among the people who went up, but now grandfather nat brought her through the bar, and into the parlour; and as she lay on the floor just as the stabbed man had lain, i recognised her face also; for she was the coarse-faced woman who had stopped my grandfather near blue gate with vague and timid questions, when we were on our way from the london dock. grandfather nat roared up the little staircase for mrs. grimes, and presently she descended, amiable still; till she saw the coarse woman, and was asked to help her. she looked on the woman with something of surprise and something of confusion; but carried it off at once with a toss of the head, a high phrase or so--"likes of 'er--respectable woman"--and a quick retreat upstairs. i believe my grandfather would have brought her down again by main force, but the woman on the floor stirred, and began scrambling up, even before she knew where she was. she held the shelf, and looked dully about her, with a hoarse "beg pardon, sir, beg pardon." then she went across toward the door, which stood ajar, stared stupidly, with a look of some dawning alarm, and said again, "beg pardon, sir--i bin queer"; and with that was gone into the passage. it was not long after her departure ere the business above was over, and the people came tramping and talking down into the bar, filling it close, and giving joe the potman all the work he could do. the coroner came down by our private stairs into the bar-parlour, ushered with great respect by my grandfather; and at his heels, taking occasion by a desperately extemporised conversation with grandfather nat, came mr. cripps. there had never been an inquest at the hole in the wall before, and my grandfather had been at some exercise of mind as to the proper entertainment of the coroner. he had decided, after consideration, that the gentleman could scarce be offended at the offer of a little lunch, and to that end he had made ready with a cold fowl and a bottle of claret, which mrs. grimes would presently be putting on the table. the coroner was not offended, but he would take no lunch; he was very pleasantly obliged by the invitation, but his lunch had been already ordered at some distance; and so he shook hands with grandfather nat and went his way. a circumstance that had no small effect on my history. for it seemed to mr. cripps, who saw the coroner go, that by dexterous management the vacant place at our dinner-table (for what the coroner would call lunch we called dinner) might fall to himself. it had happened once or twice before, on special occasions, that he had been allowed to share a meal with captain nat, and now that he was brushed and oiled for company, and had publicly distinguished himself at an inquest, he was persuaded that the occasion was special beyond precedent, and he set about to improve it with an assiduity and an innocent cunning that were very transparent indeed. so he was affectionately admiring with me, deferentially loquacious with my grandfather, and very friendly with joe the potman and mrs. grimes. it was a busy morning, he observed, and he would be glad to do anything to help. at that time the houses on wapping wall were not encumbered with dust-bins, since the river was found a more convenient receptacle for rubbish. slops were flung out of a back window, and kitchen refuse went the same way, or was taken to the river stairs and turned out, either into the water or on the foreshore, as the tide might chance. mrs. grimes carried about with her in her dustings and sweepings an old coal-scuttle, which held hearth-bushes, shovels, ashes, cinders, potato-peelings, and the like; and at the end of her work, when the brushes and shovels had been put away, she carried the coal-scuttle, sometimes to the nearest window, but more often to the river stairs, and flung what remained into the thames. just as mr. cripps was at his busiest and politest, mrs. grimes appeared with the old coal-scuttle, piled uncommonly high with ashes and dust and half-burned pipe-lights. she set it down by the door, gave my grandfather his keys, and turned to prepare the table. instantly mr. cripps, watchful in service, pounced on the scuttle. "i'll pitch this 'ere away for you, mum," he said, "while you're seein' to cap'en kemp's dinner"; and straightway started for the stairs. mrs. grimes's back was turned at the moment, and this gave mr. cripps the start of a yard or two; but she flung round and after him like a maniac; so that both grandfather nat and i stared in amazement. "give me that scuttle!" she cried, snatching at the hinder handle. "mind your own business, an' leave my things alone!" mr. cripps was amazed also, and he stuttered, "i--i--i--on'y--on'y----" "drop it, you fool!" the woman hissed, so suddenly savage that mr. cripps did drop it, with a start that sent him backward against a post; and the consequence was appalling. mr. cripps was carrying the coal-scuttle by its top handle, and mrs. grimes, reaching after it, had seized that at the back; so that when mr. cripps let go, everything in the scuttle shot out on the paving-stones; first, of course, the ashes and the pipe-lights; then on the top of them, crowning the heap--grandfather nat's cash-box! i suppose my grandfather must have recovered from his astonishment first, for the next thing i remember is that he had mrs. grimes back in the bar-parlour, held fast by the arm, while he carried his cash-box in the disengaged hand. mr. cripps followed, bewildered but curious; and my grandfather, pushing his prisoner into a far corner, turned and locked the door. mrs. grimes, who had been crimson, was now white; but more, it seemed to me, with fury than with fear. my grandfather took the key from his watchguard and opened the box, holding it where the contents were visible to none but himself. he gave no more than a quick glance within, and re-locked it; from which i judged--and judged aright--that the pocket-book was safe. "there's witnesses enough here," said my grandfather,--for joe the potman was now staring in from the bar--"to give you a good dose o' gaol, mum. 'stead o' which i pay your full week's money and send you packin'!" he pulled out some silver from his pocket. "grateful or not to me don't matter, but i hope you'll be honest where you go next, for your own sake." "grateful! honest!" mrs. grimes gasped, shaking with passion. "'ear 'im talk! honest! take me to the station now, and bring that box an' show 'em inside it! go on!" i felt more than a little alarmed at this challenge, having regard to the history of the pocket-book; and i remembered the night when we first examined it, the creaking door, and the soft sounds on the stairs. but grandfather nat was wholly undisturbed; he counted over the money calmly, and pushed it across the little table. "there it is, mum," he said, "an' there's your bonnet an' shawl in the corner. there's nothing else o' yours in the place, i believe, so there's no need for you to go out o' my sight till you go out of it altogether. that you'd better do quick. i'll lay the dinner myself." mrs. grimes swept up the money and began fixing her bonnet on her head and tying the strings under her chin, with savage jerks and a great play of elbow; her lips screwing nervously, and her eyes blazing with spite. "ho yus!" she broke out--though her rage was choking her--as she snatched her shawl. "ho yus! a nice pusson, cap'en nat kemp, to talk about honesty an' gratefulness--a nice pusson! a nice teacher for young master 'opeful, i must say, an' 'opin' 'e'll do ye credit! it ain't the last you'll see o' me, captain nat kemp!... get out o' my way, you old lickspittle!" mr. cripps got out of it with something like a bound, and mrs. grimes was gone with a flounce and a slam of the door. scold as she was, and furious as she was, i was conscious that something in my grandfather's scowl had kept her speech within bounds, and shortened her clamour; for few cared to face captain nat's anger. but with the slam of the door the scowl broke, and he laughed. "come," he said, "that's well over, an' i owe you a turn, mr. cripps, though you weren't intending it. stop an' have a bit of dinner. and if you'd like something on account to buy the board for the sign--or say two boards if you like--we'll see about it after dinner." it will be perceived that grandfather nat had no reason to regret the keeping of his cash-box key on his watchguard. for had it been with the rest, in mrs. grimes's hands, she need never have troubled to smuggle out the box among the ashes, since the pocket-book was no such awkward article, and would have gone in her pocket. mrs. grimes had taken her best chance and failed. the disorders caused by the inquests had left her unobserved, the keys were in her hands, and the cash-box was left in the cupboard upstairs; but the sedulous mr. cripps had been her destruction. as for that artist, he attained his dinner, and a few shillings under the name of advance; and so was well pleased with his morning's work. chapter xiv stephen's tale a policeman brought my grandfather a bill, which was stuck against the bar window with gelatines; and just such another bill was posted on the wall at the head of hole-in-the-wall stairs, above the smaller bills that advertised the found bodies. this new bill was six times the size of those below; it was headed "murder" in grim black capitals, and it set forth an offer of fifty pounds reward for information which should lead to the apprehension of the murderer of robert kipps. the offer gave grandfather nat occasion for much solemn banter of mr. cripps; banter which seemed to cause mr. cripps a curious uneasiness, and time and again stopped his eloquence in full flood. he had been at the pains to cut from newspapers such reports of the inquest as were printed; and though they sadly disappointed him by their brevity, and all but two personally affronted him by disregarding his evidence and himself altogether, still he made great play with the exceptional two, in the bar. but he was quick to drop the subject when captain nat urged him in pursuit of the reward. "come," my grandfather would say, "you're neglecting your fortune, you know. there's fifty pound waitin' for you to pick up, if you'd only go an' collar that murderer. an' you'd know him anywhere." whereupon mr. cripps would look a little frightened, and subside. i did not learn till later how the little painter's vanity had pushed him over bounds at the inquest, so far that he committed himself to an absolute recognition of the murderer. the fact alarmed him not a little, on his return to calmness, and my grandfather, who understood his indiscretion as well as himself, and enjoyed its consequences, in his own grim way, amused himself at one vacant moment and another by setting mr. cripps's alarm astir again. "you're throwing away your luck," he would say, perhaps, "seein' you know him so well by sight. if you're too well-off to bother about fifty pound, give some of us poor 'uns a run for it, an' put us on to him. i wish i'd been able to see him so clear." for in truth grandfather nat well knew that nobody had had so near a chance of seeing the murderer's face as himself; and that mr. cripps, at the top of the passage--perhaps even round the corner--had no chance at all. it was because of mr. cripps's indiscretion, in fact--this i learned later still--that the police were put off the track of the real criminal. for after due reflection on the direful complications whereinto his lapse promised to fling him, that distinguished witness, as i have already hinted, fell into a sad funk. so, though he needs must hold to the tale that he knew the man by sight, and could recognise him again, he resolved that come what might, he would identify nobody, and so keep clear of further entanglements. now the police suspicions fell shrewdly on dan ogle, a notorious ruffian of the neighbourhood. he had been much in company of the murdered man of late, and now was suddenly gone from his accustomed haunts. moreover, there was the plain agitation of the woman he consorted with, musky mag, at the inquest: she had fainted, indeed, when mr. cripps had been so positive about identifying the murderer. these things were nothing of evidence, it was true; for that they must depend on the witness who saw the fellow's face, knew him by sight, and could identify him. but when they came to this witness with their inquiries and suggestions the thing went overboard at a breath. was the assassin a tall man? not at all--rather short, in fact. was he a heavy-framed, bony fellow? on the contrary, he was fat rather than bony. did mr. cripps ever happen to have seen a man called dan ogle, and was this man at all like him? mr. cripps had been familiar with dan ogle's appearance from his youth up (this was true, for the painter's acquaintance was wide and diverse) but the man who killed bob kipps was as unlike him as it was possible for any creature on two legs to be. then, would mr. cripps, if the thing came to trial, swear that the man he saw was not dan ogle? mr. cripps was most fervently and desperately ready and anxious to swear that it was not, and could not by any possibility be dan ogle, or anybody like him. this brought the police inquiries to a fault; even had their suspicions been stronger and better supported, it would have been useless to arrest dan ogle, supposing they could find him; for this, the sole possible witness to identity, would swear him innocent. so they turned their inquiries to fresh quarters, looking among the waterside population across the river--since it was plain that the murderer had rowed over--for recent immigrants from wapping. for a little while mr. cripps was vexed and disquieted with invitations to go with a plain-clothes policeman and "take a quiet look" at some doubtful characters; but of course with no result, beyond the welcome one of an occasional free drink ordered as an excuse for waiting at bars and tavern-corners; and in time these attentions ceased, for the police were reduced to waiting for evidence to turn up; and mr. cripps breathed freely once more. while dan ogle remained undisturbed, and justice was balked for a while; for it turned out in the end that when the police suspected dan ogle they were right, and when they went to other conjectures they were wrong. all this was ahead of my knowledge at the moment, however, as, indeed, it is somewhat ahead of my story; and for the while i did no more than wonder to see mr. cripps abashed at an encouragement to earn fifty pounds; for he seemed not a penny richer than before, and still impetrated odd coppers on account of the signboard of promise. once or twice we saw mr. viney, and on each occasion he borrowed money off grandfather nat. the police were about the house a good deal at this time, because of the murder, or i think he might have come oftener. the first time he came i heard him telling my grandfather that he had got hold of blind george, that blind george had told him a good deal about the missing money, and that with his help he hoped for a chance of saving some of it. he added, mysteriously, that it had been "nearer hereabouts than you might think, at one time"; a piece of news that my grandfather received with a proper appearance of surprise. but was it safe to confide in blind george? viney swore for answer, and said that the rascal had stipulated for such a handsome share that it would pay him to play square. on the last of these visits i again overheard some scraps of their talk, and this time it was angrier. i judged that viney wanted more money than my grandfather was disposed to give him. they were together in the back room where the boxes and bottles were--the room into which i had seen bill stagg's head and shoulders thrust by way of the trap-door. my grandfather's voice was low, and from time to time he seemed to be begging viney to lower his; so that i wondered to find grandfather nat so mild, since in the bar he never twice told a man to lower his voice, but if once were not enough, flung him into the street. and withal viney paid no heed, but talked as he would, so that i could catch his phrases again and again. "let them hush as is afraid--i ain't," he said. and again: "o, am i? not me.... it's little enough for me, if it does; not the rope, anyway." and later, "yes, the rope, cap'en kemp, as you know well enough; the rope at newgate gaol.... dan webb, aboard o' the _florence_.... the _florence_ that was piled up on the little dingoes in broad day.... as you was ordered o' course, but that don't matter.... that's what i want now, an' no less. think it lucky i offer to pay back when i get--... well, be sensible--... i'm friendly enough.... very well." presently my grandfather, blacker than common about brow and eyes, but a shade paler in the cheek, came into the bar-parlour and opened the trade cash-box--not the one that mrs. grimes had hidden among the cinders, but a smaller one used for gold and silver. he counted out a number of sovereigns--twenty, i believe--put the box away, and returned to the back room. and in a few minutes, with little more talk, mr. viney was gone. grandfather nat came into the bar-parlour again, and his face cleared when he saw me, as it always would, no matter how he had been ruffled. he stood looking in my face for a little, but with the expression of one whose mind is engaged elsewhere. then he rubbed his hand on my head, and said abstractedly, and rather to himself, i fancied, than to me: "never mind, stevy; we got it back beforehand, forty times over." a remark that i thought over afterward, in bed, with the reflection that forty times twenty was eight hundred. but mr. viney's talk in the back room brought most oddly into my mind, in a way hard to account for, the first question i put to my grandfather after my arrival at the hole in the wall: "did you ever kill a man, grandfather nat?" chapter xv stephen's tale the repeated multiplication of twenty by forty sent me to sleep that night, and i woke with that arithmetical exercise still running in my head. a candle was alight in the room--ours was one of several houses in wapping wall without gas--and i peeped sleepily over the bed-clothes. grandfather nat was sitting with the cash-box on his knees, and the pocket-book open in his hand. he may just have been counting the notes over again, or not; but now he was staring moodily at the photograph that lay with them. once or twice he turned his eyes aside, and then back again to the picture, as though searching his memory for some old face; then i thought he would toss it away as something valueless; but when his glance fell on the fireless grate he returned the card to its place and locked the box. when the cash-box was put away in the little cupboard at his bed-head, he came across and looked down at me. at first i shut my eyes, but peeped. i found him looking on me with a troubled and thoughtful face; so that presently i sat up with a jump and asked him what he was thinking about. "fox's sleep, stevy?" he said, with his hand under my chin. "well, boy, i was thinking about you. i was thinking it's a good job your father's coming home soon, stevy; though i don't like parting with you." parting with me? i did not understand. wouldn't father be going away again soon? "well, i dunno, stevy, i dunno. i've been thinking a lot just lately, that's a fact. this place is good enough for me, but it ain't a good place to bring up a boy like you in; not to make him the man i want you to be, stevy. somehow it didn't strike me that way at first, though it ought to ha' done. it ought to ha' done, seein' it struck strangers--an' not particular moral strangers at that." he was thinking of blind george and mrs. grimes. though at the moment i wondered if his talk with mr. viney had set him doubting. "no, stevy," he resumed, "it ain't giving you a proper chance, keeping you here. you can't get lavender water out o' the bilge, an' this part's the bilge of all london. i want you to be a better man than me, stevy." i could not imagine anybody being a better man than grandfather nat, and the prospect of leaving him oppressed me dismally. and where was i to go? i remembered the terrible group of aunts at my mother's funeral, and a shadowy fear that i might be transferred to one of those virtuous females--perhaps to aunt martha--put a weight on my heart. "don't send me away, gran'fa nat!" i pleaded, with something pulling at the corners of my mouth; "i haven't been a bad boy yet, have i?" he caught me up and sat me on his fore-arm, so that my face almost touched his, and i could see my little white reflection in his eyes. "you're the best boy in england, stevy," he said, and kissed me affectionately. "the best boy in the world. an' i wouldn't let go o' you for a minute but for your own good. but see now, stevy, see; as to goin' away, now. you'll have to go to school, my boy, won't you? an' the best school we can manage--a gentleman's school; boardin' school, you know. well, that'll mean goin' away, won't it? an' then it wouldn't do for you to go to a school like that, not from here, you know--which you'll understand when you get there, among the others. my boy--my boy an' your father's--has got to be as good a gentleman as any of 'em, an' not looked down on because o' comin' from a wapping public like this, an' sent by a rough old chap like me. see?" i thought very hard over this view of things, which was difficult to understand. who should look down on me because of grandfather nat, of whom i was so fond and so proud? grandfather nat, who had sailed ships all over the world, had seen storms and icebergs and wrecks, and who was treated with so much deference by everybody who came to the hole in the wall? then i thought again of the aunts at the funeral, and remembered how they had tilted their chins at him; and i wondered, with forebodings, if people at a boarding school were like those aunts. "so i've been thinking, stevy, i've been thinking," my grandfather went on, after a pause. "now, there's the wharf on the cop. the work's gettin' more, and grimes is gettin' older. but you don't know about the wharf. grimes is the man that manages there for me; he's mrs. grimes's brother-in-law, an' when his brother died he recommended the widder to me, an' that's how she came: an' now she's gone; but that's neither here nor there. years ago grimes himself an' a boy was enough for all the work there was; now there's three men reg'lar, an' work for more. most o' the lime comes off the barges there for the new gas-works, an' more every week. now there's business there, an' a respectable business--too much for grimes. an' if your father'll take on a shore job--an' it's a hard life, the sea--here it is. he can have a share--have the lot if he likes--for your sake, stevy; an' it'll build up into a good thing. grimes'll be all right--we can always find a job for him. an' you can go an' live with your father somewhere respectable an' convenient; not such a place as wapping, an' not such people. an' you can go to school from there, like any other young gentleman. we'll see about it when your father comes home." "but shan't i ever see you, gran'fa' nat?" "see me, my boy? ay, that you will--if you don't grow too proud--that you will, an' great times we'll have, you an' your father an' me, all ashore together, in the holidays, won't we? an' i'll take care of your own little fortune--the notes--till you're old enough to have it. i've been thinking about that, too." here he stood me on my bed and playfully pushed me back and forward by the shoulders. "i've been thinking about that, an' if it was lyin' loose in the street i'd be puzzled clean to say who'd really lost it, what with one thing an' another. but it _ain't_ in the street, an' it's yours, with no puzzle about it. but there--lie down, stevy, an' go to sleep. your old grandfather's holdin' forth worse'n a parson, eh? comes o' bein' a lonely man an' havin' nobody to talk to, except myself, till you come. lie down an' don't bother yourself. we must wait till your father comes home. we'll keep watch for the _juno_ in the list,--she ought to ha' been reported at barbadoes before this. an' we must run down to blackwall, too, an' see if there's any letters from him. so go to sleep now, stevy--we'll settle it all--we'll settle it all when your father comes home!" so i lay and dozed, with words to send me to sleep instead of figures: till they made a tune and seemed to dance to it. "when father comes home: when father comes home: we'll settle it all, when father comes home!" and presently, in some unaccountable way, mr. cripps came into the dance with his "up to their r'yals, up to their r'yals: the wessels is deep in, up to their r'yals!" and so i fell asleep wholly. * * * * * in the morning i was astir early, and watching the boats and the shipping from the bedroom window ere my grandfather had ceased his alarming snore. it was half an hour later, and grandfather nat was busy with his razor on the upper lip that my cheeks so well remembered, when we heard joe the potman at the street door. whereat i took the keys and ran down to let him in; a feat which i accomplished by aid of a pair of steps, much tugging at heavy bolts, and a supreme wrench at the big key. joe brought _lloyd's list_ in with him every morning from the early newsagent's in cable street. i took the familiar journal at once, and dived into the midst of its quaint narrow columns, crowded with italics, in hope of news from barbadoes. for i wished to find for myself, and run upstairs, with a child's importance, to tell grandfather nat. but there was no news from barbadoes--that is, there was no news of my father's ship. the name barbadoes stood boldly enough, with reports below it, of arrivals and sailings, and one of an empty boat washed ashore; but that was all. so i sat where i was, content to wait, and to tell grandfather nat presently, offhand from over my paper, like a politician in the bar, that there was no news. thus, cutting the leaves with a table-knife, my mind on my father's voyage, it occurred to me that i could not spell la guaira, the name of the port his ship was last reported from; and i turned the paper to look for it. the name was there, with only one message attached, and while i was slowly conning the letters over for the third time, i was suddenly aware of a familiar word beneath--the name of the _juno_ herself. and this was the notice that i read: la guaira, sep. . the _juno_ (brig) of london, beecher, from this for barbadoes, foundered n of margarita. total loss. all crew saved except first mate. master and crew landed margarita. chapter xvi stephen's tale i cannot remember how i reached grandfather nat. i must have climbed the stairs, and i fancy i ran into him on the landing; but i only remember his grim face, oddly grey under the eyes, as he sat on his bed and took the paper in his hand. i do not know even what i said, and i doubt if i knew then; the only words present to my mind were "all crew saved except first mate"; and very likely that was what i said. my grandfather drew me between his knees, and i stood with his arm about me and his bowed head against my cheek. i noticed bemusedly that with his hair fresh-brushed the line between the grey and the brown at the back was more distinct than common; and when there was a sudden clatter in the bar below i wondered if joe had smashed something, or if it were only a tumble of the pewters. so we were for a little; and then grandfather nat stood up with a sound between a sigh and a gulp, looking strangely askant at me, as though it surprised him to find i was not crying. for my part i was dimly perplexed to see that neither was he; though the grey was still under his eyes, and his face seemed pinched and older. "come, stevy," he said, and his voice was like a groan; "we'll have the house shut again." i cannot remember that he spoke to me any more for an hour, except to ask if i would eat any breakfast, which i did with no great loss of appetite; though indeed i was trying very hard to think, hindered by an odd vacancy of mind that made a little machine of me. breakfast done, my grandfather sent joe for a cab to take us to blackwall. i was a little surprised at the unaccustomed conveyance, and rather pleased. when we were ready to go, we found mr. cripps and two other regular frequenters of the bar waiting outside. i think mr. cripps meant to have come forward with some prepared condolence; but he stopped short when he saw my grandfather's face, and stood back with the others. the four-wheeler was a wretched vehicle, reeking of strong tobacco and stale drink; for half the employment of such cabs as the neighbourhood possessed was to carry drunken sailors, flush of money, who took bottles and pipes with them everywhere. whether it was the jolting of the cab--wapping streets were paved with cobbles--that shook my faculties into place; whether it was the association of the cab and the journey to blackwall that reminded me of my mother's funeral; or whether it was the mere lapse of a little time, i cannot tell. but as we went, the meaning of the morning's news grew on me, and i realised that my father was actually dead, drowned in the sea, and that i was wholly an orphan; and it struck me with a sense of self-reproach that the fact afflicted me no more than it did. when my mother and my little brother had died i had cried myself sodden and faint; but now, heavy of heart as i was, i felt curiously ashamed that grandfather nat should see me tearless. true, i had seen very little of my father, but when he was at home he was always as kind to me as grandfather nat himself, and led me about with him everywhere; and last voyage he had brought me a little boomerang, and only laughed when i hove it through a window that cost him three shillings. thus i pondered blinkingly in the cab; and i set down my calmness to the reflection that my mother would have him always with her now, and be all the happier in heaven for it; for she always cried when he went to sea. so at last we came in sight of the old quay, and had to wait till the bridge should swing behind a sea-beaten ship, with her bulwarks patched with white plank, and the salt crust thick on her spars. i could see across the lock the three little front windows of our house, shut close and dumb; and i could hear the quick chanty from the quay, where the capstan turned:-- o, i served my time on the black ball line, hurrah for the black ball line! from the south sea north to the sixty-nine, hurrah for the black ball line! and somehow with that i cried at last. the ship passed in, the bridge shut, and the foul old cab rattled till it stopped before the well-remembered door. the house had been closed since my mother was buried, grandfather nat paying the rent and keeping the key on my father's behalf; and now the door opened with a protesting creak and a shudder, and the air within was close and musty. there were two letters on the mat, where they had fallen from the letter-flap, and both were from my father, as was plain from the writing. we carried them into the little parlour, where last we had sat with the funeral party, and my grandfather lifted the blind and flung open the window. then he sat and put one letter on each knee. "stevy," he said, and again his voice was like a groan; "look at them postmarks. ain't one belize?" yes, one was belize, the other la guaira; and both for my mother. "ah, one's been lyin' here; the other must ha' come yesterday, by the same mail as brought the news." he took the two letters again, turned them over and over, and shook his head. then he replaced them on his knees and rested his fists on his thighs, just above where they lay. "i don't know as we ought to open 'em, stevy," he said wearily. "i dunno, stevy, i dunno." he turned each over once more, and shut his fists again. "i dunno, i dunno.... man an' wife, between 'emselves.... wouldn't do it, living.... stevy boy, we'll take 'em home an' burn 'em." but to me the suggestion seemed incomprehensible--even shocking. i could see no reason for burning my father's last message home. "perhaps there's a little letter for me, gran'father nat," i said. "he used to put one in sometimes. can't we look? and mother used to read me her letters too." my grandfather sat back and rubbed his hand up through his hair behind, as he would often do when in perplexity. at last he said, "well, well, it's hard to tell. we should never know what we'd burnt, if we did.... we'll look, stevy.... an' i'll read no further than i need. come, the belize letter's first.... send i ain't doin' wrong, that's all." he tore open the cover and pulled out the sheets of flimsy foreign note-paper, holding them to the light almost at arm's length, as long-sighted men do. and as he read, slowly as always, with a leathery forefinger following the line, the grey under the old man's eyes grew wet at last, and wetter. what the letter said is no matter here. there was talk of me in it, and talk of my little brother--or sister, as it might have been for all my father could know. and again there was the same talk in the second letter--the one from la guaira. but in this latter another letter was enclosed, larger than that for my mother, which was in fact uncommonly short. and here, where the dead spoke to the dead no more, but to the living, was matter that disturbed my grandfather more than all the rest. the enclosure was not for me, as i had hoped, but for grandfather nat himself; and it was not a simple loose sheet folded in with the rest, but a letter in its own smaller envelope, close shut down, with the words "capn. kemp" on the face. my grandfather read the first few lines with increasing agitation, and then called me to the window. "see here, stevy," he said, "it's wrote small, to get it in, an' i'm slow with it. read it out quick as you can." and so i read the letter, which i keep still, worn at the folds and corners by the old man's pocket, where he carried it afterward. dear father,--just a few lines private hoping they find you well. this is my hardest trip yet, and the queerest, and i write in case anything happens and i don't see you again. this is for yourself, you understand, and i have made it all cheerful to the mrs., specially as she is still off her health, no doubt. father, the _juno_ was not meant to come home this trip, and if ever she rounds blackwall point again it will be in spite of the skipper. he had his first try long enough back, on the voyage out, and it was then she was meant to go; for she was worse found than ever i saw a ship--even a ship of viney's; and not provisioned for more than half the run out, proper rations. and i say it plain, and will say it as plain to anybody, that the vessel would have been piled up or dropped under and the insurance paid months before you get this if i had not pretty nigh mutinied more than once. he said he would have me in irons, but he shan't have the chance if i can help it. you know beecher. four times i reckon he has tried to pile her up, every time in the best weather and near a safe port--_foreign_. the men would have backed me right through--some of them did--but they deserted one after another all round the coast, monte video, rio and bahia, and small blame to them, and we filled up with half-breeds and such. the last of the ten and the boy went at bahia, so that now i have no witness but the second mate, and he is either in it or a fool--i think a fool: but perhaps both. not a man to back me. else i might have tried to report or something, at belize, though that is a thing best avoided of course. no doubt he has got his orders, so i am not to blame him, perhaps. but i have got no orders--not to lose the ship, i mean--and so i am doing my duty. twice i have come up and took the helm from him, but that was with the english crew aboard. he has been quiet lately, and perhaps he has given the job up; at any rate i expect he won't try to pile her up again--more likely a quiet turn below with a big auger. he is still mighty particular about the long-boat being all right, and the falls clear, etc. if he does it i have a notion it may be some time when i have turned in; i can't keep awake all watches. and he knows i am about the only man aboard who won't sign whatever he likes before a consul. you know what i mean; and you know beecher too. don't tell the mrs. of course. say this letter is about a new berth or what not. no doubt it is all right, but it came in my head to drop you a line, on the off chance, and a precious long line i have made of it. so no more at present from--your affectionate son, nathaniel. p.s. i am in half a mind to go ashore at barbadoes, and report. but perhaps best not. that sort of thing don't do. while i read, my grandfather had been sitting with his head between his hands, and his eyes directed to the floor, so that i could not see his face. so he remained for a little while after i had finished, while i stood in troubled wonder. then he looked up, his face stern and hard beyond the common: and his was a stern face at best. "stevy," he said, "do you know what that means, that you've been a-readin'?" i looked from his face to the letter, and back again. "it means--means ... i think the skipper sank the ship on purpose." "it means murder, my boy, that's what it means. murder, by the law of england! 'feloniously castin' away an' destroyin';' that's what they call the one thing, though i'm no lawyer-man. an' it means prison; though why, when a man follows orders faithful, i can't say; but well i know it. an' if any man loses his life thereby it's murder, whether accidental or not; murder an' the rope, by the law of england, an' bitter well i know that too! o bitter well i know it!" he passed his palm over his forehead and eyes, and for a moment was silent. then he struck the palm on his knee and broke forth afresh. "murder, by the law of england, even if no more than accident in god's truth. how much the more then this here, when the one man as won't stand and see it done goes down in his berth? o, i've known that afore, too, with a gimlet through the door-frame; an' i know beecher. but orders is orders, an' it's them as gives them as is to reckon with. i've took orders myself.... lord! lord! an' i've none but a child to talk to! a little child!... but you're no fool, stevy. see here now, an' remember. you know what's come to your father? he's killed, wilful; murdered, like what they hang people for, at newgate, stevy, by the law. an' do you know who's done it?" i was distressed and bewildered, as well as alarmed by the old man's vehemence. "the captain," i said, whimpering again. "viney!" my grandfather shouted. "henry viney, as i might ha' served the same way, an' i wish i had! viney and marr's done it; an' marr's paid for it already. lord, lord!" he went on, with his face down in his hands and his elbows on his knees. "lord! i see a lot of it now! it was what they made out o' the insurance that was to save the firm; an' when my boy put in an' stopped it all the voyage out, an' more, they could hold on no longer, but plotted to get out with what they could lay hold of. lord! it's plain as print, plain as print! stevy!" he lowered his hands and looked up. "stevy! that money's more yours now than ever. if i ever had a doubt--if it don't belong to the orphan they've made--but there, it's sent you, boy, sent you, an' any one 'ud believe in providence after that." in a moment more he was back at his earlier excitement. "but it's viney's done it," he said, with his fist extended before him. "remember, stevy, when you grow up, it's viney's done it, an' it's murder, by the law of england. viney has killed your father, an' if it was brought against him it 'ud be murder!" "then," i said, "we'll go to the police station and they will catch him." my grandfather's hand dropped. "ah, stevy, stevy," he groaned, "you don't know, you don't know. it ain't enough for that, an' if it was--if it was, i can't; i can't--not with you to look after. i might do it, an' risk all, if it wasn't for that.... my god, it's a judgment on me--a cruel judgment! my own son--an' just the same way--just the same way!... i can't, stevy, not with you to take care of. stevy, i must keep myself safe for your sake, an' i can't raise a hand to punish viney. i can't, stevy, i can't; for i'm a guilty man myself, by the law of england--an' viney knows it! viney knows it! though it wasn't wilful, as god's my judge!" grandfather nat ended with a groan, and sat still, with his head bowed in his hands. again i remembered, and now with something of awe, my innocent question: "did you ever kill a man, grandfather nat?" still he sat motionless and silent, till i could endure it no longer: for in some way i felt frightened. so i went timidly and put my arm about his neck. i fancied, though i was not sure, that i could feel a tremble from his shoulders; but he was silent still. nevertheless i was oddly comforted by the contact, and presently, like a dog anxious for notice, ventured to stroke the grey hair. soon then he dropped his hands and spoke. "i shouldn't ha' said it, stevy; but i'm all shook an' worried, an' i talked wild. it was no need to say it, but there ain't a soul alive to speak to else, an' somehow i talk as it might be half to myself. but you know what about things i say--private things--don't you? remember?" he sat erect again, and raised a forefinger warningly, even sternly. "remember, stevy!... but come--there's things to do. give me the letter. we'll get together any little things to be kep', papers an' what not, an' take 'em home. an' i'll have to think about the rest, what's best to be done; sell 'em, or what. but i dunno, i dunno!" chapter xvii in blue gate in her den at the black stair-top in blue gate, musky mag lurked, furtive and trembling, after the inquests at the hole in the wall. where dan ogle might be hiding she could not guess, and she was torn between a hundred fears and perplexities. dan had been seen, and could be identified; of that she was convinced, and more than convinced, since she had heard mr. cripps's testimony. moreover she well remembered at what point in her own evidence the police-inspector had handed the note to the coroner, and she was not too stupid to guess the meaning of that. how could she warn dan, how help or screen him, how put to act that simple fidelity that was the sole virtue remaining in her, all the greater for the loss of the rest? she had no money; on the other hand she was confident that dan must have with him the whole pocket-book full of notes which had cost two lives already, and now seemed like to cost the life she would so gladly buy with her own; for they had not been found on kipps's body, nor in any way spoken of at the inquest. but then he might fear to change them. he could scarcely carry a single one to the receivers who knew him, for his haunts would be watched; more, a reward was offered, and no receiver would be above making an extra fifty pounds on the transaction. for to her tortured mind it seemed every moment more certain that the cry was up, and not the police alone, but everybody else was on the watch to give the gallows its due. she was uneasy at having no message. doubtless he needed her help, as he had needed it so often before; doubtless he would come for it if he could, but that would be to put his head in the noose. how could she reach him, and give it? even if she had known where he lay, to go to him would be to lead the police after her, for she had no doubt that her own movements would be watched. she knew that the boat wherein he had escaped had been found on the opposite side of the river, and she, like others, judged from that that he might be lurking in some of the waterside rookeries of the south bank; the more as it was the commonest device of those "wanted" in ratcliff or wapping to "go for a change" to rotherhithe or bankside, and for those in a like predicament on the southern shores to come north in the same way. but again, to go in search of him were but to share with the police whatever luck might attend the quest. so that musky mag feared alike to stay at home and to go abroad; longed to find dan, and feared it as much; wished to aid him, yet equally dreaded that he should come to her or that she should go to him. and there was nothing to do, therefore, but to wait and listen anxiously; to listen for voices, or footsteps, even for creaks on the stairs; for a whistle without that might be a signal; for an uproar or a sudden hush that might announce the coming of the police into blue gate; even for a whisper or a scratching at door or window wherewith the fugitive might approach, fearful lest the police were there before him. but at evening, when the place grew dark, and the thickest of the gloom drew together, to make a monstrous shadow on the floor, where once she had fallen over something in the dark--then she went and sat on the stair-head, watching and dozing and waking in terror. so went a day and a night, and another day. the corners of the room grew dusk again, and with the afternoon's late light the table flung its shadow on that same place on the floor; so that she went and moved it toward the wall. as she set it down she started and crouched, for now at last there was a step on the stair--an unfamiliar step. a woman's, it would seem, and stealthy. musky mag held by the table, and waited. the steps ceased at the landing, and there was a pause. then, with no warning knock, the door was pushed open, and a head was thrust in, covered by an old plaid shawl; a glance about the room, and the rest of the figure followed, closing the door behind it; and, the shawl being flung back from over the bonnet, there stood mrs. grimes, rusty and bony, slack-faced and sour. mrs. grimes screwed her red nose at the woman before her, jerked up her crushed bonnet, and plucked her rusty skirt across her knees with the proper virtuous twitch. then said mrs. grimes: "where's my brother dan?" for a moment musky mag disbelieved eyes and ears together. the visit itself, even more than the question, amazed and bewildered her. she had been prepared for any visitor but this. for mrs. grimes's relationship to dan ogle was a thing that exemplary lady made as close a secret as she could, as in truth was very natural. she valued herself on her respectability; she was the widow of a decent lighterman, of a decent lightering and wharf-working family, and she called herself "house-keeper" (though she might be scarce more than charwoman) at the hole in the wall. she had never acknowledged her lawless brother when she could in any way avoid it, and she had, indeed, bargained that he should not come near her place of employment, lest he compromise her; and so far from seeking him out in his lodgings, she even had a way of failing to see him in the street. what should she want in blue gate at such a time as this, asking thus urgently for her brother dan? what but the reward? for an instant mag's fears revived with a jump, though even as it came she put away the fancy that such might be the design of any sister, however respectable. "where's my brother dan?" repeated mrs. grimes, abruptly. "i--i don't know, mum," faltered mag, husky and dull. "i ain't seen 'im for--for--some time." "o, nonsense. i want 'im particular. i got somethink to tell 'im important. if you won't say where 'e is, go an' find 'im." "i wish i could, mum, truly. but i can't." "do you mean 'e's left you?" mrs. grimes bridled high, and helped it with a haughty sniff. "no, mum, not quite, in your way of speakin', i think, mum. but 'e's--'e's just gone away for a bit." "ho. in trouble again, you mean, eh?" "o, no, mum, not there," mag answered readily; for, with her, "trouble" was merely a genteel name for gaol. "not there--not for a long while." "where then?" "that's what i dunno, mum; not at all." mrs. grimes tightened her lips and glared; plainly she believed none of these denials. "p'raps 'e's wanted," she snapped, "an' keepin' out o' the way just now. is that it?" this was what no torture would have made mag acknowledge; but, with all her vehemence of denial, her discomposure was plain to see. "no, mum, not that," she declared, pleadingly. "reely 'e ain't, mum--reely 'e ain't; not that!" "pooh!" exclaimed mrs. grimes, seating herself with a flop. "that's a lie, plain enough. 'e's layin' up somewhere, an' you know it. what harm d'ye suppose i'm goin' to do 'im? 'e ain't robbed me--leastways not lately. i got a job for 'im, i tell you--money in 'is pocket. if you won't tell me, go an' tell 'im; go on. an' i'll wait." "it's gawd's truth, mum, i don't know where 'e is," mag protested earnestly. "'ark! there's someone on the stairs! they'll 'ear. go away, mum, do. i'll try an' find 'im an' tell 'im--s'elp me i will! go away--they're comin'!" in truth the footsteps had reached the stair-top, and now, with a thump, the door was thrust open, and blind george appeared, his fiddle under his arm, his stick sweeping before him, and his white eye rolling at the ceiling. "hullo!" he sung out. "lady visitors! or is it on'y one? 'tain't polite to tell the lady to go away, mag! good afternoon, mum, good afternoon!" he nodded and grinned at upper vacancy, as one might at a descending angel; mrs. grimes, meanwhile, close at his elbow, preparing to get away as soon as he was clear past her. for blind george's keenness of hearing was well known, and she had no mind he should guess her identity. "good afternoon, mum!" the blind man repeated. "havin' tea?" he advanced another step, and extended his stick. "what!" he added, suddenly turning. "what! table gone? what's this? doin' a guy? clearin' out?" "no, george," mag answered. "i only moved the table over to the wall. 'ere it is--come an' feel it." she made a quick gesture over his shoulder, and mrs. grimes hurried out on tip-toe. but at the first movement blind george turned sharply. "there she goes," he said, making for the door. "she don't like me. timid little darlin'! hullo, my dear!" he roared down the stairs. "hullo! you never give me a kiss! i know you! won't you say good-bye?" he waited a moment, listening intently; but mrs. grimes scuttled into the passage below without a word, and instantly blind george supplemented his endearments with a burst of foul abuse, and listened again. this expedient succeeded no better than the first, and mrs. grimes was gone without a sound that might betray her identity. blind george shut the door. "who was that?" he asked. "oh, nobody partic'lar," mag answered with an assumption of indifference. "on'y a woman i know--name o' jane. what d'you want?" "ah, now you're come to it." blind george put his fiddle and bow on the table and groped for a chair. "fust," he went on, "is there anybody else as can 'ear? eh? cracks or crannies or peepholes, eh? 'cause i come as a pal, to talk private business, i do." "it's all right, george; nobody can hear. what is it?" "why," said the blind man, catching her tight by the arm, and leaning forward to whisper; "it's dan, that's what it is. it's dan!" she was conscious of a catching of the breath and a thump of the heart; and blind george knew it too, for he felt it through the arm. "it's dan," he repeated. "so now you know if it's what you'd like listened to." "go on," she said. "ah. well, fust thing, all bein' snug, 'ere's five bob; catch 'old." he slid his right hand down to her wrist, and with his left pressed the money into hers. "all right, don't be frightened of it, it won't 'urt ye! lord, i bet dan 'ud do the same for me if i wanted it, though 'e is a bit rough sometimes. i ain't rich, but i got a few bob by me; an' if a pal ain't to 'ave 'em, who is? eh? who is?" he grinned under the white eye so ghastly a counterfeit of friendly good-will that the woman shrank, and pulled at the wrist he held. "lord love ye," he went on, holding tight to the wrist, "i ain't the bloke to round on a pal as is under a cloud. see what i might 'a' done, if i'd 'a' wanted. i might 'a' gone an' let out all sorts o' things, as you know very well yerself, at the inquest--both the inquests. but did i? not me. not a bit of it. _that_ ain't my way. no; i lay low, an' said nothing. what arter that? why, there's fifty quid reward offered, fifty quid--a fortune to a pore bloke like me. an' all i got to do is to go and say 'dan ogle' to earn it--them two words an' no more. ain't that the truth? d'y' hear, ain't that the truth?" he tugged at her wrist to extort an answer, and the woman's face was drawn with fear. but she made a shift to say, with elaborate carelessness, "reward? what reward, george? i dunno nothin' about it." "gr-r-r!" he growled, pushing the wrist back, but gripping it still. "that ain't 'andsome, not to a pal it ain't; not to a faithful pal as comes to do y' a good turn. you know all about it well enough; an' you needn't think as i don't know too. blind, ain't i? blind from a kid, but not a fool! you ought to know that by this time--not a fool. look 'ere!"--with another jerk at the woman's arm--"look 'ere. the last time i was in this 'ere room there was me an' you an' dan an' two men as is dead now, an' post-mortalled, an' inquested an' buried, wasn't there? well, dan chucked me out. i ain't bearin' no malice for that, mind ye--ain't i just give ye five bob, an' ain't i come to do ye a turn? i was chucked out, but ye don't s'pose i dunno what 'appened arter i was gone, do ye? eh?" the room was grown darker, and though the table was moved, the shadow on the floor took its old place, and took its old shape, and grew; but it was no more abhorrent than the shadowy face with its sightless white eye close before hers, and the hand that held her wrist, and by it seemed to feel the pulse of her very mind. she struggled to her feet. "let go my wrist," she said. "i'll light a candle. you can go on." "don't light no candle on my account," he said, chuckling, as he let her hand drop. "it's a thing i never treat myself to. there's parties as is afraid o' the dark, they tell me--i'm used to it." she lit the candle, and set it where it lighted best the place of the shadow. then she returned and stood by the chair she had been sitting in. "go on," she said again. "what's this good turn you want to do me?" "ah," he replied, "that's the pint!" he caught her wrist again with a sudden snatch, and drew her forward. "sit down, my gal, sit down, an' i'll tell ye comfortable. what was i a-sayin'? oh, what 'appened arter i was gone; yes. well, that there visitor was flimped clean, clean as a whistle; but fust--eh?--fust!" blind george snapped his jaws, and made a quick blow in the air with his stick. "eh? eh? ah, well, never mind! but now i'll tell you what the job fetched. eight 'undred an' odd quid in a leather pocket-book, an' a silver watch! eh? i thought that 'ud make ye jump. blind, ain't i? blind from a kid,--but not a fool!" "well now," he proceeded, "so far all right. if i can tell ye that, i can pretty well tell ye all the rest, can't i? all about bob kipps goin' off to sell the notes, an' dan watchin' 'im, bein' suspicious, an' catchin' 'im makin' a bolt for the river, an'--eh?" he raised the stick in his left hand again, but now point forward, with a little stab toward her breast. "eh? eh? like that, eh? all right--don't be frightened. i'm a pal, i am. it served that cove right, i say, playin' a trick on a pal. i don't play a trick on a pal. i come 'ere to do 'im a good turn, i do. don't i?--well, dan got away, an' good luck to 'im. 'e got away, clear over the river, with the eight 'undred quid in the leather pocket-book. an' now 'e's a-layin' low an' snug, an' more good luck to 'im, says i, bein' a pal. ain't that right?" mag shuffled uneasily. "go on," she said, "if you think you know such a lot. you ain't come to that good turn yet that you talk so much about." "right! now i'll come to it. now you know i know as much as anybody--more'n anybody 'cept dan, p'rhaps a bit more'n what you know yourself; an' i kep' it quiet when i might 'a' made my fortune out of it; kep' it quiet, bein' a faithful pal. an' bein' a faithful pal an' all i come 'ere with five bob for ye, bein' all i can afford, 'cos i know you're a bit short, though dan's got plenty--got a fortune. why should you be short, an' dan got a fortune? on'y 'cos you want a pal as you can trust, like me! that's all. 'e can't come to you 'cos o' showin' 'isself. _you_ can't go to 'im 'cos of being watched an' follered. so i come to do ye both a good turn goin' between, one to another. where is 'e?" mag was in some way reassured. she feared and distrusted blind george, and she was confounded to learn how much he knew: but at least he was still ignorant of the essential thing. so she said, "knowin' so much more'n me, i wonder you dunno that too. any'ow _i_ don't." "what? _you_ dunno. dunno where 'e is?" "no, i don't; no more'n you." "o, that's all right--all right for anybody else; but not for a pal like me--not for a pal as is doin' y' a good turn. besides, it ain't you on'y; it's 'im. 'ow'll 'e get on with the stuff? 'e won't be able to change it, an' 'e'll be as short as you, an' p'rhaps get smugged with it on 'im. that 'ud never do; an' i can get it changed. what part o' rotherhithe is it, eh? i can easy find 'im. is it dockhead?" "there or anywhere, for all i know. i tell ye, george, i dunno no more'n you. let go my arm, go on." but he gave it another pull--an angry one. "what? what?" he cried. "if dan knowed as you was keepin' 'is ol' pal george from doin' 'im a good turn, what 'ud 'e do, eh? 'e'd give it you, my beauty, wouldn't 'e? eh? eh?" he twisted the arm, ground his teeth, and raised his stick menacingly. but this was a little too much. he was a man, and stronger, but at any rate he was blind. she rose and struggled to twist her arm from his grasp. "if you don't put down that stick, george," she said, "if you don't put it down an' let go my arm, i'll give it you same as bob kipps got it--s'elp me i will! i'll give you the chive--i will! don't you make me desprit!" he let go the wrist and laughed. "whoa, beauty!" he cried; "don't make a rumpus with a faithful pal! if you won't tell me i s'pose you won't, bein' a woman; whether it's bad for dan or not, eh?" "i tell you i can't, george; i swear solemn i dunno no more'n you--p'rhaps not so much. 'e ain't bin near nor sent nor nothing, since--since then. that's gospel truth. if i do 'ear from 'im i'll--well then i'll see." "will ye tell 'im, then? 'ere, tell 'im this. tell 'im he mustn't go tryin' to sell them notes, or 'e'll be smugged. tell 'im i can put 'im in the way o' gettin' money for 'em--'ard quids, an' plenty on 'em. tell 'im that, will ye? tell 'im i'm a faithful pal, an' nobody can do it but me. i know things you don't know about, nor 'im neither. tell 'im to-night. will ye tell 'im to-night?" "'ow can i tell 'im to-night? i'll tell 'im right enough when i see 'im. i s'pose you want to make your bit out of it, pal or not." "there y'are!" he answered quickly. "there y'are! if you won't believe in a pal, look at that! if i make a fair deal, man to man, with them notes, an' get money for 'em instead o' smuggin'--quids instead o' quod--i'll 'ave my proper reg'lars, won't i? an' proper reg'lars on all that, paid square, 'ud be more'n i could make playin' the snitch, if dan'll be open to reason. see? you won't forget, eh?" he took her arm again eagerly, above the elbow. "know what to say, don't ye? best for all of us. 'e mustn't show them notes to a soul, till 'e sees me. _i'm_ a pal. _i_ got the little tip 'ow to do it proper--see? now you know. gimme my fiddle. 'ere we are. where's the door? all right--don't forget!" blind george clumped down the black stair, and so reached the street of blue gate. at the door he paused, listening till he was satisfied of musky mag's movements above; then he walked a few yards along the dark street, and stopped. from a black archway across the street a man came skulking out, and over the roadway to blind george's side. it was viney. "well?" he asked eagerly. "what's your luck?" blind george swore vehemently, but quietly. "precious little," he answered. "she dunno where 'e is. i thought at first it was kid, but it ain't. she ain't 'eard, an' she dunno. i couldn't catch hold o' the other woman, an' she got away an' never spoke. you see 'er again when she came out, didn't ye? know 'er?" "not me--she kept her shawl tighter about her head than ever. an' if she hadn't it ain't likely i'd know her. what now? stand watch again? i'm sick of it." "so am i, but it's for good pay, if it comes off. five minutes might do it. you get back, an' wait in case i tip the whistle." viney crept growling back to his arch, and blind george went and listened at mag's front door for a few moments more. then he turned into the one next it, and there waited, invisible, listening still. five minutes went, and did not do it, and ten minutes went, and five times ten. blue gate lay darkling in evening, and foul shadows moved about it. from one den and another came a drawl and a yaup of drunken singing; a fog from the river dulled the lights at the highway end, and slowly crept up the narrow way. it was near an hour since viney and blind george had parted, when there grew visible, coming through the mist from the highway, the uncertain figure of a stranger: drifting dubiously from door to door, staring in at one after another, and wandering out toward the gutter to peer ahead in the gloom. blind george could hear, as well as another could see, that here was a stranger in doubt, seeking somebody or some house. soon the man, middle-sized, elderly, a trifle bent, and all dusty with lime, came in turn to the door where he stood; and at once blind george stepped full against him with an exclamation and many excuses. "beg pardon, guv'nor! pore blind chap! 'ope i didn't 'urt ye! was ye wantin' anybody in this 'ouse?" the limy man looked ahead, and reckoned the few remaining doors to the end of blue gate. "well," he said, "i fancy it's 'ere or next door. d'ye know a woman o' the name o' mag--mag flynn?" "i'm your bloke, guv'nor. know 'er? rather. up 'ere--i'll show ye. lord love ye, she's an old friend o' mine. come on.... i should say you'd be in the lime trade, guv'nor, wouldn't you? i smelt it pretty strong, an' i'll never forget the smell o' lime. why, says you? why, 'cos o' losin' my blessed sight with lime, when i was a innocent kid. fell on a slakin'--bed, guv'nor, an' blinded me blessed self; so i won't forget the smell o' lime easy. ain't you in the trade, now? ain't i right?" he stopped midway on the stairs to repeat the question. "ain't i right? is it yer own business or a firm?" "ah well, i do 'ave to do with lime a good bit," said the stranger, evasively. "but go on, or else let me come past." blind george turned, and reaching the landing, thumped his stick on the door and pushed it open. "'ere y'are," he sang out. "'ere's a genelman come to see ye, as i found an' showed the way to. lord love ye, 'e'd never 'a' found ye if it wasn't for me. but i'm a old pal, ain't i? a faithful old pal!" he swung his stick till he found a chair, and straightway sat in it, like an invited guest. "lord love ye, yes," he continued, rolling his eye and putting his fiddle across his knees; "one o' the oldest pals she's got, or 'im either." the newcomer looked in a puzzled way from blind george to the woman, and back again. "it's private business i come about," he said, shortly. "all right, guv'nor," shouted blind george, heartily, "out with it! we're all pals 'ere! old pals!" "you ain't my old pal, anyhow," the limy man observed. "an' if the room's yours, we'll go an' talk somewheres else." "get out, george, go along," said mag, with some asperity, but more anxiety. "you clear out, go on." "o, all right, if you're goin' to be unsociable," said the fiddler, rising. "damme, _i_ don't want to stay--not me. i was on'y doin' the friendly, that's all; bein' a old pal. but i'm off all right--i'm off. so long!" he hugged his fiddle once more, and clumped down into the street. he tapped with his stick till he struck the curb, and then crossed the muddy roadway; while viney emerged again from the dark arch to meet him. "all right," said blind george, whispering huskily. "it's business now, i think--business. you come on now. you'll 'ave to foller 'em if they come out together. if they don't--well, you must look arter the one as does." chapter xviii on the cop when the limy man left blue gate he went, first, to the hole in the wall, there to make to captain kemp some small report on the wharf by the lea. this did not keep him long, and soon he was on his journey home to the wharf itself, by way of the crooked lanes and the commercial road. he had left blue gate an hour and more when musky mag emerged from her black stairway, peering fearfully about the street ere she ventured her foot over the step. so she stood for a few seconds, and then, as one chancing a great risk, stepped boldly on the pavement, and, turning her back to the highway, walked toward back lane. this was the nearer end of blue gate, and, the corner turned, she stopped short, and peeped back. satisfied that she had no follower, she crossed back lane, and taking every corner, as she came to it, with a like precaution, threaded the maze of small, ill-lighted streets that lay in the angle between the great rope walk and commercial road. this wide road she crossed, and then entered the dark streets beyond, in rear of the george tavern; and so, keeping to obscure parallel ways, sometimes emerging into the glare of the main road, more commonly slinking in its darker purlieus, but never out of touch with it, she travelled east; following in the main the later course of the limy man, who had left blue gate by its opposite end. the fog, that had dulled the lights in ratcliff highway, met her again near limehouse basin; but, ere she reached the church, she was clear of it once more. beyond, the shops grew few, and the lights fewer. for a little while decent houses lined the way: the houses of those last merchants who had no shame to live near the docks and the works that brought their money. at last, amid a cluster of taverns and shops that were all for the sea and them that lived on it, the east india dock gates stood dim and tall, flanked by vast raking walls, so that one might suppose a chinese city to seethe within. and away to the left, the dark road that the wall overshadowed was lined on the other side by hedge and ditch, with meadows and fields beyond, that were now no more than a vast murky gulf; so that no stranger peering over the hedge could have guessed aright if he looked on land or on water, or on mere black vacancy. here the woman made a last twist: turning down a side street, and coming to a moment's stand in an archway. this done, she passed through the arch into a path before a row of ill-kept cottages; and so gained the marshy field behind the accident hospital, the beginning of the waste called the cop. here the great blackness was before her and about her, and she stumbled and laboured on the invisible ground, groping for pits and ditches, and standing breathless again and again to listen. the way was so hard as to seem longer than it was, and in the darkness she must needs surmount obstacles that in daylight she would have turned. often a ditch barred her way; and when, after long search, a means of crossing was found, it was commonly a plank to be traversed on hands and knees. there were stagnant pools, too, into which she walked more than once; and twice she suffered a greater shock of terror: first at a scurry of rats, and later at quick footsteps following in the sodden turf--the footsteps, after all, of nothing more terrible than a horse of inquiring disposition, out at grass. so she went for what seemed miles: though there was little more than half a mile in a line from where she had left the lights to where at last she came upon a rough road, seamed with deep ruts, and made visible by many whitish blotches where lime had fallen, and had there been ground into the surface. to the left this road stretched away toward the lights of bromley and bow common, and to the right it rose by an easy slope over the river wall skirting the lea, and there ended at kemp's wharf. not a creature was on the road, and no sound came from the black space behind her. with a breath of relief she set foot on the firmer ground, and hurried up the slope. from the top of the bank she could see kemp's wharf just below, with two dusty lighters moored in the dull river; and beyond the river the measureless, dim abbey marsh. nearer, among the sheds, a dog barked angrily at the sound of strange feet. a bright light came from the window of the little house that made office and dwelling for the wharf-keeper, and something less of the same light from the open door; for there the limy man stood waiting, leaning on the door-post, and smoking his pipe. he grunted a greeting as mag came down the bank. "bit late," he said. "but it ain't easy over the cop for a stranger." "where?" the woman whispered eagerly. "where is he?" the limy man took three silent pulls at his pipe. then he took it from his mouth with some deliberation, and said: "remember what i said? i don't want 'im 'ere. i dunno what 'e's done, an' don't want; but if 'e likes to come 'idin' about, i ain't goin' to play the informer. i dunno why i should promise as much as that, just 'cos my brother married 'is sister. _she_ ain't done me no credit, from what i 'ear now. though she 'ad a good master, as i can swear; 'cos 'e's mine too." "where is he?" was all mag's answer, again in an anxious whisper. "unnerstand?" the limy man went on. "i'm about done with the pair on 'em now, but i ain't goin' to inform. 'e come 'ere a day or two back an' claimed shelter; an' seein' as i was goin' up to wappin' to-night, 'e wanted me to tell you where 'e was. well, i've done that, an' i ain't goin' to do no more; see? 'e ain't none o' mine, an' i won't 'ave part nor parcel with 'im, nor any of ye. i keep myself decent, i do. i shan't say 'e's 'ere an' i shan't say 'e ain't; an' the sooner 'e goes the better 'e'll please me. see?" "yes, mr. grimes, sir; but tell me where he is!" the limy man took his pipe from his mouth, and pointed with a comprehensive sweep of the stem at the sheds round about. "you can go an' look in any o' them places as ain't locked," he said off-handedly. "the dog's chained up. try the end one fust." grimes the wharfinger resumed his pipe, and mag scuffled off to where the light from the window fell on the white angle of a small wooden shelter. the place was dark within, dusted about with lime, and its door stood inward. she stopped and peered. "all right," growled dan ogle from the midst of the dark. "can't ye see me now y' 'ave come?" and he thrust his thin face and big shoulders out through the opening. "o dan!" the woman cried, putting out her hands as though she would take him by the neck, but feared repulse. "o dan! thank gawd you're safe, dan! i bin dyin' o' fear for you, dan!" "g-r-r-r!" he snorted. "stow that! what i want's money. got any?" chapter xix on the cop it was at a bend of the river-wall by the lea, in sight of kemp's wharf, that dan ogle and his sister met at last. dan had about as much regard for her as she had for him, and the total made something a long way short of affection. but common interests brought them together. mrs. grimes had told mag that she knew of something that would put money in dan's pocket; and, as money was just what dan wanted in his pocket, he was ready to hear what his sister had to tell: more especially as it seemed plain that she was unaware--exactly--of the difficulty that had sent him into hiding. so, instructed by mag, she came to the cop on a windy morning, where, from the top of the river-wall, one might look east over the abbey marsh, and see an unresting and unceasing press of grey and mottled cloud hurrying up from the flat horizon to pass overhead, and vanish in the smoke of london to the west. mrs. grimes avoided the wharf; for she saw no reason why her brother-in-law, her late employer's faithful servant, should witness her errand. she climbed the river-wall at a place where it neared the road at its bromley end, and thence she walked along the bank-top. arrived where it made a sharp bend, she descended a little way on the side next the river, and there waited. dan, on the look-out from his shed, spied her be-ribboned bonnet from afar, and went quietly and hastily under shelter of the river-wall toward where she stood. coming below her on the tow-path, he climbed the bank, and brother and sister stood face to face; unashamed ruffianism looking shabby respectability in the eyes. "umph," growled dan. "so 'ere y'are, my lady." "yes," the woman answered, "'ere i am; an' there you are--a nice respectable sort of party for a brother!" "ah, ain't i? if i was as respectable as my sister i might get a job up at the hole in the wall, mightn't i? 'specially as i 'ear as there's a vacancy through somebody gettin' the sack over a cash-box!" mrs. grimes glared and snapped. "i s'pose you got that from 'im," she said, jerking her head in the direction of the wharf. "well, i ain't come 'ere to call names--i come about that same cash-box; at any rate i come about what's in it.... dan, there's a pile o' bank notes in that box, that don't belong to cap'en nat kemp no more'n they belong to you or me! nor as much, p'raps, if you'll put up a good way o' gettin' at 'em!" "you put up a way as wasn't a good un, seemin'ly," said dan. "'ow d'ye mean they don't belong to kemp?" "there was a murder at the hole in the wall; a week ago." "eh?" dan's jaw shut with a snap, and his eye was full of sharp inquiry. "a man was stabbed against the bar-parlour door, an' the one as did it got away over the river. one o' the two dropped a leather pocket-book full o' notes, an' the kid--kemp's grandson--picked it up in the rush when nobody see it. i see it, though, afterward, when the row was over. i peeped from the stairs, an' i see kemp open it an' take out notes--bunches of 'em--dozens!" "ah, you did, did ye?" dan observed, staring hard at his sister. "bunches o' bank notes--dozens. see a photo, too? likeness of a woman an' a boy? 'cos it was there." mrs. grimes stared now. "why, yes," she said. "but--but 'ow do you come to know? eh?... dan!... was you--was you----" "never mind whether i was nor where i was. if it 'adn't been for you i'd a had them notes now, safe an' snug, 'stead o' cap'en nat. you lost me them!" "i did?" "yes, you. wouldn't 'ave me come to the hole in the wall in case cap'en nat might guess i was yer brother--bein' so much like ye! like you! g-r-r-r! 'ope i ain't got a face like that!" "ho yes! you're a beauty, dan ogle, ain't ye? but what's all that to do with the notes?" mrs. grimes's face was blank with wonder and doubt, but in her eyes there was a growing and hardening suspicion. "what's all that to do with the notes?" "it's all to do with 'em. 'cos o' that i let another chap bring a watch to sell, 'stead o' takin' it myself. an' 'e come back with a fine tale about cap'en nat offerin' to pay 'igh for them notes; an' so i was fool enough to let 'im take them too, 'stead o' goin' myself. but i watched 'im, though--watched 'im close. 'e tried to make a bolt--an'--an' so cap'en nat got the notes after all, it seems, then?" "dan," said mrs. grimes retreating a step; "dan, it was you! it was you, an' you're hiding for it!" the man stood awkward and sulky, like a loutish schoolboy, detected and defiant. "well," he said at length, "s'pose it was? _you_ ain't got no proof of it; an' if you 'ad----what 'a' ye come 'ere for, eh?" she regarded him now with a gaze of odd curiosity, which lasted through the rest of their talk; much as though she were convinced of some extraordinary change in his appearance, which nevertheless eluded her observation. "i told you what i come for," she answered, after a pause. "about gettin' them notes away from kemp--the old wretch!" "umph! old wretch. 'cos 'e wanted to keep 'is cash-box, eh? well, what's the game?" mrs. grimes in no way abated her intent gaze, but she came a little closer, with a sidling step, as if turning her back to a possible listener. "there was two inquests at the hole in the wall," she said; "two on the same day. there was kipps, as lost the notes when cap'en kemp got 'em. an' there was marr the shipowner--an' it was 'im as lost 'em first!" she took a pace back as she said this, looking for its effect. but dan made no answer. albeit his frown grew deeper and his eye sharper, and he stood alert, ready to treat his sister as friend or enemy according as she might approve herself. "marr lost 'em first," she repeated, "an' i can very well guess how, though when i came here i didn't know you was in it. how did i know, thinks you, that marr lost 'em first? i got eyes, an' i got ears, an' i got common sense; an' i see the photo you spoke of--marr an' 'is mother, most likely; anyhow the boy was marr, plain, whoever the woman was. it on'y wanted a bit o' thinkin' to judge what them notes had gone through. but i didn't dream you was so deep in it! lor, no wonder mag was frightened when i see 'er!" still dan said nothing, but his eyes seemed brighter and smaller--perhaps dangerous. so the woman proceeded quickly: "it's all right! you needn't be frightened of my knowin' things! all the more reason for your gettin' the notes now, if you lost 'em before. but it's halves for me, mind ye. ain't it halves for me?" dan was silent for a moment. then he growled, "we ain't got 'em yet." "no, but it's halves when we do get 'em; or else i won't say another word. ain't it halves?" dan ogle could afford any number of promises, if they would win him information. "all right," he said. "halves it is, then, when we get 'em. an' how are we goin' to do it?" mrs. grimes sidled closer again. "marr the shipowner lost 'em first," she said, "an' he was pulled out o' the river, dead an' murdered, just at the back o' the hole in the wall. see?" "well?" "don't see it? kemp's got the pocket-book." "yes." "don't see it yet? well; there's more. there's a room at the back o' the hole in the wall, where it stands on piles, with a trap-door over the water. the police don't know there's a trap-door there. i do." dan ogle was puzzled and suspicious. "what's the good o' that?" he asked. "i didn't think you such a fool, dan ogle. there's a man murdered with notes on him, an' a photo, an' a watch--you said there was a watch. he's found in the river just behind the hole in the wall. there's a trap-door--secret--at the hole in the wall, over the water; just the place he might 'a' been dropped down after he was killed. an' kemp the landlord's got the notes an' the pocket-book an' the photo all complete; an' most likely the watch too, since you tell me he bought it; an' viney could swear to 'em. ain't all that enough to hang cap'en nat kemp, if the police was to drop in sudden on the whole thing?" dan's mouth opened, and his face cleared a little. "i s'pose," he said, "you mean you might put it on to the police as it was cap'en nat did it; an' when they searched they'd find all the stuff, an' the pocket-book, an' the watch, an' the likeness, an' the trap-door; an' that 'ud be evidence enough to put 'im on the string?" "of course i mean it," replied mrs. grimes, with hungry spite in her eyes. "of course i mean it! an' dearly i'd love to see it done, too! cap'en nat kemp, with 'is money an' 'is gran'son 'e's goin' to make a gentleman of, an' all! ''ope you'll be honest where you go next,' says cap'en kemp, 'whether you're grateful to me or not!' honest an' grateful! i'll give 'im honest an' grateful!" dan ogle grinned silently. "no," he said, "you won't forgive 'im, i bet, if it was only 'cos you began by makin' such a pitch to marry 'im!" a chuckle broke from behind the grin. "you'd rather hang him than get his cash-box now, i'll swear!" mrs. grimes was red with anger. "i would that!" she cried. "you're nearer truth than you think, dan ogle! an' if you say too much you'll lose the money you're after, for i'll go an' do it! so now!" dan clicked his tongue derisively. "thought you'd come to tell me how to get the stuff," he said. "'stead o' that you tell me how to hang cap'en nat, very clever, an' lose it. i don't see that helps us." "go an' threaten him." "threaten cap'en nat?" exclaimed dan, glaring contempt, and spitting it. "oh yes, i see myself! cap'en nat ain't that sort o' mug. i'm as 'ard as most, but i ain't 'ard enough for a job like that: or soft enough, for that's what i'd be to try it on. lor' lumme! go an' ask any man up the highway to face cap'en nat, an' threaten him! ask the biggest an' toughest of 'em. ask jim crute, with his ear like a blue-bag, that he chucked out o' the bar like a kitten, last week! 'cap'en nat,' says i, 'if you don't gimme eight hundred quid, i'll hit you a crack!' mighty fine plan that! that 'ud get it, wouldn't it? ah, it 'ud get something!" "i didn't say that sort of threat, you fool! you've got no sense for anything but bashing. there's the evidence that 'ud hang him; go an' tell him that, and say he _shall_ swing for it, if he doesn't hand over!" dan stared long and thoughtfully. then his lip curled again. "pooh!" he said. "i'm a fool, am i? o! anyhow, whether i am or not, i'm a fool's brother. threaten cap'en nat with the evidence, says you! what evidence? the evidence what he's got in his own hands! s'pose i go, like a mug, an' do it. fust thing he does, after he's kicked me out, is to chuck the pocket-book an' the likeness on the fire, an' the watch in the river. then he changes the notes, or sells 'em abroad, an' how do we stand then? why, you're a bigger fool than i thought you was!... what's that?" it was nothing but a gun on the marsh, where a cockney sportsman was out after anything he could hit. but dan ogle's nerves were alert, and throughout the conversation he had not relaxed his watch toward london; so that the shot behind disturbed him enough to break the talk. "we've been here long enough," he said. "you hook it. i'll see about cap'en nat. your way's no good. i'll try another, an' if that don't come off--well, then you can hang him if you like, an' welcome. but now hook it, an' shut your mouth till i've had my go. 'nough said. don't go back the way you come." chapter xx stephen's tale my father's death wrought in grandfather nat a change that awed me. he looked older and paler--even smaller. he talked less to me, but began, i fancied, to talk to himself. withal, his manner was kinder than before, if that were possible; though it was with a sad kindness that distressed and troubled me. more than once i woke at night with candle-light on my face, and found him gazing down at me with a grave doubt in his eyes; whereupon he would say nothing, but pat my cheek, and turn away. early one evening as i sat in the bar-parlour, and my grandfather stood moodily at the door between that and the bar, a man came into the private compartment whom i had seen there frequently before. he was, in fact, the man who had brought the silver spoons on the morning when i first saw ratcliff highway, and he was perhaps the most regular visitor to the secluded corner of the bar. this time he slipped quietly and silently in at the door, and, remaining just within it, out of sight from the main bar, beckoned; his manner suggesting business above the common. but my grandfather only frowned grimly, and stirred not as much as a finger. the man beckoned again, impatiently; but there was no favour in grandfather nat's eye, and he answered with a growl. at that the man grew more vehement, patted his breast pocket, jerked his thumb, and made dumb words with a great play of mouth. "you get out!" said grandfather nat. a shade of surprise crossed the man's face, and left plain alarm behind it. his eyes turned quickly toward the partition which hid the main bar from him, and he backed instantly to the door and vanished. a little later the swing doors of the main bar were agitated, and an eye was visible between them, peeping. they parted, and disclosed the face of that same stealthy visitor but lately sent away from the other door. reassured, as it seemed, by what he saw of the company present, he came boldly in, and called for a drink with an elaborate air of unconcern. but, as he took the glass from the potman, i could perceive a sidelong glance at my grandfather, and presently another. captain nat, however, disregarded him wholly; while the pale man, aware of he knew not what between them, looked alertly from one to the other, ready to abandon his long-established drink, or to remain by it, according to circumstances. the man of the silver spoons looked indifferently from one occupant of the bar to the next, as he took his cold rum. there was the pale man, and mr. cripps, and a sailor, who had been pretty regular in the bar of late, and who, though noisy and apt to break into disjointed song, was not so much positively drunk as never wholly sober. and there were two others, regular frequenters both. having well satisfied himself of these, the man of the silver spoons finished his rum and walked out. scarce had the door ceased to swing behind him, when he was once more in the private compartment, now with a knowing and secure smile, a cough and a nod. for plainly he supposed there must have been a suspicious customer in the house, who was now gone. grandfather nat let fall the arm that rested against the door frame. "out you go!" he roared. "if you want another drink the other bar's good enough for you. if you don't i don't want you here. so out you go!" the man was dumbfounded. he opened his mouth as though to say something, but closed it again, and slunk backward. "out you go!" shouted the unsober sailor in the large bar. "out you go! you 'bey orders, see? lord, you'd better 'bey orders when it's cap'en kemp! ah, i know, i do!" and he shook his head, stupidly sententious. but the fellow was gone for good, and the pale man was all eyes, scratching his cheek feebly, and gazing on grandfather nat. "out he goes!" the noisy sailor went on. "that's cap'en's orders. cap'en's orders or mate's orders, all's one. like father, like son. ah, i know!'" "ah," piped mr. cripps, "a marvellous fine orficer cap'en kemp must ha' been aboard ship, i'm sure. might you ever ha' sailed under 'im?" "me?" cried the sailor with a dull stare. "me? under _him_?... well no, not under _him_. but cap'en's orders or mate's orders, all's one." "p'raps," pursued mr. cripps in a lower voice, with a glance over the bar, "p'raps you've been with young mr. kemp--the late?" "him?" this with another and a duller stare. "him? um! ah, well--never mind. never you mind, see? you mind your own business, my fine feller!" mr. cripps retired within himself with no delay, and fixed an abstracted gaze in his half-empty glass. i think he was having a disappointing evening; people were disagreeable, and nobody had stood him a drink. more, captain nat had been quite impracticable of late, and for days all approaches to the subject of the sign, or the board to paint it on, had broken down hopelessly at the start. as to the man just sent away, mr. cripps seemed, and no doubt was, wholly indifferent. captain nat was merely exercising his authority in his own bar, as he did every day, and that was all. but the pale man was clearly uneasy, and that with reason. for, as afterwards grew plain, the event was something greater than it seemed. indeed, it was nothing less than the end of the indirect traffic in watches and silver spoons. from that moment every visitor to the private compartment was sent away with the same peremptory incivility; every one, save perhaps some rare stranger of the better sort, who came for nothing but a drink. so that, in course of a day or two, the private compartment went almost out of use; and the pale man's face grew paler and longer as the hours went. he came punctually every morning, as usual, and sat his time out with the stagnant drink before him, till he received my grandfather's customary order to "drink up"; and then vanished till the time appointed for his next attendance. but he made no more excursions into the side court after sellers of miscellaneous valuables. from what i know of my grandfather's character, i believe that the pale man must have been paid regular wages; for grandfather nat was not a man to cast off a faithful servant, though plainly the man feared it. at any rate there he remained with his perpetual drink; and so remained until many things came to an end together. there was a certain relief, and, i think, an odd touch of triumph in grandfather nat's face and manner that night as he kissed me, and bade me good-night. as for myself, i did not realise the change, but i had a vague idea that my grandfather had sent away his customer on my account; and for long i lay awake, and wondered why. chapter xxi in the bar-parlour stephen was sound asleep, and the hole in the wall had closed its eyes for the night. the pale man had shuffled off, with his doubts and apprehensions, toward the highway, and mr. cripps was already home in limehouse. only the half-drunken sailor was within hail, groping toward some later tavern, and captain nat, as he extinguished the lamps in the bar, could hear his song in the distance-- the grub was bad an' the pay was low, leave her, johnny, leave her! so hump your duds an' ashore you go for it's time for us to leave her! captain nat blew out the last light in the bar and went into the bar-parlour. he took out the cash-box, and stood staring thoughtfully at the lid for some seconds. he was turning at last to extinguish the lamp at his elbow, when there was a soft step without, and a cautious tap at the door. captain nat's eyes widened, and the cash-box went back under the shelf. the tap was repeated ere the old man could reach the door and shoot back the bolts. this done, he took the lamp in his left hand, and opened the door. in the black of the passage a man stood, tall and rough. just such a figure captain nat had seen there before, less distinctly, and in a briefer glimpse; for indeed it was dan ogle. "well?" said captain nat. "good evenin', cap'en," dan answered, with an uncouth mixture of respect and familiarity. "i jist want five minutes with you." "o, you do, do you?" replied the landlord, reaching behind himself to set the lamp on the table. "what is it? i've a notion i've seen you before." "very like, cap'en. it's all right; on'y business." "then what's the business?" dan ogle glanced to left and right in the gloom of the alley, and edged a step nearer. "best spoke of indoors," he said, hoarsely. "best for you an' me too. nothin' to be afraid of--on'y business." "afraid of? phoo! come in, then." dan complied, with an awkward assumption of jaunty confidence, and captain nat closed the door behind him. "nobody to listen, i suppose?" asked ogle. "no, nobody. out with it!" "well, cap'en, just now you thought you'd seen me before. quite right; so you have. you see me in the same place--just outside that there door. an' i borrowed your boat." "umph!" captain nat's eyes were keen and hard. "is your name dan ogle?" "that's it, cap'en." the voice was confident, but the eye was shifty. "now you know. a chap tried to do me, an' i put his light out. you went for me, an' chased me, but you stuck your hooks in the quids right enough." dan ogle tried a grin and a wink, but captain nat's frown never changed. "well, well," dan went on, after a pause, "it's all right, anyhow. i outed the chap, an' you took care o' the ha'pence; so we helped each other, an' done it atween us. i just come along to-night to cut it up." "cut up what?" "why, the stuff. eight hundred an' ten quid in notes, in a leather pocket-book. though i ain't particular about the pocket-book." dan tried another grin. "four hundred an' five quid'll be good enough for me: though it ought to be more, seein' i got it first, an' the risk an' all." captain nat, with a foot on a chair and a hand on the raised knee, relaxed not a shade of his fierce gaze. "who told you," he asked presently, "that i had eight hundred an' ten pound in a leather pocket-book?" "o, a little bird--just a pretty little bird, cap'en." "tell me the name o' that pretty little bird." "lord lumme, cap'en, don't be bad pals! it ain't a little bird what'll do any harm! it's all safe an' snug enough between us, an' i'm doin' it on the square, ain't i? i knowed about you, an' you didn't know about me; but i comes fair an' open, an' says it was me as done it, an' i on'y want a fair share up between pals in a job together. that's all right, ain't it?" "was it a pretty little bird in a bonnet an' a plaid shawl? a scraggy sort of a little bird with a red beak? the sort of little bird as likes to feather its nest with a cash-box--one as don't belong to it? is that your pattern o' pretty little bird?" "well, well, s'pose it is, cap'en? lord, don't be bad pals! i ain't, am i? make things straight, an' i'll take care _she_ don't go a pretty-birdin' about with the tale. i'll guarantee that, honourable. you ain't no need be afraid o' that." "d'ye think i look afraid?" "love ye, cap'en, why, i didn't mean that! there ain't many what 'ud try to frighten you. that ain't my tack. you're too hard a nut for _that_, anybody knows." dan ogle fidgeted uneasily with a hand about his neck-cloth; while the other arm hung straight by his side. "but look here, now, cap'en," he went on; "you're a straight man, an' you don't round on a chap as trusts you. that's right ain't it?" "well?" truly captain nat's piercing stare, his unwavering frown, were disconcerting. dan ogle had come confidently prepared to claim a share of the plunder, just as he would have done from any rascal in blue gate. but, in presence of the man he knew for his master, he had had to begin with no more assurance than he could force on himself; and now, though he had met not a word of refusal, he was reduced well-nigh to pleading. but he saw the best opening, as by a flash of inspiration; and beyond that he had another resource, if he could but find courage to use it. "well?" said captain nat. "you're the sort as plays the square game with a man as trusts you, cap'en. very well. _i've_ trusted you. i come an' put myself in your way, an' told you free what i done, an' i ask, as man to man, for my fair whack o' the stuff. bein' the straight man you are, you'll do the fair thing." captain nat brought his foot down from the chair, and the knee from under his hand; and he clenched the hand on the table. but neither movement disturbed his steady gaze. so he stood for three seconds. then, with an instant dart, he had dan ogle by the hanging arm, just above the wrist. dan sprang and struggled, but his wrist might have been chained to a post. twice he made offer to strike at captain nat's face with the free hand, but twice the blow fainted ere it had well begun. tall and powerful as he was, he knew himself no match for the old skipper. pallid and staring, he whispered hoarsely: "no, cap'en--no! drop it! don't put me away! don't crab the deal! d' y' 'ear----" captain nat, grim and silent, slowly drew the imprisoned fore-arm forward, and plucked a bare knife from within the sleeve. there was blood on it, for his grip had squeezed arm and blade together. "umph!" growled captain nat; "i saw that in time, my lad"; and he stuck the knife in the shelf behind him. "s'elp me, cap'en, i wasn't meanin' anythink--s'elp me i wasn't," the ruffian pleaded, cowering but vehement, with his neckerchief to his cut arm. "that's on'y where i carry it, s'elp me--on'y where i keep it!" "ah, i've seen it done before; but it's an awkward place if you get a squeeze," the skipper remarked drily. "now you listen to me. you say you've come an' put yourself in my power, an' trusted me. so you have--with a knife up your sleeve. but never mind that--i doubt if you'd ha' had pluck to use it. you killed a man at my door, because of eight hundred pounds you'd got between you; but to get that money you had to kill another man first." "no, cap'en, no----" "don't try to deny it, man! why it's what's saving you! i know where that money come from--an' it's murder that got it. marr was the man's name, an' he was a murderer himself; him an' another between 'em ha' murdered my boy; murdered him on the high seas as much as if it was pistol or poison. he was doin' his duty, an' it's murder, i tell you--murder, by the law of england! that man ought to ha' been hung, but he wasn't, an' he never would ha' been. he'd ha' gone free, except for you, an' made money of it. but you killed that man, dan ogle, an' you shall go free for it yourself; for that an' because i won't sell what you trusted me with about this other." captain nat turned and took the knife from the shelf. "now see," he went on. "you've done justice on a murderer, little as you meant it; but don't you come tryin' to take away the orphan's compensation--not as much as a penny of it! don't you touch the compensation, or i'll give you up! i will that! just you remember when you're safe. the man lied as spoke to seein' you that night by the door; an' now he's gone back on it, an' so you've nothing to fear from him, an' nothing to fear from the police. nothing to fear from anybody but me; so you take care, dan ogle!... come, enough said!" captain nat flung wide the door and pitched the knife into the outer darkness. "there's your knife; go after it!" chapter xxii on the cop when viney followed the limy man from musky mag's door he kept him well in view as far as the hole in the wall, and there waited. but when grimes emerged, and viney took up the chase, he had scarce made three-quarters of the way through the crooked lanes toward the commercial road, when, in the confusion and the darkness of the turnings, or in some stray rack of fog, the man of lime went wholly amissing. viney hurried forward, doubled, and scoured the turnings about him. drawing them blank, he hastened for the main road, and there consumed well nigh an hour in profitless questing to and fro; and was fain at last to seek out blind george, and confess himself beaten. but blind george made a better guess. after viney's departure in the wake of grimes, he had stood patiently on guard in the black archway, and had got his reward. for he heard musky mag's feet descend her stairs; noted her timid pause at the door; and ear-watched her progress to the street corner. there she paused again, as he judged, to see that nobody followed; and then hurried out of earshot. he was no such fool as to attempt to dog a woman with eyes, but contented himself with the plain inference that she was on her way to see dan ogle, and that the man whom viney was following had brought news of dan's whereabouts; and with that he turned to the highway and his fiddling. so that when he learned that the limy man had called at the hole in the wall, and had gone out of viney's sight on his way east, blind george was quick to think of kemp's wharf, and to resolve that his next walk abroad should lead him to the lea bank. the upshot of this was that, after some trouble, dan ogle and blind george met on the cop, and that dan consented to a business interview with viney. he was confident enough in any dealings with either of them so long as he cockered in them the belief that he still had the notes. so he said very little, except that viney might come and make any proposal he pleased; hoping for some chance-come expedient whereby he might screw out a little on account. and so it followed that on the morning after his unsuccessful negotiation with captain nat, dan ogle found himself face to face with henry viney at that self-same spot on the bank-side where he had talked with blind george. dan was surly; first because it was policy to say little, and to seem intractable, and again because, after the night's adventure, it came natural. "so you're viney, are you?" he said. "well, i ain't afraid o' you. i know about you. blind george told me _your_ game." "who said anything about afraid?" viney protested, the eternal grin twitching nervously in his yellow cheeks. "we needn't talk about being afraid. it seems to me we can work together." "o, does it? how?" "well, you know, you can't change 'em." "what?" "o, damn it, you know what i mean. the money--the notes." "o, that's what you mean, is it? well, s'pose i can't?" "well--of course--if you can't--eh? if you can't, they might be so much rags, eh?" "p'raps they might--_if_ i can't." "but you know you can't," retorted the other, with a spasm of apprehension. "else you'd have done it and--and got farther off." "well, p'raps i might. but that ain't all you come to say. go on." viney thoughtfully scratched his lank cheek, peering sharply into dan's face. "things bein' what they are," he said, reflectively, "they're no more good to you than rags; not so much." "all right. s'pose they ain't; you don't think i'm a-goin' to make you a present of 'em, do you?" "why no, i didn't think that. i'll pay--reasonable. but you must remember that they're no good to you at all--not worth rag price; so whatever you got 'ud be clear profit." "then how much clear profit will you give me?" viney's forefinger paused on his cheek, and his gaze, which had sunk to dan ogle's waistcoat, shot sharply again at his eyes. "ten pounds," said viney. dan chuckled, partly at the absurdity of the offer, partly because this bargaining for the unproducible began to amuse him. "ten pound clear profit for me," he said, "an' eight hundred pound clear profit for you. that's your idea of a fair bit o' trade!" "but it was mine first, and--and it's no good to you--you say so yourself!" "no; nor no good to you neither--'cause why? you ain't got it!" dan's chuckle became a grin. "if you'd ha' said a hundred, now----" "what?" "why, then i'd ha' said four hundred. that's what i'd ha' said!" "four hundred? why, you're mad! besides i haven't got it--i've got nothing till i can change the notes; only the ten." dan saw the chance he had hoped for. "i'll make it dirt cheap," he said, "first an' last, no less an' no more. will you give me fifty down for 'em when you've got 'em changed?" "yes, i will." viney's voice was almost too eager. "straight? no tricks, eh?" viney was indignant at the suggestion. he scorned a trick. "no hoppin' the twig with the whole lot, an' leavin' me in the cart?" viney was deeply hurt. he had never dreamed of such a thing. "very well, i'll trust you. give us the tenner on account." dan ogle stuck out his hand carelessly; but it remained empty. "i said i'd give fifty when they're changed," grinned viney, knowingly. "what? well, i know that; an' not play no tricks. an' now when i ask you to pay first the ten you've got, you don't want to do it! that don't look like a chap that means to part straight and square, does it?" viney put his hand in his pocket. "all right," he said, "that's fair enough. ten now an' forty when the paper's changed. where's the paper?" "o, i ain't got that about me just now," dan replied airily. "be here to-morrow, same time. but you can give me the ten now." viney's teeth showed unamiably through his grin. "ah," he said; "i'll be here to-morrow with that, same time!" "what?" it was dan's honour that smarted now. "what? won't trust me with ten, when i offer, free an' open, to trust you with forty? o, it's off then. i'm done. it's enough to make a man sick." and he turned loftily away. viney's grin waxed and waned, and he followed dan with his eyes, thinking hard. dan stole a look behind, and stopped. "look here," viney said at last. "look here. let's cut it short. we can't sharp each other, and we're wasting time. you haven't got those notes." dan half-turned, and answered in a tone between question and retort. "o, haven't i?" he said. "no; you haven't. see here; i'll give you five pounds if you'll show 'em to me. only show 'em." dan was posed. "i said i hadn't got 'em about me," he said, rather feebly. "no; nor can't get 'em. can you? cut it short." dan looked up and down, and rubbed his cap about his head. "i know where they are," he sulkily concluded. "you know where they are, but you can't get 'em," viney retorted with decision. "can i get 'em?" dan glanced at him superciliously. "you?" he answered. "lord, no." "can we get 'em together?" dan took to rubbing his cap about his head again, and staring very thoughtfully at the ground. then he came a step nearer, and looked up. "two might," he said, "if you'd see it through. with nerve." viney took him by the upper arm, and drew close. "we're the two," he said. "you know where the stuff is, and you say we can get it. we'll haggle no more. we're partners and we'll divide all we get. how's that?" "how about blind george?" "never mind blind george--unless you want to make him a present. _i_ don't. blind george can fish for himself. he's shoved out. we'll do it, and we'll keep what we get. now where are the notes? who's got them?" dan ogle stood silent a moment, considering. he looked over the bank toward the london streets, down on the grass at his feet, and then up at an adventurous lark, that sang nearer and still nearer the town smoke. last he looked at viney, and make up his mind. "who's got 'em?" he repeated; "cap'en nat kemp's got 'em." "what? cap'en----" "cap'en nat kemp's got 'em." viney took a step backward, turned his foot on the slope, and sat back on the bank, staring at dan ogle. "cap'en nat kemp?" he said. "cap'en nat kemp?" "ay; cap'en nat kemp. the notes, an' the leather pocket-book; an' the photo; an' the whole kit. marr's photo, ain't it, with his mother?" "yes," viney answered. "when he was a boy. he wasn't a particular dutiful son, but he always carried it: for luck, or something. but--cap'en kemp! where did _he_ get them?" dan ogle sat on the bank beside viney, facing the river, and there told him the tale he had heard from mrs. grimes. also he told him, with many suppressions, just as much of his own last night's adventure at the hole in the wall as made it plain that captain nat meant to stick to what he had got. viney heard it all in silence, and sat for a while with his head between his hands, thinking, and occasionally swearing. at last he looked up, and dropped one hand to his knee. "i'd have it out of him by myself," he said, "if it wasn't that i want to lie low a bit." dan grunted and nodded. "i know," he replied, "the _juno_. i know about that." viney started. "what do you know about that?" he asked. "pretty well all you could tell me. i hear things, though i am lyin' up; but i heard before, too. marr chattered like a poll-parrot." viney swore, and dropped his other hand. "ay; so blind george said. well, there's nothing for me out of the insurance, and i'm going to let the creditors scramble for it themselves. there'd be awkward questions for me, with the books in the receiver's hands, and what not. so i'm not showing for a bit. though," he added, thoughtfully, "i don't know that i mightn't try it, even now." dan's eyes grew sharp. "we're doin' this together, mr. viney," he said. "you'd better not go tryin' things without me; i mightn't like it. i ain't a nice man to try games on with; one's tried a game over this a'ready, mind." "i'm trying no games," viney protested. "tell us your way, if you don't want to hear about mine." dan ogle was sitting with his chin on his doubled fists, gazing thoughtfully at the muddy river. "my way's rough," he replied, "but it's thorough. an' it wipes off scores. i owe cap'en nat one." viney looked curiously at his companion. "well?" he said. "an' there'd be more in it than eight hundred an' ten. p'raps a lump more." "how?" viney's eyes widened. "umph." dan was silent a moment. then he turned and looked viney in the eyes. "are you game?" he asked. "you ain't a faintin' sort, are you? you oughtn't to be, seein' you was a ship's officer." viney's mouth closed tight. "no," he said; "i don't think i am. what is it?" dan ogle looked intently in his face for a few seconds, and then said: "only him an' the kid sleeps in the house." viney started. "you don't mean breaking in?" he exclaimed. "i won't do that; it's too--too----" "ah, too risky, of course," dan replied, with a curl of the lip. "but i don't mean breakin' in. nothing like it. but tell me first; s'pose breakin' in _wasn't_ risky; s'pose you knew you'd get away safe, with the stuff. would you do it then?" and he peered keenly at viney's face. viney frowned. "that don't matter," he said, "if it ain't the plan. s'pose i would?" "ha-ha! that'll do! i know your sort. not that i blame you about the busting--it 'ud take two pretty tough 'uns to face cap'en nat, i can tell you. but now see here. will you come with me, an' knock at his side door to-night, after the place is shut?" "knock? and what then?" "i'll tell you. you know the alley down to the stairs?" "yes." "black as pitch at night, with a row o' posts holding up the house. now when everybody's gone an' he's putting out the lights, you go an' tap at the door." "well?" "you tap at the door, an' he'll come. you're alone--see? i stand back in the dark, behind a post. he never sees me. 'good evenin',' says you. 'i just want a word with you, if you'll step out.' and so he does." "and what then?" "nothing else--not for you; that's all your job. easy enough, ain't it?" viney turned where he sat, and stared fixedly at his confederate's face. "and then--then--what----" "then i come on. he don't know i'm there--behind him." viney's mouth opened a little, but with no grin; and for a minute the two sat, each looking in the other's face. then said viney, with a certain shrinking: "no, no; not that. it's hanging, you know; it's hanging--for both." dan laughed--an ugly laugh, and short. "it ain't hanging for _that_," he said; "it's hanging for gettin' caught. an' where's the chance o' that? we take our own time, and the best place you ever see for a job like that, river handy at the end an' all; an' everything settled beforehand. safe a job as ever i see. look at me. i ain't hung yet, am i? but i've took my chances, an' took 'em when it wasn't safe, like as this is." viney stared at vacancy, like a man in a brown study; and his dry tongue passed slowly along his drier lips. "as for bein' safe," dan went on, "what little risk there is, is for _me_. you're all right. we don't know each other. not likely. how should you know i was hidin' there in the dark when you went to speak to cap'en nat kemp? come to that, it might ha' been _you_ outed instead o' your friend what you was talkin' so sociable with. an' there's more there than what's in the pocket-book. remember that. there's a lump more than that." viney rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. "how do you know?" he asked, huskily. "how do i know? how did i know about the pocket-book an' the notes? i ain't been the best o' pals with my sister, but she couldn't ha' been there all this time without my hearing a thing or two about cap'en nat; to say nothing of what everybody knows as knows anything about him. money? o' course there's money in the place; no telling how much; an' watches, an' things, as he buys. p'raps twice that eight hundred, an' more." viney's eyes were growing sharper--growing eager. "it sounds all right," he remarked, a little less huskily. "especially if there's more in it than the eight hundred. but--but--are you--you know--sure about it?" "you leave that to me. i'll see after my department, an' yours is easy enough. come, it's a go, ain't it?" "but perhaps he'll make a row--call out, or something." "he ain't the sort o' chap to squeal; an' if he was he wouldn't--not the way i'm goin' to do it. you'll see." "an' there's the boy--what about him?" "o, the kid? upstairs. he's no account, after we've outed cap'en nat. no more'n a tame rabbit. an' we'll have all night to turn the place over, if we want it--though we shan't. we'll be split out before the potman comes: fifty mile apart, with full pockets, an' nobody a ha'porth the wiser." viney bit at his fingers, and his eyes lifted and sank, quick and keen, from the ground to ogle's face, and back again. but it was enough, and he asked for no more persuasion. willing murderers both, they set to planning details: what viney should say, if it were necessary to carry the talk with captain nat beyond the first sentence or so; where they must meet; and the like. and here, on viney's motion, a change was made as regarded time. not this immediate night, but the night following, was resolved on for the stroke that should beggar the hole in the wall of money and of life. for to viney it seemed desirable, first, to get his belongings away from his present lodgings, for plain reasons; so as to throw off blind george, and so as to avoid flight from a place where he was known, on the very night of the crime. this it were well to do at once; yet, all unprepared as he was, he could not guess what delays might intervene; and so for all reasons captain nat and the child were reprieved for twenty-four hours. thus in full terms the treaty was made. dan ogle, shrink as he might from captain nat face to face (as any ruffian in blue gate would), was as ready to stab him in the back for vengeance as for gain. for he was conscious that never in all his years of bullying and scoundrelism had he cut quite so poor a figure in face of any man as last night in face of captain nat. as to the gain, it promised to be large, and easy in the getting; and for his sister, now that she could help no more,--she could as readily be flung out of the business as blind george. the opportunity was undeniable. a better place for the purpose than the alley leading to the head of hole-in-the-wall stairs could never have been planned. once the house was shut, and the potman gone, no more was needed than to see the next police patrol go by, and the thing was done. here was the proper accomplice too: a man known to captain nat, and one with whom he would readily speak; and, in ogle's eyes, the business was no more than a common stroke of his trade, with an uncommon prospect of profit. as for viney, money was what he wanted, and here it could be made, as it seemed, with no great risk. it was surer, far, than going direct to captain nat and demanding the money under the old threat. that was a little outworn, and, indeed, was not so substantial a bogey as it might seem in the eyes of captain nat, for years remorseful, and now apprehensive for his grandchild's sake; for the matter was old, and evidence scarce, except viney's own, which it would worse than inconvenience him to give. so that a large demand might break down; while here, as he was persuaded, was the certainty of a greater gain, which was the main thing. and if any shadow of scruple against direct and simple murder remained, it vanished in the reflection that not he, but ogle, would be the perpetrator, as well as the contriver. for himself, he would but be opening an innocent conversation with kemp. so viney told himself; and so desire and conscience are made to run coupled, all the world over, and all time through. all being appointed, the two men separated. they stood up, they looked about them, over the lea and over the ragged field; and they shook hands. chapter xxiii on the cop it was morning still, as viney went away over the cop; and, when he had vanished beyond the distant group of little houses, dan ogle turned and crept lazily into his shelter: there to make what dinner he might from the remnant of the food that mag had brought him the evening before; and to doze away the time on his bed of dusty sacks, till she should bring more in the evening to come. he would have given much for a drink, for since his retreat to kemp's wharf the lime had penetrated clothes and skin and had invaded his very vitals. more particularly it had invaded his throat; and the pint or so of beer that mag brought in a bottle was not enough to do more than aggravate the trouble. but no drink was there, and no money to buy one; else he might well have ventured out to a public-house, now that the police sought him no more. as for grimes of the wharf (who had been growing daily more impatient of dan's stay), he offered no better relief than a surly reference to the pump. so there was nothing for it but to sit and swear; with the consolation that this night should be his last at kemp's wharf. sunlight came with the afternoon, and speckled the sluggish lea; then the shadow of the river wall fell on the water and it was dull again; and the sun itself grew duller, and lower, and larger, in the haze of the town. if dan ogle had climbed the bank, and had looked across the cop now, he would have seen blind george, stick in hand, feeling his way painfully among hummocks and ditches in the distance. dan, however, was expecting nobody, and he no longer kept watch on all comers, so that blind george neared unnoted. he gained the lime-strewn road at last, and walked with more confidence. up and over the bank, and down on the side next the river, he went so boldly that one at a distance would never have guessed him blind; for on any plain road he had once traversed he was never at fault; and he turned with such readiness at the proper spot, and so easily picked his way to the shed, that dan had scarce more warning than could bring him as far as the door, where they met. "dan!" the blind man said; "dan, old pal! it's you i can hear, i'll bet, ain't it? where are ye?" and he groped for a friendly grip. dan ogle was taken by surprise, and a little puzzled. still, he could do no harm by hearing what blind george had to say; so he answered: "all right. what is it?" guided by the sound, blind george straightway seized dan's arm; for this was his way of feeling a speaker's thoughts while he heard his words. "he's gone," he said, "gone clean. do you know where?" dan glared into the sightless eye and shook his captured arm roughly. "who?" he asked. "viney. did you let him have the stuff?" "what stuff? when?" "what stuff? that's a rum thing to ask. unless--o!" george dropped his voice and put his face closer. "anybody to hear?" he whispered. "no." "then why ask what stuff? you didn't let him have it this morning, did you?" "dunno what you mean. never seen him this morning." blind george retracted his head with a jerk, and a strange look grew on his face: a look of anger and suspicion; strange because the great colourless eye had no part in it. "dan," he said, slowly, "them ain't the words of a pal--not of a faithful pal, they ain't. it's a damn lie!" "lie yourself!" retorted dan, thrusting him away. "let go my arm, go on!" "i knew he was coming," blind george went on, "an' i follered up, an' waited behind them houses other side the cop. i want my whack, i do. i heared him coming away, an' i called to him, but he scuttled off. i know his step as well as what another man 'ud know his face. i'm a poor blind bloke, but i ain't a fool. what's your game, telling me a lie like that?" he was standing off from the door now, angry and nervously alert. dan growled, and then said: "you clear out of it. you come to me first from viney, didn't you? very well, you're his pal in this. go and talk to him about it." "i've been--that's where i've come from. i've been to his lodgings in chapman street, an' he's gone. said he'd got a berth aboard ship--a lie. took his bag an' cleared, soon as ever he could get back from here. he's on for doing me out o' my whack, arter i put it all straight for him--that's about it. you won't put me in the cart, dan, arter all i done! where's he gone?" "i dunno nothing about him, i tell you," dan answered angrily. "you sling your hook, or i'll make ye!" "dan," said the blind man, in a voice between appeal and threat; "dan, i didn't put you away, when i found you was here!" "put me away? you? you can go an' try it now, if you like. i ain't wanted; they won't have me. an' if they would--how long 'ud you last, next time you went into blue gate? or even if you didn't go, eh? how long would a man last, that had both his eyes to see with, eh?" and indeed blind george knew, as well as dan himself, that london was unhealthy for any traitor to the state and liberty of blue gate. "how long would he last? you try it." "who wants to try it? i on'y want to know----" "shut your mouth, blind george, an' get out o' this place!" ogle cried, fast losing patience, and making a quick step forward. "go, or you'll be lame as well as blind, if i get hold o' ye!" blind george backed involuntarily, but his blank face darkened and twisted devilishly, and he gripped his stick like a cudgel. "ah, i'm blind, ain't i? mighty bold with a blind man, ain't ye? if my eyes was like yours, or you was blind as me, you'd----" "go!" roared dan furiously, with two quick steps. "go!" the blind man backed as quickly, fiercely brandishing his stick. "i'll go--just as far as suits me, dan ogle!" he cried. "i ain't goin' to be done out o' what's mine! one of ye's got away, but i'll stick to the other! keep off! i'll stick to ye till--keep off!" as dan advanced, the stick, flourished at random, fell on his wrist with a crack, and in a burst of rage he rushed at the blind man, and smote him down with blow on blow. blind george, beaten to a heap, but cowed not at all, howled like a wild beast, and struck madly with his stick. the stick reached its mark more than once, and goaded ogle to a greater fury. he punched and kicked at the plunging wretch at his feet: who, desperate and unflinching, with his mouth spluttering blood and curses, never ceased to strike back as best he might. at the noise grimes came hurrying from his office. for a moment he stood astonished, and then he ran and caught dan by the arm. "i won't have it!" he cried. "if you want to fight you go somewhere else. you--why--why, damme, the man's blind!" favoured by the interruption, blind george crawled a little off, smearing his hand through the blood on his face, breathless and battered, but facing his enemy still, with unabashed malevolence. for a moment ogle turned angrily on grimes, but checked himself, and let fall his hands. "blind?" he snarled. "he'll be dead too, if he don't keep that stick to hisself; that's what he'll be!" the blind man got on his feet, and backed away, smearing the grisly face as he went. "ah! hold him back!" he cried, with a double mouthful of oaths. "hold him hack for his own sake! i ain't done with you, dan ogle, not yet! fight? ah, i'll fight you--an' fight you level! i mean it! i do! i'll fight you level afore i've done with you! dead i'll be, will i? not afore you, an' not afore i've paid you!" so he passed over the bank, threatening fiercely. "look here," said grimes to ogle, "this ends this business. i've had enough o' you. you find some other lodgings." "all right," ogle growled. "i'm going: after to-night." "i dunno why i was fool enough to let you come," grimes pursued. "an' when i did, i never said your pals was to come too. i remember that blind chap now; i see him in blue gate, an' i don't think much of him. an' there was another chap this morning. up to no good, none of ye; an' like as not to lose me my job. so i'll find another use for that shed, see?" "all right," the other sulkily repeated. "i tell ye i'm going: after to-night." chapter xxiv on the cop once he had cut clear from his lodgings without delay and trouble, viney fell into an insupportable nervous impatience, which grew with every minute. his reasons for the day's postponement now seemed wholly insufficient: it must have been, he debated with himself, that the first shock of the suggestion had driven him to the nearest excuse to put the job off, as it were a dose of bitter physic. but now that the thing was resolved upon, and nothing remained to do in preparation, the suspense of inactivity became intolerable, and grew to torment. it was no matter of scruple or compunction; of that he never dreamed. but the enterprise was dangerous and novel, and, as the vacant hours passed, he imagined new perils and dreamed a dozen hangings. till at last, as night came on, he began to fear that his courage could not hold out the time; and, since there was now no reason for delay, he ended with a resolve to get the thing over and the money in his pockets that same night, if it were possible. and with that view he set out for the cop.... * * * * * meantime no nervousness troubled his confederate; for him it was but a good stroke of trade, with a turn of revenge in it; and the penniless interval mattered nothing--could be slept off, in fact, more or less, since there was nothing else to do. the sun sank below london, and night came slow and black over the marshes and the cop. grimes, rising from the doorstep of his office, knocked the last ashes from his pipe and passed indoors. dan ogle, sitting under the lee of his shed, found no comfort in his own empty pipe, and no tobacco in his empty pocket. he rose, stretched his arms, and looked across the lea and the cop. he could see little or nothing, for the dark was closing on him fast. "blind man's holiday," muttered dan ogle; and he turned in for a nap on his bed of sacks. a sulky red grew up into the darkening western sky, as though the extinguished sun were singeing all the world's edge. so one saw london's nimbus from this point every night, and saw below it the scattered spangle of lights that were the suburban sentries of the myriads beyond. the cop and the marshes lay pitch-black, and nothing but the faint lap of water hinted that a river divided them. here, where an hour's habit blotted the great hum of london from the consciousness, sounds were few. the perseverance of the lapping water forced a groan now and again from the moorings of an invisible barge lying by the wharf; and as often a ghostly rustle rose on the wind from an old willow on the farther bank. and presently, more distinct than either, came a steady snore from the shed where dan ogle lay.... a rustle, that was not of any tree, began when the snore was at its steadiest; a gentle rustle indeed, where something, some moving shadow in the black about it, crept over the river wall. clearer against a faint patch, which had been white with lime in daylight, the figure grew to that of a man; a man moving in that murky darkness with an amazing facility, address, and quietness. down toward the riverside he went, and there stooping, dipped into the water some small coarse bag of cloth, that hung in his hand. then he rose, and, after a listening pause, turned toward the shed whence came the snore. with three steps and a pause, and three steps more, he neared the door: the stick he carried silently skimming the ground before him, his face turned upward, his single eye rolling blankly at the sky that was the same for him at night or noon; and the dripping cloth he carried diffused a pungent smell, as of wetted quick-lime. so, creeping and listening, he reached the door. within, the snore was regular and deep. nothing held the door but a latch, such as is lifted by a finger thrust through a hole. he listened for a moment with his ear at this hole, and then, with infinite precaution, inserted his finger, and lifted the latch.... * * * * * up by the george tavern, beyond stepney, henry viney was hastening along the commercial road to call dan ogle to immediate business. ahead of him by a good distance, musky mag hurried in the same direction, bearing food in a saucer and handkerchief, and beer in a bottle. but hurry as they might, here was a visitor well ahead of both.... * * * * * the door opened with something of a jar, and with that there was a little choke in the snore, and a moment's silence. then the snore began again, deep as before. down on his knees went dan ogle's visitor, and so crawled into the deep of the shed. he had been gone no more than a few seconds, when the snore stopped. it stopped with a thump and a gasp, and a sudden buffeting of legs and arms; and in the midst arose a cry: a cry of so hideous an agony that grimes the wharf-keeper, snug in his first sleep fifty yards away, sprang erect and staring in bed, and so sat motionless for half a minute ere he remembered his legs, and thrust them out to carry him to the window. and the dog on the wharf leapt the length of its chain, answering the cry with a torrent of wild barks. floundering and tumbling against the frail boards of the shed, the two men came out at the door in a struggling knot: ogle wrestling and striking at random, while the other, cunning with a life's blindness, kept his own head safe, and hung as a dog hangs to a bull. his hands gripped his victim by ear and hair, while the thumbs still drove at the eyes the mess of smoking lime that clung and dripped about ogle's head. it trickled burning through his hair, and it blistered lips and tongue, as he yelled and yelled again in the extremity of his anguish. over they rolled before the doorway; and ogle, snatching now at last instead of striking, tore away the hands from his face. "fight you level, dan ogle, fight you level now!" blind george gasped between quick breaths. "hit me now you're blind as me! hit me! knock me down! eh?" quickly he climbed to his feet, and aimed a parting blow with the stick that hung from his wrist. "dead?" he whispered hoarsely. "not afore i've paid you! no!" he might have stayed to strike again, but his own hands were blistered in the struggle, and he hastened off toward the bank, there to wash them clear of the slaking lime. away on the wharf the dog was yelping and choking on its chain like a mad thing. screaming still, with a growing hoarseness, and writhing where he lay, the blinded wretch scratched helplessly at the reeking lime that scorched his skin and seared his eyes almost to the brain. grimes came running in shirt and trousers, and, as soon as he could find how matters stood, turned and ran again for oil. "good god!" he said. "lime in his eyes! slaking lime! why--why--it must be the blind chap! it must! fight him level, he said--an' he's blinded him!..." * * * * * there was a group of people staring at the patients' door of the accident hospital when viney reached the spot. he was busy enough with his own thoughts, but he stopped, and stared also, involuntarily. the door was an uninteresting object, however, after all, and he turned: to find himself face to face with one he well remembered. it was the limy man he had followed from blue gate to the hole in the wall, and then lost sight of. grimes recognised viney at once as ogle's visitor of the morning. "that's a pal o' yourn just gone in there," he said. viney was taken aback. "a pal?" he asked. "what pal?" "ogle--dan ogle. he's got lime in his eyes, an' blinded." "lime? blinded? how?" "i ain't goin' to say nothing about how--i dunno, an' 'tain't my business. he's got it, anyhow. there's a woman in there along of him--his wife, i b'lieve, or something. you can talk to her about it, if you like, when she comes out. i've got nothing to do with it." grimes had all the reluctance of his class to be "mixed up" in any matter likely to involve trouble at a police-court; and what was more, he saw himself possibly compromised in the matter of ogle's stay at the wharf. but viney was so visibly concerned by the news that soon the wharf-keeper relented a little--thinking him maybe no such bad fellow after all, since he was so anxious about his friend. "i've heard said," he added presently in a lower tone, "i've heard said it was a blind chap done it out o' spite; but of course i dunno; not to say myself; on'y what i heard, you see. i don't think they'll let you in; but you might see the woman. they won't let her stop long, 'specially takin' on as she was." indeed it was not long ere musky mag emerged, reluctant and pallid, trembling at the mouth, staring but seeing nothing. grimes took her by the arm and led her aside, with viney. "here's a friend o' dan's," grimes said, not unkindly, giving the woman a shake of the arm. "he wants to know how he's gettin' on." "what's 'nucleate?" she asked hoarsely, with a dull look in viney's face. "what's 'nucleate? i heard a doctor say to let 'im rest to-night an' 'nucleate in the mornin'. what's 'nucleate?" "some sort o' operation," grimes hazarded. "did they say anything else?" "blinded," the woman answered weakly. "blinded. but the pain's eased with the oil." "what did he say?" interposed viney, fullest of his own concerns. "did he say someone did it?" "he told me about it--whispered. but i shan't say nothing; nor him, not till he comes out." "i say--he mustn't get talkin' about it," viney said, anxiously. "it--it'll upset things. tell him when you see him. here, listen." he took her aside out of grimes's hearing. "it wouldn't do," he said, "it wouldn't do to have anybody charged or anything just now. we've got something big to pull off. i say--i ought to see him, you know. can't i see him? but there--someone might know me. no. but you must tell him. he mustn't go informing, or anything like that, not yet. tell him, won't you?" "chargin'? infornin'?" mag answered, with contempt in her shaking voice. "'course 'e wouldn't go informin', not dan. dan ain't that sort--'e looks arter hisself, 'e does; 'e don't go chargin' people. not if 'e was dyin'." indeed viney did not sufficiently understand the morals of blue gate: where to call in the aid of the common enemy, the police, was a foul trick to which none would stoop. in blue gate a man inflicted his own punishments, and to ask aid of the police was worse than mean and scandalous: it was weak; and that in a place where the weak "did not last," as the phrase went. it was the one restraint, the sole virtue of the place, enduring to death; and like some other virtues, in some other places, it had its admixture of necessity; for everybody was "wanted" in turn, and to call for the help of a policeman who might, as likely as not, begin by seizing oneself by the collar, would even have been poor policy: bad equally for the individual and for the community. so that to resort to the law's help in any form was classed with "narking" as the unpardonable sin. "you're sure o' that, are you?" asked viney, apprehensively. "sure? 'course i'm sure. dunno what sort o' chap you take 'im for. _'e's_ no nark. an' besides--'e can't. there's other things, an'----" she turned away with a sigh that was near a sob, and her momentary indignation lapsed once more into anxious grief. viney went off with his head confused and his plans in the melting-pot. ogle's scheme was gone by the board, and alone he could scarce trust himself in any enterprise so desperate. what should he do now? make what terms he might with captain nat? need was pressing; but he must think. chapter xxv stephen's tale i have said something of the change in my grandfather's habits after the news of the loss of the _juno_ and my father's death; something but not all. not only was he abstracted in manner and aged in look, but he grew listless in matters of daily life, and even doubtful and infirm of purpose: an amazing thing in him, whose decision of character had made his a corner of the world in which his will was instant law. and with it, and through it all, i could feel that i was the cause. "it ain't the place for you, stevy, never the place for you," he would say, wistful and moody; wholly disregarding my protests, which i doubt he even heard. "i've put one thing right," he said once, thinking aloud, as i sat on his knee; "but it ain't enough; it ain't enough." and i was sure that he was thinking of the watches and spoons. as to that matter, people with valuables had wholly ceased from coming to the private compartment. but the pale man still sat in his corner, and joe the potman still supplied the drink he neglected. his uneasiness grew less apparent in a day or so; but he remained puzzled and curious, though no doubt well enough content with this, the most patent example of grandfather nat's irresolution. as for mr. cripps, that deliberate artist's whole practice of life was disorganised by captain nat's indifference, and he was driven to depend for the barest necessaries on the casual generosity of the bar. in particular he became the client of the unsober sailor i have spoken of already: the disciplinarian, who had roared confirmation of my grandfather's orders when the man of the silver spoons got his dismissal. this sailor was old in the ways of wapping, as in the practice of soaking, it would seem, and he gave himself over to no crimp. being ashore, with money to spend, he preferred to come alone to the bar of the hole in the wall, and spend it on himself, getting full measure for every penny. beyond his talent of ceaselessly absorbing liquor without becoming wholly drunk, and a shrewd eye for his correct change, he exhibited the single personal characteristic of a very demonstrative respect for captain nat kemp. he would confirm my grandfather's slightest order with shouts and threats, which as often as not were only to be quelled by a shout or a threat from my grandfather himself, a thing of instant effect, however. "ay, ay, sir!" the man would answer, and humbly return to his pot. "cap'en's orders" he would sometimes add, with a wink and a hoarse whisper to a chance neighbour. "always 'bey cap'en's orders. knowed 'em both, father _an'_ son." so that mr. cripps's ready acquiescence in whatever was said loudly, and in particular his own habit of blandiloquence, led to a sort of agreement between the two, and an occasional drink at the sailor's expense. but, meantime, his chief patron was grown so abstracted from considerations of the necessities of genius, so impervious to hints, so deaf to all suggestion of grant-in-aid, that mr. cripps was driven to a desperate and dramatic stroke. one morning he appeared in the bar carrying the board for the sign; no tale of a board, no description or account of a board, no estimate or admeasurement of a board; but the actual, solid, material board itself. by what expedient he had acquired it did not fully appear, and, indeed, with him, cash and credit were about equally scarce. but upon one thing he most vehemently insisted: that he dared not return home without the money to pay for it. the ravening creditor would be lying in wait at the corner of his street. mr. cripps's device for breaking through captain nat's abstraction succeeded beyond all calculation. for my grandfather laid hands on mr. cripps and the board together, and hauled both straightway into the skippers' parlour at the back. "there's the board," he said with decision, "an' there's you. where's the paints an' brushes?" mr. cripps's stock of paints was low, it seemed, or exhausted. his brushes were at home and--his creditor was at the corner of the street. "if i could take the proceeds"--mr. cripps began; but grandfather nat interrupted. "here's you, an' here's the board, an' we'll soon get the tools: i'll send for 'em or buy new. here, joe! joe'll get 'em. you say what you want, an' he'll fetch 'em. here you are, an' here you stick, an' do my signboard!" mr. cripps dared not struggle for his liberty, and indeed a promise of his meals at the proper hours reconciled him to my grandfather's defiance of magna charta. so the skipper's parlour became his studio; and there he was left in company with his materials, a pot of beer, and a screw of tobacco. i much desired to see the painting, but it was ruled that mr. cripps must not be disturbed. i think i must have restrained my curiosity for an hour at least, ere i ventured on tip-toe to peep through a little window used for the passing in and out of drinks and empty glasses. here my view was somewhat obstructed by mr. cripps's pot, which, being empty, he had placed upside down in the opening, as a polite intimation to whomsoever it might concern; but i could see that mr. cripps's labours having proceeded so far as the selection of a convenient chair, he was now taking relaxation in profound slumber. so i went away and said nothing. when at last he was disturbed by the arrival of his dinner, mr. cripps regained consciousness with a sudden bounce that almost deposited him on the floor. "conception," he gasped, rubbing his eyes, "conception, an' meditation, an' invention, is what you want in a job like this!" "ah," replied my grandfather grimly, "that's all, is it? then common things like dinner don't matter. perhaps joe'd better take it away?" but it seemed that mr. cripps wanted his dinner too. he had it; but grandfather nat made it clear that he should consider meditation wholly inconsistent with tea. so that, in course of the afternoon, mr. cripps was fain to paint the board white, and so earn a liberal interval of rest, while it dried. and at night he went away home without the price of the board, but, instead, a note to the effect that the amount was payable on application to captain kemp at the hole in the wall, wapping. this note was the production, after three successive failures, of my own pen, and to me a matter of great pride and delight; so that i was sadly disappointed to observe that mr. cripps received it with emotions of a wholly different character. next morning mr. cripps returned to durance with another pot and another screw of tobacco. grandfather nat had business in the minories in the matter of a distiller's account; and for this reason divers injunctions, stipulations, and warnings were entered into and laid upon mr. cripps before his departure. as for instance:-- it was agreed that mr. cripps should remain in the skipper's parlour. also (after some trouble) that no exception should be made to the foregoing stipulation, even in the event of mr. cripps feeling it necessary to go out somewhere to study a brick wall (or the hole in it) from nature. nor even if he felt overcome by the smell of paint. agreed, however: that an exception be granted in the event of the house being on fire. further: this with more trouble: that one pot of beer before dinner is enough for any man seriously bent on the pursuit of art. moreover: that the board must not be painted white again. lastly: that the period of invention and meditation be considered at an end; and that sleep on mr. cripps's part be regarded as an acknowledgment that meals are over for the day. these articles being at length agreed and confirmed, and mr. cripps having been duly witnessed to make certain marks with charcoal on the white board, as a guarantee of good faith, grandfather nat and i set out for the minories. his moodiness notwithstanding, it was part of his new habit to keep me near him as much as possible, day and night, with a sort of wistful jealousy. so we walked hand in hand over the swing bridge, past paddy's goose, into the highway, and on through that same pageant of romance and squalor. the tradesmen at their doors saluted grandfather nat with a subdued regard, as i had observed most people to do since the news of _juno's_ wreck. indeed that disaster was very freely spoken of, all along the waterside, as a deliberate scuttling, and it was felt that captain nat could lay his bereavement to something worse than the fair chance of the seas. such things were a part of the daily talk by the docks, and here all the familiar features were present; while it was especially noted that nothing had been seen of viney since the news came. he meant to lie safe, said the gossips; since, as a bankrupt, he stood to gain nothing by the insurance. one tradesman alone, a publican just beyond blue gate, greeted my grandfather noisily, but he was thoughtless with the pride of commercial achievement. for he was enlarging his bar, a large one already, by the demolition of the adjoining shop, and he was anxious to exhibit and explain his designs. "why, good mornin', cap'en," cried the publican, from amid scaffold poles and brick-dust. "you're a stranger lately. see what i'm doin'? here: come in here an' look. how's this, eh? another pair o' doors just over there, an' the bar brought round like so, an' that for bottle an' jug, and throw the rest into public bar. eh?" the party wall had already been removed, and the structure above rested on baulks and beams. the bar was screened off now from the place of its enlargement by nothing but canvas and tarpaulin, and my grandfather and his acquaintance stood with their backs to this, to survey the work of the builders. waiting by my grandfather's side while he talked, i was soon aware that business was brisk in the bar beyond the canvas; and i listened idly to the hum of custom and debate. suddenly i grew aware of a voice i knew--an acrid voice just within the canvas. "then if you're useless, i ain't," said the voice, "an' i shan't let it drop." and indeed it was mrs. grimes who spoke. i looked up quickly at grandfather nat, but he was interested in his discussion, and plainly had not heard. mrs. grimes's declaration drew a growling answer in a man's voice, wholly indistinct; and i found a patch in the canvas, with a loose corner, which afforded a peep-hole. mrs. grimes was nearest, with her back to the canvas, so that her skirts threatened to close my view. opposite her were two persons, in the nearest of whom i was surprised to recognise the coarse-faced woman i had seen twice before: once when she came asking confused questions to grandfather nat about the man who sold a watch, and once when she fainted at the inquest, and mrs. grimes was too respectable to stay near her. the woman looked sorrowful and drawn about the eyes and cheeks, and she held to the arm of a tall, raw-boned man. his face was seamed with ragged and blistered skin, and he wore a shade over the hollows where now, peeping upward, i could see no eyes, but shut and sunken lids; so that at first it was hard to recognise the fellow who had been talking to this same coarse-faced woman by blue gate, when she left him to ask those questions of my grandfather; and indeed i should never have remembered him but that the woman brought him to my mind. it was this man whose growling answer i had heard. now mrs. grimes spoke again. "all my fault from the beginning?" she said. "o yes, i like that: because i wanted to keep myself respectable! my fault or not, i shan't wait any longer for you. if i ain't to have it, you shan't. an' if i can't get the money i can get something else." the man growled again and swore, and beat his stick impotently on the floor. "you're a fool," he said. "can't you wait till i'm a bit straight? you an' your revenge! pah! when there's money to be had!" "not much to be had your way, it seems, the mess you've made of it; an' precious likely to do any better now, ain't you? an' as to money--well there's rewards given----" grandfather nat's hand fell on my cap, and startled me. he had congratulated his friend, approved his plans, made a few suggestions, and now was ready to resume the walk. he talked still as he took my hand, and stood thus for a few minutes by the door, exchanging views with the publican on the weather, the last ships in, and the state of trade. i heard one more growl, louder and angrier than the others, from beyond the screen, and a sharper answer, and then there was a movement and the slam of a door; and i got over the step, and stretched my grandfather's arm and my own to see mrs. grimes go walking up the street. when we were free of the publican, i told grandfather nat that i had seen mrs. grimes in the bar. he made so indifferent a reply that i said nothing of the conversation i had overheard; for indeed i knew nothing of its significance. and so we went about our business. chapter xxvi stephen's tale on our way home we were brought to a stand at the swing bridge, which lay open to let through a ship. we were too late for the perilous lock; for already the capstans were going, and the ship's fenders were squeaking and groaning against the masonry. so we stood and waited till fore, main, and mizzen had crawled by; and then i was surprised to observe, foremost and most impatient among the passengers on the opposite side, mr. cripps. the winches turned, and the bridge swung; and my surprise grew, when i perceived that mr. cripps made no effort to avoid grandfather nat, but hurried forward to meet him. "well," said my grandfather gruffly, "house on fire?" "no, sir--no. but i thought----" "sign done?" "no, cap'en, not done exactly. but i just got curious noos, an' so i come to meet you." "what's the news?" "not p'raps exactly as you might say noos, sir, but information--information that's been transpired to me this mornin'. more or less unique information, so to say,--uncommon unique; much uniquer than usual." with these repetitions mr. cripps looked hard in my grandfather's eyes, as one does who wishes to break news, or lead up to a painful subject. "what's it all about?" asked grandfather nat. "the _juno_." "well?" "she _was_ scuttled wilful, cap'en kemp, scuttled wilful by beecher. it's more'n rumour or scandal: it's plain evidence." my grandfather looked fixedly at mr. cripps. "what's the plain evidence?" he asked. "that chap that's been so much in the bar lately," mr. cripps answered, his eyes wide with the importance of his discovery. "the chap that soaks so heavy, an' shouts at any one you order out. he was aboard the _juno_ on the voyage out, an' he deserted at monte video to a homeward bound ship." "then he doesn't know about the wreck." i thought my grandfather made this objection almost eagerly. "no, cap'en; but he deserted 'cos he said he preferred bein' on a ship as was meant to come back, an' one as had some grub aboard--him an' others. beecher tried to pile 'em up time an' again; an' says the chap--conolly's his name--says he, anything as went wrong aboard the _juno_ was beecher's doin'; which was prophesied in the fo'c'sle a score o' times 'fore she got to monte video. an'--an' conolly said more." mr. cripps stole another sidelong glance at grandfather nat. "confidential to me this mornin', conolly said more." "what?" "he said it was the first officer, your son, cap'en, as prevented the ship bein' piled up on the voyage out, an' all but knocked beecher down once. an' he said they was near fightin' half the time he was with 'em, an' he said--surprisin' solemn too--solemn as a man could as was half drunk--that after what he'd seen an' heard, anything as happened to the first mate was no accident, or anything like it. that's what he said, cap'en, confidential to me this mornin'." we were walking along together now; and mr. cripps seemed puzzled that his information produced no more startling effect on my grandfather. the old man's face was pale and hard, but there was no sign of surprise; which was natural, seeing that this was no news, as mr. cripps supposed, but merely confirmation. "he said there was never any skipper so partic'ler about the boats an' davits bein' kep' in order as beecher was that trip," mr. cripps proceeded. "an' he kep' his own life-belt wonderful handy. as for the crew, they kep' their kit-bags packed all the time; they could see enough for that. an' he said there was some as could say more'n he could." we came in view of the hole in the wall, and mr. cripps stopped short. "he don't know i'm tellin' you this," he said. "he came in the skipper's room with a drink, an' got talkin' confidential. he's very close about it. you know what sailors are." grandfather nat frowned, and nodded. indeed nobody knew better the common sailor-man's horror of complications and "land-shark" troubles ashore: of anything that might lead to his being asked for responsible evidence, even for his own protection. it gave impunity to three-quarters of the iniquity practised on the high seas. "an' then o' course he's a deserter," mr. cripps proceeded. "so i don't think you'd better say i told you, cap'en--not to him. you can give information--or i can--an' then they'll make him talk, at the old bailey; an' they'll bring others." grandfather nat winced, and turned away. then he stopped again and said angrily: "damn you, don't meddle! keep your mouth shut, an' don't meddle." mr. cripps's jaw dropped, and his very nose paled. "but--but----" he stammered, "but, cap'en, it's murder! murder agin beecher an' viney too! you'll do something, when it's your own son! your own son. an' it's murder, cap'en!" my grandfather went two steps on his way, with a stifled groan. "murder!" he muttered, "murder it is, by the law of england!" mr. cripps came at his heels, very blank in the face. suddenly my grandfather turned on him again, pale and fierce. "shut your mouth, d'ye hear? stow your slack jaw, an' mind your own business, or i'll----" grandfather nat lifted his hand; and i believe nothing but a paralysis of terror kept mr. cripps from a bolt. several people stopped to stare, and the old man saw it. so he checked his wrath and walked on. "i'll see that man," he said presently, flinging the words at mr. cripps over his shoulder. and so we reached the hole in the wall. mr. cripps sat speechless in the bar and trembled, while grandfather nat remained for an hour in the skipper's parlour with conolly the half-drunken. what they said one to another i never learned, nor even if my grandfather persuaded the man to tell him anything; though there can be no doubt he did. for myself, i moved uneasily about the bar-parlour, and presently i slipped out into the alley to gaze at the river from the stair-head. i was troubled vaguely, as a child often is who strives to analyse the behaviour of his elders. i stared some while at the barges and the tugs, and at bill stagg's boat with its cage of fire, as it went in and about among the shipping; i looked at the bills on the wall, where new tales of men and women found drowned displaced those of a week ago; and i fell again into the wonderment and conjecture they always prompted; and last i turned up the alley, though whether to look out on the street or to stop at the bar-parlour door, i had not determined. as i went, i grew aware of a tall, florid man with thick boots and very large whiskers, who stood at the entry, and regarded me with a wide and ingratiating smile. i had some cloudy remembrance of having seen him before, walking in the street of wapping wall; and, as he seemed to be coming to meet me, i went on past the bar-parlour door to meet him. "ah!" he said with a slight glance toward the door, "you're a smart fellow, i can see." and he patted my head and stooped. "now i've got something to show you. see there!" he pulled a watch from his pocket and opened it. i was much interested to see that the inward part swung clear out from the case, on a hinge, exactly as i had seen happen with another watch on my first evening at the hole in the wall. "that's a rum trick, ain't it?" observed the stranger, smiling wider than ever. i assented, and thanked him for the demonstration. "ah," he replied, "you're as clever a lad as ever i see; but i lay you never see a watch like that before?" "yes, i did," i answered heartily. "i saw one once." "no, no," said the florid man, still toying with the watch, "i don't believe that--it's your gammon. why, where did you see one?" he shot another stealthy glance toward the bar-parlour door as he said it, and the glance was so unlike the smile that my sleeping caution was alarmed. i remembered how my grandfather had come by the watch with the m on the back; and i remember his repeated warnings that i must not talk. "----why, where did you see one?" asked the stranger. "in a man's hand," i said, with stolid truth. he looked at me so sharply through his grin that i had an uncomfortable feeling that i had somehow let out the secret after all. but i resolved to hold on tight. "ha! ha!" he laughed, "in a man's hand, of course! i knew you was a smart one. mine hasn't got any letter on the back, you see." "no," i answered with elaborate indifference; "no letter." and as i spoke i found more matter of surprise. for if i had eyes in my head--and indeed i had sharp ones--there was mrs. grimes in a dark entry across the street, watching this grinning questioner and me. "some have letters on the back," said the questioner. "mine ain't that sort. what sort----" here joe the potman dropped, or knocked over, something in the bar-parlour; and the stranger started. "i think i'm wanted indoors," i said, moving off, glad of the interruption. "good-bye!" the florid stranger rose and walked off at once, with a parting smile. he turned at the corner, and went straight away, without so much as a look toward the entry where mrs. grimes was. i fancied he walked rather like a policeman. chapter xxvii in the bar-parlour dan ogle, blinded and broken, but silent and saving his revenge: musky mag, stricken and pitiable, but faithful even if to death: henry viney, desperate but fearful, and urgently needy: these three skulked at bay in dark holes by blue gate. sullen and silent to doggedness, ogle would give no word to the hospital doctors of how his injury had befallen; and in three days he would brook confinement no longer, but rose and broke away, defiant of persuasion, to grope into the outer world by aid of mag's arm. blind george was about still, but had scarcely been near the highway except at night, when, as he had been wont to boast, he was as good as most men with sound eyes. it was thought that he spent his days over the water, as would be the way of one feeling the need of temporary caution. it did not matter: that could rest a bit. blind george should be paid, and paid bitter measure; but first the job in hand, first the scheme he had interrupted; first the money. here were doubt and difficulty. dan ogle's plan of murder and comprehensive pillage was gone by the board; he was next to helpless. it was plain that, whatever plan was followed, viney must bear the active part; dan ogle raved and cursed to find his partner so unpractised a ruffian, so cautious and doubtful a confederate. mrs. grimes made the matter harder, and it was plain that the thing must be either brought to a head or wholly abandoned, if only on her account. for she had her own idea, with her certain revenge on captain nat, and a contingent reward; furthermore, she saw her brother useless. and things were brought to a head when she would wait no more, but carried her intrigue to the police. nothing but a sudden move would do now, desperate as it might be; and the fact screwed viney to the sticking-place, and gave new vigour to ogle's shaken frame. after all, the delay had not been great--no more than a few days. captain nat suspected nothing, and the chances lay that the notes were still in hand, as they had been when ogle's sister last saw them; for he could afford to hold them, and dispose of them at a later and safer time. the one danger was from this manoeuvre of mrs. grimes: if the police thought well enough of her tale to act without preliminary inquiry, they might be at the hole in the wall with a search-warrant at any moment. the thing must be done at once--that very night. musky mag had never left dan's side a moment since she had brought him from the hospital; now she was thrust aside, and bidden to keep to herself. viney took to pen, ink and paper; and the two men waited impatiently for midnight. it was then that viney, with ogle at his elbow, awaited the closing of the hole in the wall, hidden in the dark entry, whence mrs. grimes had watched the plain-clothes policeman fishing for information a few hours earlier. the customers grew noisier as the hour neared; and captain nat's voice was heard enjoining order once or twice, ere at last it was raised to clear the bar. then the company came out, straggling and staggering, wrangling and singing, and melted away into the dark, this way and that. mr. cripps went east, the pale pensioner west, each like a man who has all night to get home in; and the potman, having fastened the shutters, took his coat and hat, and went his way also. there was but one other tavern in sight, and that closed at the same time as the hole in the wall; and since none nearer than paddy's goose remained open till one, wapping wall was soon dark and empty. there were diamond-shaped holes near the top of the shutters at the hole in the wall, and light was visible through these: a sign that captain nat was still engaged in the bar. presently the light dulled, and then disappeared: he had extinguished the lamps. now was the time--while he was in the bar-parlour. viney came out from the entry, pulling ogle by the arm, and crossed the street. he brought him to the court entrance, and placed his hand on the end post. "this is the first post in the court," viney whispered. "wait here while i go. we both know what's to do." viney tip-toed to the bar-parlour door, and tapped. there was a heavy footstep within, and the door was flung open. there stood captain nat with the table-lamp in his hand. "who's that?" said captain nat. "come into the light." viney took a deep breath. "me," he answered. "i'll come in; i've got something to say." he went in side-foremost, with his back against the door-post, and captain nat turned slowly, each man watching the other. then the landlord put the lamp on the table, and shut the door. "well," he said, "i'll hear you say it." there was something odd about captain nat's eyes: something new, and something that viney did not like. hard and quiet; not anger, it would seem, but some-thing indefinable--and worse. viney braced himself with another inspiration of breath. "first," he said, "i'm alone here, but i've left word. there's a friend o' mine not far off, waiting. he's waiting where he can hear the clock strike on shadwell church, just as you can hear it here; an' if i'm not back with him, safe an' sound, when it strikes one, he's going to the police with some papers i've given him, in an envelope." "ah! an' what papers?" "papers i've written myself. papers with a sort of private log in them--not much like the one they showed 'em at lloyd's--of the loss of the _florence_ years enough ago, when a man named dan webb was killed. papers with the names of most of the men aboard, an' hints as to where to find some of 'em: bill stagg, for instance, a. b. they may not want to talk, but they can be made." captain nat's fixed look was oddly impassive. "have you got it on the papers," he said, in a curiously even voice, as though he recited a lesson learned by rote; "have you got it on the papers that dan webb had got at the rum, an' was lost through bein' drunk?" "no, i haven't; an' much good it 'ud do ye if i had. drunk or sober he died in that wreck, an' not a man aboard but knew all about that. i've told you, before, what it is by law: murder. murder an' the rope." "ay," said captain nat in the same even voice, though the tones grew in significance as he went on. "ay, you have; an' you made me pay for the information. murder it is, an' the rope, by the law of england." "well, i want none of your money now; i want my own. i'll go back an' burn those papers--or give 'em to you, if you like--an' you'll never see me again, if you'll do one thing--not with your money." "what?" "give me my partner's leather pocket-book and my eight hundred and ten pounds that was in it. that's first an' last of my business here to-night, an' all i've got to say." for a moment captain nat's impassibility was disturbed, and he looked sharply at viney. "ha!" he said, "what's this? partner's pocket-book? notes? what?" "i've said it plain, an' you understand me. time's passing, cap'en kemp, an' you'd better not waste it arguing; one o'clock'll strike before long. the money i came an' spoke about when they found marr in the river; you had it all the time, an' you knew it. that's what i want: nothing o' yours, but my own money. give me my own money, an' save your neck." captain nat compressed his lips, and folded his arms. "there was a woman knew about this," he said slowly, after a pause, "a woman an' a man. they each took a try at that money, in different ways. they must be friends o' yours." "time's going, cap'en kemp, time's going! listen to reason, an' give me what's my own. i want nothing o' yours; nothing but my own. to save you; and--and that boy. you've got a boy to remember: think o' the boy!" captain nat stood for a little, silent and thoughtful, his eyes directed absently on viney, as though he saw him not; and as he stood so the darkness cleared from his face. not that moment's darkness only, but all the hardness of years seemed to abate in the old skipper's features, so that presently captain nat stood transfigured. "ay," he said at last, "the boy--i'll think o' the boy, god bless him! you shall have your money, viney: though whether it ought to be yours i don't know. viney, when you came in i was ready to break you in pieces with my bare hands--which i could do easy, as you know well enough." he stretched forth the great knotted hands, and viney shrank before them. "i was ready to kill you with my hands, an' would ha' done it, for a reason i'll tell you of, afterwards. but i've done evil enough, an' i'll do no more. you shall have your money. wait here, an' i'll fetch it." "now, no--no tricks, you know!" said viney, a little nervously, as the old man turned toward the staircase door. "tricks?" came the answer. "no. an end of all tricks." and captain nat tramped heavily up the stair. chapter xxviii stephen's tale my grandfather was uncommonly silent all that day, after his interview with conolly. he bade me good night when i went to bed, and kissed me; but he said no more, though he sat by my bed till i fell asleep, while joe attended the bar. i had a way, now and again, of waking when the bar was closed--perhaps because of the noise; and commonly at these times i lay awake till grandfather nat came to bed, to bid him good night once more. it was so this night, the night of nights. i woke at the shouting and the stumbling into the street, and lay while the bar was cleared, and the doors banged and fastened. my grandfather seemed to stay uncommonly long; and presently, as the night grew stiller, i was aware of voices joined in conversation below. i wondered greatly who could be talking with grandfather nat at this hour, and i got out of bed to listen at the stair-head. it could not be bill stagg, for the voices were in the bar-parlour, and not in the store-place behind; and it was not joe the potman, for i had heard him go, and i knew his step well. i wondered if grandfather nat would mind if i went down to see. i was doubtful, and i temporised; i began to put on some clothes, listening from time to time at the stair-head, in hope that i might recognise the other voice. but indeed both voices were indistinct, and i could not distinguish one from the other. and then of a sudden the stairfoot door opened, and my grandfather came upstairs, heavy and slow. i doubted what he might say when he saw my clothes on, but he seemed not to notice it. he brought a candle in from the landing, and he looked strangely grave--grave with a curious composure. he went to the little wall-cupboard at his bed-head, and took out the cash-box, which had not been downstairs since the pale man had ceased work. "stevy, my boy," he said, "have you said your prayers?" "yes, grandfather." "an' didn't forget gran'father nat?" "no, grandfather, i never forget you." "good boy, stevy." he took the leather pocket-book from the box, and knelt by my side, with his arm about me. "stevy," he said, "here's this money. it ain't ours, stevy, neither yours nor mine, an' we've no right to it. i kept it for you, but i did wrong; an' worse, i was leadin' you wrong. will you give it up, stevy?" "why, yes, grandfather." truly that was an easy enough thing to say; and in fact i was in some way pleased to know that my mother had been right, after all. "right, stevy; be an honest boy always, and an honest man--better than me. since i was a boy like you, i've gone a long way wrong, an' i've been a bad man, stevy, a bad man some ways, at least. an' now, stevy, i'm goin' away--for a bit. presently, when i'm gone, you can go to the stairs an' call bill stagg--he'll come at once. call bill stagg--he'll stay with you to-night. you don't mind bill stagg, do you?" bill stagg was an excellent friend of mine, and i liked his company; but i could not understand grandfather nat's going away. where was he going, and why, so late at night? "never mind that just now, stevy. i'm going away--for a bit; an' whatever happens you'll always say prayers night an' mornin' for gran'father nat, won't you? an' be a good boy." there was something piteous now in my grandfather's hard, grave face. "don't go, grandfather," i pleaded, with my arm at his neck, "don't go! grandfather nat! you're not--not going to die, are you?" "that's as god wills, my boy. we must all die some day." i think he was near breaking down here; but at the moment a voice called up the stairs. "are you coming?" said the voice. "time's nearly up!" and it frightened me more than i can say to know this second voice at last for viney's. but my grandfather was firm again at once. "yes," he cried, "i'm coming!... no more to do, stevy--snivelling's no good." and then grandfather nat put his hands clumsily together, and shut his eyes like a little child. "god bless an' save this boy, whatever happens. amen," said grandfather nat. then he rose and took from the cash-box the watch that the broken-nosed man had sold. "there's that, too," he said musingly. "i dunno why i kep' it so long." and with that he shut the cash-box, and strode across to the landing. he looked back at me for a moment, but said nothing; and then descended the stairs. bewildered and miserably frightened, i followed him. i could neither reason nor cry out, and i had an agonised hope that i was not really awake, and that this was just such a nightmare as had afflicted me on the night of the murder at our door. i crouched on the lower stairs, and listened.... "yes, i've got it," said my grandfather, answering an eager question. "there it is. look at that--count the notes." i heard a hasty scrabbling of paper. "right?" asked my grandfather. "quite right," viney answered; and there was exultation in his voice. "pack 'em up--put 'em safe in your pocket. quite safe? there's the watch, too; i paid for that." "oh, the watch? well, all right, i don't mind having that too, since you're pressing.... you might ha' saved a deal of trouble, yours an' mine too, if you'd done all this before." "yes, you're right; but i clear up all now. you've got the notes all quite safe, have you?" "all safe." there was the sound of a slap on a breast-pocket. "and the watch?" "ay; and the watch." "good!..." i heard a bounce and a gasp of terror; and then my grandfather's voice again. "come! come, viney! we'll be quits to the end. we're bad men both, an' we'll go to the police together. bring your papers, viney! tell 'em about the _florence_ an' dan webb, an' i'll tell 'em about the _juno_ an' my boy! i've got my witnesses--an' i'll find more--a dozen to your one! come, viney! i'll have justice done now, on both of us!" i could stay no longer. viney was struggling desperately, reasoning, entreating. i pushed open the staircase door, but neither seemed to note me. my grandfather had viney by arm and collar, and was shaking him, face downward. "i'll go halves, kemp--i'll go halves," viney gasped hoarsely. "divide how you like--but don't, don't be a fool! take five hundred! think o' the boy!" "i've thought of the boy, an' i've thought of his father! god'll mind the boy you've made an orphan! come!" my grandfather flung wide the door, and tumbled viney up the steps into the court. the little table with the lamp on it rocked from a kick, and i saved it by sheer instinct, for i was sick with terror. i followed into the court, and saw my grandfather now nearly at the street corner, hustling and dragging his prisoner. "dan! dan!" viney was crying, struggling wildly. "dan! i've got it! draw him off me, dan! go for the kid an' draw him off! go for the kid on the stairs!" and i could see a man come groping between the wall and the posts, a hand feeling from one post to the next, and the stick in the other hand scraping the wall. i ran out to the farther side of the alley. viney's shout distracted my grandfather's attention, and i saw him looking anxiously back. with that viney took his chance, and flung himself desperately round the end post. his collar went with a rip, and he ran. for a moment my grandfather stood irresolute, and i ran toward him. "i am safe here," i cried. "come away, grandfather!" but when he saw me clear of the groping man, he turned and dashed after viney; while from the bar-parlour i heard a curse and a crash of broken glass. i vaguely wondered if viney's confederate were smashing windows in the partition; and then i ran my hardest after grandfather nat. viney had made up the street toward the bridge and ratcliff highway, and captain nat pursued with shouts of "stop him!" breathless and unsteady, i made slow progress with my smaller legs over the rough cobble-stones, which twisted my feet all ways as i ran. but i was conscious of a gathering of other cries ahead, and i struggled on, with throbbing head and bursting heart. plainly there were more shouts as i neared the corner, and a running of more men than two. and when the corner was turned, and the bridge and the lock before me, i saw that the chase was over. three bull's-eye lanterns were flashing to and fro, pointing their long rays down on the black dock-water, and the policemen who directed them were calling to dockmen on the dark quay, who cried back, and ran, and called again. "man in!" cried one and another, hurrying in from the highway. "fell off the lock." "no, he cut his lucky, an' headered in!" "he didn't, i tell ye!" "yes, he did! why, i see 'im!" i could not see my grandfather; and for a moment my thumping heart stood still and sick with the fear that it was he who was drowning in the dock. then a policeman swung his lantern across to the opposite side, and in the passing flash grandfather nat's figure stood hard and clear for an instant and no more. he was standing midway on the lock, staring and panting, and leaning on a stanchion. with a dozen risks of being knocked into the dock by excited onlookers, i scrambled down to the lock and seized the first stanchion. it creaked and tottered in my hand, but i went forward, gripping at the swaying chain and keeping foothold on the slippery, uneven timbers i knew not how. sometimes the sagging chain would give till i felt myself pitching headlong, only to be saved by the check of the stanchion against the side of the socket; and once the chain hung so low, where it had slipped through the next stanchion-eye, that i had no choice but to let go, and plunged in the dark for the next upright--it might have been to plunge into space. "grandfather nat! grandfather nat!" i reached him somehow at last, and caught tight at his wrist. he was leaning on the stanchion still, and staring at the dark water. "here i am, grandfather," i said, "but i am frightened. stay with me, please!" for a little while he still peered into the gloom. then he turned and said quietly: "i've lost him, stevy. he went over--here." by the sweep of his hand i saw what had happened, though i could scarce realise the whole matter then and there. as i presently learnt, however, viney was running full for the bridge, with captain nat shouting behind him, when he saw the lanterns of the three policemen barring the bridge as they came on their beat from the highway. to avoid them he swung aside and made for the lock, with his pursuer hard at his heels. now a lock of that sort joins in an angle or mitre at the middle, where the two sides meet like a valve, pointing to resist the tide; so that the hazardous path along the top turns off sharply midway. flying headlong, with thought of nothing but the avenger behind him, viney overran the angle, meeting the low chain full under his knees; and so was gone, with a yell and a splash. grandfather nat took me by the collar, and turned me round. "we'll get back, stevy," he said. "go on, i'll hold you tight." and so in the pitchy dark i went back along the way i had come, walking before my grandfather as i had done when first i saw that lock. the dockmen had flung random life-buoys, and now were groping with drags and hooks. some judged that the man must have gone under like a stone; others thought it quite likely that a good swimmer might have got away quietly. and everybody wished to know who the man was, and why he was running. to all such questions my grandfather made the same answer. "it was a man i wanted, wanted bad, for the police. you find him, dead or alive, an' i'll identify him, an' say the rest in the proper place; that's all." only once he amplified this answer, and then he said: "you can judge he was as much afraid o' the police as he was o' me, or more. look where he went, when he saw 'em on the bridge!" and again he repeated: "i'll say the rest when he's found, not before; an' nobody can make me." he was calm and cool enough now, as i could feel as well as hear, for my hand was buried in his, while he pushed his way stolidly through the little crowd. as for myself, i could neither think, nor speak, nor laugh, nor cry, though dizzily conscious of an impulse to do all four at once. i had grandfather nat again, and now he would not go away; that i could realise; and i clung with all my might to as much of his hand as i could grip. chapter xxix stephen's tale but i was to have neither time to gather my wits nor quiet to assort my emotions: for the full issue of that night was not yet. even as we were pushing through the little crowd, and even as my grandfather parried question with answer, a new cry rose, and at the sound the crowd began to melt: for it was the cry of "fire." a single shout at first, and then another, and then a clamour of three together, and a beat of running feet. men about us started off, and as we rounded the corner, one came running back on his tracks. "cap'en kemp, it's your house!" he cried. "your house, cap'en kemp! the hole in the wall! the hole in the wall!" then was dire confusion. i was caught in a whir of running men, and i galloped and stumbled along as i might, dragging dependent from my grandfather's hand. somewhere ahead a wavering light danced before my eyes, and there was a sudden outburst of loud cracks, as of a hundred carters' whips; and then--screams; screams without a doubt. confusedly my mind went back to viney's confederate, groping in at the bar-parlour door. what had he done? smashed glass? glass? it must have been the lamp: the lamp on the little table by the door, the lamp i had myself saved but ten minutes earlier! now we were opposite the hole in the wall, and the loud cracks were joined with a roar of flame. out it came gushing at the crevices of doors and shutters, and the corners of doors and shutters shrivelled and curled to let out more, as though that bulging old wooden house were a bursting reservoir of long-pent fire that could be held in no more. and still there were the screams, hoarser and hoarser, from what part within was not to be guessed. my grandfather stood me in a doorway, up two steps, and ran toward the court, but that was impassable. with such fearful swiftness had the fire sprung up and over the dry old timber on this side, where it had made its beginning, that already a painted board on the brick wall opposite was black and smoking and glowering red at the edges; and where i stood, across the road, the air was hot and painful to the eyes. grandfather nat ran along the front of the house to the main door, but it was blazing and bursting, and he turned and ran into the road, with his arm across his eyes. then, with a suddenly increased roar, flames burst tenfold in volume and number from all the ground floor, and, where a shutter fell, all within glowed a sheer red furnace. the spirit was caught at last. and now i saw a sight that would come again in sleep months afterwards, and set me screaming in my bed. the cries, which had lately died down, sprang out anew amid the roar, nearer and clearer, with a keener agony; and up in the club-room, the room of the inquests--there at a window appeared the groping man, a dreadful figure. in no darkness now, but ringed about with bright flame i saw him: the man whose empty, sightless eye-pits i had seen scarce twelve hours before through a hole in a canvas screen. the shade was gone from over the place of the eyes, and down the seared face and among the rags of blistered skin rolled streams of horrible great tears, forced from the raw lids by scorching smoke. his clothes smoked about him as he stood--groping, groping still, he knew not whither; and his mouth opened and closed with sounds scarce human. grandfather nat roared distractedly for a ladder, called to the man to jump, ran forward twice to the face of the house as though to catch him, and twice came staggering back with his hands over his face, and flying embers singeing his hair and his coat. the blind man's blackened hands came down on the blazing sill, and leapt from the touch. then came a great crash, with a single second's dulling of the whole blaze. for an instant the screaming, sightless, weeping face remained, and then was gone for ever. the floor had fallen. the flames went up with a redoubled roar, and now i could hold my place no longer for the heat. people were flinging water over the shutters and doors of the houses facing the fire, and from the houses adjoining furniture was being dragged in hot haste. my grandfather came and carried me a few doors farther along the street, and left me with a chandler's wife, who was out in a shawl and a man's overcoat over a huddle of flannel petticoats. now the fire engines came, dashing through the narrow lanes with a clamour of hoarse cries, and scattering the crowd this way and that. the hole in the wall was past aid, and all the work was given to save its neighbours. for some while i could distinguish my grandfather among the firemen, heaving and hauling, and doing the work of three. the police were grown in numbers now, and they had cleared the street to beyond where i stood, so that i could see well enough; and in every break in the flames, in every changing shadow, i saw again the face of the groping man, even as i can see it now as i write. floor went upon floor, till at last the poor old shell fell in a heap amid a roar of shouts and a last leap of fire, leaving the brick wall of the next house cracking and black and smoking, and tagged with specks of dying flame. and then at last my grandfather, black and scorched, came and sat by me on a step, and put the breast of his coat about me. and that was the end of the hole in the wall: the end of its landlord's doubts and embarrassments and dangers, and the beginning of another chapter in his history--his history and mine. chapter xxx stephen's tale little remains to say; for with the smoking sticks of the hole in the wall the tale of my early days burns itself out. viney's body was either never found or never identified. whether it was discovered by some person who flung it adrift after possessing himself of the notes and watch: whether it was held unto dissolution by mud, or chains, or waterside gear: or whether indeed, as was scarce possible, it escaped with the life in it, to walk the world in some place that knew it not, i, at any rate, cannot tell. the fate of his confederate, at least, was no matter of doubt. he must have been driven to the bar by the fire he had raised, and there, bewildered and helpless, and cut off from the way he had come, even if he could find it, he must have scrambled desperately till he found the one open exit--the club-room stairs. but of these enough. faint by contrast with the vivid scenes of the night, divers disconnected impressions of the next morning remain with me: all the fainter for the sleep that clutched at my eyelids, spite of my anxious resolution to see all to the very end. of a coarse, draggled woman of streaming face and exceeding bitter cry, who sat inconsolable while men raked the ruins for a thing unrecognisable when it was found. of the pale man, who came staring and choking, and paler than ever, gasping piteously of his long and honest service, and sitting down on the curb at last, to meditate on my grandfather's promise that he should not want, if he would work. and of mr. cripps, at first blank and speechless, and then mighty loquacious in the matter of insurance. for works of art would be included, of course, up to twenty pounds apiece; at which amount of proceeds--with a discount to captain kemp--he would cheerfully undertake to replace the lot, and throw the signboard in. mrs. grimes was heard of, though not seen; but this was later. she was long understood to have some bitter grievance against the police, whom she charged with plots and conspiracies to defeat the ends of justice; and i think she ended with a savage assault on a plain-clothes constable's very large whiskers, and twenty-one days' imprisonment. the hole in the wall was rebuilt in brick, with another name, as i think you may see it still; or could, till lately. there was also another landlord. for captain nat kemp turned to enlarging and improving his wharf, and he bought lighters, and wapping saw him no more. as for me, i went to school at last. the rock of the lion by molly elliot seawell author of "a virginia cavalier" "little jarvis" "paul jones" "the sprightly romance of marsac" "children of destiny" etc. illustrated by a. i. keller [illustration: logo] new york and london harper & brothers publishers copyright, , by harper & brothers. printed in the united states of america [illustration: baskerville's eyes followed the course of the _seahorse_ page ] at gibraltar. _england, i stand on thy imperial ground, not all a stranger; as thy bugles blow, i feel within my blood old battles flow-- the blood whose ancient founts in thee are found. still surging dark against the christian bound wide islam presses; well its peoples know thy heights that watch them wandering below; i think how lucknow heard their gathering sound. i turn and meet the cruel, turbaned face. england, 'tis sweet to be so much thy son! i feel the conqueror in my blood and race; last night trafalgar awed me, and to-day gibraltar wakened; hark, thy evening gun startles the desert over africa!_ --george e. woodberry. preface _the rock of the lion_ is not a history of the siege of gibraltar, although the story of that immortal siege of - has been closely studied and followed in preparing this book for young readers. the writer has used the romancer's just and inalienable right to introduce real persons and events whenever it would be of service to the story. only one liberty has been taken with chronology; it refers to paul jones, and is unimportant in character. molly elliot seawell. illustrations baskerville's eyes followed the course of the "seahorse" _frontispiece_ "he put the candle down and dropped upon the settee" _facing p._ the landlady stood between archy and the officer " "'perhaps you do not know that i am an american'" " "archy makes away with a bag of potatoes for mrs. curtis" " langton was taken down the hill in a wheelbarrow " he saw an officer lying in a ditch " "isabel and mary extended their hands to paul jones" " the rock of the lion chapter i the sun, a great orb of glory, hung low in the west, lighting up the sea and sky with a blaze of splendor. long lances of rosy flame shot across the blue mediterranean, even to the horizon, which was the color of pearls and opals. afar off, in the dim distance, the rock of gibraltar, a huge, mysterious shadow, like a couchant lion, seemed to keep watch over sea and land. vast and majestic, looming large in the clear obscure of evening, it dwarfed everything less great than itself into nothingness, except one--a magnificent ship of the line, the _thunderer_, which swept along under a mountain of canvas. the ensign of england, which flew from her peak, seemed to kiss the skies, while the long pennant, signifying "homeward bound," that flew from the giant main-mast, touched the sapphire sea. a hundred and twenty guns armed her mighty hull, and she carried a thousand men to fight them. the rush of the wind through her tremendous rigging was like the roar of a cataract, and as she cleft the seas they bellowed under her bows with a reverberation like thunder. the crimson and gold rim of the sun still flamed angrily above the horizon, but the pearl and opal and ruby sky changed suddenly to a coppery red, streaked with green, and the wind rose steadily. approaching the mighty battleship, on the opposite tack, was seen a small frigate, as perfect in her dainty way as the leviathan that was bearing down upon her. she, too, wore the colors of england. as soon as she got fairly within sight a signal-flag was broken out from her foretruck. in answer to it the ship of the line threw her maintop-sail aback and hove to. the frigate did likewise, and a cutter dropped into the water from her side. a midshipman and twelve men were in the boat, and another person--a lad of about sixteen, wearing a naval uniform, but different from the uniform of the midshipman. the boat was rapidly pulled across the blue water, now ruffled by the breeze, and soon lay rocking and tumbling like a cork under the huge hull of the ship of the line. the two lads rose and grasped each other's hand. they said nothing, being anglo-saxons, but their looks were eloquent, and in the eyes of both there were tears. the midshipman said a word to the men, and they brought the boat alongside, just under the main-chains. the younger one, taking off his cap, nodded to the men in the boat, and, without waiting for the jacob's-ladder which was about to be thrown over the side, made a spring like a cat and landed in the chain-plates. the men, ever pleased with a show of daring and dexterity, raised a cheer, in which some of the sailors hanging over the _thunderer's_ rail joined. the young fellow turned and waved his cap again, and then disappeared through the nearest porthole, a sailor throwing a small bundle after him. almost before he had seized the chain-plates the maintop-sail yard had swung round, and the great ship was again bounding over the sea. the boy threaded, with amazing swiftness, the gangways and ladders of the _thunderer_, and soon found himself on the quarter-deck. an officer in an admiral's uniform stood alone on the poop, watching the boat as it disappeared rapidly in the distance, while the captain on the bridge looked anxiously towards the northwest, where clouds were gathering angrily. the boy walked up to the admiral, and, making a low bow, cap in hand, said, "this, i believe, is admiral kempenfelt." "yes, sir," answered the admiral. "i have the honor to report to you, sir. i am midshipman baskerville, late of the continental ship _bon homme richard_, and afterwards in the _serapis_. i was captured at the texel, and am on my parole. this letter from captain lockyer, of the _seahorse_, explains everything." admiral kempenfelt took the letter which the little midshipman handed him, and read: "dear sir,--this will be handed you by midshipman baskerville, a young rebel lately in revolt against his majesty, and lately acting midshipman with that traitor and pirate, paul jones. after jones reached the texel in the _serapis_, we kept, you may be sure, a close watch upon him, and the _seahorse_, with eleven other ships of the line and frigates, cruised outside waiting for him. but will you believe, my dear admiral, that this little midshipman is all the game we have bagged so far; and he was caught by his own imprudence in going off on a fishing excursion, when a boat's crew of the _seahorse_ nabbed him just as he got ashore? i received orders to the mediterranean, and so hand this youngster over to you to take to england. he is the grandson and heir of your eccentric friend lord bellingham, of bellingham castle, yorkshire. his father quarrelled with his grandfather, went to north america, and turned red-hot rebel. this boy, being left an orphan, was seduced by jones to join him, although he swears he begged jones to take him, and would follow jones all over the world and beyond. you see, my dear sir, that it would be a very good thing if we could bring this youth to a sense of his duty to the king; and as he is a lad of parts and spirit, i would be glad to see him in his grandfather's good graces. i intended to send him to england on his parole at the first opportunity; but blast me if i have met a ship going home since i took him aboard in october until now. i venture to hand him over to you, having given him orders to report at once to his grandfather when you land. this has been an infernal cruise, and if we have ten shillings apiece prize-money, it will be more than i expect. with best wishes, believe me, my dear sir, "your very sincere friend and obedient servant, "ralph lockyer." while the reading of this letter was going on, archy baskerville stood in an easy but respectful attitude. there were a number of officers on deck who looked at him curiously, but he seemed to see no one. his eyes followed the course of the _seahorse_, now growing rapidly smaller and fainter in the fading light, and again they filled with tears. he had been a prisoner, it is true, on board of her, but a prisoner kindly treated; and he had one friend--langton, the midshipman, who had brought the boat to the _thunderer_--whom he dearly loved. should they ever meet again? he was roused from his reverie by admiral kempenfelt saying to him: "do you know the contents of this letter, sir?" "no, sir." "i find you are the grandson of my old friend lord bellingham--his heir, so captain lockyer writes me." something like a grin appeared on archy's handsome face. "hardly, sir. my father joined with my grandfather in cutting the entail, and i cannot get the estates; and i cannot use the title, as i am an american citizen." "a what?" snapped admiral kempenfelt. now, this young gentleman, archy baskerville, had a reprehensible quality very common in youth. he liked to be as exasperating as he dared, and having devoted most of his time on the _seahorse_ to finding out how far he could presume on his position as a prisoner of war, he only smiled sweetly up into the admiral's face and repeated, blandly: "a citizen of the united states, sir." the admiral glared at him for a moment, and then, his countenance softening, he put his hand kindly on archy's shoulder, saying, as if he were addressing a ten-year-old boy: "come, come, my lad; let us have no more of that. you are young; you are misguided; you have a splendid destiny before you in england, and the vagaries of a mere lad like you, exposed to the seductions of a plausible fellow like that pirate jones, will be easily overlooked if you return to your allegiance to your king and country." during this speech a deep red had overspread archy's countenance, but his quick wits had not deserted him. "sir," he said, straightening up his boyish figure, "a prisoner of war is subject to many temptations to betray his cause; but i did not think that admiral kempenfelt would suggest that i should turn traitor, and, what is harder to bear, should insult my late commander, commodore paul jones, when i am not in a position to resent it." if archy had turned red the admiral turned scarlet. his eyes and his teeth snapped at the same time, and, wheeling round, he abruptly walked to the end of the poop and back again, his heels hitting the deck hard and his hands twitching behind his back. the officers standing within hearing had difficulty in keeping their countenances, but archy, smooth and unruffled, was like a may morning. the admiral again turned and came back towards him. the notion of that youngster giving himself the airs of a post-captain! thought the admiral. the masthead was the only place for him, and yet the brat was sharp enough to know all he was entitled to as a prisoner of war and to claim it. the admiral made two more turns; then he came up close to archy, and with the gleam of a smile said: "may i have the pleasure of your company in my cabin at supper to-night, mr. what's-your-name?" "with pleasure, sir," replied archy, promptly, "provided, of course, that you make no efforts to corrupt my loyalty, and say nothing disrespectful of my late commander." had the great main-mast tumbled over the side at that moment, the admiral could not have been more amazed. he opened his mouth to speak, and was too astounded to shut it. he looked at archy carefully from the crown of his curly head to the soles of his well-shaped feet--for the boy was elegantly made and bright-faced and handsome beyond the common. archy bore the scrutiny without flinching. as for the officers, who were on-lookers, a universal grin went round, and one midshipman giggled outright. suddenly there was a sharp order and a rush of feet along the deck. the light had died out as if by magic; sea and sky turned black, except a corner on the northwest horizon, where an ominous pale-green light played upon fast-gathering clouds, and the wind rose with a shriek. the men swarmed up the rigging to take in sail, and they were not a moment too soon. every person on deck immediately found something to do except admiral kempenfelt and archy baskerville. the admiral walked up and down, glancing coolly around, but making no suggestions. archy leaned against the swifter of the mizzen-rigging, and his keen young eyes caught the last glimpse of the _seahorse_ as she disappeared--a mere speck in the darkness. the inky clouds came down like a curtain upon the lion-like rock, and the air itself seemed to turn black. and then came the storm. the _thunderer_, under storm canvas, did battle with the tempest for two days and nights. driven by mighty blasts, she staggered upon her course, descending into gulfs and then rising mountain high until it seemed as if her tall masts would meet the low-hanging pall of clouds. her guns broke loose, and on all three of her decks these huge masses of brass and iron were pitched about to the danger of life and limb. her stout masts and spars bent like whips. violent gusts of rain came with the scream of the tempest. her men, drenched to the bone, nearly swept off their feet by the great hissing and roaring masses of water that fell upon the deck, knocked over, slipping up, falling down hatchways, sleepless and hungry, suffered all the dangers and miseries of one of the most frightful storms of the century; yet they never lost heart. the officers, from the captain down to the smallest midshipman, were cool, and apparently confident that the _thunderer_ could weather the storm; and as in the beginning, so to the end, there were but two persons on the ship who did nothing--admiral kempenfelt and the little american prisoner of war, archy baskerville; and in coolness and apparent indifference it is hard to tell which excelled--the seasoned admiral or the young midshipman. neither the boy's spirit, nor even his sly impertinence, had injured him in admiral kempenfelt's opinion, and archy's courage during those terrible two days was not overlooked. the admiral felt an interest in the boy, from his long acquaintance with lord bellingham, and he thought it a pity that the heir to a great title and noble estates should throw them away by what the admiral considered rank rebellion; but it was archy's own fearless spirit that won him the admiral's respect. on that first dreadful night there was no pretence of serving supper; but, to the admiral's mingled disgust and amusement, at seven o'clock archy tumbled into the great cabin, where he found the admiral seated with a soup-tureen between his knees, out of which he was ladling pea-soup into his mouth with great good-will, but indifferent success. "ah, here you are, mr. baskerville," called out the admiral, who knew what a midshipman's appetite was, and supposed that archy had shrewdly calculated on a good supper. "sorry i can't order my steward to help you; but in that last lurch the ship gave he was pitched head-foremost over the table, and knocked out three teeth and blacked his eye--so he is now under the surgeon's care. but if you will kindly help yourself to that bowl-- oh, jupiter!" the _thunderer_ nearly went on her beam-ends, and so did the tureen. archy, showing a very good pair of sea-legs, secured the bowl from a mass of broken crockery in the locker, and, presenting it, the admiral filled it with pea-soup, only spilling about half. "excuse me, sir," said archy, and plumped down flat on the floor, where, with the greatest dexterity, he conveyed all the soup in the bowl to his mouth. "any casualties on deck since i left?" asked the admiral. "no, sir. the fact is"--here the ship righted herself with a suddenness that threw archy's heels almost into the admiral's face--"i don't think it much of a blow." the admiral stopped his ladling for a moment and looked the boy in the eye very hard. archy felt emboldened to indulge in a little more boyish braggadocio, and remarked, airily: "that is, there's nothing alarming in the blow, sir. it was blowing harder than this when we made the texel in the _serapis_." "young man," answered the admiral, "you never saw it blow as hard as this in your life, and you never may again." archy, somewhat abashed, said nothing, and had the grace to blush; but spying a loaf of bread rolling under the transom, he crawled after it, secured it, and handed it to the admiral. "informal, but very welcome," was the admiral's remark as he divided the loaf and gave archy half. "as long as this keeps up, mr. baskerville, you may as well accept the hospitality of my cabin, such as it is. i hardly suppose any one has thought of slinging you a hammock, and you couldn't stay in it if you had it; but there is the floor, and here is a pillow." "thank you, sir," said archy. "have you ever seen your grandfather, lord bellingham?" "no, sir." the admiral gave a short laugh. "i should like to see your meeting." something in the admiral's kind face gave encouragement to archy, and he replied, "i hope he will receive me kindly, but i ask no favors of him. as a prisoner of war, i am sure to be taken care of, since commodore jones has obtained for us sea-officers the rights of prisoners of war, such as the land officers have had all the time. is my grandfather very--very--dreadful?" "he is a man of sense and honor, but he is very eccentric. i have known him for forty years. excuse me now, mr. baskerville, i am going on deck. i need not ask you to make yourself at home." the admiral smiled at this--he thought archy needed very slight invitation to do that. all night the tempest raged. at midnight, when it was at its worst, the admiral came below for a moment. there were no lights, but by striking his flint he saw a lithe, boyish figure on the floor, cunningly lashed to the transom, as was the pillow, and archy was sleeping like a baby. "the little beggar is no coward," thought the admiral, a smile lighting up his face. next day and next night it was the same. the admiral noticed many things in that mortal struggle of the great ship with all the powers of destruction, and among them were the different kinds and degrees of courage displayed by the officers and men. not one showed fear, although each was conscious of the immediate and awful danger, but some bore the strain better than others. there was not one who stood it more calmly, more debonairly, than the little american midshipman. at sunrise on the third day, when the storm passed off to the eastward, they found themselves near a rocky headland that jutted out into the sea. the sun shone brightly, but the sea was still angry, and as far as the eye could reach was wreckage. one glance on the rocks showed them the wreck of the _seahorse_. her masts and spars were gone, and the hulk rose and fell helplessly with the violence of the waves. archy was leaning sadly over the rail when he saw an object floating nearer that he recognized, with a sickening dread, as that of a man's body. it was swept shoreward under the very lee of the _thunderer_. as it shot past, archy uttered a cry. the morning light had revealed the pale face of his best friend langton. another cry went up from the men on the _thunderer's_ deck as they watched the ghastly sight. but at that very moment they had all they could do to claw off the land and save the _thunderer_ from the fate of the _seahorse_. it was some days before the wind permitted them to return to the scene of the wreck, and they found not a vestige of the gallant ship or her brave company. chapter ii the comet coach, from london to york, left the angel inn, on the borders of yorkshire, at three o'clock in the november afternoon, on the last stage of the journey. it was bitterly cold, and the low-hanging clouds held snow. inside the tavern parlor the passengers hugged the fire and looked dismally out of the small-paned windows on the court-yard at the coach, to which the horses were being put, while the coachman, taking his last nip from a pewter pot at the kitchen window, chaffed the bar-maid and playfully flecked his whip at the postilion busy with the horses near by. among the passengers lingering around the fire was archy baskerville. he still wore his uniform, which had grown excessively shabby; but he was not without money. he had engaged the box-seat, and had paid for it in a lordly manner, showing, meanwhile, with boyish vanity and imprudence, a handsome rouleau of gold. he had a very handsome new cloak of dark-blue camlet, elegantly lined, and with a fur collar; and his seedy knee-breeches were ornamented with a costly pair of buckles. the singular contrast in his dress could not fail to excite remark. an individual known as a bagman began to chaff him, while the other passengers listened and smiled. "wot's the matter with your clothes, young man? did you kill a french captain in that 'ere suit--as you won't change it?" archy disdained to reply to this, and, wrapping his handsome cloak around him, produced a pair of pistols--not the great horse-pistols of the day, but of the kind used by officers; then he tightened the belt of the sword he wore, according to the custom in those days--all with an air of nonchalance that would have suited a man of twice his age. a pert young woman in a hat and feathers, and travelling alone, then began: "la, me! have we got to travel in company with them pistols? sure, they'll go off, little boy, and then we'll all be weltering in our blood." a flush of anger rose to archy's cheek at this, but he wisely held his peace. his eye fell, however, upon a gentleman on the opposite side of the fireplace, who was wrapped in a cloak much larger and heavier than archy's, and who, like him, was examining the flints of a pair of pistols--and the gentleman also wore a military sword. he was tall and thin, and had the carriage of a soldier. his face was sallow, and far from handsome, but his eyes were full of kindness and intelligence, and as they met archy's a subtle sympathy was established between them. archy guessed, shrewdly, that the military gentleman was an indian officer. the bagman soon returned to the charge. "where's the footman as has charge o' you?" he asked. "i had not thought of engaging a footman," responded archy, coolly; "but if you are looking for a place, perhaps i might take you. what sort of a character can you get from your last master?" a roar of laughter, in which the officer joined to the extent of a smile, greeted this, and the young woman called out: "bless 'is 'art! i knew he must 'ave a good 'art under that 'andsome cloak!" the blowing of a bugle by the guard at the door broke up the conversation. the discomfited bagman made first for the coach, and the young woman with the hat and feathers bolted after him. a sweet-faced, elderly quakeress and a handsome young oxford student followed. archy came next, and the officer held back a moment to speak to him. "i observe, sir," he said, politely, "you wear a blue naval uniform, but it is unlike that of our service--at least, any that i have seen, but i have been long absent from england." "this is an american uniform, sir," responded archy, politely. "i am a prisoner of war on my parole and entitled to wear it. i served with commodore jones on the _bon homme richard_, and was captured through my own imprudence when we made the texel on our return from the cruise in which we captured the _serapis_." at this a slight but marked change came over the officer, and after a moment he said, coldly: "you will pardon me for saying there is very great imprudence, and even danger, in your wearing that uniform in england." "perhaps so," replied archy, quickly adopting the same reserved tone, "but it is as honorable as any uniform in the world, and i shall continue to wear it. i observe that english officers on their parole in france wear their uniform and are not molested." the officer passed on without speaking a word, and, courteously assisting the quaker lady into the coach, stepped in after her, while archy climbed up on the box-seat. the steps were put up, the door banged to, the guard winded his horn, the coachman cracked his whip, the four horses dashed forward, and with a lurch and a roar little inferior to the _thunderer's_ in a gale of wind, the comet started upon its journey. the afternoon was dreary, and the wintry sun shone fitfully upon the vast moorlands through which the post-road, like a serpent, wound its way. the wind was cutting, and archy shivered in spite of his great furred cape. the dreariness of the landscape affected him, and, as he had done many times since that unlucky day off the texel, he felt sad at heart. he had left the _thunderer_ with regret at spithead on her arrival. he had been kindly treated, especially by admiral kempenfelt, and, although he had made no friend like langton, he had found good comradeship in the gun-room of the _thunderer_. before sending him ashore, admiral kempenfelt had talked with him kindly, and had advised him to go to his grandfather at bellingham castle and there await his exchange. the admiral had strong hopes that, under certain influences, archy would return, as the admiral called it, to his king and country; but he forbore to urge it, seeing in the boy a spirit that was quick to resent any fancied dishonor. he had supplied archy liberally with money, saying to him at the time: "this will not be too much in case lord bellingham refuses to see you; for, mark you, my lad, you have a queer case for a grandfather, and what he will do only himself and god almighty know, so you had better be prepared for emergencies. however, i think you can take care of yourself. good-bye, and good luck to you!" those were the last kind words archy had heard. in london, being no wiser than any other harum-scarum midshipman who found his pockets full, for the first time, master archy had treated himself with great liberality. the playhouses, several cock-fights, excursions by land and water, and a showy outfit had consumed archy's week in london and admiral kempenfelt's money, except the one rouleau of gold, which he exhibited as if he had a bank vault full of them. the subject of his finances deeply engaged archy's attention as the comet plunged along the dreary road in the fast-gathering gloom. occasionally they stopped to take up or let off passengers, but at the last stage--a small village where they changed horses--archy observed that they had exactly the same complement with which they had started--the officer, the student, the bagman, the quakeress, and the pert young woman. as they dashed up to the door of a small and uninviting inn about dark, the landlord bustled out with a candle in his hand, and, addressing the coachman in a loud voice meant for the passengers, began: "have you heard the news? the coach returning by barham heath was stopped last night about this time and every single shilling taken from the passengers. if the ladies and gentlemen feels squeamish about going on to-night, i can give them good beds--excellent beds. the bishop of carlisle slept here a week ago, and his lordship was pleased to say he slept well. and i have lately brewed. his lordship liked the brew exceedingly--" a shriek from the pert young woman interrupted this. "o-o-o-h!" she screamed. "one of them dreadful highwaymen! i understand as they frequently kisses the ladies besides robbing them. pray, mr. landlord, did you hear as any of the ladies was kissed?" "don't know, ma'am," replied the landlord, with a grin, "but if you meets a highwayman, and axes him--" "none of your impudence, sir," tartly responded the young woman. "my sister's husband is cousin to one of the aldermen at carlisle, and if you don't behave yourself respectful to me i'll have your license took away!" at which landlord, passengers, postilions, and stable-boys united in laughing--the coachman only maintaining a stolid gravity. while the horses were being put to, the passengers went into the tap-room to warm themselves, all except archy and the officer. just as archy was stretching his legs in a brisk walk before the tavern door, to his surprise the officer stepped up to him. "sir," said he, "i perceive that, like myself, you have pistols. now, the instant i put my eyes on our coachman i thought i recognized a man whom i had seen tried for robbery and acquitted at the old bailey for lack of evidence; and i am willing to credit him with being a rascal of the first water, and i should not be surprised if he proves it before we get to the end of our journey. we may have to look to our arms, perhaps." "mine will be found in good order, sir," responded archy, greatly pleased to be so addressed by a military man so much older than himself, and to whom he had felt a strong and instant attraction. "may i ask how far you are going?" inquired the officer. "to the village of bellingham. my grandfather lives at the castle." the two were standing in the light of a lantern hung from the tavern porch, and archy saw a start of surprise on the officer's part. he was silent for a moment or two, and, in spite of the habitual self-possession which was visibly a part of his nature, he did not recover himself at once; and when he spoke archy felt a change in the tone and manner of his new acquaintance. "all danger will be passed as soon as we reach bellingham. our young oxford friend has a sword and the bagman a stout stick, but pistols are the weapons against highway-robbers. i am glad you have yours--and keep your eye on the coachman." "don't you think, sir," said archy, eagerly, "that we had better keep our pistols out of sight as far as possible? for if they see we are armed they may not attack us." "my dear sir," answered the officer, petulantly, "you speak as if to be held up by highwaymen was a privilege to be sought, not a danger to be avoided. i am afraid you are a hot-headed young man." "the fact is," was archy's half-sheepish and half-triumphant reply, "i like to see life--and you know, sir, to be stopped on the road by a determined claude duval kind of a fellow is rather er--" "pleasant," sarcastically suggested the officer; "deuced pleasant. i have often observed of you youngsters that to tell you that a thing is dangerous is generally to put a premium on your doing it. and when it is foolish, besides--zounds, there's no holding you back! but let me tell you, mr. midshipman, when you have had my share of hard knocks you will be a little more willing to keep out of them than you are now. for my part, i hope this tattling landlord is lying, and this rascally coachman has turned honest man. meanwhile, keep your eyes open." by that time the horses were put to, and the guard's horn summoned the passengers to get in, and the comet started off. the first few miles lay through the same flat, moorland country they had previously traversed, but presently they entered a straggling wood, with a hedge and ditch on both sides. it was now perfectly dark, except for the moon occasionally struggling through the clouds. within the coach, the oxonian, a waggish fellow, was amusing himself with telling blood-curdling tales to the gentle quakeress and the young woman, which last took refuge in groans and smelling salts, and vowed if she ever reached carlisle again she would never more trust herself on the road. the officer, who had been vexed by archy's light-hearted seeking of danger, was still more annoyed by the young oxonian's malicious amusement, and he therefore turned courteously to the placid quakeress, saying: "pray do not be alarmed, madam; we can take perfectly good care of ourselves and of the ladies, too." "friend," mildly answered the quakeress, "i thank thee, and i am no more frightened by the tales this young gentleman is telling than by the shadows that children make upon the wall to divert themselves, and sometimes to annoy their elders." the oxonian took this rebuke in good part, while the bagman burst out with: "i am glad the military gentleman thinks us safe; not that i be afeerd. i have travelled the roads of england for ten year with nothing for arms but this stick with a loaded handle, and i believe it has frightened off more robbers than any pair of pistols in england. you see, ladies and gentlemen," he continued, flourishing his stick under the officer's nose, to that gentleman's intense disgust, "it is all to nothing how you meets robbers. seeing a bold, determined feller like me--i have been took for a officer, i have, many a time--they'll lose heart at the sight and screech out--oh, lord! oh, lord!"--for at that moment the coach stopped with a jerk, a dark figure rose up from the ground on the other side of the coach, and the cold muzzle of a long horse-pistol was within an inch of the bagman's nose, who instantly began to bawl for mercy at the top of his lungs. at the same moment a man on horseback leaped the hedge, and, rushing at the coach, levelled another pistol at the guard's head, who immediately tumbled off on the ground and threw up his hands. the robber, seeing there was no fight in the guard, while the coachman sat quite passive, promptly turned his attention to archy. but a surprise was in store for him. the pistol was knocked from his hand and he himself was looking down the muzzle of one--not so large but quite as effective--in the hands of archy baskerville. "dismount!" said archy. the robber, with a rapid motion, threw himself from his horse on the side opposite to archy, and, with a spring, tried to regain his pistol. but archy, tumbling off the box, was too quick for him. he kicked the pistol into the ditch, and still covered the highwayman with his own weapon. the horse in the meantime had broken away for a short distance, but, apparently well trained, stood in the half-darkness trembling in every limb, but holding his ground. the highwayman, with a glance behind him, made a dash for the horse and bounded into the saddle. archy was at him in a moment, and as a shot rang out from the other side of the coach, archy fired straight at the highwayman at short range. but, close as he was, he missed fire. he ran forward and fired again just as the horse was rising to take the ditch, but the highwayman, bending down to his horse's neck, took both hedge and ditch at a leap and disappeared in the darkness. chagrined and excited, archy ran to the other door of the coach, where a scuffle was going on. the bagman lay on his back bellowing like a calf. the young woman added her shrieks to the uproar. the quakeress sat in the coach as calm as a summer evening, while the officer, the oxonian, and the guard, who had come to his senses, were struggling with a gigantic fellow, who seemed more than a match for all of them. archy, however, coming up behind, laid hold of him, and in a few moments he was disarmed and his hands securely tied. the officer then turned his attention to the coachman, who had sat unconcerned all through the mêlée. "you infernal scoundrel!" was the officer's first words to the coachman. "i shall deliver you up along with this fellow for highway-robbery. you are plainly in league with them and by far the worst of the lot, as you took pains to save your own skin while assisting these men to rob and perhaps murder us." the coachman, trembling and stammering, attempted to defend himself; but the officer cut him short by directing archy to mount the box and keep his pistol ready. the oxonian gave the bagman a kick. "get up, you great calf! the danger's past, and you can now boast more of the prowess of that stick of yours." the bagman very meekly scrambled up, but showed, when least expected, a capacity to make himself useful. the young woman had continued screaming in spite of the earnest assurances of all the passengers that the danger was over, and the obvious fact that only one highwayman remained, and he was tied hand and foot. "thee has nothing to fear, young woman," cried the quakeress, leaning out of the coach. "murder! murder!" was the answer yelled at the top of a pair of stout lungs. "if it is disappointment, madam, that no attempt was made to kiss you--" began the oxonian, with grave impertinence. "i'll shut her potato trap," suddenly remarked the bagman. and, seizing her by the back of her neck, he shouted in her ear: "be quiet, hussy! you haven't no sister married to an alderman's cousin in carlisle, and now i remembers i heerd you last month cryin' 'eyesters' in carlisle streets, and that's where you got that fine voice o' yourn, and it's enough to wake the dead." the young woman responded by giving the bagman a clip over the ear; but she was effectually silenced, and climbed in the coach to the accompaniment of a general smile, the bagman thrusting his tongue into his cheek and winking all around. the coach now started, the coachman maintaining a frightened silence, and, after travelling a few miles more, reached the village of bellingham, where the officer handed him and the captured robber over to the constables. a crowd of people surrounded the coach, the bagman and the young woman volubly describing the dangers through which they had passed, while the oxonian, engaging a chaise, soon disappeared on his way to his destination, and the quakeress retired to her room at the inn. but the first to be out of the way were the officer and archy baskerville. as soon as the constables had taken charge of the prisoners, the officer came up to archy, and, pointing to a huge, dark, unlighted stone pile on a hill, set in the midst of a great park, said to him, "yonder is bellingham castle." archy expected him to say something more, as in parting from the oxonian he had offered his card and expressed a wish to meet again, coupled with a handsome acknowledgment of the young student's courage; but apparently the officer thought he had said enough. "thank you, sir," replied archy, and then, with a forced smile, he said, "i am by no means sure of my reception. i may be going london-ward to-morrow morning." but the officer had turned away, and archy, his usually light heart not so gay as he would have wished, struck out towards the park-gates, which he saw in the distance by the glimpses of a cloud-obscured moon. he trudged along in bitterness of spirit for a time; but before he gained the crest of the hill and entered the broad carriage-drive that led to the great arched entrance his spirits had recovered themselves. after all, he was seeing life--a consolation which never failed to console him whenever he fell into adversity. he had almost persuaded himself that it would be a serious disadvantage to be acknowledged by his grandfather by the time he reached the door, when he pulled a huge bell that echoed and re-echoed through the great stone building. he was deeply engaged in examining, by the light of the emerging moon, the square towers at the corners, and the ancient windows, and all the peculiarities of a castle half modern and half mediæval, when the great door opened with a crunching and banging as if the hinges had not turned for a hundred years--and there, in the open doorway, illuminated by a single candle, whose rays only revealed the vast cavern of the hall beyond, stood the officer with whom archy had just parted. "come in, nephew," said he. chapter iii without a word archy entered the vast hall. he was even self-possessed enough to help in dragging the great doors back to their places and securing them with chains and bars. then, coolly folding his arms, his eyes travelled around the hall, gloomy but magnificent. great gilt chandeliers hung from a noble roof; antlers and hunting trophies adorned the walls; rusty armor was plentiful, and close to him, looming up in the darkness pierced by the candle's single ray, was a manikin in armor, mounted on horseback. with lance in rest, and ghostly caverns in the casque where the eyes should be, he seemed to stand guard over that ancient place. after a moment the officer spoke. "did your father never tell you of his half-uncle, near his own age--colonel baskerville, of the indian service?" archy shook his head. "my father told me as little as possible of his family in england. i do not even know what his quarrel with them was--only i know he felt a deep resentment against them." "he had cause," responded colonel baskerville. "my half-brother, lord bellingham, objected violently and unreasonably to your father's marriage, and it cannot be denied that he ill-treated your mother under this very roof." archy, whose temper was quick, and who knew how to make a prompt resolve, and then to act upon it, stood still and silent for a moment; then, turning to the door, began to fumble at the intricate fastening of the chain, saying, quietly, "how do you get out of this place, sir?" "highty-tighty," replied colonel baskerville, good-humoredly; "what are you trying to do?" "to get away from here," said archy. "i think, sir, that when a man has ill-treated my mother, i ought not to stay one moment in that man's house." "but wait. lord bellingham ill-treated every member of his family who dared to marry without consulting his lordship. his only daughter married captain langton, a gentleman of character and fortune; but lord bellingham, who wanted to marry her off to a duke in his dotage, never forgave her." "that is another reason why i should not stay in the house of such an old curmudgeon," responded archy, with spirit. "but you will, one day, be lord bellingham." "no, i won't--or, rather, i can't--for i am an american." colonel baskerville's first impulse was to say "pooh." luckily, he refrained--for if he had, archy, whose hand was on the heavy door-knob, would have bolted out, and never, probably, would have set foot in those regions again. but colonel baskerville, seeing he had a hot-headed and impetuous fellow to deal with, only said in response to this: "listen. i have lately heard, from a safe quarter, that my brother is deeply repentant of his treatment of his son and daughter, and would be glad to atone to their children for his injustice to their parents. no human being has the right to refuse another human being the privilege of redressing a wrong--if a wrong may ever be redressed. therefore, i insist that you shall see your grandfather." archy stood silent for a moment, while the idea took lodgment in his mind that generosity and forgiveness were not the mere indulgence of an impulse, but should be a fixed principle of action. he was intelligent enough to grasp colonel baskerville's meaning, and presently he said: "you are right, sir. however, i never can benefit by my grandfather's estates, as i know that my father united in cutting the entail. as for this old rookery, it must take a fortune to keep it up." "this old rookery, as you call it, is one of the finest specimens of the feudal age left in england. but let that pass. you are young and necessarily ignorant. no doubt my brother hopes that the family may be continued through one of his two grandsons. the other is midshipman hugh langton, of his majesty's sea-service." "trevor langton!" cried archy, breathlessly. "of the _seahorse_ frigate?" "the same. he is a gallant lad, i hear." "sir," said archy, after a painful pause, "it was by a boat's crew of the _seahorse_ that i was captured--and langton and i became great friends. i never knew we were cousins--and the _seahorse_ was lost off the coast of spain in january, the very day i left her--and i, myself, saw langton's body--" here he faltered; he could say no more. colonel baskerville's grim face paled, and, putting the candle down with a shaking hand, he dropped upon the great oaken settee that was placed against the wall. [illustration: "he put the candle down and dropped upon the settee"] "poor lad! poor lad!" he said, brokenly, "and his poor mother--she was the sweetest creature. i had looked forward to seeing her again with so great happiness, and i already loved her boy." "he was worthy to be loved," answered archy, feeling a great sob rising in his throat. "he was the manliest fellow--" then there was a long silence. how strange it all was! archy, who had lived the quietest and most prosaic of boyhoods in an american clearing on the chesapeake bay, seemed, from the day of his father's death, to have fallen into an odd, new world, and sometimes the strangeness of it all staggered him. the silence continued. colonel baskerville, leaning his head on his hands, seemed quite overcome by the terrible news that archy had given him. "it will be a dreadful shock and grief to my brother," he said, after a while. "if he had known dear langton as i did, his grief would be greater. when i was first captured, it was not very comfortable for me in the gun-room of the _seahorse_. you know, sir, the extreme prejudice of your naval service to commodore paul jones--and the fact that i had served with him was against me, although i protest i think it the greatest honor in the world to serve under that great man. i did not let the midshipmen have it all their own way"--here the ghost of a smile came to archy's face--"but langton stood my friend, and i never loved any companion i ever had half so well. perhaps, sir, after all, blood is thicker than water." "all that you tell me makes me grieve for him the more. lord bellingham, though, has a special disappointment in his death, for you, with your youth and inexperience, can scarcely understand the overwhelming desire a man like lord bellingham feels to transmit his title and estates to his descendants; and he has none, except you--and i foresee he would have a hard task to make you adapt yourself to his views." "poor old lord bellingham!" "poor, indeed, he is, in spite of his rank and estates. i have drawn no nattering portrait of him--but, like other men, he has his good points. he is a bundle of contrariety. he is generous and cruel. he is profuse and parsimonious. he lives in two rooms in luxury, and shuts up the rest of the castle. his unkindness drove his children away from him, and he has spent thousands of pounds in trying to get information about them which one line from him would have brought. he is the finest gentleman and the most overbearing social tyrant that ever lived. he is a courtier one minute, a ruffian the next. for my part, as a younger brother with a pittance besides my pay, i early showed my independence of him--with the result that he has always treated me with kindness, and i am here now because an express met me when i landed from india, begging that i come to him at once. he is very old and feeble. but we are talking too long. you want food, and fire--and, egad! so do i. there was once a bell here--" colonel baskerville groped along the wall until he came to the huge cavern of a fireplace, where there was a bell-handle, but the bell-rope was broken. "humph! well, i know the way to a little breakfast-parlor, where the servant who let me in told me something would be prepared in a few minutes. so, come with me!" colonel baskerville made his way out of the great hall into a long corridor, where, after innumerable windings and turnings and going up and down stairs, they came to a little, low room, where a servant in livery opened the door. a bright fire blazed upon the hearth, and some cold meat and bread and cheese and ale were set out, with splendid plate, upon a table lighted with wax candles. archy, who had a robust young appetite, would cheerfully have dispensed with the plate and the wax candles for more luxurious fare. nevertheless, he made great play with his knife and fork, and colonel baskerville was not far behind. meanwhile, the elder man watched the younger one intently, and every moment he felt more and more the stirrings of affection in his heart--the more so when he remembered that langton being gone, this boy was all that remained to maintain the family name and repute. nor was he less prepossessed in archy's favor by observing a strong family likeness to the baskervilles. without being so regularly handsome as the old lord, archy was singularly like him, and colonel baskerville believed that when the youth's angular face and form had developed, the resemblance would be still stronger. many little personal movements, the air and manner of speaking and walking, recalled lord bellingham, but colonel baskerville concluded it would be a rash man who would point out to the old gentleman how like him was this young rebel. "and for such a fine fellow to belong to the american rebels--it is not to be thought of," reflected this royalist gentleman. "we must win him back, but we must be careful, very careful--for he is nice on the point of honor." after archy had devoured everything on the table he stopped eating. when supper was over the servant who waited upon them--a quiet, well-trained butler--led them to an upper floor, where two great bedrooms, with canopied beds, like catafalques, stood in the middle of each. "i prefer this one," said colonel baskerville, when the servant opened the door of one, a little less vast and sepulchral than the other, but he accompanied archy to the door of the next one. "this, sir," began the servant, "is one of the finest bedrooms in the castle. it was occupied by the duke of cumberland on his return from the north after the 'forty-five.' it was for him that my lord had these purple silk bed-curtains and plumes at the corners of the tester put up." "did he?" said archy, curiously eying the bed. "well, my man, i think my lord behaved deuced unhandsome to the duke of cumberland in putting him in this old hearse, and i don't choose to be served the same way; so you will please 'bout face and show me the way back to the room with the fire, where i will stick it out till morning. now, march!" the man, open-mouthed but dumfounded, turned to lead the way back. "good-night, uncle," cried archy, gayly. "the duke of cumberland may submit to sleep in a hearse with feathers, but i'll be shot if an american midshipman will. so, good rest to you, and we'll beard the lion in his den to-morrow morning." and off archy walked. colonel baskerville, with a smile on his keen, intelligent face, continued looking after him. "ah," he said, aloud, "had your father possessed a tithe of your spirit, he would not have lived and died a morose exile in a foreign land. you'll do, my lad; you'll do." and, still smiling, he turned to his room and locked the door. archy lay down before the fire in the little parlor, and, wrapping himself in his fine cloak, began to think of all the strange things that had lately befallen him. his mind turned to langton--so brave, so chivalrous. he smiled, while the tears came unbidden to his eyes, when he remembered their first meeting in the cockpit of the _seahorse_--each stripped for a rough-and-tumble fight over the merits of the quarrel between king george and the american colonies. the fight had been a draw, but some way, without either knowing why, it had never been renewed. he and langton had suddenly become friends, and within a week they were laughing over their scrimmage, and, in friendly bouts, testing langton's greater weight and height against archy's agility and ability to stand hard knocks. and then came the farewell in the boat--and afterwards, langton's white face as the boiling breakers dashed him towards the rocks. with this thought in his mind archy suddenly fell asleep, and did not awake until next morning when the sun was pouring brightly into the little room. breakfast was served in the same room to colonel baskerville and archy--and a slim breakfast it was. archy's face grew three-quarters of a yard long when diggory, the servant of the night before, with a great flourish removed the silver covers to show a little toast and a few rashers of bacon in the dishes. colonel baskerville burst out laughing. "look, diggory," he said, "you are not catering now for a gouty old gentleman like his lordship, but for an old campaigner like myself and a midshipman like mr. baskerville; and go you and bring us some eggs, and whatever you can lay your fingers upon, and remember to stock the commissary for dinner." diggory went out, and presently reappeared with some additions, and they made a tolerable breakfast; but archy remarked that he was not surprised at his father leaving bellingham castle, if that was the fare he was fed upon. "and now," said colonel baskerville, "i shall go to my brother, and he will probably send for you shortly. and i--as i particularly wish you to make a good impression on him--i advise you to send to the village for your portmanteau and put on some other clothes, for my brother will be sure to resent violently your wearing the american uniform." "he appears to have resented violently what all of his family did, without considering the clothes they wore; but, uncle, i tell you i will not take off this uniform. i have my parole, which protects me; and if i ever give this uniform up, to anybody's threats or persuasions, i give up my character as a prisoner of war--and that, seems to me, would be a great blunder--so, if lord bellingham does not like my clothes--well, i have some money left, and i can get to france on my parole; and, in short, uncle, i am, like you, independent of my grandfather." "you are a very rash and headstrong young man," was colonel baskerville's reply, "but you will learn to be less so if you have any brains at all. you will not be sent for, i am sure, before noon, so you will have time to examine the castle and park, if you like." colonel baskerville went out, and archy, nothing loath, began his examination of the place. as he knew that he and colonel baskerville would have to go to the village later in the day to give their evidence of the attempt at highway-robbery, he chose rather to examine the interior of the castle. he spent hours going over it--later on he was to spend days in the same employment--and every moment his respect for the "old rookery" increased. first he went to the great hall. built in the reign of henry viii., it was a noble specimen of sixteenth-century architecture. the beauty of the groined roof was clearly visible by the morning light, that streamed in the long, narrow slits of windows. on every side hung dented armor and helmets that had evidently seen service, and archy felt a natural thrill of pride at remembering that these sturdy fighting men were his forefathers. besides the armor, there were on the walls every conceivable variety of ancient weapon--the long arquebuse of elizabethan days, claymores taken from the scottish knights and gentlemen who defended mary stuart at langside, the huge swords carried by cromwell's ironsides--and all, archy felt, with a stirring history attached to them. that motionless knight in armor, with his iron-bound legs sticking stiffly out from the sides of his stuffed horse, tremendous spurs fastened to his boots of spanish leather, and his lance in rest, seemed to stand watch and ward over this storehouse of dead and gone valor. archy could scarcely tear himself away; but a door in the distance, half open, gave him a glimpse of a long, low picture-gallery, its walls glowing with color, and he walked nimbly towards it. yes, it was very, very beautiful. it was much less sombre than the hall, and girandoles placed thickly along the wall showed that it could be illuminated by night as well as day. if the arms and accoutrements of these people pleased him, how much more did their counterfeit presentments! the first portrait on which his eye fell was "sir archibald baskerville, baronet, - , general in the army of the commonwealth, concerned in battles of edgehill and marston moor, and in the capture of charles i. voted in parliament for the king's release on parole, and on the execution of the king retired to his seat, bellingham castle, where he was arrested by cromwell's order and imprisoned for several years, but was finally released and his estate restored to him by charles ii." well, that archibald baskerville was a brave and successful rebel, thought archy, and perhaps his descendant may have even better fortune. "rather a hard-looking beggar, though--looks like the highwayman i knocked down last night. i certainly have the advantage of him in having the air of an honest fellow and a gentleman," was archy's inward comment. but there were scores of others besides sir archibald. there were grave judges and frowning admirals, and a bishop or two, besides many red-faced country gentlemen--and the first lord bellingham--a laced and powdered dandy of the days of queen anne. and there were staid old dowagers, and round-faced matrons, and groups of quaint children, and my lady bellingham in farthingale and hoop, and some fair young girls, now, alas! but dust and ashes. as in the hall, archy would have lingered, but still ahead of him he saw a pair of beautifully carved doors of black oak, and examining them, and turning the wrought-iron handles, he entered a great square room, as large as the entrance-hall, and all books from top to bottom. archy paused, actually awe-stricken, for, although he had lately given but little time to books, he loved and respected them from the bottom of his heart, and he respected the people who had spent such vast sums on learning. the room was low-ceiled, and the many windows were from the roof to the floor; and over and above all was that air of quiet, of studious retirement, which is the very aroma of the true library. as archy's eyes travelled around this charming apartment, he noticed there were some busts and a few pictures, and as he advanced into the room he saw, just over the door by which he had entered, a picture with its face to the wall. it did not take archy long to scramble up by the door and get a good look at the picture, and after a glimpse he deliberately, and with some trouble, turned it face outward, wiped it off carefully with his handkerchief, slipped down from his perch, and, advancing to the middle of the room, stood gazing at it with moist eyes, in which a gleam of anger shone, too, for it was his father's portrait. there was no mistaking it, although it represented a youth of about archy's age; but the clear-cut, melancholy face, with the deep eyes and thin lips--it was life-like. whatever the elder archibald baskerville's failings were--and they had been many, a violent and morose temper among them--his only child had loved and respected him. one determination had dwelt in archy's heart ever since he could remember, and that was never to let any one cast, even by implication, a slur upon his father without resenting it as far as he could. perhaps a dim, instinctive knowledge that his father was, in truth, a very faulty man was the mainspring of this feeling. but archy was by nature loyal, and not afraid to show his loyalty; and the same spirit which had made him, when a little lad, fly furiously at other lads who dared, with childish cruelty, to taunt him with his father's silence and moroseness and singularity, made him now promptly show that he thought his father's picture worthy of a place of honor. while archy was looking at the portrait with earnest eyes he heard a step behind him, and there stood major baskerville. "what do you think of the old rookery now?" he asked. "i never dreamed of anything like it," was archy's sincere reply. colonel baskerville smiled, and then said: "lord bellingham wishes to see you in his own room, and," he added, with a smile, "i wish he had asked me to be present at the meeting. it will be rare sport." "do you think so, sir?" answered archy, airily, and flushed with his achievement regarding the picture. "i know it. he has never been defied in his life. i did not defy him. i simply went my own way as a younger half-brother with little to hope or fear from him. but you are his natural heir, and, although he can keep you out of the property, he can't keep you out of the title if you want it." "but i don't want it, and can't use it, sir; and as to his keeping me out of the property, some of that would be precious little use to me. what would i do with a castle? i am a sailor, sir, and i would rather have a seventy-four than all the castles in england. so here goes." and archy marched off to meet lord bellingham, not wholly unprepared what to say and do. chapter iv as archy entered a room adjoining the library corridor, lord bellingham rose to receive him. the boy's first impression was that his grandfather was the handsomest old man he had ever seen. not very tall, but perfectly well made, with beautiful, pale, unwrinkled features, and a pair of the darkest, clearest, brightest eyes imaginable, lord bellingham might well be believed the handsomest man of his day. he was elegantly dressed in black satin coat and knee-breeches, with black silk stockings and black shoes with diamond buckles on his delicate, high-arched feet. his hair was powdered, although it was in the morning, and the dandy of the court of george ii. was still a dandy, even in his northern fastness. the day was mild, but a bright fire burned upon the hearth, and a black velvet cloak, thrown over the chair, was evidently for use then and there. the impression made upon archy was great and immediate, and lord bellingham had no reason to find fault with him for any want of deference when he advanced and shook his grandfather's hand in silence, and then waited to be addressed. "grandson," said lord bellingham, in a musical voice with no touch of the tremor of age, "i had, some weeks ago, a letter from my excellent friend, admiral kempenfelt, telling me of you." "the admiral was most kind to me, sir." there was a pause, and then lord bellingham suddenly asked: "may i inquire your plans for the future?" archy studied a moment or two before answering, and then said, quietly: "i propose to await an exchange of prisoners which will shortly take place in france. then i shall join commodore jones again." at this a deep-red flush overspread lord bellingham's face; he clinched his hands, and seemed about to burst into a torrent of wrath, but restrained himself. when he spoke, it was to say, in a cold voice: "i had a grandson--trevor langton--who was in his majesty's service, and a loyal officer of his majesty. it has been my hard fate to lose him--and to find you!" "sir," said archy, firmly, "although you have found me, you are not obliged to keep me. i came here on the recommendation of admiral kempenfelt. i have some money, and when i get my share of the _bon homme richard's_ prize-money i shall have plenty--the _serapis_, sir, was a very valuable ship, and worth a hundred of our poor old _richard_. i am ready to go away to-day--now, this moment, if you wish me." lord bellingham's reply to this was to seize the fire-tongs and vigorously attack the sea-coal fire. the tongs, however, becoming interlocked in some way, he suddenly threw them violently across the room, where they struck a marble bust of the philosopher plato--the apostle of mildness--and smashed the nose off. so far from agitating lord bellingham, this accident seemed to compose him, and he calmly remarked: "i feel relieved. my temper is peculiar, and i find that by giving it vent in some noisy but harmless manner i am soonest calmed." archy's response to this was to burst into a suppressed guffaw of laughter, which his grandfather perceiving, he also smiled. "rebellion seems to sit lightly on you, boy," he said, presently. "i have had some experience of what rebellion means. during the rising in ' i was suspected of disloyalty. i had known the young pretender in rome when i was on the grand tour, and we were much together--ah, they were wild days! after my return i was for some years at court, although i disdained any appointment. at the time of the rising i happened to be here, and entertained the duke of cumberland on his way to the north. when everything was over, and the prisoners from culloden were being marched southward, what was my surprise to find myself among them, mounted on a horse whose bridle was led by a foot-soldier, with orders to shoot me dead if i attempted to escape. when we reached london i had no difficulty in clearing myself from suspicion without a formal trial, and the king was pleased to admit me to his levee immediately after my release. the lords bellingham had been counted as among the tory nobility, and that was one reason that suspicion fell on me; and my enemies magnified some former acts of civility to charles edward into complicity with him." "but, sir," asked archy, very earnestly, "did you really--er--a--i mean--did you not in your heart wish him to succeed?" it was now lord bellingham's turn to smile. "if i had, i should be now probably dwelling in a cave in america." "we are not cave-dwellers, sir. we have excellent, good houses. but you had better luck when you were captured than i when i was captured at the texel, for i was chased along the sand and marshes by the _seahorse's_ men--and knocked down, and flung into their boat as if i had been a lame puppy--and when i tried to cry out, i was choked by a great monster of a boatswain's mate, and told they would chuck me overboard if i did not choke my luff--and they would have done it, too, sir! and then," added archy, slyly, "you would have been spared the finding of me." "young man, you have a gift of repartee. be careful how you use it." "i did not know, sir, until now, that i had any such gift. but when a man enters the naval service"--archy was barely sixteen, but he swelled out his breast and stretched up his lithe, handsome figure as much as he could--"he is forced to learn to take care of himself. if he does not, certainly nobody will take care of him." "i suppose," said lord bellingham, "since, articles of exchange have been agreed upon, it would be best for you to remain here until you are regularly exchanged. then i hope you will be persuaded to return to your allegiance to your king and country." "pardon me, sir," replied archy, rising at once, "it is not customary for officers on parole to listen to such propositions." "not from their own families, eh?" "my family has not been sufficiently kind to me to warrant them in advising me in a matter so delicate. my father gave me permission, before his death, to enlist in the naval service of the colonies--and with his warrant i need no other." "your father was not so respectful to the wishes of _his_ father. but, be seated again. i am now an old man--childless, for my only remaining child, trevor langton's mother, has long been estranged from me. had her son lived, we might have been reconciled--i deserve some indulgence. stay here for a time at least." it seemed to archy that lord bellingham did not have much claim to indulgence, judging by what those who knew him best said of him. but, in truth, archy was fascinated by his grandfather's interesting personality. he wanted to see more of so odd a character--and the consciousness of having at least enough money to get back to london whenever he wished, and last, but not least, some faint awakening of the tie of blood, determined him. "i will stay, sir," he said, presently. "i think my father would perhaps wish me to--and my mother--i do not remember her, but--" he paused suddenly. ought he to stay? "for your mother, i can only say that i had no fault to find with her except that she married my son. my ebullitions of temper were mistaken as insults to her--but it has always been my misfortune to have these trifling and inconsequent faults magnified and mistaken." lord bellingham's novel view of himself nearly caused archy to explode with laughter again--but he had begun to want to stay a while at bellingham castle, and, like most people, he had but little difficulty in persuading himself that what he wished to do was the best thing to be done, so he presently agreed. lord bellingham then began asking him questions about his life in america, and archy, nothing loath, plunged into a description of it, telling of the abounding plenty of the colonists, his own pleasant boyhood on the chesapeake, the splendors of the viceregal court at williamsburg--these splendors did not become the less in the telling, and archy was not without gifts as a story-teller. lord bellingham listened with the deepest interest. the story of this new, free, fresh life beyond the seas was fascinating to the old man, reared in courts, and spending his later days in luxurious and eccentric solitude. and without in the least suspecting it, archy was every moment growing in grace in his grandfather's eyes. here was no hobbledehoy, but a handsome stripling, already with some knowledge of the world, fearless, frank, and quick of wit. before either of them realized how time was flying, the shadows grew long, and diggory, appearing at the door, announced his lordship's dinner. "request colonel baskerville to dine with me to-day. you, grandson, will remain." as archy had an idea that his grandfather's dinner was considerably better than what diggory chose to provide for his uncle and himself in the little parlor, he agreed with alacrity, and in a few moments the three were sitting around a small round table glittering with plate, where an elaborate dinner was served. every moment that archy passed with colonel baskerville he felt more and more drawn towards him. he had been through stirring scenes in india with lord clive and warren hastings, and when questioned by lord bellingham, he told of them so interestingly that all three forgot the hour, and they were interrupted by a message from the village asking them to come and give their testimony at the inquiry about the attempted robbery. when they returned it was night, and there was no invitation to join lord bellingham at supper; but diggory, acting under secret instructions, provided them with an excellent supper. scarcely were they through when a request came from lord bellingham that colonel baskerville wait upon him in his own room. archy, left alone, provided himself with a book from the library, and, mending the fire and trimming the candles, seated himself for a long and delightful evening of reading. but presently the book fell from his hand, and he began thinking over the rapid events of the last year, and then his mind turned towards langton. so young, so brave--archy thought he had never met a more gallant fellow--and so quiet withal--the favorite alike of officers and men. he began to wonder how, in their many long talks, nothing had ever revealed to each other their relationship. but he remembered that he instinctively avoided all mention of his family, a trait learned from his father, who had never even told him of any relations named langton. and langton's mother had probably, for the same melancholy reason, kept him in the dark also. while these thoughts were passing through his mind, hours slipped away. the candles were burned to their sockets when colonel baskerville appeared. "i have spent the evening with my brother, talking about you," he said to archy, seating himself. "you seem to have politely defied him, and thereby conquered him." "if he thinks i mean to give up my country--" began archy. "tush! you can do nothing until you are twenty-one. but i think i can promise you that nothing will be left undone to charm you with england, and with your place as lord bellingham's heir. he asked me about your clothes, and i explained about the uniform--ha! ha!" colonel baskerville laughed outright at the recollection. next morning archy went to the library for another look at his father's portrait. to his indignation, he found it turned to the wall again. archy then, locking the door to be secure from interruption, carefully and deliberately turned every picture in the library to the wall. then, with an air of triumph, he met diggory's eye when that functionary came to him with a message that lord bellingham desired to see him. at that interview lord bellingham mentioned that he had sent to york for a full supply of clothes for archy, for which archy thanked him politely. that very night, on going to his room--not the duke of cumberland's, but a smaller and less splendid one--he found two large boxes of clothes. archy, who was by nature a dandy, examined them with pleasure. there were three very elegant suits, two of them laced, a quantity of linen, and a fine flowered dressing-gown. when he rose next morning he was surprised and annoyed to find that his shabby continental navy uniform had disappeared mysteriously, and in its place lay a handsome cloth riding-suit. he remembered that diggory had come into the room to make the fire, and he suspected the clothes had gone out under diggory's arm. a shout in the corridor brought diggory--but he stolidly protested that he knew nothing about the clothes. "he is lying," thought archy; "but i will be even with him, and my grandfather too." so, dressing himself, but putting on his gay dressing-gown instead of a coat and waistcoat, he coolly walked down to breakfast. colonel baskerville laughed at the apparition, and he laughed still more when archy afterwards gravely paced up and down the terrace in full view of his grandfather's windows. after a while he started off, through the park, towards the village. a window was flung up behind him, and colonel baskerville's voice called out: "lord bellingham desires to know where you are going?" "to the village, sir." "in that rig?" "i have no other, sir. my clothes have been stolen." and off archy marched, the dressing-gown flapping about his knees. just as he reached the park gates he heard some one pursuing him at a quick trot. it was diggory. "lord, sir, here are your clothes! his lordship is near having a fit at home, swearing most awful, and colonel baskerville laughing like to kill--and i ran and fetched the clothes." "next time you take my clothes, you impudent lackey, i will break some of your worthless bones for you," was archy's reply. and with diggory's assistance, in the middle of the roadway, he put on his well-beloved, shabby blue uniform, and went calmly on his way to the village. chapter v several weeks passed by and, as colonel baskerville had predicted, nothing was left undone to make archy feel how desirable a position lord bellingham's grandson and heir would hold. every afternoon his grandfather sent for him, and talked long and interestingly to him, telling of the early days at the court of george ii., describing splendid court functions to him, and impressing upon him with great art the important position that the baron of bellingham would always hold, both socially and politically--for lord bellingham had the disposal of three seats in parliament. archy listened attentively enough, but the effect of much that he heard was directly the contrary of what his grandfather expected. archy was quite sharp enough to realize that many of the usual advantages of rank did not appeal to him, while its restrictions were almost intolerable. he saw that the possession of a great name and estate, and all the vast privileges of a peer in the eighteenth century, had only intensified all of his grandfather's faults, his violent temper, his dictatorial disposition--and had neutralized his talents, which were considerable. the sight of an irritable, eccentric old man leading a life of perfect solitude, estranged from all his family except his half-brother, and using every art of cajolery to make himself tolerable to his only grandson, was not an inspiring one to a boy of archy baskerville's high and daring spirit and inborn love of adventure. nevertheless, lord bellingham showed signs of softening, which were more surprising to colonel baskerville and the rest of his household than to archy, who had seen really the best of him. he seemed to take a melancholy interest in hearing of langton's many fine qualities and personal charm--and one day, after a long conversation with archy, lord bellingham said, almost as if talking to himself: "my poor daughter--what misery to lose such a son!" a day or two after that colonel baskerville said to archy, in his usual kind but curt manner: "you have done a good thing in speaking of langton to your grandfather. he has this day written to his daughter--the first time for twenty years. he is really becoming quite human." lord bellingham, however, seemed to be ashamed of any soft or generous impulse, and harangued archy upon the subject of his daughter and her son as if the real sorrow was not langton's death, but the loss of a possible heir to the bellingham estates--and as for the title, he seemed to regard archy's indifference to it as something sacrilegious. "all titles are not honorable, sir," said archy. "there is sir henry clinton, the british commander at new york. he is called the prince of blunderers. nothing pleasant about that, sir." lord bellingham showed his appreciation of this news about sir henry clinton by giving a savage kick to a chair near him, which in its turn knocked over a table with candles on it, and only archy's quickness prevented a fire on the spot. when quiet was restored, this young american, in perfect good faith, and thinking himself rather a clever fellow for hitting upon a solution of the question of the estates, came near bringing a hurricane of wrath down on himself. "there are two girls, sir. langton has often told me of his sisters, and you could give the estates to them." "girls!" almost shrieked lord bellingham, and then relapsed into a state of silent fury at the idea that bellingham should go to two girls. archy looked deeply hurt at the way his remark had been received, and left his grandfather's presence with an air of haughtiness ridiculously like the old man's, which caused colonel baskerville to laugh heartily at the scene. but archy made no more suggestions as to the disposition of the bellingham estates. at the end of december the assizes were held at york, and lord bellingham, as lord-lieutenant of the north riding, was to attend them in state. "and i should be glad, my dear archibald, to have your company in the coach," said the old gentleman, in a tone of dulcet softness, having forgiven archy his maladroit speech. archy, who would walk ten miles any day to see a fine show, readily agreed. nothing was said about clothes; but when archy carefully examined his blue uniform that night, he found that it was indeed on its last legs. his elbows were out, his knees were but little better, and, worse than all, he was shooting up so tall and filling out so fast that he had completely outgrown both jacket and trousers. there was no help for it; archy laid his beloved shabby uniform away carefully, and next morning appeared at breakfast in the handsome brown riding-suit. colonel baskerville noted it with an approving nod. "i fully reckoned on your getting a broken head, sooner or later, for wearing your american uniform. it was foolhardy; but i perceive, nephew, you are inclined to be foolhardy." "the french, sir, called captain jones foolhardy when he sailed into the narrow seas with the _ranger_ sloop, and they had fifty-five sail of the line holding on to their anchors at l'orient; but he came back all safe, and brought the _drake_ with him. and they said he was worse than foolhardy when he went out in the poor old _bon homme richard_; but he came back again, and that time he brought the _serapis_--huzza!" here archy got up and cut a pigeon-wing, nearly upsetting diggory with a tray full of cups and saucers. "let me tell you one thing, young man," remarked colonel baskerville, coolly; "you have a very clever trick of always having the last word, but don't imagine for a moment that it proves you are always right. clever tricks count for but little in the long-run." archy went into a brown-study at this remark, and at the end of ten minutes came out of it to say: "uncle, i believe you know a great deal, one way and another." "hear! hear!" said colonel baskerville, sarcastically. "a young gentleman not yet seventeen gracefully admits that a man three times his age actually knows something! you amaze me, nephew." "i don't admit that i don't know anything," stoutly protested archy. "far from it, my dear boy. you know more now than you ever will, if you live to be a hundred. every year of your life you will know less--in your own estimation, that is. but at present you have nothing to learn." at which archy laughed rather sheepishly, and went on with his breakfast. immediately after breakfast the splendid coach-and-four, with outriders, was drawn up at the main entrance, and lord bellingham appeared, magnificently dressed, with his breast covered with orders, and a diamond-hilted sword on his hip. he entered the coach, taking the middle of the back seat, while colonel baskerville and archy sat facing him. it was a beautifully clear december morning, and when the horses took the road through the park at a rattling gait, it was exhilarating in the highest degree. colonel baskerville's plain but kindly face lighted up, and even lord bellingham seemed to feel a briskness in the blood. but archy grew unaccountably grave. he had an indefinable feeling that he was leaving it all for the last time, and caught himself involuntarily looking around at the gray old castle on the hill, the slopes of the park on which the red deer stood peacefully feeding, the low chain of blue hills in the distance, as if he were saying farewell to them--nor could he shake off this singular impression during the whole drive. at the park gates they were joined by the mounted yeomanry, and every parish they passed through sent its quota, until, when they reached the old minster city of york, they had a great cavalcade behind them. the venerable town was in holiday garb. the trainbands were out, with fife and drum; the sheriffs and lord-lieutenants of all three ridings were present in state; and the judges in their robes awaited the forming of the procession to the assize hall. the life, the color, the masses of people who filled the picturesque streets of the beautiful old town, were captivating to archy--but what amazed him most was to see a number of man-o'-warsmen about. he was not long in finding out that there was a large fleet at the mouth of the humber, and these were liberty men who had come to york in wagons to spend their few hours of shore time. but archy was himself a sailor, and he began to consider that captains were not wont to allow men so far inland merely for a day's holiday, and the presence of several officers threw a flood of light on the question. "they are press-gangs," he thought to himself. "the fleet, i have heard, is short-handed, and they have selected some of the trustiest fellows and sent them here with their officers, and many a stout countryman will sleep to-morrow night on one of his majesty's ships." but archy soon became so taken up with the splendid pageant of opening the assizes that he forgot the sailors for the time. the highwayman and his accomplice, the coachman of the comet, were to be tried at that term, but archy soon found that the trial would not come off until the next day, and his testimony would not be wanted until then. all was grand and imposing until the prisoners were brought in, but the sight of so much misery and wickedness smote the boy to the heart, and he quickly left the favored position he occupied in the hall, and went out and walked about the streets. the sitting of the court was unusually prolonged, and the short december day was rapidly closing in before the procession was again formed, with something less of state, to return to the grand dinner served to the judges and all the great functionaries. in the evening there was to be a splendid assize ball, and while wretches were bemoaning the sentences of death or transportation they had received, and trembling prisoners waited in anguish the coming of their turn of trial, a splendid company assembled for the ball. but the same strange feeling of oppression still hung upon archy. the sights he had seen were very brilliant, but there was something in the very word assize that sobered him. after dinner he slipped quietly away from colonel baskerville, and joining the crowd outside the noble building where the ball was to be held, watched the assembling of the guests. among the last to come was his grandfather. never had lord bellingham looked more superb than when he descended from his coach, bowing right and left to the cheering crowd. he was an unpopular man, a hard landlord, and overbearing to his equals--but he was noble to look at, and the unthinking crowd cheered him because of that. archy felt no inclination to enter the ballroom then, and wrapping his cloak around him, he sauntered away into the distant streets, now silent and deserted under the quiet stars. he was thinking deeply and rather sadly--trying to imagine how his father had walked those streets twenty years before--recalling langton, and pitying his grandfather's coming loneliness when both he and colonel baskerville left him--for he had made up his mind to go to london with colonel baskerville shortly, and to see what his prospects of exchange were. he wandered on and on, until he found himself in a remote corner of the town, opposite a quaint, old-fashioned inn, its spacious tap-room opening on a level with the street. inside were a number of sailors and countrymen, and slightly separated from them, in little box-like compartments, were two or three naval officers. archy was surprised at this at first, but he soon reasoned it out for himself. "it is a regular raid they are planning," he thought, "and the officers are there to quietly direct. oh, there will be a love of a scrimmage!" and this notion proving very enticing, archy entered, and calling for bread and cheese and ale, seated himself in one of the little boxes by the fire. the landlady, a handsome, middle-aged woman, and her three buxom daughters, he soon guessed were in the plot with the officers, who spent their money freely, and kept the landlord and all his assistants on the trot. one party at a table particularly attracted his attention. there were half a dozen sailors who let on, in their characteristically imprudent way, that they had lately been paid off at plymouth, and being north-country men, were on their way home to see their relatives instead of spending their money in riot and dissipation in plymouth and london. one of them, a hale, handsome, well-made man of about fifty, particularly struck archy's eye. "you won't stand much of a chance, my fine fellow, with a press-gang," thought archy, admiring the old sailor's brawny figure and fine, sailor-like air, "nor your mates either, and if i were out on a press for men i don't know but i would be as quick to nab you as anybody." besides the main door, there was another door opening upon a corridor that led to the court-yard, and through this corridor passed the landlord and his wife and daughters, and the waiters, serving the guests. presently archy saw an officer get up nonchalantly, open the door slightly, then close it, and the landlady quietly barred and locked it. archy, however, had a momentary glimpse down the corridor, and he caught sight of a huge covered wagon, with four horses, drawn up in the court-yard. five minutes afterwards every light went out like magic, leaving only the half-light of a blazing sea-coal fire; the front door was clapped to, and as if by a preconcerted effort a dozen sailors dashed at the seafaring men seated at the middle table, others made a rush for several countrymen quietly munching bread and cheese, and a general mêlée was in order. after the first moment of surprise, the sailors did not have it all their own way, and a tremendous uproar followed. it seemed to be quite free from any of the enmities of a fight, though, and the landlord, standing off impartially, grinned, while the landlady and her three daughters seemed to consider it the height of a frolic. the three officers on the edge of the struggling crowd shouted out orders, and several brawny countrymen were secured after a hard scuffle. but the sailors at the middle table were used to that sort of thing, and it was plain that the press-gang had its work cut out to capture these men. the next thing they did, after fighting off the first onslaught, was to throw themselves like a battering-ram against the door leading to the corridor, the main door being much too heavy and too securely fastened for them to break it down. the corridor door gave way with a crash as they hurled themselves against it, but a dozen sailors rushed to it, and fought them back step by step. the men, led by the handsome old fellow that archy had admired, held their ground stoutly, but they were slowly driven back from the door, only to intrench themselves behind the long tables, where, brandishing chairs, shovels and tongs, sticks, and anything else they could lay hold of, they jeered at the sailors with cutlasses, and dared them to come on. "catch that old fellow, my lads--he's the best topman in the service," bawled one of the officers, and in response to this half a dozen men surrounded the old sailor, who, armed with the kitchen poker, made it fly around like a flail. during all this uproar and confusion archy had sat still in his corner, a perfectly disinterested observer; but when he saw a young sailor suddenly begin to crawl under the table to seize the old man by the legs, archy could not remain neutral another minute. he made a dash at the young fellow, and, seizing him by the legs in turn, immediately found himself in the thick of the fight. the men who were to be pressed, encouraged by their new recruit, who yelled out, "stick to it, my lads! don't let 'em take you against your will!" made a sortie from behind the table, valiantly led by archy with his sword; but this rash proceeding proved disastrous--they were quickly overpowered by numbers, and every one of them finally captured. they made a desperate fight for their new ally, and protected him to the end, the old sailor being the last to succumb; but when archy's fortunes seemed most desperate, he suddenly found a friend in the landlady. "hey, there!" exclaimed this sturdy amazon. "let the young gentleman alone. he ain't no man for a press-gang!" and with that she pushed her way between the struggling, shouting men, and, planting herself firmly before archy, cried out, brandishing a canister of snuff she had snatched off the mantel-piece, "the first man as lays hold on this here young gentleman gets snuff in his eyes. and you, hizzy, betsy, and nancy, come here and help me to keep this sweet young gentleman out o' the way o' them murderin' ruffians, bad luck to 'em!" [illustration: the landlady stood between archy and the officer] hizzy, betsy, and nancy, three great, strapping girls, each bigger than archy, ran forward at this. hizzy, pulling out a table-drawer and handing a rolling-pin to betsy and another to nancy, armed herself with a tremendous pair of shears, and, marching to her mother's side, prepared to defend "the sweet young gentleman." the officers and men, disconcerted for a moment by the sudden move on the part of the women, fell back, laughing. "please, sir," said one of the sailors, with a broad grin, to the officers, "we knows how to fight men, but we ain't used to handlin' women--and we leaves 'em to our betters." the landlady, who had heretofore made no objection to the rumpus going on, now suddenly discovered that it was a very outrageous proceeding, and began to harangue at the top of her lungs. "nice goings on, this, for a respectable tavern! next thing we'll be up afore a justice and have our license took away! and arter takin' away our customers, peaceable men as pays their score, you wants to nab with your beastly press-gang a beautiful young gentleman, with a handsome cloak and silk stockings. but never you mind, my darlin', we'll keep them murderin' ruffians off and send you home to your lady mother"--this last to the hero of this tale, who, in his heart, somewhat resented the language of his rescuers. "madam," explained one of the officers, in a tone of the mildest argument, "we are exceedingly sorry to cause your ladyship and your ladyship's lovely daughters any inconvenience, but that young gentleman we mean to have, to serve as we please, for his insolence in daring to resist the king's officers; so here goes"--and at this he made a dash forward, and, seizing the landlady round the waist, attempted to drag her away. but the amazon, as good as her word, gave him a shower of snuff in the face. his two brother officers, coming to his rescue, were so unmercifully whacked on the head with the rolling-pins in the hands of betsy and nancy, while hizzy jabbed at them with the shears, that they soon found it prudent to retire amid the roars of laughter of both victors and vanquished. they presently returned to the charge; and now beheld mr. archibald baskerville, late midshipman on the continental ship _bon homme richard_, dodging back and forth behind the women's petticoats, and always managing to keep the buxom form of one of their ladyships, as the officer had called them, between him and his assailants. meanwhile, what with the scuffle, the sneezing from the snuff which the landlady had so freely distributed, and the roars of laughter with which the combat was witnessed, the cries and shouts, there was a noise like bedlam; but archy, anxiously dodging hither and yon, found nothing to laugh at in his somewhat grotesque circumstances. the fight was desperate, the manoeuvring masterly--but, at last, a young lieutenant with a long arm seized archy from behind hizzy's skirts, and giving him a clip on the ear, he suddenly fell over, and the world became a blank to him; he heard not another sound and knew nothing more of the fight with the press-gang. chapter vi when archy came to himself he was lying in a comfortable berth in a cabin on board ship. this much he dimly realized when he waked as if from a long and dreamless sleep. it took him a little while to understand this. at first it seemed quite natural; he thought he was on the old _bon homme richard_; and when the faint memories of bellingham castle and his grandfather and colonel baskerville floated into his mind, he thought it was a half-forgotten dream. but by degrees his clouded intelligence grew clear, he remembered everything--the fight in the tavern, the blow that deprived him of consciousness--and, suddenly raising himself in his berth, he began to bawl, "halloo, there! halloo!" a quiet man who had been sitting just outside the cabin door came in at this. "i wish to be put ashore instantly," said archy, angrily. "i was carried off by a lot of villains in a press-gang last night, and i demand to see the captain and to be sent ashore immediately--immediately, do you hear?" the quiet man grinned exasperatingly. "i reckons, sir, 'twill be a good while afore your foot touches dry land. we are now in the bay of biscay, latitude degrees, longitude east from greenwich, as i hearn the sailing-master tell the cap'n just now--and he'd be mighty willin' to oblige you, but i hardly thinks as he'll be able to set you ashore immediate." "where am i?" asked archy, in a dazed way. "what ship is this?" "this here ship, sir, is the _royal george_, flag-ship of rear-admiral digby, cap'n fulke, and we are carryin' all the sail that dratted convoy will let us for gibralty, with the rest o' sir george rodney's fleet--good luck to 'em." it took several minutes for archy to digest this. he was too staggered by what he had heard to make any further inquiries, but his quiet friend proved communicative enough. "you're in the sick-bay of the _royal george_, sir, and i'm the sick-bay nurse. it seems as how the officers thought as they'd git a good press at the york assizes. we was layin' off the mouth of the humber, waitin' for the rest o' the convoy from ireland, and some o' the men deserted, though we had left plymouth o' purpose, as soon as we got our complement, to keep the men aboard. but they got away in spite o' our keepin' a sharp lookout, and the officers, as i say, went to look after some others to fill their places. you took a hand in a scrimmage, sir, in a tavern, and the officers wanted to nab you just to git even with you; but that blow on the head was unexpected sharp. just as you dropped they heard the constables coming. york ain't no seaport town, and the constables don't know enough to let a press-gang alone while it is mindin' its own business; so our men had to cut and run, and they brought you off with 'em, sir, thinkin' you'd peach on 'em if they left you behind. but they meant, as soon as daylight come, to leave you at some village on the road and let you make your way back to york, for they see you was a gentleman, sir. when daylight come, though, you was still layin' like a log, and they was right at the place where the boat was to meet 'em; and when they got down to the mouth o' the humber there lay the _royal george_ with the bluepeter flying, so they just had to hustle you on board and turn you over to the surgeon, or else leave you to die on the shore. so they brought you off, and that's six days ago, and this is the first time, sir, you have opened your peepers since, and i must go and tell the surgeon." archy lay there alone for a few moments, feeling strangely weak. the reaction of his first awakening was upon him. presently, a tall, raw-boned, red-headed surgeon entered, and introduced himself in a manner not unkind. "i am dr. macbean--at your service, sir. glad to see you so much better. you have had a close shave in more ways than one"--archy put his hand to his head to find that every hair had been shaved off, and his head was as bare as a peeled onion--"but we have pulled you through. i suppose you remember the circumstances of your finding yourself with our men." "i remember the fight with the press-gang, but i got a blow that stunned me, and don't recollect anything more." "we saw that you were a gentleman, sir, as soon as you were brought aboard, and we regretted the anxiety your family and friends must feel on your account. no doubt admiral digby will take the first opportunity of acquainting them with your situation, and if we meet a ship homeward bound, you will be transferred." "but england is not my home," explained archy, in a troubled voice. "i am an american midshipman on parole. i was merely visiting my grandfather, lord bellingham, when i went to york--and--my name is archibald baskerville, and--" archy stopped through weakness. "there, there; you have talked enough," said dr. macbean, thinking his patient was off again into vagaries. but when he went to report to the captain, who happened to be on deck conversing with the admiral, he had reason to know that archy was entirely sane in the account he had given of himself. admiral digby had heard of the young rebel, grandson of lord bellingham, and brought home by admiral kempenfelt in the _thunderer_. he knew that lord bellingham's seat was in yorkshire, and that, as lord-lieutenant of the east riding, he would be present at the york assizes, and he had no doubt that archy was just what he represented himself to be. "i'll go below and see the youngster myself," said the admiral, and off he marched. as he entered the little cabin archy opened his eyes languidly, but the very sight of admiral digby was interesting and inspiring. a perfect type of the british sailor, his kind though firm glance and his cheery manner were like a breath of the strong salt air. "well, mr. baskerville, you have had ill-luck," began the admiral, cordially; "but never fear, sir; you will be sent home by the first chance, and meanwhile we will have the pleasure of your company. i understand you were with my old friend kempenfelt?" "yes, sir," replied archy, now feeling quite bright and strong, and every inch archy baskerville, "the admiral was very kind to me. he knew my grandfather, and he lent me some money--oh, jupiter!" exclaimed archy, suddenly, "how will i ever return that money!" admiral digby roared out laughing at this. "no doubt lord bellingham will see to that; but when we lend money to midshipmen in our service we feel that it is casting our bread upon the waters." "i dare say it is the same with us, sir," replied archy. "but there is nobody to lend us any on this side of the water. even commodore jones has often wanted money for a dinner, and that, too, in france, where they profess to be our allies." "mr. baskerville," said the admiral, seating himself on the one stool in the cabin, "i should like, when you are able, to hear the story of that remarkable man. i do not share the prejudices of my countrymen towards him." "then you can understand, sir," replied archy, "the devotion that his own officers feel for him." "perfectly. now tell me if anything has been done towards your exchange, for you are indebted to jones for a system of exchange." "nothing has been done, sir. i was reported to the admiralty when i was captured, and when i landed at portsmouth from the _thunderer_ i went up to london and reported myself. then i went to my grandfather's, bellingham castle, and expected to hear pretty soon from the admiralty. i know that exchanges have been made, but my name has not been among them." something like a smile flitted over admiral digby's face at this, and archy's sharp wits interpreted it. "i have been thinking, sir," he continued, "that my grandfather, instead of helping forward my exchange so i can return to france, is rather preventing it." "i understand that you are lord bellingham's heir," responded the admiral. "no, sir. heir only to the title i can't use. the entail is cut." "your grandfather, no doubt, is anxious for you to live in england with him. in that case you would have a splendid future before you." "if you had tried living with lord bellingham--" began archy; then stopped. his grandfather had certainly been very kind to him, and the shovel and tongs and boot-jacks and other impedimenta which lord bellingham so freely distributed in his rages had never flown in archy's direction. admiral digby laughed outright. "there are very few persons in england or scotland who don't know about lord bellingham," he said. "but to return to yourself. as soon as you are able to leave your berth you will become the guest of the gunroom mess, and then i shall hope to have the pleasure of your company occasionally in the great cabin. as soon as we meet a homeward-bound vessel you shall be put aboard of her, whether it be before or after we reach gibraltar. and now good-day to you, and may you soon be on deck again." after the admiral left him archy lay there a little time longer, when it suddenly occurred to him that he was hungry. he bawled for the sick-bay nurse, and when the man came ordered him to bring him some of everything that was served in the galley. the man followed these directions, and archy, finding his midshipman's appetite returning in full force, devoured everything in sight. just as the last scrap of pudding disappeared dr. macbean entered. "it is just time, my young friend," blandly remarked the surgeon, "that you may have a light meal of gruel served you, but nothing solid--nothing whatever of that kind." "much obliged, sir," answered archy, "but i have just finished a glorious meal--pea-soup, salt horse, potatoes, and pudding--and i feel about a hundred times better." "very well," said the surgeon, dryly, in his broad scotch accent. "i have always said that the only way to kill a midshipman is to cut off his head and throw the head away; otherwise he will come to life, sure. there is a young man on board now who was shipwrecked, had an arm and three ribs broken, survived a spanish doctor, and is apparently as good as new. you two must be first cousins." dr. macbean did not know he was a prophet. when the doctor left him archy got up quietly, and, dressing himself as fast as he could, made for the deck. he found himself weaker than he expected, and as he reached the top of the main-hatch he sat down awhile to rest himself. it was a sunny afternoon, mild for the season, and the vast deck of the great ship of the line was alive with men as she ploughed her way majestically over the waters. as far as the eye could reach the sea was flecked with sails. the "dratted convoy," as the sick-bay nurse called it, consisted of a great number of store-ships containing relief for the starving but indomitable garrison at gibraltar, under general sir george eliot. a huge fleet, under sir george rodney, escorted it, and the men-of-war, compelled to carry reduced sail, so as to keep up with the slow supply-ships, were formed in double column in the rear of the convoy. the _royal george_ led the left wing. presently, in the bright afternoon, they saw a ship approaching them on the opposite tack. the _royal george_ was in advance of the rest of the squadron, and as the stranger neared them it was plain, from the squareness of her rig, that she was a ship of war and she flew the union jack. when she was nearly abeam of the _royal george_ she kept her topsails shaking and broke out a signal flag. the first lieutenant, who was on the bridge, then called out to a young officer who was running up the ladder: "mr. langton, stand by for signals!" every eye was fixed on the advancing ship except archy's. the name, called out in the lieutenant's clear voice, had thrilled him, and when he looked up there was langton, risen from the dead, as it were, standing in full sight and hearing of him--langton, whom he had seen drowned before his eyes, as he thought. the shock and surprise of it, in his weak state, stunned archy. his brain reeled, he instinctively threw out his arms to keep from falling over, and for a few minutes lay, rather than sat, on the step of the companion-way, only half conscious of his surroundings. but joy is exhilarating, and suddenly a great wave of life and happiness seemed to flow upon him. not only was he deeply attached to langton, but the joy that would be given to so many persons--to langton's heartbroken mother and sisters, to lord bellingham, to colonel baskerville--when they knew that he was alive, was like the breath of life. after the first few moments archy became preternaturally alert to what was going on. the two ships moving slowly, all the signals of the new-comer could be easily read, and in the perfect silence, the wind being in the right direction, every word that langton uttered as he spoke to the admiral and captain could be heard. "the garrison at gibraltar is in a very critical state. the spaniards have besieged it hotly since the th of september. the rock is impregnable, but the garrison is near starvation. it has heard of the relief on the way, but if it does not come soon it will be too late." the stranger then signalled "good-bye," filled her sails, and proceeded on her way. on board the _royal george_ the painful impression made by the news they had just heard was obvious. the officers collected in groups about the quarter-deck, while forward the men talked over what they had seen, as several of them could make a shift to read the signals. in a few moments langton came stepping briskly and gracefully along the deck amidships. as he approached archy rose to his feet and steadied himself. when they were not more than a yard apart their eyes met. they stood staring at each other for a full minute, and then archy--the gay, the debonair, the impetuous--was the first to show weakness. he trembled like a girl, and when langton put both hands on his shoulders he almost had to hold archy up. "i thought you were drowned!" gasped archy. "so i thought myself, and a great many other persons too. but you--you are as white as a sheet; and where is your hair? and how, in heaven's name, came you on the _royal george_?" "i am the fellow that was carried off by the press-gang. no one knew my name until an hour or two ago. i have many things to tell you--things that will surprise you. but do you tell me first how you came to life, for i swear i saw you dead." "i was very near it when i came to myself, thrown high and dry on the rocks where the poor _seahorse_ went to pieces. some fishermen in the tunny fisheries found me, and i was a month between life and death in a hut near those very rocks, with a spanish doctor who spoke no english or french, and i spoke no spanish. i suppose, as dr. macbean would say, if it were possible to kill a midshipman by ordinary means i should not be here now; but i escaped with my life, in spite of the doctor. it is a long story how i got to barcelona and from thence to england; and within a week from the time i landed at plymouth i was ordered to this ship. as there is fighting before us, i could not ask for leave, even to see my dear mother; but i wrote her, and i hope she knows by this time that i am still alive to love her and plague her." "can you come below with me? i have something important to tell you." "my watch is up, but i must go below on an errand. i am as anxious to hear as you are to tell. i will be with you in five minutes." and langton ran below, leaving archy almost doubting whether, after all, he had really seen his friend in the flesh. chapter vii archy went below, and in a few minutes langton bounded into the little cabin. archy, who was of a demonstrative nature, seized him and hugged him hard, and langton seemed equally as overjoyed to see him. "langton," were archy's first words, "do you know who you are?" langton looked at him keenly instead of replying. he thought perhaps dr. macbean had let his patient out of bed too soon. "i say," said archy, earnestly, "do you know that you are my first cousin?" langton was sure then that archy's brain was still unsettled by the clip over the ear he had got. "yes, yes, i know it," he answered, soothingly; "it's all right. don't vex yourself about it, though." "but, langton, i know that you are lord bellingham's grandson," cried archy. a deep flush overspread langton's handsome face. "i know it, too; but he drove my mother out of his house for marrying my father--an honorable soldier, an honest gentleman, and a better man than lord bellingham." "i believe you." "and as he treated my mother so ill and insulted my father, i have no desire for the world to know that i am his grandson." "but he did the same by my father and mother. my father was his only son, and he went to america, and that is how i came to be an american." "i did not know that. my mother told me she had an only brother; that he had left england, and had given up all communication with his family. it is true that when i heard your name--baskerville--i remembered that it had been my mother's name; but as you never spoke of any english relatives, i was no prophet to discover that we were first cousins. why," continued langton, saying what everybody else did, "you are the heir!" "no, i am not. you are much more likely to be master of bellingham than i. do you suppose lord bellingham would ever make an american his heir? oh, you don't know him. but you ought to know our uncle, colonel baskerville--glorious old chap. did you never hear of him?" "yes, but he was in india; and you forget that i left home when i was eleven years old, and i did not much care for family histories then. why, however, did you never mention to me that lord bellingham was your grandfather?" "because my commodore, the great paul jones, advised me that the less i said about it the better as long as i was in the american navy; and he warned me if i were captured at any time that it might go the harder with me if it was known that i was of an english family. the day i left the _seahorse_, when i went into the cabin to say good-bye to captain lockyer, and get his letter to admiral kempenfelt, he had an open 'peerage and baronetage' before him. he asked me one or two questions about my father's and mother's names, and then quietly wrote, before my face, that i was lord bellingham's grandson. foolishly enough, i thought when i got to england that my grandfather might help me to get exchanged. but commodore jones was right--it went the harder with me on that account, and i don't propose to trust myself shortly within reach of the admiralty. i shall take my chances at gibraltar." "you always were, and always will be, a fellow for adventure. now, tell me all that has befallen you--and, by george! how comical you look without any hair!" archy plunged into his story. he told it with fire and energy. langton listened, deeply interested, and only interrupted the recital occasionally by gusts of laughter when archy told of some of the peculiarly odd circumstances that had happened to him. then langton told his story. there was nothing to laugh at in that; it was only a modest history of his sufferings since they had parted, not the least of which was the cruel disappointment of leaving england without seeing his mother and sisters. "there is not much money at home to spare," he said; "so, besides that i could not ask for leave when ordered for active service, i thought i could benefit my mother most by going where there was likely to be prize-money. and that gave me heart to come cheerfully--as i had to come anyhow. by the way, do you know we have a royal prince on board--prince william henry, second son of your friend king george iii., otherwise known in the mess as billy. he is a tolerably good sort of a chap, not very bright, but takes what comes, along with the rest of us, like a true-born briton. you will see him at the mess." "if i go to the mess. but, look you, langton, i do not budge to the mess unless i am invited in due form, just as you invite a french midshipman. as commodore jones said of admiral de la motte piquet, 'i can show a commission as respectable as any the french admiral can produce'; and so can i." "i will see to it that your high mightiness is invited in form. but let me ask you--how is it that you americans, who preach liberty and equality and republican simplicity, and all that sort of thing, are invariably haughty and punctilious to the last degree?" "only with benighted europeans, my dear langton. with each other we are like the spanish grandees, who, i have heard, call each other nick and jack and rob--or their spanish equivalents--and are all ease and familiarity among themselves. but when they meet another less great than themselves, they are careful to give him all his names and honors and titles." langton went off laughing at this, and left archy congratulating himself on having given a clinching reason, until he recalled colonel baskerville's remark, that to have the best of it at repartee was by no means to have the best of it in reason and common-sense. dear old chap! archy meant, the very next day, to write him a long letter, telling him the events of every moment since they parted. presently a note was brought in, addressed to midshipman baskerville, late of the continental ship _bon homme richard_. it was an invitation to be the guest of the midshipmen's mess. archy examined it carefully and critically. yes, it was in due form, although neither the writing, the spelling, nor the grammar was above reproach. he accepted the invitation, and signed his name and rank in a large, bold hand, and was glad enough to do so. before supper was ready archy went on deck again. lounging on the rail was a little midshipman who, archy speedily discovered, was the scion of royalty, prince william. a more harmless, quiet, common-place reefer he had never seen. the twilight was fast melting into night, and archy was watching with interest the movements of the fleet and convoy, larger than anything of the kind he had ever seen before, when the ship's bell clanged out suddenly for "fire!" archy suspected that it was merely a fire-drill, and so evidently thought prince william, for, rousing himself and seeing admiral digby near him unconcernedly studying the stars through his glass, the young prince walked leisurely to his station, and was the last midshipman to take his place at the head of his division. the admiral's eyes flashed--that was not the sort of discipline he proposed to allow. he glanced up at the bridge, where stood captain fulke; but the captain either did not see the young prince's dilatoriness or else he did not choose to see it. archy watched with interest what the admiral would do. as soon as the drill was over and the men had left their quarters, the prince passed close by the admiral, who spoke sharply to him. "your royal highness will remember that this is his majesty's ship _royal george_, and not a hayfield at harvest time. masthead, sir." prince william, whose rosy face instantly grew a picture of woe, nevertheless made his way aloft with much greater alacrity than he had made his station. the men grinned slyly at each other, and a midshipman behind the admiral made a motion as if to pat him on the back. archy opened his eyes wide--this was discipline, indeed. presently the admiral passed near him. archy saluted him respectfully, and hoped the admiral would speak to him, and was not disappointed. "i hear that you and young langton have found yourselves to be first cousins, mr. baskerville," he said. "yes, sir; and the best of friends we were from the day we met." "you have had considerable experience as a prisoner on british ships, eh? first, on the _seahorse_, then on the _thunderer_, and now on the _royal george_." "i have always been well treated, sir. that is, if i wasn't well treated in the beginning, i was in the end." "that speaks well for you, sir. it is sometimes difficult to get our young officers to treat americans with respect; but i, among others--notably admiral keppel--have always insisted that they be accorded all the consideration of prisoners of war, even before the late formal agreement was made." "i, for one, will remember it with gratitude, sir. but, may i say to you, sir, that since our conversation this afternoon i have been reflecting upon my circumstances, and i think my chances of exchange will be better at gibraltar than if i were to be returned to england, as you kindly offered. no doubt the spaniards will soon raise the siege, and then i can easily get to france on my parole." "no doubt--no doubt--the spaniards must soon give it up, and you would probably be nearer your object." the spaniards were never farther from giving it up than at the very moment these words were uttered. as the admiral walked on, archy was left alone. he made no move towards speaking to the number of officers that he saw standing or walking about; but admiral digby's example and well-known wishes were not lost on them, and presently two or three came up civilly enough and talked with him, and then it was suppertime, and langton coming after him, the two went below to those regions, in the depths of the ship, which were thought good enough for the midshipmen. archy was politely received, though not with the cordiality that would have been extended to a french midshipman. but langton was a prime favorite in the mess, and the story of his connection with archy, and their identical relationship to lord bellingham, had spread over the ship like wildfire. therefore, the temperature of archy's reception was sensibly raised when langton announced: "gentlemen, mr. baskerville is my cousin, and we were chums before we knew we were cousins. mr. baskerville is heir to a peerage if he wants it, but he swears he had rather be an american, which at least shows that he has a spirit of his own. so, i say, pity it is that all such are not englishmen." "agreed," piped up a very small midshipman, which caused a roar of laughter that covered the youngster with confusion. archy observed that prince william was not at the table, and some one asking what had become of him, one of the older midshipmen said: "poor devil! when my relief reported i managed to bring in a remark to the first lieutenant about billy, but the hint was not taken, so i fancy he is still in the cross-trees." just then, however, billy walked in. he was greeted with a chorus of jeers and cheers, with inquiries how was it aloft, and was he going to tell his father, and did he intend, in the event he came to the throne, to make admiral digby a peer, under the title of lord masthead, and other remarks of a facetious nature. billy took all this with perfect good-nature, and called for boiled beef and potatoes, but grew decidedly sulky when he heard there was no pudding. archy laughed as much as anybody at the chaff going on, and, as he had a peculiarly rich and ringing laugh, it attracted billy's attention, who, without minding the banter of his comrades, seemed to feel himself deeply injured by the amusement he afforded the young american. he growled out something, of which the only distinct words were "american traitors and rebels." there was a dead silence, and archy felt that upon his conduct at that very moment depended the opinion of every person in the ship. he looked the prince squarely in the eye, and said, quietly: "perhaps you do not know that i am an american, and late midshipman on the continental ship _bon homme richard_." [illustration: "'perhaps you do not know that i am an american'"] "yes, i know it, and damned if i care," was his royal highness's reply to this. the silence was continued. langton, without speaking a word, smiled slightly. he knew that a firm bearing, and that alone, would establish archy's position in the mess, and, having considerable knowledge of that young gentleman, he had no doubt of the attitude he would take. "i might, if i chose, report you to the admiral for insulting a prisoner of war," said archy, in his most nonchalant manner, "but reporting is considered a deuced ungentleman-like thing in our service. so i will give you a drubbing, if you will fight me, as soon as i am able. i am just out of the sick-bay." "oh, lord!" cried billy, "i'll fight you with all the pleasure in life, but as for the admiral--bad luck to him--he will skin me, sure, if he finds out what i said." "don't be afraid," answered archy, "and take a few boxing-lessons if you can; it will not save you a drubbing, but it will be more sport to the by-standers." "mr. what's-your-name," said billy, advancing and holding out his hand, "you are a gentleman, and i say so, and i shall be happy to give you satisfaction whenever you want it." at which, the british sense of fair-play being touched, the reefers roared out a cheer. billy stood, blinking and smiling, while archy assumed the air of a modest hero. great interest was aroused in the steerage by this prospective battle of the giants. archy, who regained his health with a bound, was extremely anxious to force events, but langton, who was his backer, would not hear of it; he meant his client to be in full fettle when he tackled the scion of royalty. meanwhile, archy had no fault whatever to find with his treatment in the mess, and billy proved himself to be one of the kindest-hearted and most generous and unassuming creatures in the world, in spite of being rather dull and foolish. at last, one morning, at the mess-table, after an unusually jolly supper the night before, when billy and archy had chummed together after the most approved fashion among midshipmen, billy remarked, sagely: "i've been thinking, baskerville, what is the use of our fighting? i hate fighting. i always get the worst of it. but i can do it, you know." "of course. so can i. you are as game a fellow as i ever saw--and the object of fighting among gentlemen is to prove they are game. if the mess says so, let us consider it off." "why not?" replied billy, with a grin, looking around. "they know i can fight--i have fought 'em; but there ain't any use in fighting unless one is obliged to." "not a bit," said langton. "so, if you please, i shall be happy to consult with your friend as to the possibility of coming to an honorable arrangement." "good!" was billy's remark; "and let me tell you, it looks to me"--here billy cocked his eye with great knowingness--"as if we will have some fighting to do with powder and ball before long. the admiral has not had the ships kept cleared for action ever since we began to approach cape st. vincent for nothing." and then there was heard resounding through the great ship the boatswain's pipe calling all hands on deck, and a voice was heard shouting in the gangway: "the spanish fleet is sighted!" chapter viii archy ran on deck as fast as his legs could carry him, and the sight that met his gaze was both splendid and terrible. they were off cape st. vincent, and the weather had been somewhat thick all the morning; but, a little while before, the sun suddenly blazed out, showing them admiral de langara's fleet of nine ships of the line and two frigates, not more than three miles off. a smart breeze was blowing, and the spaniards, who seemed to have known first of their own danger, were under press of sail trying to weather the headland before they would be cut off by admiral rodney's fleet of nineteen sail of the line and four frigates. the wind was carrying the british fleet so fast towards the spaniards that the signal for the formation of the line of battle was already shown from admiral rodney's ship, while the convoy kept together in the rear. admiral rodney had no fool to play with in admiral de langara, who, although prepared to fight if compelled to, justly declined the unequal combat as long as he could. in archy's brief experience of naval warfare he had never seen the manoeuvres of a great fleet, and he watched with breathless interest the steadiness and precision with which the british fleet spread out in a great semicircle, with the fast frigates at either end of the line, and the convoy secure behind them. the ships were already cleared for action, and a single tap of the drum was all that was necessary to call the men to quarters. there was no slowness in prince william's response this time. he was at his station among the first, and if he had a wholesome awe of admiral digby, he showed a manly indifference to the spaniards. admiral de langara had the weather-gage at first, and was able to keep it for over two hours; and in that time the spaniards were slowly but steadily creeping away from their enemies. admiral rodney maintained his line of battle, and showed a perfect willingness to fight, with an unknown and frightfully dangerous shore under his lee. but the wind increasing every moment, the line began to straggle, in the effort to claw off shore. archy baskerville, a deeply interested observer, managed to establish himself just aft the bridge, upon which stood admiral digby, with captain fulke and the first lieutenant. archy watched admiral digby, alert and sailor-like, as he paced up and down, keeping his eye on admiral rodney's ship, from which the signal for the line of battle flew steadily. langton presently passed archy and whispered to him: "watch the old man. he is in a boiling rage. this is the fastest ship of the line in the fleet, and if the signal for chasing were given he'd be alongside one of those big three-deckers in half an hour. but here he is, under easy sail, to keep up with the slow coaches. no wonder he is in a stew." and the admiral proved it by dashing his glass down angrily after a prolonged stare at admiral rodney's signal. the men seemed to understand this well enough, and when the wind continued to rise, and they were obliged to shorten sail as much as they dared, they gave a loud groan when the order was shouted out. the wind seemed to blow from all points of the compass at once, while the sky became black and lowering. the spanish flag-ship, the _phoenix_, was falling behind a little, and as the rocky promontory of the cape loomed nearer, the chances of this ship weathering seemed less than that of the rest of the fleet. her great draught forced her to keep well out from the rocky shore, and she lay almost in the path of the _royal george_, not more than two miles to windward. archy, watching admiral rodney's ship, saw by the dull and clouded light a change of signals, and above him, on the bridge, it was greeted by something like a shout of joy from admiral digby. "we can carry all hard sail now, captain; there is the signal for chasing!" cried the admiral to his captain; and, as if by magic, the sailors sprang into the rigging, and, with a rousing cheer, everything that would draw was shaken out, and the _royal george_, like a horse under the spur, dashed forward, ahead of every ship in the fleet. within half an hour she was near enough to the spanish admiral to fire her quarter-guns, to which the spaniard replied promptly; but in both cases the shot fell short. "never mind, my lads!" called out the admiral, jovially, "we must exchange compliments before we get down to work. there's no real pleasure to be had until we are alongside!" the _phoenix_, having a choice of dangers, and seeing the _royal george_ gaining upon her, then quickly changed her course and stood inshore, where the coast was fringed with mountains of rocks, as if some giant hand had strewed them there for the destruction of ships. the _royal george_ did not hesitate to follow her, though, and tacked inshore too. from the manoeuvres of the spaniard, it was plain that she had an experienced pilot aboard; but on the _royal george_ they had no better assurance of water under the keel than could be found by continually heaving the lead. from the rest of the fleet a smart cannonade was now begun as the faster ships got within range of the spaniards, who, caught and surrounded by superior force, yet prepared to defend themselves gallantly. the short afternoon was now closing in, and the increasing wind and the wraith of storm-clouds driving across the pale and wintry sky showed all those brave men that they would be called upon to combat waves and tempest as well as shot and shell. the _phoenix_, finding it impossible to weather the headland in the face of her enemies, prepared to fight in a large bay, which, dangerous enough in all weathers, yet gave her enough sea-room to save her if skilfully handled. the _royal george_, undaunted by the hazardous circumstances in which she was forced to attack, followed her antagonist. at the same moment each ship thundered out her broadside; but the wind and water rose so high that most of the shots were ineffective, although fired at short range. the howling of the wind and the dashing of the waves on the shore were soon drowned in the roar of the batteries on thirty-four fighting ships, for the engagement soon became general. as night came on neither storm nor battle abated. the clouds poured forth rain and wind as they were swept across the wild night sky. the only light visible was the flash of the guns and the red glare of the battle lanterns. the spanish were outnumbered more than two to one; but they were favored by the storm, and stood stubbornly to their guns. on board the _royal george_ the slaughter began to be serious. the ship required the most constant manoeuvring to keep her off the rocks, and there was enough to do, and more, even for the enormous crew of a thousand men she carried. archy was not one to sit idly by and watch when he could help, and when the bearers to carry the wounded below began to be few, he ran forward, and, taking one end of a stretcher, did yeoman's service in helping. about midnight, having a few minutes to himself, it occurred to him that he was hungry, and probably others were who could not leave their stations. he went below, and, getting some bread and cheese from one of the stewards, returned to the deck and distributed his provisions liberally among the midshipmen, not forgetting prince william. "thank'ee," said billy, gratefully. "i wish i was in your place--nothing to do but to watch how the spaniards take a beating, instead of having to fight this beastly battery. and i don't like fighting--that i don't." archy passed on, laughing. there was no doubt that billy possessed the courage of all the brunswickers, and was exactly the same billy under fire as sitting around the mess-table. langton was near by, and archy was troubled to see how pale and exhausted he looked. his former terrible experience on the spanish coast had not been without its effects, and archy saw that nothing but langton's determined will and anxiety to do his duty kept him from dropping at his station. just as the last piece of cheese and last slice of bread were about to be disposed of, archy saw the admiral crossing the deck towards him. he held out the bread and cheese, and the admiral seized it with enthusiasm. "thank you, mr. baskerville. those rascally stewards seem to have forgotten us up here. we'll give them a keelhauling for it as soon as the wind lulls! hanged if i don't think it deuced unhandsome of admiral de langara to make us fight in this awkward cubby-hole of a place! did you ever see anything like this, sir?" "i was on the _bon homme richard_, sir, when she took the _serapis_. we had good enough weather, but we were locked together two hours, and at it hammer and tongs all the while." "um--ah--hum--i say, lieutenant, i think number four in the starboard battery is doing remarkably fine work. mr. langton in command? i shall remember him when we are through with these persistent spanish gentlemen." the fire from several of the spanish ships slackened as the night wore on, and soon after midnight the _monarca_, a seventy-gun ship, blew up with a terrific crash that drowned both tempest and battle. her topmasts and sails flew skyward, and the wreckage from her great masts and spars was tossed like corks over the black waters. in the red illumination from sea and sky the bodies of men, dead and living, were seen floating, and the cries of the unfortunates were responded to by several of the british ships lowering their boats in the teeth of the gale, and pulling about in the line of fire, picking up the half-drowned sailors. one by one the spanish ships were disabled and forced to strike their colors, but the flag-ship still fought on. as a gray and pallid dawn broke over the stormy ocean and the drenched and forbidding-looking land, it was seen from the _royal george_ that her antagonist was in desperate straits. her main-mast had gone by the board, carrying the mizzen-mast with it, and both cumbered the deck and hung over the side, entangled in a mass of canvas and rigging. many of her guns had burst, and her decks were strewed with the dead and wounded. the spanish admiral, however, was still on the bridge, but the two officers with him were evidently juniors, showing that he had lost his captain and first lieutenant. the fire of the _phoenix_ was gradually lessening, and about daybreak it entirely ceased, and the spanish colors were hauled down amid loud cheering from the _royal george_. the spaniards had made a good fight, and the _royal george_, although not so badly crippled as her opponent, was much cut up aloft, and had several shot-holes in her hull. a boat was immediately lowered, and prince william was given the command of her, both as a compliment to himself and to the brave admiral de langara, who would be escorted on board the _royal george_ by a king's son. it was uncertain whether the spaniard would need boats to bring the prisoners aboard, or whether his own boats were in condition to do so. six of the spanish ships of the line had struck, one had blown up, while in the distance the remaining two were making off under a press of sail. in admiral rodney's fleet the losses in men were not very great, but the terrible disadvantage at which he had fought, and the bad weather, left them still battling for their lives on an unknown and dangerous coast, with six damaged ships to take care of, and thousands of prisoners. no ship had suffered more than the _royal george_, and the perilous situation in which she was placed became more evident by daylight. the wind was blowing directly on shore, and it became necessary to put on all the sail the ship could stand in order to keep her from going on the rocks; but her masts and spars were so cut up that it seemed every moment as if they would all come down at once. archy watched with anxiety as an effort was made to set the main-sail. he said to himself, out aloud: "the mast can never stand it." but the mast did stand it, although bending and quivering under the strain when the full force of the wind struck the sail, and the ship, gathering headway, moved a little farther off from the menacing shore, on which the roar of breakers could be distinctly heard. prince william's boat was now approaching, and archy could see the erect figure of the spanish admiral sitting in the stern-sheets. the boat came alongside, but poor billy gave the order "oars" too soon, and she drifted off just as the line was thrown to her. instead of making another effort to bring her up to the lee gangway, billy breasted along the side until he caught the stern-ladders, and was just about to pass the spanish admiral through the quarter-gallery when admiral digby, who was waiting with the captain at the gangway, with marines and side-boys to receive the spaniard, bawled out: "avast, there! what are you doing, sir?" billy needed nothing more to convince him of his mistake, and he immediately made for the gangway. in a little while admiral de langara came over the side. as soon as the spaniard's foot touched the quarter-deck, admiral digby advanced with uncovered head. the spaniard also uncovered, and, making a low bow, was about to offer his sword. "no," said admiral digby, with much dignity, "i cannot take the sword of so brave a man. it will yet do great things for your country." de langara's eyes filled with tears, as, in broken english, he said something of which few comprehended the words, but all understood the meaning. poor billy then came over the side, and admiral digby, to make sure that the spanish admiral knew that no slight was intended by bringing him to the forward gangway, said sternly to the unlucky scion of royalty: "how, sir! have you not yet learned to bring a boat alongside properly? i shall not forget this, and, when time serves, i will give you a lesson that you will remember." admiral de langara looked in amazement from the angry admiral to the trembling midshipman. "no wonder," he remarked to admiral digby, "that the english rule the seas, when the son of the sovereign is made to submit to discipline as any other midshipman in the ship." admiral digby then escorted the spanish admiral to his cabin. there was work for everybody to do, and archy soon found himself pressed into service again. powder was precious, and it was necessary to save what had already been hoisted on deck, and to get the fuses and cartridges and everything else in place. the wind increasing in violence prevented the transfer of the prisoners, and it was with great difficulty that a prize-crew was thrown aboard of the _phoenix_. and then, in spite of the vast concussion of hundreds of guns, which usually deadens the wind, it became a hurricane. for two days and nights the _royal george_ battled for her life, and every time the _phoenix_ disappeared from view it was thought she had gone to the bottom. if they made sail, everything was blown from the bolt-ropes, while if they stripped the ship of her canvas she would seem to be rushing headlong to destruction. but at last they succeeded in bending sails that stood the terrific strain. the officers and crew nobly maintained the name of british seamen. cool, courageous, skilful, never losing heart, they struggled on, in mortal danger every moment, and from the admiral down to poor billy the prince every officer did his whole duty, as did every man. it was two days before they were in deep water again; but on the third day the morning broke in splendor, a golden sun shining down upon a sapphire sea. and the same afternoon the british fleet, with six great spanish ships on which the union jack was hoisted over the spanish colors, sailed past europa point, and the rock of the lion, from all its hundred guns, thundered out a welcome worthy of such mighty guests. chapter ix on the st of june, , had begun the fourteenth and last siege of gibraltar. on the th of september the gates had been closed, and from that on never, in all the annals of war by land and sea, had there been such a struggle for the possession of a single spot of ground as for that mighty rock. general sir george eliot, with a few more than five thousand men, had resisted for five months the assaults of an army three times as numerous, and a strong fleet, which proposed, by fighting and starving the british garrison, to reduce it. already there had been three months of scarcity before september, and five months of famine since; but the spirit of the garrison was still unbroken, and when, on that brilliant morning, rodney's fleet was discerned rounding cabrita point, the gaunt crowds of soldiers, officers, ladies, servants, jews, and genoese poured out upon the face of the rock, wept and laughed and prayed and went wild with joy, as sufferers do when relief is in sight. for seven days they had alternated the agonies of despair with the transports of hope. they had heard that admiral rodney, with a convoy, was coming to their relief; but a little english brig which had made its way in brought news of admiral de langara's squadron, and the besieged people knew nothing of the numbers of the ships or the result of the battle that must follow. as day succeeded day, with no news of the fleet, they began to fear that it had been defeated--and that meant submission or starvation, and they had starved since september. every hour of the night there were half-despairing creatures watching and waiting on europa point for the longed-for succor; and every morning had brought them nearer to despair, until, at last--at last--the fleet was coming, their white sails shining in the morning light, and bringing with them life itself to the brave men and dauntless women on the rock. never, in all his life, did archy baskerville forget that day when he first set foot on gibraltar. the _royal george_, her masts and spars braced and refitted, and her shot-holes plugged, could still leg it faster than most of the ships in the fleet, and led the second division. her decks had been cleaned up and her injuries repaired as far as possible, and although she showed marks of her warfare with the spaniards and the storm, yet was she ready at that moment to go into action if necessary. next her came the _phoenix_, larger than the _royal george_, and clumsier, but a noble trophy; and beyond them were other great ships of the line, smart frigates, captured spanish ships, and a fine convoy loaded with provisions for the famishing garrison. as they neared europa point they heard the shouts of joy from the people who swarmed to meet them. from the old convent on the hill, which was the governor's residence, general eliot, the commandant, was issuing with his staff. a band was playing "god save the king," which was taken up by the ships in the fleet. admiral digby was on the bridge, waving his hat at general eliot, who, with his hat in his hand, bent his gray, uncovered head as if returning thanks, while he walked towards the mole, where a shouting crowd of soldiers, civilians, women, and children were gathering. nearly every one of the wounded officers was on deck, and so was langton, who had not been wounded at all, but who was weak and ill beyond any of them. he had not fully recovered from his injuries in the shipwreck, before the battle off cape st. vincent, and after doing his duty like a hero he had completely collapsed. nevertheless, with archy's aid, he had crawled up on deck, and both of them watched, with shining eyes, the stirring and inspiring scene as the ships came to anchor. the _royal george_ stood quite close in, and almost before the anchor kissed the ground the admiral's barge put off and joined the crowd of boats containing officers that were making for the landings. they saw the people crowding around the officers, shaking hands, and even embracing them, while general eliot stood silent and apparently overcome with emotion, as admirals, captains, and lieutenants grasped his hand and wrung it. pretty soon a boat with provisions put off from the _royal george_, for the necessities of the people were so great that they had to be supplied before the cargoes of the storeships could be broken. archy, who always had to be in the thick of everything, basely deserted langton as soon as the boats began putting off, and, going up to captain fulke, asked permission to go ashore. the young prisoner's conduct on board ship had made him to be highly popular, and captain fulke at once agreed. "good-bye!" cried archy to langton. "somebody will take care of you, i dare say," and skipped over the side. as the boat drew alongside the rock the scene was thrilling. before them towered the mighty rock, with its grim batteries ready for defence, while just across the neck of land connecting it with the mainland, no more than a mile from the barrier gate, the spaniards had erected two mighty lines of fortifications, from the punta mala on the bay of gibraltar, across to the sierra de carbonera, or queen of spain's chair. two great forts were at either end of this line of fortifications--san felipe, on the bay of gibraltar, and santa barbara, on the eastern beach. san felipe was faced by a frowning fort, almost as strong as the spanish fort at the end of the old mole, while three strong batteries and the powerful defences of the land port defied the spanish line of attack. in the golden afternoon light these grim and warlike features were singularly clear, the spanish colors were in plain view, while the distant roll of the spanish drums and the silver notes of the bugles were perfectly audible. on the mole the people seemed beside themselves with excitement--the rapture of relief, the anxiety for news from home, the story of sufferings half told, the pain, the joy, the pale mothers with the paler children, the officers and soldiers with uniforms hanging loose upon their famished bodies, the jews and genoese chattering and gesticulating wildly, and a few moors and arabs standing silent and stoical amid the tumult. one of these men--an arab--archy noticed the instant he stepped ashore, close to a group made up of general sir george eliot, admiral rodney, admiral digby, and some other officers of high rank. this man was of a bronze color, tall and well formed, with the full black eyes of the arab tribesmen, and wore his white burnouse and his snowy turban with an imperial air. general eliot, a soldierly but austere-looking man, spoke to him. "come here, musa." musa advanced with perfect dignity, and bowed to the officers; each returned the salutation by lifting his hat. "this man, gentlemen, has been our only mode of communicating with the outside world for five months past. through him we have communicated with our consuls on the african side, and they have returned us, by him, the only news we have had of anything outside this rock in all that time. the spaniards have found out that musa is clever enough to elude their smartest cruisers, and have repeatedly offered him money to betray us, but he has steadily refused." "this shall be known in england, musa," said sir george rodney. musa slightly inclined his head, and, without the faintest change of countenance, withdrew, and walked off by himself. general eliot then turned to a small, slight man, in naval uniform, and said, "i have had as much assistance from captain curtis as from any officer in the garrison, and mrs. curtis fired the first shot of the defence on the th of september, the order for firing being, 'britons, strike home!'" archy glanced around, and saw by captain curtis's side a pretty, pale-faced woman, holding a little girl of ten years by the hand, and by her blushes and the child's smiles he knew that the lady was mrs. curtis. but the next moment the child said something that went to his heart. "mamma," she whispered, "when do the sailors mean to give us something to eat? i am so hungry!" this was more than archy could stand, and, making for the boat, he very unceremoniously seized a bag of potatoes and was walking off with it, when an officer, superintending the unloading, called out to him, sternly: "hold, there! what are you doing with that bag of potatoes?" "taking it to feed a half-starved woman and her little girl." "put it down. the provisions must be distributed according to orders." "unluckily, this case can't wait," answered archy, making a dash towards the group where admiral digby stood. "sir," said he, "i want these potatoes for mrs. curtis and her little girl, and--" "by george! you shall have them," whispered the admiral. "run, sir, for your life. there is mrs. curtis going up the path towards europa point, and as soon as you have delivered them, come back to me and i will reprimand you." archy waited for no further orders, and, laughing, started as fast as his legs could carry him after mrs. curtis. in a minute or two he reached her, toiling painfully up the steep path, dolly, white and faint, clinging to her hand. "madam," said archy, taking off his hat, "i believe i have the honor of addressing mrs. curtis. admiral digby gave me permission to bring this bag of potatoes to your house." "i have no house any more," replied mrs. curtis, with a faint smile. "the officers' families have long since abandoned the houses in the town, on account of the bombardment. my husband has had a rude shelter put up for us under the rocks at europa point, and there my child and i live, with a faithful old servant of my husband's. i thank you more than i can express for your kindness in bringing us something to eat--i knew you had a kind heart as soon as i saw your bright face. tell me who you are." "i am midshipman baskerville, late of the continental ship _bon homme richard_, a prisoner on parole, and entirely at your service, madam--and this young lady's," added archy, who dearly loved children, looking at dolly. dolly smiled at him, and when he offered her his hand to help her up the steep incline she gave it him with the sweetest confidence. archy had never practised carrying bags of potatoes on his back, and was considerably out of breath when they reached the shelter that stood for a house for mrs. curtis. [illustration: "archy makes away with a bag of potatoes for mrs. curtis"] there was an open space between two huge bowlders which had been roofed over, and in it were spread some rugs, two mattresses for sleeping, cushions and blankets, and in a large chest were a few necessaries for living, and clothing. this was the home of an officer's wife and child. but some one was there before them--a tall, well-made, hard-featured, elderly man, in the uniform of a sergeant of marines, who had promptly kindled a little fire, and immediately set to work briskly peeling the potatoes. "this is judkins," said mrs. curtis to archy. "he was formerly my husband's orderly, but was retired on account of wounds; but he has become _our_ orderly, and is cook, butler, nurse-maid, and lady's-maid to dolly and me. we are in his charge while captain curtis is on his ship, the _enterprise_." judkins had been hungry for eight months; but he did not abate a jot or tittle of his dignity on that account, and stopped peeling the potatoes, and stood bolt-upright at "attention" while archy courteously saluted him. while they were still standing there, archy quite fascinated with the sweetness of mrs. curtis and dolly, captain curtis arrived. mrs. curtis at once introduced archy, and told of his action in such a way as to make it seem more than it really was. "kindness to my wife and child is a very good recommendation to me, mr. baskerville," said captain curtis, cordially, "and i would like to know by what scheme you got the potatoes first." "nabbed them, sir," replied archy, with a grin; "and i am now going back to be hauled over the coals by admiral digby, who told me to run away with the bag, and then come back and be reprimanded. good-bye! good-bye!" and he was off. when he again reached the mole the scene was even more animated. there was a procession of boats passing back and forth from the ships to the mole, and provisions were being unloaded with extraordinary rapidity under the eyes of the officers. all were working hard, and none harder than prince william, who, with a red face and a dusty jacket, was doing his duty among the other midshipmen just as if his father did not sit upon the greatest throne on earth. admiral digby, who was everywhere at once, noticed billy's energy and industry, and spoke some words of praise to him, at which the young prince's honest, simple face glowed with pleasure. many of the poorer persons hung about, begging for food before it could be taken to their houses. admiral digby, his hands behind his back, was walking up and down the mole, watching with pity the efforts of the starving people to carry away what was given them. he was looking at an old woman who had been given a basketful, but was tottering along under it, almost falling under her load, when archy appeared before him. "i have come for my reprimand about the potatoes, sir," he said, respectfully. "that's right, sir," chirped the admiral; "never neglect reporting yourself when a reprimand is expected, or you may have worse luck. you cribbed a bag of potatoes, didn't you? very reprehensible--very reprehensible, indeed. you should be severely reprimanded. stealing potatoes is clearly against the articles of war. consider yourself reprimanded--severely reprimanded, sir; and if you have a chance of stealing a few more for that old woman yonder, don't hesitate, but do it, and come and be reprimanded again. you might help her and some others of these poor, weak, helpless creatures to carry away what is given them--you have a fine pair of shoulders, and legs like a london chairman--so be off with you--and, stay--eh--i say--dine in the great cabin with me to-night-- gone, with a duck of his head for answer to an admiral's invitation! presumptuous young dog! but a fine fellow, if ever i saw one." nevertheless, archy was not one to scorn an invitation to a better dinner than he was likely to get in the usual course of events, and at dinner-time he presented himself in the admiral's cabin. he thought himself especially fortunate in having a chance to talk about his scheme of staying at gibraltar, and was delighted when admiral digby said, "i have mentioned to general eliot your preference for remaining here, and as the place is plentifully supplied, and will be kept supplied in the future, there is no objection made to it. general eliot was most considerate, and readily granted my request." "thank you, sir," replied archy, "and to-morrow morning i will call and pay my respects to general eliot, and express my thanks. may i ask, sir, if you have not told the general that i am lord bellingham's grandson, that you will not? i--" "too late, sir. i felt obliged to tell general eliot every particular concerning you. i fear," said the admiral, looking sharply at archy, "that you have imbibed some false and demagogic notions about rank. surely, it is of solid advantage to you to be known as the grandson of a peer." admiral digby, without the slightest cringing towards the great, yet respected rank, as it was everywhere respected in the eighteenth century; and he could not but hope that his kind attentions towards archy might result in bringing back this strayed lamb to the fold of the british peerage. "in some ways, sir, it is to my advantage," said archy, "but in others it is not. i am sure if i had been the grandson of john smith, or jones, or brown, that i should have been exchanged long ago, and i cannot help thinking that my grandfather is using his influence against me at the admiralty. commodore jones warned me to keep quiet about lord bellingham." "oh--commodore jones! recollect, you engaged to give me some account of him. he is a man of remarkable character and achievements." archy plunged into a history which was one long eulogy of paul jones. admiral digby smiled at his enthusiasm; but he was too good a judge of human nature to disesteem, or even undervalue, enthusiasm. archy gave him every particular concerning the fight between the _bon homme richard_ and the _serapis_, and their perils at the texel. "where i was bagged, sir," he said, regretfully, "by my own carelessness and rashness, after having been repeatedly warned by commodore jones; and here i have been a prisoner of war for more than three months in consequence!" "very sad--very sad!" condoled the admiral, all the time thinking that it might turn out the luckiest thing in the world for archy. "and, may i ask, mr. baskerville, to return to lord bellingham, how you and he--coincided?" archy rubbed his ruddy cheek thoughtfully before answering: "better, sir, i believe, than most people coincide with my grandfather. he seems to consider himself a much injured person, although i never could see where his injuries lay. as i do not want the title, and cannot have the estates, i believe my cousin, mr. langton, will be his heir. my grandfather was terribly cut up when he heard the false report of langton's death." "and is it possible, mr. baskerville, that you can regard such splendid prospects as might be yours with indifference?" "i do not know, sir, whether that word describes my feelings. i regard those splendid prospects as impossible for me. my grandfather, no doubt, desires me to give up my country, but i cannot; nor will i give up my profession. it is the height of my ambition to have a command in the american navy." "you speak as if you were quite sure that the revolted colonies will be successful. now, while the present war is undoubtedly very unpopular in great britain and in parliament--the whole force of such gigantic men as mr. burke and mr. fox is thrown against it--yet the fight will be continued, and, for my part, i think the issue of the struggle more than doubtful for the colonies." "then, sir, every american must, as a point of honor, maintain his nationality when his country's cause seems most in peril. we cannot admit that we are whipped before our adversaries think so." "true enough, mr. baskerville. i see in you the spirit of determination common among your countrymen, which, to my mind, is the one thing that makes it a question whether we can reduce the colonies or not. oh, that we should be compelled to fight such men! but we must do our duty. i cannot approve of admiral keppel's course in declining the command of the fleet for north america because he did not believe in coercing the colonies. i desire to have them back, and, by george!" cried the admiral, bringing his fist down with a thump that made the glasses ring again, "i am so deuced anxious to have them back that, if they won't come for the asking, i would hammer them with men and ships until they were driven back, begad!" chapter x when archy went below, after dining in the admiral's cabin, he was distressed to find that langton had grown worse instead of better during the day, and was in a high fever. as the night wore on it increased to delirium. his injuries in the shipwreck began to trouble him again, especially his three broken ribs, and the mere motion of the ship at anchor gave him poignant pain. towards morning dr. macbean, who had watched him, with archy, all night, said: "mr. langton must be taken ashore immediately, and there will be no more cruising for him for a good long time." archy heard this with mixed pleasure and regret. he was truly distressed at langton's sufferings. but the idea that he would have his friend's company at gibraltar, for what he thought would be a short and rather interesting period, was undeniably pleasing to him. they got langton ashore early that morning and established him in the old stone building which served for a hospital, and there archy nursed him faithfully, but very awkwardly, for many days. langton was desperately ill; and, although it was known that he would probably recover, it was out of the question that he should leave with the fleet, which was to sail the first fair wind after the th of february. archy's sole recreation in those dreary days of watching langton's sufferings, when the issue might be life or death, was a solitary evening walk up to europa point and back. he did not forget his new friends, the curtises, and their kindness and sympathy were grateful to him. one of the first things captain curtis said to him was: "the spanish lines are advancing so rapidly that i make no doubt they will soon get the range of the hospital, and if your friend has to be moved you could not do better than come up here. it is safe, and it is healthier, i think, than the spots lower down." archy thanked him warmly, and immediately went to work to have a hut set up, like mrs. curtis's, and very close to it. he got some blankets and mattresses from the ship, and in a day or two he had a place to take langton whenever the hospital shared the fate of most of the buildings in the lower town, and began to fall about their ears. on the morning of the th of february, the wind being fair, admiral rodney's fleet picked up their anchors, and, amid a roar of cheers and the thunder of guns, the ships took their way towards the open sea. the garrison, refreshed and encouraged, and with supplies for many months, yet with sorrow, saw them go; and as archy, standing on the mole, caught sight of the _royal george_ rounding cabrita point in her usual grand style and leading the fleet, as she always did, his heart gave a great thump of regret--vain as most regrets are. he had been a prisoner on her--he had not been a free man for many long months--but he had been kindly treated, he had made friends, and it seemed more natural to him, sailor that he was, to be afloat than ashore. but he had readily adopted the sanguine view of the officers of the fleet, and most of those of the garrison, that the siege was nearing an end; nor was this pleasing delusion shattered until sunset of the day that had seen the british fleet sail away. just as the sun was sinking he left langton in charge of a nurse and climbed to the top of jacob's-ladder. when he found himself on the highest point of the rock, he thought he had never seen a lovelier sight, except on that evening, four months before, when he had caught the first glimpse of gibraltar from the deck of the _seahorse_. deeply blue and deliciously calm lay the mediterranean, spread before him in the soft glow of evening. the little british squadron which was stationed at gibraltar lay motionless at anchor, the work of the day done. from the batteries below him he could hear the faint commotion of relieving the guard, and the mellow notes of a single bugle floated up. then the sunset gun boomed over the waters, and the salute was sounded on the ships; but the exquisite silence, the hour, the scene, the distance, made it all seem like the music of a dream. archy was of a nature susceptible to these charms, and from impetuous actions and uproarious spirits he often fell into moments of soft and not unpleasing melancholy. he was thinking of the history of the rock--the valor that had won it, the patriotic anguish of the spaniards that another nation should possess it, the gallant lives laid down on either side in the effort to take it or to keep it--when he heard a step behind him, and captain curtis was standing near him. "good-evening, mr. baskerville. i see we have the same taste in selecting this spot for an evening walk. usually, i find it quite deserted at this time of day." "i find my only chance of air and exercise is at this time, when i can leave my friend and cousin, mr. langton, for an hour or two. he is better now than he has been, and i hope in a week or two i may be able to leave him and get through the spanish lines, on my way to france." "do you think the spaniards will let you through?" "of course," cried archy, amazed and disconcerted at captain curtis's tone. "i hope so, for your sake, but i question it. you can undoubtedly get to the headquarters of the spanish commander, don martin de soltomayer, at any time you like, under a flag of truce; but i have very little expectation that they will let you through their lines--certainly not now, when the fortress has just been revictualled, and you would probably represent to the outside world that we are in no danger of starvation for a long time to come. it is the spanish policy to make their people think that we are on the verge of surrender. besides, they will at once suspect you to be a spy, and it takes a long time to remove suspicion from the spanish mind. and what object have they in letting any one out of here? not the smallest. so, mr. baskerville, i think that your anticipation of getting away, like that of some of our military and naval friends here and abroad, who believe the siege will shortly be raised, is a mistake. you are in for a good long term--that you may depend upon." archy was staggered by this, and walked along in silence by captain curtis's side, wondering at his rash presumption that he could get out of gibraltar as easily as he had got in. suddenly he burst out: "what folly was mine! i should have remained with the fleet!" archy's heart sank lower and lower as captain curtis continued: "i know the temper of the spanish people, and they mean to take gibraltar if it is in the power of mortal man. they will soon have the assistance of the french; and a french engineer is a very dangerous person to his enemies, i can tell you. the garrison is relieved at present--but i look for an attack by land and sea that will test our mettle. luckily, we have a governor who does not know the meaning of the word surrender. he set the example to the garrison of having his own horse killed and distributed for food, and has lived, for some time past, on a few ounces of rice a day, and the little fish we catch, that are no larger than sprats." archy was silent with disappointment and consternation after this. at last he said, determinedly: "at all events, i shall do my best to get don martin de what's-his-name to let me out." "come," said captain curtis, feeling sorry for him, "let us go up to my hut and see my wife and little girl. you are a prime favorite with them both already." as they neared the hut they heard the sound of singing--a man's barytone, full and rich, and a child's treble, shrill but sweet. "that is my little girl," said captain curtis, with a smile, "and my man judkins. he carried dolly in his arms when she was a baby, and, i believe, loves her better than anything on earth. her first playthings were his cap and belts, and he is still her favorite playfellow. he has a fine voice, as you can tell, and has taught dolly every song in the british army, but none of the navy songs; for judkins was in the army before he was a marine." "i understand," replied archy, laughing. "there is no love lost between sailors and marines." presently they could distinguish the two companions--the old marine and the little girl--sitting together on a rock, dolly wrapped up in a huge cloak of judkins's, and both of them singing, at the top of their voices, the fine old song "the british grenadiers." "whene'er we are commanded to storm the palisades, our leaders march with fuses and we with hand-grenades; we throw them from the glacis about the enemy's ears. sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the british grenadiers." just then the singers became aware of their audience. judkins stopped short in the midst of a "tow, row, row," and jumped as if he were shot, while dolly ran and swung around her father's legs, and then turned her attention to archy. "i haven't been hungry since you came," she said, "and judkins and i can sing a great deal louder and better when we aren't hungry--can't we, judkins?" "yes, miss," replied judkins, standing rigidly at "attention," and deeply embarrassed. archy begged them to continue, and dolly quite readily, and judkins blushing very much, evidently enduring agonies of sheepishness, yet obeyed orders, and gave "the lincolnshire poacher," "the dashing white sergeant," and other famous songs of the british army. nothing could exceed the kindness and sweetness of mrs. curtis towards archy. in some way she at once divined that he was motherless, and his tenderness to dolly showed that he had a good heart. as for archy himself, in spite of his fondness for "seeing life" and his adventurous disposition, he felt all the sweetness and charm of domestic life, and was quite happy to be even a chance partaker in the home circle that was yet to be found in the rude shelter to which the spanish cannonade had driven his new-found friends. he remained until it was time for captain curtis to return to his ship, and after a cordial invitation from mrs. curtis to visit them often, and an affectionate good-night from dolly, archy returned to his quarters at the hospital. he lay awake that night, troubled by what captain curtis had told him; but in the morning his irrepressible spirits reasserted themselves, and he began to think that, after all, he might get away. that day langton was much better in health, but low in his mind over the departure of the fleet, and archy very indiscreetly let out captain curtis's opinion as to the length of the siege. "then we shall lose gibraltar, i am afraid," said langton, sadly. "what are you talking about?" cried archy. "it takes a lot of beating to whip an englishman--_we_ know it to our sorrow. but, nevertheless, we will soon chase all of your beggarly redcoats out of america; then you can turn your whole attention to the don spaniards; and then--lord help 'em! and you will be going back to england and be adopted by lord bellingham in lieu of me, while i shall be captain of a smart little frigate under the american colors, and i'll call and see you at bellingham castle. oh, great guns, what fun i'll have! you ought to know your venerable grandfather, my boy; you'll often wish, when you are rolling in splendor at bellingham, that you were at gibraltar living on rice and salt fish. uncle baskerville is a trump--as fine an old chap as i know, if he would but leave off his sermons to me about returning to my allegiance to my king and country, and taking my place as the prospective heir and head of the baskerville family. but our grandfather--oh, ye gods!" langton laughed feebly at this, and archy, hauling a letter out of his pocket, said, "here is a copy of the letter i sent by the fleet, and i shall send this copy by the first expedition to the african coast, in hopes that in one way or the other it may reach bellingham castle. this is to my grandfather." and archy read with a great flourish: "'honored sir,--i take the first opportunity of communicating with you and my uncle, after my singular disappearance from york, at the assizes. the story of my adventures is briefly this: a press was organized at york, and i, happening to be in the tavern when it took place, got my head cracked, and knew no more until i found myself aboard of his majesty's ship of the line _royal george_, in biscay bay, bound for gibraltar, in rodney's fleet, with a convoy for the relief of the garrison. and here i am, sir, on gibraltar rock, preferring to take my chances of getting to france from here than with the fleet, which goes to the leeward islands. this place has been hotly besieged, and some think we have not seen the worst of it yet; but my expectation is that great britain will shortly abandon her hopeless attempt to coerce the independent american colonies--' "the footstool will fly, and everything else handy, when the old gentleman reads this paragraph," interrupted archy in his reading. --"'and then the fortress will be relieved. but no one dreams of surrender, and all reports of that kind reaching england must be discredited. "'you perhaps know by this time, from the _gazette_, that your grandson, trevor langton, esq., was saved, and not lost, at the wreck of the _seahorse_, and behaved with the greatest gallantry in the action of the th of january with admiral juan de langara's fleet. an old wound, reopened, has given him great pain, and he was in grave danger for a while, but is now convalescing. being unable to sail with the fleet, he is now here in hospital, and there is no immediate prospect of his getting away. we are better friends than ever since finding out our relationship, and he is so fine a young gentleman, and so good an officer, that i think you could not do better than to make him your heir in lieu of my unworthy self.' "my boy, i am afraid i have murdered all your chances by that sentence, for our respected grandfather goes by the rule of contrary. "'please present my uncle with my most respectful compliments, and assure him of my warmest affection. i shall endeavor to remember and profit by all his kind counsels except one--to abandon my country; but i was born an american and i mean to die one.'" "you could not help putting that in, could you?" languidly remarked langton. "you are a great fellow for proclaiming what everybody knows, and thereby showing yourself very, very young." "and you are so prudent and oyster-like that you appear very, very old," retorted archy, good-naturedly, "but not so very, very wise. however, see how respectfully i end my letter: "'with sincere good wishes for your lordship's health and happiness, and high appreciation of your lordship's extreme kindness to me, i beg leave to subscribe myself your lordship's affectionate grandson and obedient servant, "'archibald baskerville, "'_midshipman in the continental navy_.'" the cannonade from the spanish lines had been booming all the time archy and langton were talking, but it sounded strangely near just then; and when archy went to the window and looked towards the isthmus he saw that a new battery had been unmasked in the advanced lines of the spaniards. suddenly a deafening crash resounded behind him. a round shot had burst through the wall, and, amid the débris, lay the cot on which langton was lying. he was unhurt, but archy said: "come, it is too hot here for us. i must get help and carry you up to the hut in the rocks." and in an hour langton lay under the rude but safe shelter provided for him under the rocks at europa point. for the first week or two archy was taken up with caring for langton, and trying to make their cranny in the rocks comfortable. in this effort he met with the greatest kindness from mrs. curtis; and the deftness with which, out of their few belongings, she made them really a tolerably comfortable place to live, caused archy to exclaim with enthusiasm: "i have always heard, ma'am, that one woman could do as much as twelve men and a boy; and now i know it!" judkins's help was by no means to be despised, however, and with the resources of an old campaigner he showed them marvels. archy was eager to begin the effort for his exchange immediately, but the garrison knew that don martin, the spanish commander-in-chief, after the departure of the british fleet, had gone away for a few weeks to recover his health, and both captain curtis and general eliot, to whom captain curtis introduced archy, advised him to wait until don martin's return, as the second in command would probably do nothing in his absence. archy acquiesced in this, and settled himself to spend the intervening time as patiently as he could. he was courteously, and even kindly, treated by everybody, and with his gay and jovial nature he soon became hail-fellow-well-met with the whole garrison and population, with one exception. this was the officers of the hanoverian regiment, for king george had let some of his german troops for hire to fight the spanish, as he had hired hessians to fight the americans. archy found that the english officers and soldiers had but little more liking for the hanoverians than he had, although it could not be denied that the germans did their duty, and suffered and fought along with the rest. archy took a malicious delight in telling how, in america, the hessians were chiefly good for eating up the provender, and when there was fighting for dinner these prudent teutons usually retired, and left the british to settle with the americans. archy, boy-like, although he had the stature of a man, avoided the hanoverian officers ostentatiously, mimicked their droll accent whenever he had a chance, and took a vast amount of trouble to let them know how lightly he esteemed them--of which the stolid germans were generally unconscious, and to which they were always indifferent. the bombardment kept up steadily, but the loss of life was singularly small. the people grew accustomed to it in the day, but those who had fled southward in the beginning, to temporary shelter, were still alarmed by it during the night, and so remained in their miserable huts. as the case always is, after the first horror people began to see the amusing side of even very dreadful events, and it became a relief to laugh at the grotesque things that happened. one evening, in the spring, about twilight, archy baskerville and captain curtis were walking soberly through one of the narrow streets of the upper town, passing the barracks of colonel schlippersgill's hanoverian regiment. the windows of a small room, used as a mess-hall, were open, and around the table in the middle of the floor they could see a dozen burly german officers wreathed in smoke from their long pipes, and with great mugs of beer before them--for a supply of beer had been laid in especially for them. "look at them," said archy, in a tone of deep disgust, "smoking and guzzling--guzzling and smoking--nothing but that." "nonsense," replied captain curtis, briskly. "those poor hanoverians can do nothing to please you. their smoking is harmless, and their guzzling is of beer, which is much better for them than the rum and grog we give our men." just then they noticed, in the soft dusk of evening, a two-legged black shadow moving around the parapet of the long, low building in which was the mess-hall. "it is a peacock," said archy, after watching this mysterious creature for a while, "and a big one, too. where do you suppose such a creature could come from?" "it is some one's pet peacock, no doubt," was captain curtis's reply, in a low voice--"some one who has managed to conceal it all this time." for animal pets had disappeared long before this, and had, generally speaking, been made into broth. the peacock tiptoed gingerly along the ledge, and then, going towards the centre of the roof, peered curiously down a small skylight that had been left open in the mess-room for the benefit of the air. "the peacock knows where to go for company," whispered archy. "i always thought those german officers, with their everlasting strut, first cousin to the peacock family." the peacock, as if satisfied with his view, came back to the parapet, and then a voice was heard in an eager whisper from the street, saying, in italian: "pippo! my pippo! come back to me. come back to me, pippo. ungrateful bird! for you i have nearly starved myself, and have remained in my cellar when i might have been safe elsewhere. dear pippo, come back!" a dark spot against the wall, under the window, resolved itself into the figure of an old genoese woman, well known as mother nina, whose pet the peacock had been for many years, and who had miraculously kept the bird out of sight for months. pippo seemed totally disinclined to accept this cordial invitation to return to his foster-mother, and showed his indifference by again tipping cautiously towards the open skylight. archy, however, felt sorry for the poor old woman crouching under the window, and, seeing a trellis-work covered with vines by the side of the building, he quickly swung himself up on the roof, and moved softly towards the peacock, which seemed absorbed in contemplation of colonel schlippersgill and his companions under the skylight. some words now floated up from the deep, guttural german throats. archy did not understand german, but presently colonel schlippersgill himself spoke in english: "eef it were not for dose damned golonies in ameriga, der blace would haf been reliefed long ago. i would be glad der see der defel himself eef he would shtop der bang, bang--" that allusion to "damned golonies" was too much for archy's temper. he seized the huge old peacock by the legs, and, giving it a vicious swing, which brought a frantic and ear-piercing squawk from the creature and an agonized shriek from the old woman, dashed the bird down the skylight into the laps of the german officers; and, at the same moment, the last shell of the day's bombardment struck a corner of the building with a loud explosion, hurling the old woman through the open window, where her yells, the peacock's screams, and the violence of the explosion made bedlam. the uproar raised the whole street, and a crowd collected as if by magic. the german officers, wildly excited, rushed about bawling in german and english, while the old woman and the peacock maintained a duet of screams that could be heard half a mile. meanwhile archy, as innocent as a lamb, was at captain curtis's side, who, leaning up against the wall, added his robust haw-haws to the general commotion. in the midst of the racket and confusion, colonel schlippersgill rushed to the door, and, raising his hand for silence, bellowed out: "mine friends, 'twas der peacock." at this a clear, boyish voice on the edge of the crowd rang out: "the peacock was looking for company." the people roared with laughter, except the german officers, while colonel schlippersgill shouted, angrily: "arrest dot man!" to this the voice replied: "you'd better arrest the peacock." another roar saluted this, but the old genoese woman, supposing the peacock was about to be taken from her, began to screech: "arrest my pippo! pippo mio--" and then poured out, at the top of her lungs, in english and italian, the story of pippo, varied with calling down maledictions on the head of colonel schlippersgill, whom, in some way, she held accountable for pippo's misfortunes. she was interrupted by a file of soldiers marching down the narrow street in double time, with orders to investigate the disturbance. it did not take them half a minute to arrest the old woman and catch the peacock. colonel schlippersgill and his officers, swelling with rage, accompanied them voluntarily to the provost marshal's office. captain curtis and archy followed, and the procession took its way towards headquarters. general eliot happened to be there when the party appeared, and the investigation began. colonel schlippersgill and the old woman began their respective stories in english, but it soon resolved itself into a verbal duel in which the colonel took to his native german and the old woman to her native italian, with the result that even general eliot's stern face resolved itself into a smile, the auditors were convulsed, and the soldier who held the peacock by the legs inadvertently let it go. when pippo flew out of the window the old woman flew out of the door after it, and the investigation turned into a roaring farce, except so far as colonel schlippersgill was concerned, who went off swearing that he "would be damned but dat rapscallion dot galled der cherman officers a beacock shouldt be arrested." the culprit, meanwhile, took his way gleefully up to europa point with captain curtis, and told the story in whispers to mrs. curtis and langton. judkins, who was cooking supper over a meagre fire, managed to catch it, and for once his hard features relaxed into a grin. after the scanty supper was over, when archy, with a look of seraphic innocence was walking out of the hut, judkins caught his eye, and, touching his cap, said, in a grim whisper: "sarved them dutchmen right, sir." chapter xi the spring of advanced, and the dauntless garrison on the rock saw no prospect of relief, but every man, woman, and child of english birth only grew the more determined not to surrender. no complaints were heard from any of them, and those of the highest rank and most delicate nurture were the bravest where all were brave. especially was this true of the women, and the spectacle of their patience and calm courage was inspiring to the men. the spanish bombardment was not then the terrible thing it became afterwards, but it was sufficiently annoying, and many officers preferred, as captain curtis did, the safety of camping out for their families to the dangers of the barracks, which were often bombarded in the night-time. the town, too, had become sickly, and the higher and purer air of the rocks was better than the close quarters of the narrow streets and rickety houses, half wrecked by the bombardment, which were hot-beds of disease. their supplies were still plentiful, such as they were; but in those days only a few coarse sorts of provisions could be kept for any length of time, and the besieged people had to live on salt beef, hard biscuit, beans, and the few small and inferior fish they could catch. the hard fare told sadly on most of those who had to endure it, but archy baskerville positively throve on it, and grew taller and broader and ruddier every day. some weeks passed before the return of don martin de soltomayer, the spanish commander-in-chief, and before archy could take any steps towards passing through the spanish lines. in that time langton grew much better, and was able to walk about, although still pale and weak. archy took the most devoted care of him, and found also plenty of time to do many small services for mrs. curtis, who learned to love him; and as for dolly, she soon came to think him almost as agreeable a person as judkins, and her heart was quite won when, once she was a little ill, archy sneaked out at night and surreptitiously milked the one old cow still left the garrison, and which was especially reserved for the sick. mrs. curtis reproved him for it, but her reproaches sat lightly on archy--by which it will be seen that he was far from a perfect young man. he was also an expert fisherman, and spent a good deal of his time on the sea-shore, from whence he would bring nearly every day a few miserable fish, which were esteemed the greatest delicacy by mrs. curtis, to whom archy always gave them. musa, the moor, was generally hanging about the shore, engaged in the same employment. he was silent and uncommunicative by nature, but archy's irrepressible cordiality and affability were such that he would have been on good terms eventually with an ogre, so that after a little while a sort of friendship came to subsist between them. at long intervals musa would disappear for several days at a time, and archy knew well enough that this time was spent in expeditions to the african coast. sometimes musa would succeed in getting across the straits, and sometimes, after watching his chance for days, he would be unable to elude the spanish cruisers, and would return to gibraltar. in the latter part of march the spanish commander-in-chief came back, and archy, without any trouble, got permission to go with a flag of truce to the spanish headquarters. langton, who was still far from well, was extremely anxious to go with him to the spanish camp, and, as archy had permission to take one companion, he yielded to langton's importunities and agreed to let him go. "although i know i shall have to lug you back up these rocks; you will never be able to get back alone, as weak as you are," he added; at which judkins, who was standing by, touched his cap respectfully, and said: "if mr. langton ain't able to climb up, sir, or to git down, for that matter, there's a fine, strong wheelbarrow here, and i can trundle him both ways quite convenient." langton, bursting out laughing, cried: "that is the very thing. but we must leave the wheelbarrow at the land port. the spaniards would shoot us on sight in such a rig." at mid-day, by tacit consent, the bombardment and the reply always abated--and in that interval an odd procession made its way towards the land port. archy, laughing uproariously, with captain curtis smiling broadly, preceded the wheelbarrow. in it sat langton, quite composed and dignified, and evidently enjoying his ride, while judkins, looking as serious as an undertaker, trundled him carefully down the steep paths. neither archy's jeers, nor chaff from those of his brother officers he met, nor the smiles of ladies and children, disturbed langton, who calmly descended at the land port, tightened his belt, straightened his cap, and announced that he was ready to see the spanish commander and his whole staff. [illustration: langton was taken down the hill in a wheelbarrow] a soldier, with a white handkerchief tied to a ramrod, went in advance of them towards the isthmus. as soon as he was perceived, an officer in the uniform of the walloon regiment came towards them, and they met about half-way between the spanish and english lines. the officer, a remarkably handsome young man, introduced himself as lieutenant von helmstadt, of the walloon regiment, and archy handed him a letter from general eliot to don martin, which he received with great respect, raising his cap as he did so, and saying: "i will conduct you, with pleasure, if you will submit to the usual custom of being blindfolded?" "certainly," responded archy, taking out his handkerchief, which was bound tightly over his eyes by von helmstadt, and langton and the soldier were treated likewise. thus blindfolded, they stumbled on for a half-mile through the spanish lines. presently they realized that they were entering a tent, and von helmstadt removing the handkerchiefs from their eyes, they found themselves in the tent of don martin. the spanish commander-in-chief was a handsome, middle-aged man, with a truly spanish dignity and suavity. the party was introduced by von helmstadt, and archy produced general eliot's letter, which don martin read attentively, and then folded up. "you would find it extremely difficult to get through spain, even with the best passports," he said, in french. "our people do not readily distinguish between the english and the americans, and they are now unreasonably exasperated against the english." "i know it, sir," answered archy, respectfully; "but if you will give me the passports i will take my chances." "it is a matter for consideration," continued don martin. "i could not guarantee your safety a mile beyond my lines. i shall have to lay the affair before my government, and i will inform you of the result." archy, who was quick of wit, saw in a moment that don martin had no overweening desire to pass him through, and the immediate turning of the conversation towards an indifferent subject convinced him that he would not soon see the outside world. after a few minutes they rose, don martin saying, with great dignity: "present my best compliments to general eliot, and say to him i am most happy to hear of his continued good health, and that i will immediately communicate with him by letter concerning this matter." they were again blindfolded before leaving the tent, and so made their way back to the british lines, accompanied by von helmstadt. the manners of this young walloon officer had been most courteous, and on parting he said, good-humoredly, "i hope that none of our balls has a message for you." "the same to you," responded langton. as soon as they were out of ear-shot, langton said, significantly, to archy: "you'll not get out." "you think so?" "i know it. but you'll see all the fun"--this somewhat lugubriously. archy walked on, sad and disappointed, and did not even smile when langton climbed into the wheelbarrow and judkins rushed it up the steep roadway at a smart gait. as might have been foreseen, don martin did nothing towards getting archy to france. a courteous and ornate reply was received promptly to general eliot's letter, and after that came a long silence. then followed a series of letters, requesting all sorts of proof that archy was what he represented himself to be. these, don martin always politely explained, were in the usual order, and came not from him, but from the minister at madrid. archy was asked to show his uniform and sword. he had neither. there were more letters, more asseverations of a desire to pass him through; but the upshot of all the negotiations was that archy never found he had made the slightest real progress towards getting out. he wrote many letters to his uncle, and even to lord bellingham, trusting to the chance of musa's getting them across to the african coast; but even while writing them he felt the uselessness of it. and, after a while, what seemed to him a strange thing came to pass. in spite of his being a prisoner, he began to be heart and soul with the british garrison. as he explained it, in a burst of confidence, to langton: "i ought not to want you to win. i ought to wish that the spaniards should march in to-morrow morning; but i don't--and i can't. don't mistake me. i would lay down my life this moment to drive you out of north america. that is my country, and there you are my enemies; but, dash me, langton, if i can spend months here, eating your bread, such as it is, well treated by everybody, seeing what a gallant fight you are making against the spaniards, without feeling as one of you. i suppose it is clean against the articles of war to feel so, but i can't help it." "i would feel the same way, i dare say, under the same circumstances," replied langton. "you see, you are not a prisoner on american ground--or english ground either, for that matter; that makes all the difference in the world. and, besides, you are not treated as a prisoner. you would be a queer fish not to feel as you do." "at all events, i shall do my duty; and if that old hidalgo, don martin de stick-in-the-mud, thinks i mean to give up trying to get away from here, he does not know archibald baskerville, esquire--that much is plain. i have written him letters in english, french, and spanish--such french and spanish! i dare say the old fellow finds the reading of them as hard work as i do the writing them, and i can keep it up as long as he can." the quiet endurance which was necessary to bear this life of tedium and hardship patiently had been left out in archy's make-up, and he became restless, and yearned for an adventure of some sort. naturally his mind turned towards the sea, and he began to wish that he might go with musa on one of his expeditions across the straits. he knew very well that if captured he would be taken for an englishman, and the chances were ten to one against him then; but he had no notion of being captured. musa, under the circumstances, would meet with great indulgence, as the spaniards were extremely anxious to turn the neutrality of the moors into active friendship. the very day this scheme entered his mind he went down to the shore early in the morning, and found musa getting his lines ready to fish from the rocks. they were quite alone, and archy began, artfully: "do you know, musa, i believe i should die if i were to be shut up like this anywhere i could not see salt-water. i am a sea-officer, you know; and in my own dear country, before i went in the navy, i lived on a great, salt bay--like a sea, really--and i never remember the time i did not know how to manage a boat." musa's reply to this was a little discouraging. "no doubt your excellency can manage a boat. but, generally, the officers of a big ship do not know how to manage a little boat. they seem to think they can do as much with a small boat as with a big ship, and they can't." "musa," said archy, presently, "i have read something of the history of the moors in spain. what great fellows for fighting were those moors! i dare say some of your ancestors were chieftains there." "yes," answered musa, proudly, "and they did not yield to the spaniards--they died fighting. only the women and children were left alive." archy having found a subject dear to musa's heart, lost no time in cultivating it. when he had exhausted all he knew about the moors in spain, he left musa, and, going up into the town, begged and borrowed the few books in the garrison that treated of the moors in spain, and eagerly read them. every time he met musa he had a new supply of heroic actions of the moors to tell about. he got a volume of shakespeare, and, having mastered the story of othello, told it very gravely, as an exact and well-authenticated history of the dependence of the state of venice upon a moorish commander. musa was a man of character and abilities, but he had a tremendous supply of racial vanity, and archy's artful praises of his country bore fruit immediately. within a week musa had agreed to take him on a trip to tetuan, across the straits, which he was planning for the first dark night. general eliot's consent had to be gained; but after a private interview with him archy came forth beaming. it had been arranged that two sets of despatches, duly authenticated and sealed, should be prepared--but one set was bogus. if captured, musa and archy were to frankly confess they were carrying despatches, and give up the bogus ones, and offer to get more if allowed to return to gibraltar. this stratagem seemed so likely to succeed that both archy and musa were eager to be off, and two nights afterwards a cloudy sky and a moonless night saw them both in a small cutter belonging to the _enterprise_, bound for the african side. archy had persuaded musa to take the english boat instead of the unwieldy tub with a huge lateen-sail with which the moor was familiar, and with the one sail and the jib archy felt capable of sailing to america if necessary. true, the cutter was of a build and rig unusual in the mediterranean, and might excite suspicion on that account; but archy, like a true sailor, preferred to take his chances in something that the wind could drive along than to the foreign boats, which he regarded with unmixed contempt. under captain curtis's advice he put on the jacket and trousers of a maltese sailor with a red fez, and about eleven o'clock at night they set sail for the african coast. the current which sets through the straits was in their favor, as they were bound for tetuan, about forty miles in a straight line from gibraltar. their great danger lay in running across the spanish vessels, which cruised incessantly up and down the straits, but the blockade was not then as strict as it afterwards became. they had a lantern with them, but carefully refrained from showing a light. as they sailed along under a lowering sky--rare at that season--they frequently saw the lights of the spanish cruisers, but they handled the boat so skilfully that they were not once hailed, much less overhauled. a sense of joy filled archy's heart when he found himself again on the sea; and seeing his perfect familiarity with the boat musa allowed him to manage it, only giving an occasional hint about the currents, with which archy was unfamiliar. the wind did not fail them during the whole night, and next day, on a brilliant forenoon, they were off the old walled town of tetuan, with its flanking towers showing clear against the glorious blue of an african sky. they sailed into the harbor and landed on a rickety old mole, crowded with moors, berbers, arabs, and jews. the british still maintained a consulate there, chiefly for the chance of communicating with gibraltar, and, as soon as they landed, archy went to the consul's house. it was a low building, with many pillars, after the moorish fashion, and under the quaint colonnade sat the consul in a linen jacket and slippers, taking his noonday coffee. when the handsome young maltese sailor, as archy looked to be, with a bag of letters over his shoulder, walked up to him in true anglo-saxon fashion, and said, "good-morning, sir," the consul nearly fell off his chair with surprise. but archy soon made known who he was, and was very warmly greeted. the consul eagerly asked his news and despatches, and when he found out that the rock was well provisioned and the garrison was more indomitable than ever, he said: "i will call the chiefs and principal men of the town together to-morrow, that i may tell them your story--for their respect for england and english rights will be very much increased thereby; and, meanwhile, you must be my guest." archy was only too happy to accept, and spent the next twenty-four hours chiefly in gobbling oranges--the first fruit he had seen for months--and galloping up and down the environs of the town on a vicious donkey, with which he had several disagreements, that invariably ended in the donkey pitching him heels-over-head. but archy did not mind a little thing like that, and was always ready to tackle the donkey again. next day a great assemblage of tetuan notabilities met at the consul's house, and while sitting around a tinkling fountain in the court-yard, with coffee, sherbet, and pipes, the consul, seated in the middle, with archy on one side and musa on the other, began the story of the failure of the spanish, so far, to capture gibraltar. he spoke in italian, which is the _lingua franca_ of that region, and frequently turned to archy and musa for confirmation. archy did not know a word of the _lingua franca_, but he nodded his head gravely whenever the consul turned to him with a note of inquiry in his voice. the chiefs and notabilities sat silent and attentive, puffing at their pipes; and it was plain that they were deeply impressed by what they heard. the confabulation broke up after several hours, and archy returned to his amusement of stuffing oranges and riding donkeys. the consul took a day or two to make up his despatches, and to get together the few and scant letters and despatches that he had received for the garrison by merchant-ships and such stray means of communication. they were concealed in oranges, hollowed out for the purpose, and put in a bag which was carefully stowed away in the cutter. as fresh fruit was not only the greatest luxury but the greatest necessity of the gibraltar garrison, in which scurvy had appeared, the cutter was filled with as much as she could carry without impeding her sailing qualities--and then came the waiting for a dark night. but the nights refused to grow dark, and, emboldened by their success in eluding the spanish cruisers before, both archy and musa, on the third evening, determined to take the chances, and, the wind being fair, they sailed in the afternoon for gibraltar. bright as was the night, and white as was their sail, it seemed as though they would slip through the blockading fleet as easily as they had six nights before. they passed several spanish cruisers, and were hailed more than once; but their boat was so small, and holding only two men, no further effort was made to stop them. about two o'clock in the morning, when it really began to grow dark, and they were not more than ten miles from gibraltar in a straight line, they found themselves unexpectedly close to a spanish gun-brig. they were hailed, and, as before, paid no attention, and continued on their tack. the brig, however, put about and came after them, emphasizing her desire to speak with them by firing a blank cartridge at them. it was then high time to take some notice of it, but instead of heaving to they tacked for the brig, and in a few minutes were alongside. the spanish officer of the deck, leaning over the rail, called out: "who are you?" "let me come aboard and i will tell you," replied musa. in another minute he was on board, leaving archy to hold the boat. archy could not catch the conversation between musa and the spanish lieutenant, but he saw musa show the bogus despatches, then both went below and remained ten minutes, evidently in the captain's cabin. they came on deck again, and musa had a little bag in his hand, and a letter. he swung himself into the cutter, the lieutenant and one or two of the watch called out "good-bye!" and immediately they were proceeding in opposite directions. musa stowed his bag away carefully, and then, in response to archy's eager questions, said: "he gave me fifty doubloons for my despatches, and a letter to the commanding officer of any spanish vessel that may stop us, telling them to let us pass into gibraltar, as we have brought them valuable news and may bring more." "hurrah!" cried archy, under his breath. but they were not stopped any more, and under cover of darkness they again slipped into gibraltar bay. about a mile from the nearest point of debarkation they were chased by a spaniard, but a battery near by opened fire vigorously, and under cover of the cannonade they landed. it was then after sunrise, and the firing had roused the garrison. as soon as they landed they went to headquarters, accompanied by a number of officers, including captain curtis and langton and a crowd of other persons. when they were in general eliot's presence musa motioned to archy to speak, and archy motioned to musa--so there was silence. "will you proceed, mr. baskerville?" asked general eliot. archy, thus adjured, gave an account of the trip, and produced the letters and despatches. then musa, with great dignity, laid the little bag of doubloons down on the table. "excellency, i was afraid to refuse them, but i do not consider the money mine," he said. "then whose is it?" asked general eliot. "i, as an officer, can take none of it," replied archy, quickly. "musa, it is yours," said general eliot, "and it does not half repay what you have done for us. as for you, mr. baskerville, i can only say that now, more than ever, we regard you as a friend instead of an enemy--a guest instead of a prisoner." chapter xii the siege proceeded determinedly, and every day the blockade grew stricter, and the garrison was hemmed in more closely both by land and sea. no naval expedition had been organized against the little british squadron that lay under the guns of the fortress, but it was scarcely thought probable that admiral barcelo, with his blockading fleet, which stretched the length of the straits, would not attack it. admiral duff, who commanded the little british squadron of five ships, only one of which carried sixty guns, fully expected it, and made ready for it. captain curtis's ship, the _enterprise_, of twenty-eight guns, being short of officers, langton was formally assigned to her as soon as he was fully recovered. this left archy alone in their hut on europa point. he had ostensibly nothing to do; but there are few occasions on which a kind heart, an active brain, and good legs and arms cannot find some useful work, and he found it in many ways. the officers and men were so vigilant, night and day, at the guns, erecting new batteries, repairing old ones, shifting guns from a good position to a better, that they could give but little attention to the women and children. there was always plenty for them to do, and archy, who at home in america had been accustomed to being waited on every moment by black servants, now very cheerfully did for others what he had been used to having done for him. whenever there was a distribution of supplies he was always on hand to help the weak, the sick, and the old with their precious burdens. every night before turning in captain curtis would show a light from his cabin window, which meant to his anxious wife on the rock that all was well, and in reply a lantern would be flashed to him from the little hut on europa. one night in the early part of june, , archy was walking back to the hut, after showing the light, when he saw musa standing in the pathway. the night was dark and rainy, and a levanter--that wind which brings cold and misery and illness--was blowing fiercely. musa touched him on the arm, and spoke in perfectly good english: "good-evening, excellency." "good-evening, musa. what are you doing up here this time of night?" "i came to see his excellency, captain curtis. i thought i could read the lights on the ship, and that he was ashore, but he is on his ship. i am going to him now." "is there to be a night attack?" "how should i know, excellency?" answered musa, who could keep his own counsel. archy went back to the hut, left the lantern, and said, cheerfully, to mrs. curtis: "i think i shall go down to the mole and ask captain curtis if i may stay aboard ship with langton," which was a very usual thing for him to do. archy walked fast down the hill, for it was nearly nine o'clock, after which no one was permitted to pass the sentries except by giving the countersign. he reached the new mole just as the slight commotion of relieving the guard was heard. the _enterprise_ was anchored no great distance from the mole, in advance of the other four small vessels of the squadron near by, and the last boat was just putting off. langton was in it, and musa also, and in response to langton's cordial invitation archy jumped aboard. arrived at the ship, they found captain curtis taking a walk on the quarter-deck before turning in. langton asked permission for archy to remain on board all night, which captain curtis at once granted, and then turned to speak to musa, who evidently had something to communicate. archy followed langton below, to a little cabin which had been given him, not on account of his rank, but because of the lack of the full number of officers on the ship. as soon as they were alone, archy said, significantly: "i think that arab fellow suspects an attack is to be made to-night." "very likely. if captain curtis had been admiral barcelo he would have burned or scuttled us long ago." "i shall sleep on the floor here, if you don't mind." "do you expect me to give you my bunk?" "if i wanted it i'd throw you out, but as you are a little boy, and the grandson of a lord, you may keep it." "i wonder what our respected grandfather would say if he had to sleep in a hole like this?" "he would say a whole dictionaryful, and smash everything he could lay his hands on besides." "pleasant old person, he must be." "we will make a visit to bellingham castle together when the war is over--when we have walloped you, and when i am a post-captain in the american navy, and you are still a midshipman in the steerage." at which langton, now quite as strong as archy, kicked at him, and the two immediately engaged in a friendly and noiseless scuffle, for captain curtis was a strict disciplinarian, and kept an orderly ship. just as langton had succeeded in getting archy down, and had planted his knee firmly on that young gentleman's broad chest, the cabin door accidentally swung open, and there was captain curtis passing by. both young fellows jumped as if they were shot. captain curtis said nothing, but his look of inquiry was answered by archy's saying: "mr. langton and i were having a friendly tussle over--what was it, lanky? our grandfather, or the war?" "the war," replied langton, smiling. "you may have a tussle of another sort to-night," said captain curtis, coolly. "there is a prospect of an attack on us before morning. if you wish to go ashore," he continued, turning to archy, "i can send you in my gig." now the idea of being on shore when anything was going on aboard ship was harrowing to archy, and he made haste to protest. "i have no objections to your staying," said captain curtis. "i think an attempt will be made to burn the ship, and every able-bodied man who can handle a bucket will be welcome. you will not, of course, be called upon to do any fighting, but you must provide yourself with a cutlass and a brace of pistols to defend yourself in case the spaniards should board us--for in the mêlée they will not stop to inquire your nationality. good-night," and captain curtis passed on. langton went out and called the master-at-arms, who produced a cutlass and a pair of navy pistols, and archy, placing them under his pillow, rolled himself in a blanket on the floor and meant to go fast asleep. but he could not. the wind rose and the ship began to roll. neither could langton sleep; so they spent the hours in talking in whispers, chiefly about their family concerns, and each anticipating, after the fashion of the young and hopeful, that their whole lives were to be ordered exactly as they wished. archy even predicted that langton would distinguish himself so much that he would be offered a peerage, and then his grandfather, in default of other heirs, would have him made lord bellingham, of bellingham castle. langton, who was of a cooler nature than archy, laughed at this, but admitted that he would not mind being lord bellingham's heir, and would do the handsome thing by archy, by his mother, his sisters--everybody. midnight came and went, and just as two bells were striking they heard a hail on the opposite side of the ship. the reply came back immediately: "this is the _hind_, provision-ship, from england." "but that is no english voice that says so," were langton's words to archy as they both rose, and, taking their arms, stepped out into the gangway. they heard the officer of the deck shout "keep off!" and the next minute every crack and cranny of the ship was illuminated with an unearthly red light. langton rushed up on deck, followed by archy. within half a cable's length of them was a fire-ship, with six others following in a compact semicircle. the decks were glowing redly with the combustibles that were already lighted to throw aboard the _enterprise_, and the few men who were to fire the ship were dashing the burning fuses at her; but they fell short, and dropped harmlessly in the black water. captain curtis had already ordered the boats to be lowered away, and this was done with the utmost steadiness and quickness. when langton stepped into his boat, archy involuntarily, and without asking himself why he did so, followed him. no one ordered him back--in fact, no one thought of him. all were engrossed, as he was, in the terrible work before them of grappling and destroying the fire-ships, which the wind was driving on to the _enterprise_ and her consorts. with a yell, the spaniards on each of the fire-ships dropped into the boats they were towing astern, and, taking to their oars, made off rapidly in the darkness of the night. every ship in the british squadron was awake and alive then, and their boats had taken the water. the _enterprise_, though, being the farthest out, seemed to be the target for which all the fire-ships were aiming; and, borne by wind and tide, they were drifting frightfully fast upon her. her boats, however, managed, in the most seaman-like manner, to intercept them, and grappled with them, while the combustibles on their decks were blazing, the flames were running up their rigging, and the tremendous explosions of powder crashed out and made the solid rock to shake. the boats, in danger of being swamped every moment, of being blown skyward, and of being engulfed in fire, yet did their duty manfully. langton's boat, with another one, made fast to the foremost fire-ship, and the men, bending to their oars with a will, towed it blazing and exploding to the rocks, where it was run ashore, and the boat made off just as one last crash blew the burning hulk to pieces. the garrison took the alarm, and a furious cannonade from a hundred guns burst upon the night. the scene was awful beyond description. the very rock itself seemed to blaze with light from its batteries, while the red glare from the burning vessels cast a vivid, unearthly brightness upon sea and shore and ships. in the midst of it, two large spanish frigates were seen to emerge from the darkness, as it were, into the circle of fire, and steer straight for the little _enterprise_. the batteries on shore instantly directed all their fire towards the two ships, and that, with the smart broadside from the ship, and the shells that were dropping everywhere, forced them to withdraw. for two hours the fight with the fire-ships continued, but at the end of that time they were all driven ashore, and lay in wrecked and smouldering masses on the rocks. archy scarcely remembered what part he had in the affair, except that he sat in the stern-sheets with langton and helped to handle the grappling-irons while the men pulled; but when it was all over, and, smoke-begrimed and weary, they clambered over the side of the ship, captain curtis met them, and, grasping langton's hand, said: "i never saw a boat better handled in my life--and you, mr. baskerville, did your part well." that was praise enough for langton and archy. it was nearly four o'clock before they were ready to turn in, and dawn was beginning to appear. the town had been thoroughly alarmed, and crowds ran down to the mole as soon as the danger was over. archy recognized judkins's stalwart figure in the dim light as he trotted down the hill, trundling the identical wheelbarrow which had been langton's coach on a former occasion. as soon as he reached the shore he began to fill his wheelbarrow with floating pieces of the wreck for fire-wood, which was very scarce. judkins was a thrifty soul, and before anybody had time to draw a long breath, after the dangers they had escaped, he was looking out for the comfort of mrs. curtis and dolly in the matter of fuel. at four o'clock langton had to take his watch, and, on going below a few minutes beforehand, he found archy snugly tucked in his berth and sleeping like a baby, after his night of excitement. the failure of this attack apparently discouraged the spaniards, and as the summer progressed they seemed to rely more upon starving the garrison out than upon a direct attack with their present means. they therefore confined themselves to a strict blockade by night and day, and devoted all their energies to making new and tremendous fortifications on the isthmus, upon which they mounted great numbers of heavy guns, provided with vast magazines of ammunition. this last was very injudicious, as it turned out. general eliot, observing all they did, purposely let them carry the work, during the summer and autumn, to a certain point, disturbing them little; but he had a deep and far-reaching scheme in regard to this. he had determined upon a sortie, and on the evening of the th of november, after gun-fire and the closing of the gates for the night, the orders were given. everything had been arranged beforehand, but only two or three officers besides general eliot knew of the plan, as the utmost secrecy was essential. as most of the regular garrison was necessary to remain in charge of the fortress, the attacking body of two thousand men was made up largely of the sailors and marines from the squadron in the harbor. captain curtis was to be in command of the left column, and langton was one of the young officers to be under him. the men for the sortie were to assemble without beat of the drum about three o'clock in the morning, when the moon would be gone down; but they were notified at nine o'clock the night before. there was no suspicion of anything unusual in the air until, at half-past nine o'clock that night, captain curtis and langton were seen coming up the path towards the hut, and the little group assembled there knew in a moment that something unlooked for had happened. mrs. curtis and archy were sitting within the rude shelter, while outside, in the full radiance of a brilliant moon that lighted the heavens with glory, sat dolly, wrapped up in a huge old boat-cloak of her father's, with judkins by her. the two had been singing, and, as judkins's bashfulness forbade him to sing in the presence of mrs. curtis, the two had retired, according to custom, to a nook in the rock, whence they could be heard but not seen. "now, judkins," dolly was saying, "we only have time to sing the evening hymn before i must go to bed. i always think of papa on his ship when i sing it, and wish he were here to listen to it." "true for you, miss dolly," answered judkins, gravely. "it's 'opin' i am that my honored cap'n may be with his little girl more than he is now--when them bloody spaniards leaves off tryin' to beat us off our own ground, and goes 'ome and minds their business as they ought to." and then their voices rose in sweetness--judkins's rich barytone and dolly's bird-like soprano; and they had two reverent hearers in captain curtis and langton, who stopped a little distance off and listened, with bared heads, to this sweet and simple hymn. "why, there's papa now--and mr. langton too!" screamed dolly, and, according to custom, she flew towards her father and swung around him. mrs. curtis forbore to ask any questions until dolly was gone, after a specially affectionate good-night from her father; and when she was out of the way, captain curtis said but one word: "sortie." but that one word meant volumes. archy had never ceased to admire and respect the fortitude of the women in all the dreadful events that he had seen of the siege, and he admired it more than ever when he observed the calm courage with which mrs. curtis received this announcement. there was danger in the attempt--extreme danger; but instead of weakly bewailing it, and distressing captain curtis by her fears, mrs. curtis showed a gentle self-control and a desire that captain curtis should have an opportunity to serve his country still further which was nobly inspiring. their time was short, and in a few minutes captain curtis and langton were on their way back. archy and judkins were with them. as they walked along archy was considering anxiously how he could manage to go along with the attacking column and yet observe his character as a prisoner of war. besides his natural and indomitable love of adventure, life on the rock was a drearily monotonous business, and any break in it would have been eagerly sought by a young man of less daring disposition than archy baskerville. but--a non-combatant--he was turning over in his mind what device he could hit upon on which to base his request, when judkins showed him the way. "if you please, sir," said judkins to captain curtis, "maybe the likes o' me ought not to ax it, but there will be some poor wounded men lyin' in the trenches and ditches after this here sortie, and i'd be monstrous glad, sir, if you could let me go out, sir, in the rear, sir, along with the men from the 'orspital, to help fetch them poor souls back, when they can't get back of themselves, sir." "very well," replied captain curtis, "i think you can be useful, and i will mention it to the commander-in-chief." "and i, sir," said archy, in a wheedling voice. "you'll hardly do it for judkins and refuse me? i assure you, sir, i will not go one step beyond where i am ordered; and you see, sir, what a strong fellow i am. judkins and i could manage a stretcher famously between us--couldn't we, judkins?" "lord! yes, sir," was judkins's answer, with a broad grin of approbation. and so, at three o'clock of a dark morning, when the column moved out in death-like silence, behind them marched the hospital corps, and with that corps were archy baskerville and old judkins. chapter xiii the night was pitch-dark, and the three detachments marched out in perfect silence. the spaniards had no suspicion of an attack until the first division was directly at the outer line of fortifications. then the sentries quickly gave the word, the drums beat the alarm, and the camp of fourteen thousand men was roused in an instant. the first onslaught, however, of the british was irresistible. they overpowered the guard, and the work of firing and destroying the guns and fortifications immediately began. before the spanish commander-in-chief, in the darkness and confusion, could get his troops under arms the blowing up of the magazines had begun, and whole batteries of guns had been spiked. the bastions and gabions were fired, and so rapid and thorough were the british in their work that it was all over before the spaniards realized what was happening, and the british were making for the land port gate. the spanish camp had been thrown into the greatest confusion, and their first line of fortifications was now past saving. the noise and the bursting out of flames and the explosions of powder were dreadful, but all were between the british and their foes. the losses of the detachment had been trifling, and archy baskerville had found nothing to do except to stand off and watch the quick progress of events. but while the three divisions were retreating rapidly and in good order to the gate, he saw in a ditch in front of him an officer lying on his side and groaning with agony. [illustration: he saw an officer lying in a ditch] "help here!" cried archy; and in another moment judkins was at his side, and the two had the officer on a stretcher and were carrying him with a rush towards the british lines, the officer meanwhile feebly protesting. "no, no," he cried; "let there be one spaniard to die with honor at his post." and in a moment more, by the light of burning timbers and bursting bombs, archy saw that he was the young walloon officer, von helmstadt, whom he had seen months before at the time of his first effort to get out of the fortress. day was breaking as they carried him fainting into the hospital. the surgeons managed to revive him, and then, examining him, told him he must lose his leg. "no, no," he cried; "better to die at once! why did not that brave young man leave me to my fate? all would have been over by this time." archy could stand no more, but rushed out and up to europa point, where he found mrs. curtis watching and waiting. "i have not been in my bed this night," she said. archy, with a bursting heart, told her of von helmstadt. he had a deep feeling of sympathy for the young walloon officer, so far from home, and in such heart-breaking straits. there was, however, little else but rejoicing on the rock that day, for the result of the sortie was in the highest degree favorable to the besieged. the spaniards saw in two hours the complete destruction of what had cost them months of labor and millions of money to construct. they seemed paralyzed by their loss, and for a while the besieged had a respite. but there was no respite in the blockade. the supplies left by rodney's fleet were beginning to grow very scant, and although all eyes in the garrison every morning for months scanned the sea for the sails of a british fleet, none appeared. as the year drew to a close the prospects of the garrison grew darker. the sufferings of the sick were acute, and none more so than those of poor von helmstadt, who daily grew worse. he resisted the taking-off of his leg, which the doctors told him was the only means of saving his life, until at last general eliot himself went to his bedside and begged him to submit. "i have a reason, sir," replied von helmstadt. "i am engaged to marry a beautiful and charming girl. if i lose my leg and live, how can i ask her to tie herself to a mutilated creature, as i shall be, for life? yet i know her constancy so well that i am sure she will be the more determined on fulfilling her promise to me." "but your duty to your country," argued general eliot, "and your duty to your family? have you not a mother, a father--some one whose heart would be broken if you sacrifice your life to this?" von helmstadt remained silent for a moment. "yes," he said, after a pause, while his eyes filled with tears, "i have a mother and a father, too. you are right, general. it is my duty to live, even if i live mutilated." the whole garrison took the deepest interest in this brave young man. the best of their poor supplies was reserved for him, and nothing was too much to be done for him in the hope, at least, of lessening his sufferings. archy and judkins became heroes as his rescuers. every day archy visited him, and was received affectionately by him, even in his utmost misery. his patience was so touching, his courage so unbroken, that often archy would leave the bedside completely unmanned by the sight of von helmstadt's sufferings, and the sorrowful conviction that all was in vain. nor was the heroic young officer forgotten by his own friends, and daily flags of truce came to inquire after him and to bring messages and letters from his comrades. he bore the agony of amputation with extraordinary bravery, but after a day or two of hope he grew very ill, and soon it was seen that the end was near. never had archy baskerville in his life felt so painful an interest as in this gallant young man, whom he had helped to save from one death only to see him die in a more lingering and distressing manner. they were the only two souls within the gates of the beleaguered fortress who had not common cause with the besieged. at last, after four weeks of suffering, the end came on christmas eve. the time itself was solemn instead of joyful, and it was made more sad by the death of the brave young prisoner for whom every one in the fortress felt such tender sympathy. the spaniards were notified immediately that the body would be carried to them the next day with military honors. never could archy baskerville forget the christmas of . it was a beautiful, mild day, but to those brave souls imprisoned and fighting for their lives on the rock of gibraltar there was a melancholy glory in the day which seemed to make their situation the more poignant. want and scarcity prevailed in all things except the implements of war and destruction. there was no christmas cheer, but the congregations that assembled in the garrison chapel and the catholic church in the town were quiet and resigned, like people who have ever before them the prospect of death and bereavement. as soon as the morning services were over the sad procession was formed to carry von helmstadt's body to the spaniards. it was determined to take it by water, and all the boats in the little squadron were drawn up at the new mole for the escort, while on the spanish side a similar procession was waiting to move. the flag on the hospital was at half-mast, and a large detachment of troops, with all the highest officers of the garrison, and a body of seamen and marines under captain curtis's command, was formed to receive the body when it was brought out. archy baskerville, as the one who had brought the young walloon officer in, was given a place among the mourners who followed the gun-carriage on which the coffin lay, wrapped in the spanish flag. to the solemn strains of the dead-march and the booming of minute-guns the procession moved, followed by general eliot as chief mourner, with many officers of high rank, and archy baskerville, the youngest person among them, walking in the last line. they reached the new mole presently, where the body was transferred to the first cutter of the _enterprise_, and captain curtis then took command. at the same moment that the boats put off from the british side the procession started from the spanish side. midway in the bay they met, when the spaniards received the body, and the british cutters turned back. out of respect to the spaniards, who would not have understood the custom, the british refrained from playing the lively airs with which they endeavor to lighten the hearts of the men returning from a comrade's funeral, and slowly and solemnly they pulled back to their own ground. never had the prospects of archy baskerville's reaching france seemed more improbable than on that melancholy christmas night of . yet within twenty-four hours he found himself far beyond both the british and spanish lines, and free--free to take his desperate chances of escape through a country where he might at any moment be mistaken for an englishman, and where an englishman could expect no mercy. the evening of christmas day was one of mist and gloom. archy had spent the early part of the afternoon in the hut at europa, where they had made a little festival, such as their poor means allowed, for dolly, and she and judkins had sung them a christmas hymn; and then, as people will in sad times, they had sat around the scanty fire and told of happy christmas-times in the past. archy felt strangely unhappy. besides the sorrows of their own condition, he had heart-breaking anxieties about his country and the mortal struggle in which she was engaged, and even his hopeful and buoyant spirit gave way under the misery and monotony of the long months of the siege. about eight o'clock they separated--captain curtis and langton to return to their ship, and archy, out of pure restlessness, going down to the shore with them. mrs. curtis's last words spoke the hope and cheerfulness which seemed to dwell in every one of the heroic women on the rock. "good-night, archy," she said. "all will be bright in the morning," and dolly swung round his neck, asking: "why don't you laugh, archy, and be merry, and make us all laugh, as you always do?" "because i can't now, dolly," answered archy, kissing her and putting her down. "but next time you see me i will be just as gay as a bird." then, with captain curtis and langton, he started for the shore. at the mole the _enterprise_ boat was waiting, and the last that archy heard in the darkness of a misty night was a cheery "good-night--good-night!" from captain curtis and langton. long time was it to be before he was to hear those well-loved voices again. archy walked along the shore towards the isthmus in the dusky evening. he kept close to the shore, listening to the boom of the waves, and so absorbed in his own melancholy thoughts that he scarcely noticed where he was going. the shore was well patrolled, and it was common enough for him to walk there in the evening. at one point within the english lines a number of small boats were tied to a huge stake, and into one of these archy stepped and seated himself. the sentry who was passing looked curiously at him, and then, saluting, went on. he was a man in the garrison who knew archy personally, and he did not think it strange that the young american midshipman should pause in his walk and rest a while in the boat. the mist was gathering fast, and the wind was sweeping in from the mediterranean, and it was growing very dark. archy was roused by hearing the nine-o'clock gun fired. he lifted his head and the thought came-- "i shall have to communicate with captain curtis, so as to pass the sentries and get back to europa." he turned to spring ashore, but he found the line had parted, and the boat had drifted out a considerable distance. he felt in the bottom for oars. there were none. the darkness had descended like a pall, and the wind suddenly became a gust. he could see nothing, but he knew that wind and tide were driving him towards the spanish lines. he was by nature well-equipped to meet danger, and in a moment his brooding depression--the rarest of moods for him--gave place to coolness, calmness, and perfect self-possession. he was a good swimmer, and quickly determined that his best chance lay in swimming ashore as soon as the boat drifted near enough. he took off his jacket and shoes, fastened them into a bundle under his arm, and, fixing his eyes on the lights on shore, quietly waited until they grew nearer. all at once a flood of black rain descended that blotted out everything. the wind seemed to blow from all quarters at the same instant, and the boat's head swung round. the lights both on sea and shore disappeared, and archy was drifting he knew not where. he reflected that he was in no great danger of being upset, and if he drifted far enough he would be in the midst of the spanish fleet. but in the darkness he had no idea how fast the boat was moving--he only knew the tide was swift and strong. nor could he measure very well the time he had been in the boat. he listened intently for the striking of the bells in the little english squadron, but after straining his ears for an interminable time it seemed to him, as he sat in the little boat that rushed through the seething water in the blackness of darkness, the conviction came to him that he was far out of reach of that friendly and encouraging sound. he could see neither to the right nor to the left of him, and at that moment he had an almost overpowering impulse to jump out of the boat and swim, so trying were the sitting still and being swept he knew not where; but he said to himself: "if i were swimming about in the darkness, how glad i would be if my hand struck this boat--how eagerly i would climb in! no; i'll stick to the boat until i can see more than ten feet ahead of me." ages passed, it seemed to him, for every hour is an age in such circumstances. he thought the day would never come. at last, when the dawn seemed as far off as ever--it was really only two o'clock in the morning--the rain ceased, and the atmosphere cleared enough for him to see that he was near the shore; and oh, joy! there was a light! he felt sure that he was far beyond the spanish lines. as his sharp eyes pierced the dim and unearthly light, which was increased by the declining moon that shone fitfully out of a still stormy sky, he saw that he was on a broken and irregular coast, and a black mass, from which he could faintly discern the light, he took to be buildings. he saw that he was being carried closer to the shore every moment, and in a little while he was near enough to jump overboard, not forgetting his jacket and shoes, and a few bold strokes landed him once more on hard earth. his first impulse was of sincere thankfulness. one of the great lessons he had learned of his immortal commander, paul jones, was that man should recognize his maker, and he had never seen that great man either go into or come out of any danger without commending himself to the most high; and having done this, archy proceeded to follow paul jones's example further by taking the most active and energetic measures on his own account. he saw that he was approaching a homestead, large and imposing, with numerous outbuildings, and when he was close to it he saw that the light came from a small addition to the main pile, which was built around a court-yard, after the spanish fashion. archy's quick mind had grasped the fact that if he spoke english he would at once be taken for either a spy or a deserter, and as he did not relish figuring in either of these characters, he determined to rely upon his small stock of french, and still smaller stock of spanish, which last he had picked up while at gibraltar. wet and shivering, and carrying his drenched jacket and shoes, he cautiously approached the small, unshuttered window from which the light proceeded, and peered in. the room was very humble, apparently that of an upper servant. a lamp had been left burning, and on the hearth fire still smouldered. a wooden platter with some food on it was on the hearth. the room was quite empty, and archy shrewdly suspected that it was, perhaps, the quarters of some privileged servant, who had gone out for a time, expecting to return, and had not come back. as food and fire were what he most wanted then, he concluded that it was the part of wisdom to help himself; so he softly raised the window and climbed in, only to find, on trying it, that the door was open, and he might have entered that way. he thought it best not to fasten either the door or window, but to proceed and make himself comfortable. a pile of fagots lay in a corner, and in half a minute he had a roaring fire. he had no great fancy for sitting in wet clothes, and seeing a cupboard in a corner, he opened it, expecting to find probably a footman's outfit. but, instead, there was a handsome and complete costume of a spanish peasant--a green velvet jacket, brown cloth knee-breeches with silver buttons, leggings, shoes, and a red cap. archy, promptly stripping off his drenched clothing and hanging it at the fire to dry, after removing his money, watch, and pocket-knife, proceeded to array himself in the warm, dry garments before him; and then, surveying himself in a piece of cracked mirror on the wall, he could not suppress a grin, thinking: "i wonder what pedro, or sancho, or whatever his name is, will say when he finds i have appropriated his sunday clothes!" in the same cupboard was a small skin of the sour wine used by the peasantry. archy made a wry face over the uninviting draught, but drank some, and then cleaned the platter neatly of a vast quantity of garlic-and-onion dressed stuff, which he relished exceedingly--after which he felt quite himself again. he concluded to sally forth and make a reconnoissance of his position, and, closing the door softly behind him, was again under the murky night sky. in another small room he saw lights and heard faint sounds of carousing. the servants were evidently making a night of it. in the huge, dim court-yard a large leather-covered coach stood where the mules had been unhitched from it. while archy was looking at this vast old machine he saw the door open from which the sounds of subdued merrymaking had come, and several servants sallied forth. archy involuntarily opened the coach door softly and got in, and, the better to hear, he laid himself almost flat on the long and broad front seat of the coach, which was piled with cloaks and blankets, and through a crack in the leather curtain could see and hear everything. "i wish don miguel was not in such a hurry to start for madrid in the morning. going off before sunrise and travelling until dark doesn't suit my constitution," grumbled one of them. "never mind, pedro. that comes of living with grand people like don miguel de lima. they are always more trouble than any others. thank the saints that _my_ people are plain country gentlemen and ladies. _they_ don't travel any. they haven't been thirty miles from home in thirty years." pedro, leaning up against the coach wheel, continued to grumble: "and don miguel, because he was bred in the army, likes everything done at double-quick. i don't believe he even takes a siesta. and he can't be worried and fretted into giving up his own way, as some masters and mistresses can. he is the coolest old martinet i ever saw--i don't believe the devil himself could disconcert him." the servants seemed to have no notion of going to bed, but continued to gossip in whispers. archy listened with all his ears. madrid! that meant liberty! if only he could get to madrid with don miguel--but how could it be managed? at all events, he meant to strike out for the french frontier when daylight came--at the worst, he could only be caught and imprisoned again. possibly he might lose his life--but archy's was a mind which harbored hope and drove fear out of the window. he remembered his wet clothes by the fire, and dreaded to see pedro or sancho go towards the back of the house. it was cold in the coach. so archy covered himself up warmly as he lay and awaited events. he never felt more wide awake in his life, but the warmth, the rest, the food, and the sour wine were too much for him, and he suddenly fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. chapter xiv it seemed but a few minutes afterwards, although it was really several hours, before archy knew anything more, and then it was a jolt of the coach that waked him. his senses returned instantly, and he knew where he was. he kept perfectly still, and peeping through the crack in the curtain, behind which he lay, still covered up, he saw that they were travelling along the highway towards the dim mountain ranges. day had dawned, and the sun was rising over a beautiful landscape, although it was still december. six stout mules drew the unwieldy vehicle along at a slashing gait. archy turned his head cautiously, so as to see without being seen, and perceived a stout, soldierly looking old man leaning back among the cushions and sleeping soundly, as his vociferous snores and snorts indicated unmistakably. "this is don miguel de lima," thought archy. "he will wake up presently, and i can introduce myself better if i am sitting up and conducting myself like an officer and a gentleman than in hiding here like a brigand." archy then quietly slipped to his feet, and, setting himself back in the coach, calmly faced the old gentleman. but don miguel did not wake up soon--he snored and snorted and slept for a couple of hours more, and the sun was high in the heavens before he opened his eyes, and saw, as he supposed, a handsome young peasant, who had apparently dropped out of the sky, in the coach with him. don miguel fully sustained pedro's account of his _sang-froid_, and after carefully examining archy, and seeing at the first glance that it was not a peasant, but a handsome and soft-handed young gentleman, dressed, for purposes of his own, in peasant's costume, he said, in a tone of calm inquiry: "well, sir?" archy, giving the old gentleman a military salute, replied promptly in the best spanish he could muster: "i believe i have the honor of addressing his excellency don miguel de lima. i am midshipman archibald baskerville, late of the continental ship _bon homme richard_, and now a prisoner on parole"--and then he added, "americano." archy got this far glibly enough, but when he wished to describe how he got into his present rig his spanish was totally inadequate, and he took refuge in french; but his acquirements in that line running short, he dropped into english, and gave don miguel a very animated account of his adventures from the time he found himself in the boat until that moment. don miguel listened with the utmost courtesy and attention, and when archy stopped for want of breath, calmly remarked, in spanish: "your narrative is very interesting, no doubt; but i have not understood one word of it. i only know spanish and french." archy, nothing discouraged, began again. he pulled out his watch and money, and that, with what he could tell about the boat and the loss of his clothes, and certain keen observations which don miguel made himself, convinced him that the young man who had suddenly rolled out from among the cloaks and blankets in the coach was what he represented himself to be. archy could not but admire the cool courage of the old man, who took so debonairly the society of an unknown, who might be a robber or a murderer. not a word more was spoken, while they rolled and bumped along the high-road, until twelve o'clock, when, reaching a little village among the hills, they stopped. pedro sprang from the box, opened the door, and nearly fainted when archy almost jumped into his arms. archy then, bowing low to don miguel, thanked him ceremoniously, and saluted him as an officer. don miguel gravely returned the salute. at the inn archy got something to eat, and, providing himself with a loaf of bread and a lot of cheese, struck out gayly on the highway towards madrid. the day was bright, and the air, the space, the freedom, the exercise were exhilarating to archy's active nature and sanguine temperament. the only thing that troubled him was that his friends at gibraltar would be in distress about him. probably at that very moment they were in deep grief, supposing him to be drowned. he remembered, however, the courtesy of the spanish authorities in regard to letters, and determined at the next posting-house to write to don martin de soltomayer, inclosing a letter to general eliot and another to captain curtis. with this anxiety off his mind he trudged along cheerfully enough, shrewdly calculating that don miguel would overtake him, and possibly give him a lift. many persons met and passed him, chiefly peasants in carts, and in about two hours he heard a tremendous clattering and jangling, and the coach with its six fine mules hove in sight. archy, walking along the pathway, was intensely disappointed when it rattled on, with nothing more from don miguel except a bow in response to archy's. but after it had passed it stopped, and pedro came running back to say that his excellency desired to speak to the señor--for pedro, too, had discerned the gentleman under the peasant's dress. archy, secretly delighted, went up to the coach, and don miguel asked him where he was bound. "to madrid, and thence to france." "get in," said don miguel, briefly, and archy got in. he thanked don miguel in his best french-spanish, and then inquired about the next posting-house, where he could write a letter, mentioning that he had once met don martin de soltomayer, and would endeavor to notify his friends of his safety, through don martin. "i know him well," replied don miguel. "has his deafness increased?" "he was not deaf at all when i saw him," answered archy. "ah. perhaps it was his eye that was failing him--has he but one?" "he had two when i saw him." by which don miguel discovered that archy really knew don martin. they made no further stop until they halted for the night at an inn and posting-house. archy wrote his letters, and finding that a courier for gibraltar was expected in the next two days, felt relieved in his mind. he dared not spend any of his small amount of money in a room, and slept in the hay-loft. by sunrise he was on his way again, and, as on the day before, he was overtaken by the coach and given a lift. stopping at a little town that day, archy bought a couple of shirts, and, finding a bookstall, he invested a few copper coins in a spanish dictionary and grammar. reduced entirely to spanish and french, it was surprising to him how magically he learned both, especially spanish; and in a few days he found he could take care of himself very well in the spanish language. don miguel and he conversed much then, and archy could describe fluently, if ungrammatically, and interlarded with french, the fight of the _bon homme richard_, and many other incidents which established his identity as an officer and a gentleman with an experienced man of the world like don miguel. he carefully avoided any reference to gibraltar, and when don miguel asked him how he got into the open boat, archy floundered so in his effort to tell about it in spanish that don miguel could not make head or tail of it--which was just what archy desired. it cannot be said that either was bored with the other's company. don miguel retained a taste for adventure, and was secretly amazed at archy's coolness, gayety, and boyish bravado, while archy had sense enough to show both gratitude and respect to a man who had really helped him as had don miguel. on the morning of the day when they expected to reach madrid, don miguel asked archy what his plans were. "to go to the french ambassador, declare myself, and ask to be sent to france." "the french embassy is closed on account of small-pox, so i have heard in the last few days. but i can easily introduce you to the minister of marine, who will investigate your case." "may i ask how long this would take, excellency?" don miguel shrugged his shoulders. "a month--two months, perhaps. the minister of marine will not be hurried." archy sat silent, and reflected. presently he said: "with these clothes, and the little money i have, i believe i could get to the french frontier in half the time." "do you expect to be taken for a spanish peasant?" asked don miguel, with a suspicion of a smile. "no," answered archy, smiling very broadly. their last halt was at a large and flourishing village near madrid. some sort of a _festa_ was going on; everybody was out in holiday clothes, and a company of strolling mountebanks was giving a performance. there were slack and tight rope walking, and dancing dogs, and a conjurer who ate fire. don miguel, while the mules were baiting, sat in his coach in the little public square, but archy had to be in the midst of things. he wandered about, and mixed with the village people, who, in their turn, mixed with the strollers, all being upon the most informal terms. after the tight-rope performance a trapeze was set up, and a harlequin, all in tights and spangles, came out and gave an alleged athletic performance which delighted the audience, but sent archy into fits of laughter. the midshipmen on board the _bon homme richard_ and those on the _royal george_, who were accustomed to run all over the rigging a hundred and fifty feet from the deck, could discount this unambitious gentleman, thought archy, and as he commonly gave expression to what was in his mind he said this out loud. "do you think so?" replied the person to whom he made this indiscreet remark. "perhaps you will show us something much better than that which we like." "no, i thank you," replied archy. "it is not in my line to do such things in public." a group had gathered round him, and a chorus of jeers and sneers went up. the effect of this on archy baskerville may easily be imagined. he tore off his green velvet jacket, kicked off his shoes, and, springing on the trapeze, began a performance which was certainly far superior to the professional's, although not up to archy's best form when on board ship. he swung by his feet, his knees, his chin; he made a spring and reached the wire, which was only a few feet above the trapeze. he worked rapidly along the wire by his feet and hands until he came to the end, which was fastened to the stone balcony of a tall building with a chimney. by that time the people were applauding frantically. he shinned up the front of the building by the windows and balconies, and, reaching the chimney, climbed to the top and squared himself off astride of it with his hands in his pockets. it was not nearly so high as the maintop-gallant yard of the _royal george_, where he had often been. the people at this went wild. women shrieked and implored him to come down, and when he turned to come down they shrieked louder than ever. it would have been a dangerous pastime for any one except a sailor; but in a few minutes archy had dropped to the ground, and, putting on his jacket and shoes, went up to don miguel, who still sat in the coach as unruffled as ever. "you are a very venturesome young man," was his only comment. "oh no, sir," answered archy; "that is the sort of thing we are taught aboard ship. a fellow that couldn't run all over the rigging would be in a bad way. i wager my friend, the acrobat yonder, couldn't do it." the crowd quite surrounded the coach then, much to don miguel's disgust, who ordered them away. all left except one man, who was the manager of this band of strolling acrobats. he could not be persuaded that archy was not a professional acrobat, in spite of his evidently being on terms with the grandee in the coach. he beckoned archy a little way from the door of the great lumbering vehicle, and whispered in his ear: "what will you take to join us? we are on our way north, perhaps as far as the basque provinces. i see you have been in the business, and we shall do well in the north. what will you take, i say?" archy looked at the man as if he were crazy, but in half a minute he began to see the matter in a new light. to the north--to the french frontier; that would be quicker and better than waiting indefinitely in madrid. and if it leaked out that he had come from gibraltar he was sure to be regarded with suspicion by the madrid authorities. "how long do you expect to be on the road?" he asked, under the influence of these new ideas. "about two weeks. we shall only give performances in the large villages and towns. we want to reach vitoria and st.-jean-de-luz by the middle of january, as they have _festas_ about that time; and then we can come southward again before the carnival. what will you take, i say?" "how many of you are there?" "myself and my wife--she tells fortunes; juan, who does the tight-rope; and luis and his wife--they are all. what will you take for your services?" "one-eighth of the receipts," said archy, not knowing in the least whether he was making a good bargain or not, except that here was a chance to reach the frontier. "done!" cried the manager, joyfully. archy went up to don miguel and told him what he had done. an inscrutable smile came into the old man's face. "do as you like," he said; "i shall not betray you. on the contrary, i will give you spanish money for your english money, and this--for i see you have no weapon." he fumbled about in the coach and produced a pistol, singularly small for those days. "this looks like a toy, but it is not; it was made and given me as a curiosity." archy thanked him feelingly, and found enough words in his vocabulary to say that don miguel's confidence was even more gratifying to him than the kindness and generosity he had received. and sunset saw don miguel rolling along alone in his coach into madrid, while archy, duly enrolled as a member of josé monza's company of wonderful acrobats, was trudging along, with a pack on his back, towards the tent in the fields which meant home to all of them. chapter xv behold our young friend, having travelled from the southern coast almost to madrid with a spanish general of the highest family, now prepared to make the rest of his journey to france as a member of a company of mountebanks! his first introduction into this new profession was anything but pleasant. as soon as they arrived at the tent, where the two women, maria and julia, were cooking supper, josé opened a chest and took out a tawdry and dirty costume, which he proposed that archy should wear. now the green velvet jacket, the brown breeches with silver buttons, and the yellow gaiters of a peasant had gone hard with archy, but at least they were clean, and this acrobatic costume was not. he looked at it, sniffed at it, and finally, in a volley of spanish and french, declared he would not wear it. that came near losing him his engagement. josé swore that wear it he must; archy vowed that wear it he wouldn't. maria, josé's wife, solved the difficulty by saying: "see, it makes no difference--it is too small for him, anyhow." then they all calmed down, and ate supper very amicably out of a large pannikin of something or other which tasted violently of onions, leeks, and garlic. next morning early they took up the line of march. among josé's possessions was a stout horse, by name bébé, which josé regarded as by far the most important member of the company. when hitched to the rude cart which transported their belongings, archy thought there was still room for the two women; but, to his surprise, maria and julia toiled along contentedly, each with a pack on her back, while the three men carried nothing. archy had nothing to carry except his shirts and his two books. naturally, he was very much disgusted with the want of chivalry of the gentlemen of the party, and offered to help both of the ladies with their burdens. but they scarcely understood what he meant by his offer, and laughed at him for it. they showed their good-will to him, though, by proposing to wash his shirts for him, which he thankfully accepted, and afterwards astonished them very much by the frequency with which he called upon them for this service. by the time the day's march was over, archy found that he had fallen in with a very honest set of people, although rude and unlettered. next day they reached a small town, and gave their first performance in the public square. the wire was stretched for the tight-rope walking, and josé shrewdly fastened it to the balcony of a tall building with a chimney, not unlike the one near madrid where archy had first appeared in public. maria, disguised as a gypsy, sat in the tent, which was decorated with bunting, and told marvellous fortunes to the gaping rustics who were credulous enough to cross her hand with silver. luis's performance on the trapeze was considered fine, and was much applauded; and when he got through, josé, as general director of affairs, advanced, and, ringing a huge bell to secure silence, began an oration which surprised archy as much as anybody. "ladies and gentlemen," he cried, "you will now see a marvellous performance by señor archibaldisto de baskervilliano, a distinguished indian gentleman from north america. señor archibaldisto was once a sailor, and as all the vessels in his country have masts as high as the spire of seville cathedral, it is nothing for him to dance the bolero on the top of yonder chimney. he is the heir to immense estates, and his father is a grandee of the first class in north america. but having been stolen in his youth, he adopted the acrobatic profession, and has performed with great applause before all the crowned heads of north america." archy bowed modestly in response to the tremendous applause which this evoked, and began his trapeze performance. as he was now endeavoring to do his best, and as he had practised in the last day or two, he acquitted himself to the delight of the people, and when he repeated his performance of shinning up the chimney, although he could not dance the bolero on top of it, he went through with some gymnastic performances which charmed the crowd. when their afternoon's work was over, and julia handed around her apron for contributions, josé divided the money with perfect honesty among them, and archy's one-eighth was somewhat more than he expected. as josé had promised, they pushed on rapidly, only giving performances in the larger villages and towns. luis, without the slightest professional jealousy, taught archy the bolero, and he was able to introduce the national dance of spain in some of his exhibitions. he also taught josé many things, and in a little while their joint performance so charmed josé that he began to try and persuade archy to return to madrid with them, and was quite disgusted when archy only laughed at him. archy was sometimes surprised at his own happiness on that journey. the travel was fatiguing, the fare rough, the work hard; but it was under the open sky, he was with honest people, and he was travelling towards freedom. he had lost all fear of being arrested for an englishman, but, as it turned out, that danger still remained, and eventually came near to cost him dear. on the tenth day from madrid they reached vitoria, and gave a performance in the quaint old town. josé made his harangue concerning señor archibaldisto, dwelling upon the fact that he was a sailor by profession. the crowd was made up, as usual, of villagers and peasants; but archy observed a group of three or four persons, one in the dress of a notary, which seemed of a better class. archy did better than usual even, the crowd applauded vociferously, and julia, going about holding her apron out, soon had it heavy with copper coins. the notary, a keen-eyed fellow, was saying quietly to his companions: "this señor archibaldisto is an impostor--that is, he is a gentleman. look at his hands; they are sunburned, but no more out of shape with work than a fine lady's. and he is an englishman. i have been in england and i know them. he is no north american; the north americans are indians--black, like the moors. listen to his spanish. he speaks rapidly, but incorrectly, and i know the english accent. depend upon it, he is an english spy--probably from gibraltar." this was enough. a cry went up from the notary's companions, of which the crowd quickly caught the meaning, and then, like a pack of wolves, they howled: "a spy! a spy from gibraltar! an english spy! garrote him! let him be garroted!" archy was standing on the ground near the open door of the tent where maria was telling fortunes. as he heard this ominous cry he turned to go into the tent, but josé met him at the door. the spaniard's face was black with hate. "you are an english spy!" he hissed. "i swear to you i am not--i swear before god that i am not a spy!" cried archy. josé barred the way for a moment, but suddenly maria, who had seemed nothing more than a beast of burden, rose and pushed him out of the way. "come," she said to archy, for the crowd was now closing around them menacingly. maria spoke to josé in a clear, high voice, audible over the enraged murmurs and shouts and cries of the crowd: "do you call yourself a christian, and stand by and let this honest boy fall into the hands of these blood-thirsty people? josé monza, i am ashamed that you are my husband!" josé, stunned by this declaration of independence from the submissive maria, could do nothing but turn his head from side to side, with his mouth gaping wide open. maria, albeit her wits were newly found, had them all about her, and whispered to archy hurriedly, as she dragged him in the tent: "while i am talking with the crowd in front, slit the tent behind, and dash through the crowd. there is a church-yard to the left--you will know the spire of the church because it is the only white one in sight--and to-morrow morning before daylight we will come to the church-yard." then she advanced to the tent door, and, shoving josé out of the way as if he were a bale of goods, began an animated harangue to the people, who gathered around the door to hear her, but interrupted her every moment with demands for the english spy. in another moment archy had cut with his pocket-knife a long slit in the tent, had sprung out, and was flying down a narrow and tortuous street. immediately the mob was in full cry after him, but all at once he seemed to sink into the ground before them. he had caught sight in his flight of an open trap-door leading into one of those underground shops so common in spanish towns; he dropped noiselessly into it, pulled the trap down with him, and heard hundreds of feet trampling as the multitude rushed on in pursuit of him. as soon as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness he saw there was no one in the shop. there was another room behind it, which opened into a garden. feeling sure that the proprietor would be back in a very short time, archy realized that he must be getting away very shortly. he slipped through the back room, ran up some crazy steps into the garden, and to his delight he saw through the gathering gloom the white spire of which maria had told him. the garden door was locked, but the key hung on a nail inside. with this he let himself softly out, and found himself in a narrow passage with garden-walls on one side and the back windows of houses on the other. it was quite dark in there, and he sped along unseen until he reached the end, and before him were the ivy-covered walls of the church-yard. it was but a moment's work to climb over. this being done, he hid himself behind a huge old mausoleum under a grove of ilex-trees; and then he felt safe. he could hear the cries and the patter of feet dying away in the distance, and soon all was still; darkness came on quickly and perfect silence reigned, broken presently by the mellow ringing of the angelus bells. then all was quiet again. archy was cold and hungry, but he did not allow this to disturb him. the black shadows cast by the ilex-trees made him quite invisible under their low, overhanging branches, and he spent the whole night walking up and down to keep warm. as the first gray light of the coming dawn appeared his listening ears caught the sound of some one creeping outside the wall. he quickly clambered over, and there was maria with a huge empty basket, which she put on his back, and together they trudged rapidly off in the direction of the high-road. "remember," said maria, "if we are stopped you are to be my brother; you are too old to be my son, and too young to be my husband." "i think it an honor to be related in any way to so good a woman as you, maria," gallantly replied archy. on the outskirts of the town they found the rest of the party with the cart and bébé, and by hard travelling from dawn until midnight they reached the bidassoa, the boundary between france and spain. they encamped on the french side of the river, and after a rest of a whole day and night they set out for st.-jean-de-luz. they were now on french soil, and archy's heart bounded with joy and hope and gratitude. at st.-jean-de-luz he had to part with his humble friends. he had enough money to take him to paris, travelling economically, and his late experiences proved to him that his own good legs would enable him to get there even if his money gave out. before parting they gave two grand performances, in which archy quite outshone himself, and they took in a considerable sum of money. with his share archy bought some little memento for each of his kind friends. josé and maria not only had the pain of parting with archy, but also with bébé, that they had determined to sell for about twice his value. their only consolation was that they had sold him to one of the woman postilions, common enough in those days, who plied between st.-jean-de-luz and bayonne, and archy was to ride bébé the day's journey between the two places. the farewells were touching. all the men kissed archy, after the spanish fashion, and he kissed maria and julia, and thanked them from the bottom of his heart--particularly maria, to whom he felt he owed his life. maria wept bitterly, and archy said to her, with the greatest sincerity: "maria, as long as i live, whenever i see or hear of a good woman i shall think of you." at last he was started on his journey. on bébé's broad back was one of those queer double saddles which were then used in the basque provinces. archy sat on one side, while on the other was perched a stout basque woman, teresa by name. being a sailor, archy was perfectly willing to ride anything in any manner, from a goat to an elephant, and always at full speed. teresa claimed jurisdiction over the horse, but this archy would by no means admit, and just as they were passing through the market-place he gave bébé a smart cut with a knotted handkerchief, and the next thing he knew he was floundering amid the ruins of a wicker chicken-coop, the frightened fowls clacking and flapping wildly, while a dozen market-women were abusing him at once in french and spanish; and teresa, loud above all, was haranguing him on his cruelty to poor bébé, the horse, that did not seem to archy as much an object of sympathy as himself. he was disentangled from the coop and the fowls by two handsome basque girls, who, however, lost all favor in his eyes by laughing at him openly. very sulky and disgusted, he mounted again, and teresa guided the stout bébé out of the town and along the road to bayonne. archy counted that day as among the most unpleasant of his life. teresa alternated with laughing at him and scolding him. in a rage he dismounted and walked, when teresa, whipping bébé into a fast trot, caused archy to run after her frantically for fear he should never see either teresa or bébé again. when they reached bayonne that night they parted with mutual sentiments of disesteem. the rest of his journey to paris was uneventful, and on a february evening he found himself standing at the door of the large, pleasant house, set in an ample garden at passy, which m. ray de chaumont had generously given to the american representatives. archy's heart beat rapturously. he scarcely expected to meet paul jones, the most he hoped for being to hear that the commodore was somewhere on the french coast. but just as he raised the knocker and gave a thundering rat-tat-tat the door opened, and he almost walked into paul jones's arms. "my captain!" cried archy. "my brave little midshipman!" exclaimed paul jones; and they embraced, and archy was not ashamed of the happy tears that filled his eyes. and then paul jones held him off at arm's-length, and cried: "how you are grown! and how handsome you are! and what adventures have you had? and, faith! how glad i am to see you again!" they heard a clear voice behind them saying: "this, then, is the lost pleiad--the young gentleman who was picked up by the british at the texel." it was dr. franklin who spoke. archy turned to him and involuntarily removed his hat--so noble, so venerable was this august man. "come, commodore, you do not want to go now. you and your young friend must remain to sup with me," continued dr. franklin; and archy, almost abashed by the honor shown him, proudly and delightedly accepted. never could archy baskerville forget this first evening in the company of those two extraordinary men. dr. franklin's dry and penetrating wit, his acute reasoning, would have impressed the dullest intelligence; while paul jones, whose schemes were great and far-reaching, had plans in view well calculated to dazzle an ambitious young mind like archy baskerville's. nor was he entirely silent. he felt, of course, under a strict obligation to say nothing about the condition of gibraltar, but he told of the unyielding courage of the garrison, of the fortitude of the women, and of the many noble and admirable incidents that had occurred; he actually found himself telling the story of throwing the peacock down the skylight upon the hanoverian officers, and the old genoese woman being blown through the window. he was so much encouraged by dr. franklin's laughter and paul jones's that he told of his journey through spain, his career as an acrobat; he even related the story of teresa, the double saddle, and his fall into the chicken-coop, and some of his other adventures. but when paul jones questioned him about lord bellingham, archy could not refrain, in the boyish vanity of his heart, from recounting some of the various duellos at wit in which he and his grandfather had been engaged--and he only related those in which he had come out ahead, like the affair about his american uniform. paul jones shouted with laughter, while dr. franklin quietly chuckled. at last, about ten o'clock, paul jones made ready to return to paris, saying to archy: "you must share my lodgings, mr. baskerville. i am afraid to trust so adventurous a young gentleman out of my sight." and archy delightedly accepted. and now came a time more easy and brilliant in some respects, and more harassing and anxious in others, than archy had ever known. he lived with paul jones in his paris lodgings, and, like him, his time was passed between anxious journeys to l'orient, to find new difficulties among the _alliance_ and the _ariel_ and their crews, and vexatious and annoying transactions with the french minister of marine. paul jones was a favorite at versailles and in the highest society in paris, and he was glad to take with him in those dazzling palaces a handsome and dashing young officer like archy, who now wore a splendid continental naval uniform, and who enjoyed the glitter and splendor of all he saw. but, like paul jones, he would have hailed with joy any prospect of getting away from this glittering but useless life into the real service of his country. of course the subject of archy's exchange was at once taken up. all the officers of his rank captured on the _bon homme richard_ had been already exchanged, so that he had before him the dreary and tedious business of trying to arrange an exchange with some young army officer of the same rank in america. the summer came and waned, as did the autumn, and no headway was made in his affair, nor in the greater affair of paul jones procuring an armed ship, which was continually promised but never forthcoming. the gloomy prospects of the american cause at that time made it daily more unlikely that he would get a ship. paul jones's spirits sank, and so did archy's. they remained more closely at their lodgings, and the scenes of splendid gayety which they had frequented a few months before saw them no more. only dr. franklin, serene and majestic, lost neither heart nor hope. one night in november, , paul jones and archy sat together in their lodgings, which were close by the house of the minister of war. never had they felt so despairing of their country. they knew that both sir henry clinton and lord cornwallis had been reinforced in america, and that rodney's fleet was on its way there to strike a mortal blow to the fleet of de grasse, from which much had been expected and nothing had come. besides these sad thoughts, archy's heart was heavy when he thought of his friends at gibraltar. were they still living and starving? or had they at last found rest in death? the fire burned itself out, the candles flickered in their sockets; midnight came, yet neither made any move towards going to bed. archy felt a singular restlessness in spite of his misery--he felt in the attitude of one waiting for something to happen. at last it came, at one o'clock in the morning. far up the stony street they heard the clatter of a horse's hoofs going at full gallop. "it is an official messenger. he is stopping at the hôtel of the war minister," said archy, in an intense whisper; and the next minute he tore down the three flights of stairs of the tall house in which they lodged, unfastened a window in the _entresol_ and jumped out, instead of waiting for the _concierge_ to be waked up, and found himself speeding along the street, and paul jones, neither so young nor so active, not far behind him. windows were being opened, people were collecting hurriedly on the streets, and a little crowd already stood around the steaming horse from which the messenger had just alighted and had disappeared within the doors. in an upper window on the first floor of the splendid hôtel a light quickly appeared--the war minister was receiving the news. the crowd below waited, some in breathless silence, others exclaiming and gesticulating in their excitement, and every moment the people increased in numbers. presently the window was flung up, and the war minister, with a white nightcap on his head and a dressing-gown wrapped round him, put his head out and raised his hand for silence. instantly every voice was hushed. "good news--great news--from our allies in north america! on the th of october, at yorktown, in virginia, lord cornwallis, with all his force--guns, stores, and several vessels--surrendered to general george washington, in command of the joint forces of america and france. _vive l'amérique!_" before the crowd could shout, a sudden, wild cry of joy went up from a young man and an older one who stood together, clasping each other, with tears running down their faces. the french might cheer and huzza in their triumph, as they did, waking up the entire quarter of paris, and causing an outpouring of the whole population, but the patriotic joy of paul jones and archy baskerville was too deep for words. theirs was a passionate thanksgiving which could only be expressed by paul jones as, uncovering his head, he said, reverently: "let us bless the good god for his mercies to our dear country!" chapter xvi the surrender of lord cornwallis was admitted to be the practical end of the war. the english people, as a mass, rose up and declared that the strife must end. parliament, it was known, would not vote another shilling for soldiers or ships for america. the ministers gave up in despair, and even george iii., the most obstinate king of which history makes any record, saw that he must yield. the attitude of the english people and parliament was known in paris by the middle of december, and at once ended the projects for the fitting-out of hostile ships for america, and likewise for the exchange of the few american officers in europe who were on parole. with the end of the long and obstinate conflict in view, they had to exercise a little more patience and wait for the formal preliminaries of peace in order to be unconditionally released. one of the first letters that archy received after the great news from america was from his uncle, colonel baskerville. it said: "there is no longer any question of a renewal of hostilities. i have it on authority that the government is considering an armistice and the appointment of plenipotentiaries of peace, and the only delay in the way is that the colonies cannot make peace without france, nor can france make peace without spain and holland--and spain means to make one last desperate effort to regain gibraltar. but i will leave it to your friends, dr. franklin and commodore jones, whether there is any chance of active employment for you, and if there is not, i beg that you will come to england under a safe-conduct to see your grandfather. you have no relatives in america, and nothing can be arranged concerning your future until peace is declared and the navy of the colonies is reorganized, or rather established, for they have nothing which can be called a navy at present. i understand that the arming and equipping of such few vessels as the colonies can get together is now totally abandoned. meanwhile your grandfather is extremely desirous to see you for a very special purpose. he is an old man, and may not long survive; and if you once cross the ocean, there is but little likelihood of your return during his remnant of life. therefore, if your friends, who are older and more experienced than you, think that you can come with honor, pray do so. your safe-conduct will enable you to return at any time to either france or america. you will certainly not be called upon to fight any more, and the emergency of the case justifies me in urging you to come." archy showed this letter to paul jones and to dr. franklin, and, after both had considered it, they advised him to go. "my impression is, mr. baskerville," said dr. franklin, "that lord bellingham wishes to make some arrangement about his estates; and although you are under age, and have no guardian--and you say that your father united with your grandfather in cutting the entail--yet he may want to make you some amends, and i recommend you to accept the safe-conduct and go." paul jones, with whom archy had lived for many months, talked with him long and confidentially, and his advice was of the same tenor as dr. franklin's. "nothing will be easier," he said, "than for me to arrange with the minister of marine to notify you if, by any chance, there should be a resumption of hostilities; and meanwhile you will be better off with your own relatives, especially such a man as you represent colonel baskerville to be, than alone in paris, for i may leave for america any day. and you know very well, my dear archy, that both our purses are low, and are likely to remain so until the _bon homme richard's_ prize-money is paid over, and heaven knows when that will be. i have great confidence in you, but for a young man to be alone and living by his wits in a city like paris would test the integrity of the finest young man in the world. true, dr. franklin remains; but he is often in straits for money, and you could scarcely expect him, with his vast cares, to take upon himself the charge of confidential friend, adviser, and banker of a young man like yourself. so, i say, go to bellingham castle, and if your grandfather will do the handsome thing by you, so much the better. i have not the slightest fear that you can be beguiled from your allegiance to your country by any blandishments lord bellingham can offer." "that i cannot!" cried archy, with energy; "and i will show him i cannot." nevertheless, it was not with gayety of heart that archy prepared to take his friend's advice. he almost wept when he bade farewell to paul jones on the morning that he took the diligence for calais, and was rather hurt by his old commander's laughing air and gay manner at the moment of parting, until paul jones said: "perhaps i may see you in england myself. true, i believe there is a standing offer of ten thousand guineas for me, dead or alive; but did not captain cunningham, who also had a price upon him, take his vessel into an english port and refit? and i have had a fancy to see england ever since i was honored with so high a price upon my head." a light broke in upon archy's mind. "i see! i see!" he cried. "very well; all i can say is that if the people molest you there is admiral digby, at the admiralty, who will defend you." "but the people will not know that i am paul jones," significantly replied the commodore. "i grant you, if i went in my proper character i should see only the inside of newgate prison; and as i wish a more extended view, i would do better not to tell my name and adventures. i say this to you: we shall meet again in england." this started archy off in high spirits, and he already began to plan concealing paul jones at bellingham castle. his cheerfulness lasted until he began to think of his "enemies" at gibraltar. were they still alive? there was no news from the rock except that it still held out stubbornly, and that before spain was forced by her allies to sign a peace she meant to make one last desperate and unprecedented effort to regain that mighty fortress. however, nothing could damp his happiness at the splendid prospects of his country, and, elated with the idea, he easily persuaded himself that everything concerning everybody he loved would come right. this happy conviction, which was partly justified by circumstances and partly accounted for by youth and health and motion along a fine high-road on a bright morning, inspired him to raise his voice in song; but as he sang very badly, and the guard laughed at him, he concluded to try some other form of amusement. he had the box-seat, and having a little gold still left in his belt he slyly insinuated a piece into the hand of the coachman, who, in return, passed him over the reins. but a few jolts and bumps, a growl from the postilion, and a sharp volley from the guard, together with a chorus of shrieks from several nervous old ladies inside, caused the coachman to resume his job hurriedly, much to archy's chagrin. this was but a temporary damper, and he proved a very lively companion all the way to calais. they arrived in the afternoon, just at the turn of the tide, and with a favorable wind for the channel islands, where archy meant to go. there was a guardship, he knew, stationed off the island of jersey, and if he could get to her he knew there was constant communication with spithead. as soon as he got to calais he at once reported to the authorities, who, on the strength of his safe-conduct, directed him where to find a boatman. he soon found one with a tolerably large boat, who agreed to take him for a moderate sum to the british guardship. the boatman was as anxious not to lose the wind as archy, so in an incredibly short time they were off, and before midnight, by the light of a brilliant moon, they made the island of jersey. as they sighted the guardship they hoisted for a flag of truce a sheet which archy had bought at a calais tavern. they were suffered to come alongside--a small sailboat with two men not being alarming. archy handed up his credentials in a small bag tied to an oar, and after they had been sent to the captain for inspection, and returned as being all right, he was asked to come aboard. in a few minutes he was on the deck of the guardship, and the little boat had tacked for france. the reception he met with from the officer of the deck, and subsequently the captain, was rather chilling. the british people, as a whole, had opposed the war, but there were many persons, especially in the army and navy, who regarded the americans still as traitors. archy's first question was well meant, but unfortunate. he eagerly inquired of the captain if there was any news of gibraltar. "news of its fall, i presume you mean," was the captain's brusque reply. "no, sir, there is no news of that--and will not be. the enemies of england need not expect those gallant men to yield. gibraltar will remain ours." archy had so long been accustomed to regard gibraltar as the abode of his friends that he was a little staggered for a moment, but recovering himself, he said, with dignity: "sir, i was a prisoner at gibraltar for nearly a year, and i was so kindly treated by the brave garrison that, although they were the enemies of my country, i could not but consider them as personal friends, and my question was inspired by the most sincere solicitude for them." even this did not melt the captain's icy manner, and his next words were an offer to let archy sail next morning in a tender that was to carry despatches to spithead. the invitation was given so like an order to kick him off the ship that archy promptly accepted it--and as promptly declined a rather cool invitation to accept a berth. he returned to the deck, and selecting a sheltered corner under one of the boats, wrapped himself in his cloak, used his portmanteau for a pillow, and in a little while was sleeping the sleep of the just, the young, and the healthy. at daylight he was aboard the tender. it was a mild january morning, and the good breeze of the night before still held. when they came within sight of the splendid british fleet in the downs, archy could not repress a sensation of envy. could but his country have the half of such a fleet! the journey from spithead to yorkshire was not very pleasant. archy, like most hot-headed young persons, was fond of airing his opinions and proclaiming his beliefs in season and out; and, armed with his safe-conduct, he enjoyed an immunity that he had never known before. he swaggered on his way, announcing with vast pride and belligerence that he was an american; he inquired for news concerning the surrender of cornwallis wherever he judged it would be most annoying; he entertained sulky english travellers with accounts of the fight between the _serapis_ and the _bon homme richard_ whenever he had the chance; and when he did all this without getting a broken head he rashly concluded that it was due to his own superior wisdom; and, in short, conducted himself in such a manner that in after-life he often bitterly regretted that he had not been well thrashed for his behavior. being naturally good-tempered, he was much surprised when people took offence at remarks that amused him but were exasperating to others, and he always assumed the air of a much injured person when called to account for his impertinence. he travelled over the same road from london to bellingham castle that he had taken more than two years before, and he really began to look forward with pleasure to seeing his grandfather again--so strong is the tie of blood when once acknowledged. colonel baskerville he thought of with the greatest affection; and when, at the same hour of the evening that he had first arrived at the village, the coach rolled in and he saw his uncle waiting for him at the door of the inn and posting-house, archy's heart beat with joy, and, jumping down, he seized the staid colonel in an embrace that very much surprised and startled him. and his very first remark, after asking affectionately of his uncle's health, was to proclaim, with an air of triumph: "and, nunky, what do you say to general george washington now?" "i say that he is a very remarkable man," good-naturedly replied colonel baskerville; "but from your tone and manner of confidence and arrogance i imagine that you yourself contributed largely towards the result of lord cornwallis's surrender"--which almost brought a blush to archy's sunburned cheek. lord bellingham had sent the coach to meet archy, much to his amusement, as well as colonel baskerville's, and as they were bumping along the road through the park the colonel said, smiling: "grandsons are all the rage now. lord bellingham has actually condescended to admit that he had a grandson in the continental navy, but he continues to speak of your commission as if your holding it were a mere boyish escapade." "he does, does he? poor grandfather! he will know better before he is much older." "i will say to you, frankly, that lord bellingham mortally hates the idea of the title lapsing; and if you will agree to accept it, and to cease to be an american, no doubt your grandfather will make you his heir. but if you stick to your country, as you call it, i am equally sure that trevor langton will be the heir--that is, if he is alive, for the latest reports from gibraltar show that although the loss of life from the bombardment is small, there is an epidemic of fever and scurvy, and, naturally, we are all anxious about trevor langton. it is piteous to see his poor mother." archy remained silent, distressed by what he had just heard, and colonel baskerville continued: "langton's mother, my niece, is now staying at bellingham--the first time her father has recognized her since her marriage. her two daughters are with her--mary and isabel--fine, handsome girls they are." "if they are anything like trevor they must be everything they ought to be, for he is the finest fellow: so brave, so gentle, so quiet--so unlike me." colonel baskerville smiled again at this, while archy went on to explain that he and langton knew the status of affairs perfectly well. "when we were in the hut at gibraltar we often talked it over, but it never made the least difference between us. i am an american, and shall remain so, and trevor will get the money; but i'll never want for it while he lives, and you know i have enough to keep me in clothes and food, candles and fuel, anyhow." presently they rattled up to the great pile of bellingham castle. but how different was archy's reception from his first visit! lord bellingham had developed a whim, or possibly something better, of liberality and large-heartedness, and it had impelled him to open his house, send for his daughter and her children, and receive archy in a manner calculated to please a much older and better-balanced person. lord bellingham, with all his faults and freaks, was not without feeling. archy's spirit, intelligence, and strong personal resemblance to lord bellingham in his youth had softened the old man's heart. he felt a natural desire that the title should remain in his family, which could only be done by archy's accepting it. at first he had regarded his grandson's unwillingness to give up his citizenship in his own country as a mere boyish impulse; but he had become convinced that it would take all his powers of persuasion, and all that could dazzle a young and impressionable mind, to induce the boy to become a subject of a king who was so well hated by americans. nothing, however, was to be lacking in the way of subtle flattery, and for that reason archy's reception was imposing. the great hall doors were flung wide open as soon as the coach drew up; an army of servants in livery were drawn up on each side of the entrance, the men on one side, the maids on the other, and lord bellingham, elegantly dressed, as usual, and looking like a prince--and, what was more, like a prince in a good-humor--greeted archy with stately cordiality. "my grandson! welcome to bellingham." a man quite as fastidious as lord bellingham might have felt pride and pleasure in the beautiful young man before him. archy's figure had filled out, his handsome features had not lost their natural, joyous expression; but instead of his boyish confidence he had gained a manly self-possession, and the likeness to his grandfather in every respect had become simply astounding. in archy lord bellingham saw himself in the brightness and the glory of his youth, and it did not make his heart less tender towards this handsome grandson. archy greeted him affectionately, and then came forward mrs. langton, who was just what archy thought trevor langton's mother should be, and who met him and kissed him with all the affection of a mother. mary and isabel were two tall, handsome young girls, the most self-possessed creatures that archy had ever seen, who, instead of dropping their eyes and curtseys at the same time, looked him full in the face with laughing glances, and were not nearly so ready to take him on trust as their gentle mother. archy's first eager words on greeting her were: "have you heard anything of langton?" mrs. langton's eyes filled with tears. "not one word direct for nearly two years. i know from your letters to my father and uncle much that happened at gibraltar while you were with him, but the last word i had from my son was when admiral rodney's fleet left gibraltar in the march of ' ." archy's heart went out to his aunt, as it had done to mrs. curtis, and always did when sweet and motherly women were kind to him. but his heart did not go out to his cousins, mary and isabel. they looked at him loftily; they seemed disposed to treat him as a bandit and an insurgent, and evidently regarded his connection with their brother as his only title to consideration; in short, they were a good deal like archy himself, and for that reason they did not affiliate very promptly. as archy looked around him after the first greeting, he could scarcely believe it the same place that he had known two years before. instead of a simple dinner served in the little dining-parlor for colonel baskerville and himself, the great dining-hall was thrown open, and a splendid dinner was served to the family party of six--lord bellingham leading his daughter out on his arm, with his antique courtesy. the younger, prettier, and saucier of his cousins, isabel langton, fell to archy's share. "dear me," remarked isabel, looking critically at archy when they were seated at the table, "i had no idea you were so old." "nineteen is not old, my dear," responded archy, in a tone as if he were addressing dolly curtis, who was ten. "isabel!" said her mother, in a warning voice. "let them alone, ma'am," remarked lord bellingham. "i think my grandson can take care of himself." mary, seated on archy's other side, now came to her sister's rescue, while colonel baskerville, with a grin, prepared to enjoy seeing the young ones having it out, hammer and tongs. "my sister is not accustomed to such familiarity as 'my dear' from strangers, even if you are a cousin," she severely remarked. "mary!" was mrs. langton's next protest. "isn't she?" said archy. "i beg a thousand pardons. the last little girl i had much to do with was a darling of ten years old--dolly curtis--and i used to ride her on my shoulder and steal apples for her from the stores; and i thought, perhaps, you and your sister--but never mind." isabel and mary took refuge in silent indignation, exchanging wrathful glances; mrs. langton looked distressed, colonel baskerville highly amused, and lord bellingham's handsome old face was quite impassive. archy, as if to show that isabel and mary were quite too childish to have any claim upon the attention of a young man of nineteen, then turned to his grandfather and said, airily: "by-the-way, sir, the conduct of captain curtis at gibraltar is second only to that of general eliot, and we americans congratulate ourselves that these two officers were not in virginia with lord cornwallis. it might have delayed the surrender considerably." an electric shock ran round the table at that. the old butler quietly removed a decanter that was handy at lord bellingham's elbow, and mrs. langton looked ready to faint. but, to everybody's amazement, after a moment's pause, lord bellingham suddenly smiled; his laugh was quite silent in contrast to the happy ripple that had been his throughout youth, and which he had lost during a long course of selfishness and bad temper. then colonel baskerville shouted, and mrs. langton smiled, and archy, with a fine assumption of addressing two very small children, remarked to mary and isabel: "haven't you heard the news, my dears? lord cornwallis, on the th day of last october, surrendered his whole force to general george washington. didn't know it, eh? it's a shame that you are kept so cooped up in the nursery that you never know what is going on in the world"; and then even the two girls laughed while they scowled. the dinner was very jolly after that. the girls continued to snap at archy, and he gave it them back in his best style; but it was good-natured snapping, and it so amused lord bellingham and colonel baskerville that mrs. langton not only permitted the girls to defend themselves, but she even smiled faintly at the scrimmage. nevertheless, when archy and colonel baskerville were parting for the night, archy said, in a grave manner: "i can hardly believe, uncle, that those pert misses are langton's sisters. they need to be sent to a good stiff boarding-school to bring them down a peg or two." "they are as much like you as girls can be like a boy," was the colonel's cool rejoinder, "and that is why you do not fancy them." chapter xvii lord bellingham soon began the systematic effort to induce archy to give up his country for which he had, in truth, been sent for from france. but everything united to make against his scheme. while the time never had been that archy would have abandoned his country and her cause, he was still less likely to do so in the hour of her triumph, when the english people had forced the king and his ministry to abandon a fratricidal war. and the association for many months with two such men as paul jones and dr. franklin was not calculated to make any young and impressionable mind less american in its belief and sympathies. nor was the splendid bait offered by lord bellingham half as attractive to archy as it would have been to a young man of less adventurous life and habits. full of an enthusiastic democracy, he rated the title as nothing at all; and as for the estates, it may be said to the honor of humanity that money has but little weight with a manly and generous nature in the freshness of youth. archy really would have liked to own bellingham castle if he could have transported it to america, but he would cheerfully have given all the mediæval castles in england for one good ship of the line, and would have thrown in westminster abbey as a makeweight. and because little things as well as great things influence people, lord bellingham could not have devised a better way to defeat his own object than in bringing archy in contact with his two cousins, isabel and mary. these two high-spirited young ladies were as determinedly english as archy was aggressively american, and the result was warfare, in which quarter was neither asked nor given. not one of the three was bad-tempered, so that, in spite of their continual bickerings, there was an odd sort of sympathy among them, the sympathy which comes from a community of tastes and amusements, which made them seek each other's society, apparently for the purpose of expressing their disesteem for each other's opinions--mary and isabel on the one side, and archy on the other; mrs. langton vainly striving for peace, colonel baskerville an impartial umpire, and lord bellingham secretly diverted at the cut-and-come-again style in which his grandchildren disputed. but he grew grave one day when he came upon them engaged in an exciting discussion on the issues of the war in america, which isabel ended by saying, loftily: "at all events, we sha'n't be mortified by hearing you express such opinions in public, for you know grandpapa can't take you about the country visiting with him, because a great many people would not recognize you. they call you a rebel." "do they?" wrathfully replied archy. "i'll give them to understand, then, that i'd rather be an american and a rebel--yes, by jove! a rebel against tyrannical kings--than to be heir to lord bellingham's title and estates. and that i will show them, too!" "i hope you will stick to it," said isabel, tartly, "for it is a pity to have the estate go out of the family, and trevor will get it if you don't. dear trevor!" isabel, who was tender-hearted in spite of her high spirit, could not keep the tears out of her eyes at the mention of trevor's name, and archy, too, was softened, for he answered: "hang it, isabel, why do you say such maddening things? if you were not langton's sister and your mother's daughter i would serve you as william the conqueror did the princess matilda--roll you in the mud until you cried _peccavi_," at which isabel smiled in a superior manner. she was so tall and strong that william the conqueror would have had trouble rolling her in the mud. lord bellingham moved away in a thoughtful mood. he began, for the first time, to realize that he might possibly not succeed in buying up his grandson--a reflection which he had hitherto refused, even in his own mind, to consider a possibility. however, fate was preparing a delicious revenge for archy upon his two cousins, and it took a form which not only gave him ecstatic pleasure at the time, but sufficed him for chaffing the two girls during the residue of their lives; and this is how it came about. the spring had passed, the fall of the ministry had made it certain that the american war was practically over, and the summer came and waned. but it was not like summer weather, and on a certain august night the air was so sharp upon the northern hills and moors that a fire was not unpleasant in the great hall at bellingham castle. lord bellingham sat before it, with mary and isabel taking turns in reading the london newspapers to him. the news they contained of the abandonment of hostilities was not very agreeable to either of the girls, each of whom punctuated her reading with her own opinions, very much after archy's manner. lord bellingham listened, smiling instead of scowling. the society of his daughter and of his grandchildren had certainly changed the old man's temper and manners, if not his disposition. presently lord bellingham asked: "where is my grandson?" "indeed, i don't know, grandpapa," replied mary. "he is the most restless creature i ever saw. he cannot sit down and be quiet and placid like an english gentleman; he must always be off on some sort of an expedition." lord bellingham smiled again. he knew that the instant archy entered the doors the three young people would gravitate together, although to say a civil word one to the other was strictly against their code. "there he is now," said isabel, as steps were heard, and the porter came out from his corner to open the doors. instead of archy, though, there entered a slight, well-made man, of about thirty-five, with a plain but striking face, in which glowed a pair of singularly beautiful black eyes. he was dressed in a handsome riding-suit, and had an air and manner of distinction. "is mr. archibald baskerville here?" he asked; and then, seeing the old man and the two girls sitting at the other end of the vast hall in the glowing light of the fire, and the waxlights on a reading-stand, he advanced, removing his three-cornered hat and making a profound and graceful bow, first to the two girls and then to their grandfather. lord bellingham, who had seen much of men and things, recognized in an instant that he saw before him a person of distinction, and, rising from his chair with much dignity, he returned the salutation with a courtly inclination. the stranger then spoke in a softly modulated voice, in which there was occasionally a slight hesitation. "i believe i am addressing lord bellingham, and--" he paused and looked towards the two girls, whose height and beauty made them appear much older than their sixteen and seventeen years. "my granddaughters," said lord bellingham, with a wave of his hand. the stranger made another bow, so elegant that the two girls summoned all their grace to return it properly, and then, accepting the chair which lord bellingham indicated, he continued: "i venture the liberty of calling to see my young friend, mr. baskerville. i trust he is still here." "mr. baskerville is not at present under this roof, but we are expecting him in momentarily," replied lord bellingham. "mr. baskerville is my grandson, and i beg to introduce myself as lord bellingham." "i wish, my lord," replied the stranger, with dignity, "that i could respond to the courtesy you show me by introducing myself. but the exigencies of the times are such that i am compelled to forego, for political as well as personal reasons, giving my name. mr. baskerville, however, will recognize me as an officer and a gentleman." now, lord bellingham was not addicted to making friends with strangers, but he was so captivated with his unknown visitor's air and manners and speech, and his curiosity was so aroused, that his answer was in a very courteous tone: "these are, indeed, troublous times, and i am more than willing to take my grandson's friend on trust. i may hazard, however, in spite of your excellent english, that you are a frenchman, or a spaniard perhaps, who finds himself in england, and whom prudence requires that he should conceal his name." "i am neither french nor spanish," coolly responded the stranger. "i was born in scotland. but i have lately come from paris." "how are affairs there, may i inquire?" "in a very singular state," replied the stranger. "with an autocratic government, and little sympathy between the court and the people, the court ardently espouses the cause of democracy in the case of the american colonies." "and the king and queen will rue it," energetically cried lord bellingham, bringing his slender, ivory-headed cane down to emphasize his remarks. "they are teaching their people rebellion against kings, and they may pay the penalty by being driven out of their own bailiwick." the stranger, as if not caring to pursue the subject further, turned and said, in a manner at once flattering and respectful: "may i be permitted to observe that these two charming young gentlewomen remind me strongly of her majesty queen marie antoinette; and in proof of this, allow me to show you this." he drew from his bosom a very beautiful miniature of the queen, set in brilliants, with her monogram, and handed it to isabel. there was, undoubtedly, a likeness between that fair, haughty face and the faces of the two handsome young english girls, with their abundant blond hair, their brilliant blue eyes, and their short upper lips, like the austrian. mary and isabel smiled delightedly. it was something to be told they looked like the queen of france, and that by a gentleman who had been honored by the gift of her portrait. the miniature at once established the stranger in lord bellingham's mind as a person of consequence, and he was already deep in the good graces of isabel and mary. his conversation further prepossessed them in his favor. quiet, modest, and without dragging in the names of the great, it was easy to see that he had moved in the best society of paris, and by his frank comment upon persons and things he showed he was not in slavish subservience to it. he spoke of the king and queen with gratitude and affection, but on the subject of the administration of the military and naval affairs of france he showed something approaching bitterness and chagrin. lord bellingham was deeply interested in the conversation of so accomplished a man; but isabel and mary, whose lives had been spent in seclusion, were perfectly infatuated with him. they thought him a duke, at least, and even whispered to each other, under cover of their grandfather's sonorous conversation, that the stranger might prove to be the comte d'artois, that younger brother of the royal house of france who was celebrated for milking the cow so beautifully at the little trianon, and who was the best dancer on the tight-rope in paris. nearly an hour had passed in conversation when, with a bang, the great hall door came open, and archy and colonel baskerville entered, just home from a long ride. the stranger rose instantly, and, facing the door, held up a hand of warning. as soon as archy's eyes became accustomed to the glow of the fire and candles, he uttered a cry of joy. "my--" captain he was about to say, when he caught sight of paul jones's uplifted hand, and the word was checked in time. but, rushing forward, the two met and clasped each other rapturously, and in that warm embrace some whispered words were exchanged which caused them both to smile delightedly as they returned to the fire with their arms around each other like two school-boys, instead of being a captain and one of his junior officers. lord bellingham and the two girls were amazed at the warmth of the meeting, and more puzzled than ever to make out the identity of their mysterious visitor. not so colonel baskerville. he surmised in an instant that it was paul jones. "grandfather," cried archy, "i cannot tell you the name of this gentleman whom i have the honor to call my friend, but i assure you that bellingham never sheltered a more honorable and deserving man." "i believe you," replied lord bellingham, with dignity, "and as i have already accepted him upon his own representations, i can do no more on yours. perhaps your friend will remain the night with us?" "unfortunately, no," replied paul jones, "with sincere thanks for your lordship's goodness. i have been two weeks in england, and to-morrow morning, early, i must embark. i have ordered post-horses from the village for twelve o'clock to-night, which will get me to the coast before this time to-morrow." "uncle," then said archy, turning to colonel baskerville, "will you not, on my assurance, shake hands with my friend?" "certainly," responded colonel baskerville, offering his hand, and saying, in a low voice, which lord bellingham did not catch: "with a surmise which amounts to a certainty as to who he is." supper was now ordered in lord bellingham's room, and when it was announced, all four of the gentlemen arose. mrs. langton had sent a message asking to be excused, so isabel and mary were to go to their mother. as they rose, paul jones made them another of those captivating bows which had charmed very great ladies, much less two innocent and unsophisticated young girls, and they returned it with curtseys which almost brought them to the ground. and then a strange thing happened. archy suddenly doubled up with silent laughter. lord bellingham had preceded them and was now passing through the library door, so that he could neither see nor hear what was going on behind him. paul jones looked surprised until archy whispered in his ear: "my cousins profess to detest americans!" a smile suddenly illuminated his dark face, while colonel baskerville, like archy, seemed to be excessively amused at the profound curtseys of the two young girls. "dear ladies," said paul jones, who was famous for making headway with the other sex, "may i not have the honor of kissing your charming hands, as a memory to carry away with me of the two most beautiful maidens i have ever known outside my native country?" and isabel and mary, blushing and smiling and nothing loath, extended their hands, which paul jones touched with his lips in the most respectful manner. as they sailed gracefully off, archy seized colonel baskerville, who wore a sympathetic grin, and whispered, convulsively: [illustration: "isabel and mary extended their hands to paul jones"] "uncle, this is more than i can stand. i shall certainly explode when i think of isabel and mary--and--o-ho!" archy went off into spasms of laughter, which lasted until he was seated at the table directly under lord bellingham's stern eye. and even then, with all his pride and delight in his old commander, archy was secretly convulsed when he anticipated the revelation of paul jones's identity after he was out of the three kingdoms. he felt no fear for his brave commander; he knew that few men united the greatest boldness with the most consummate prudence as paul jones did, and was perfectly sure that after having escaped capture in the two weeks the great captain had been in england, he was little likely to be caught between bellingham and the coast. lord bellingham had promptly surrendered to the charm of paul jones's conversation, and listened with profound attention to all he had to say, as did colonel baskerville. paul jones gave much interesting information about affairs on the continent, but with so much tact that no one would have suspected the active part he had taken in many of the incidents he related. he sat, the wax light falling upon his clear-cut face and deep and speaking eyes, one knee carelessly thrown over the other, and his brown, sinewy hand involuntarily seeking the hilt of the dress sword that he wore, according to the custom of the time. lord bellingham was in his most gracious mood, but the more fascinated he was with the conversation of his new guest, the more profound was his curiosity to find out who the stranger was. the personal history of paul jones was little known at that time, and his announcement that he was born in scotland did not enlighten lord bellingham in the least. in vain he framed adroit questions; paul jones's answers were more adroit still. lord bellingham, with an inscrutable smile upon his handsome old face, listened and watched, and was at last compelled, after four hours of close conversation, to admit to himself that he had utterly failed to penetrate the stranger's disguise. a few minutes before midnight paul jones rose. "my horses are now due from the village," he said, "and i must leave this hospitable roof. will not you, mr. baskerville, go with me one stage on the road?" archy accepted delightedly. the whole party then, lord bellingham included, came out in the cold and gloomy hall, where the fire had quite died out, to bid the guest farewell. colonel baskerville said good-bye with great courtesy, and added: "i beg to say that i offer you my hand with full knowledge, i believe, of your name, and character, and rank." paul jones's expressive eyes glowed with pleasure. many english officers refused to recognize him on account of his having adopted the american cause, although born in one of the british isles, and the respect of such a man as colonel baskerville was peculiarly gratifying. "i thank you most sincerely for your generous recognition; it is the mark of a just and liberal mind. and to you, sir," said paul jones, turning to lord bellingham, "i do not know whether you would extend to me the same hospitality you have this night if you knew my name. every motive of the most ordinary prudence requires me to keep it secret the brief time i am in england. yet, as a slight testimony to my belief in your generosity, i will say to you that i am paul jones, captain in the continental navy." and the next moment he had passed through the great doors, descended the stone steps, and his post-chaise was rolling rapidly off with himself and archy inside. chapter xviii "now, tell me, my captain," cried archy, "what i have been longing to ask--what brought you to england?" "a desire to serve my country. knowing that i must soon return to america, and hoping that one of the first things which will engage the attention of congress will be the organization of a navy, i determined to find out all i could about the english dock-yards. for this purpose i landed at plymouth two weeks ago. i managed, by means i cannot now reveal to you, to inspect the dock-yards at plymouth and portsmouth both, and i have in my head a complete knowledge of the methods by which the british navy is built, armed, manned, and victualled; and this information i shall lay before the marine committee of congress as soon as i return. i have also a complete list of every ship in the british navy, with the rating, metal, boats, officers, and men, when and where built, and present station and employment. how i got it goes with me to the grave, a secret.[ ] meanwhile, it became advisable for me to get away from england as soon as possible. i found all the ports in the south of england were watched, but i played with my enemies by taking post for yorkshire. the captain of a portuguese vessel, which lay at gravesend, was to call at bridlington for a part of his cargo, and i persuaded him, by the promise of a considerable sum of money, to wait for me north of the humber for three days. he is probably there now, and he is to land me in france. and now for our mutual adventures." "your's first, of course." and then paul jones began and gave archy a clear account of how things were going, as nearly as he could tell, in america. it was then archy's turn, and he told with great relish of lord bellingham's efforts to induce him to become a british subject, of colonel baskerville's unvarying kindness and wisdom, of trevor langton's brilliant prospects, in case he were alive. "i hope he may still be living; but i heard through a well-informed person in london that sickness was making fearful inroads upon the garrison. i remembered your cousin's name, and asked if there were news of him. it seems that the duc de crillon is most generous in allowing news of individuals, and i was told that he had lately had a severe attack of fever, and it was not known whether he was alive or dead." this was distressing news for archy to hear. he was silent a few moments, and then said: "i will mention this first to my uncle, and leave it to him whether he will tell my aunt and cousins and my grandfather. it will break his mother's heart if langton is--" here archy stopped, unable to continue; but after a while he recovered himself, and began to take his usual cheerful view of langton's chances. "he may be as well as you and i are at this moment, so i will not allow myself to fear for him. and now, will you advise me for myself?" "i can only repeat to you the advice i gave you in paris. if i saw the slightest danger of your being beguiled into giving up your country, i would wish you to leave england at once. as it is, i see that lord bellingham is most kindly disposed towards you; and you are much better off until affairs have finally settled themselves with him, and especially colonel baskerville, of whom i have formed a high opinion. remember, you are still, technically, an officer on parole, and so you will remain until peace is signed. i recommend, both for your interest as well as your real welfare, to remain with your relatives until you are quite free. i am glad to see that you have some domestic influences. it is well for a young man who has no mother or sisters to have the association with some one else's mother and sisters--and if the mother of those sweet and modest girls be like them, you are fortunate." archy had not thought he could laugh so soon after hearing of langton's supposed illness, but at the recollection of mary's and isabel's gratification and delight at being noticed by paul jones, archy burst into laughter, long and loud. "if you could but hear us quarrel! my cousins are, as you say, sweet and modest; but they hate everything connected with our cause, and when i tell them that it is you--" paul jones joined in archy's merriment, so that the postilion thought the two gentlemen inside had lost their minds, they laughed so much. they reached the first and last stage--a village on the coast--at daylight. from thence archy was to return to bellingham in the post-chaise. dawn was breaking over the german ocean, and the east glowed with a soft radiance that was turning the sky to an exquisite rose-color, and was presently to break into the splendor of the sunrise. few vessels dotted the sea, but near the shore lay a portuguese brigantine, which paul jones at once recognized. afar off, the pile of scarborough castle frowned over the sea. paul jones's eyes sparkled, as did archy's, when they looked seaward. "it was yonder," cried paul jones, "that we fought the _serapis_. under those waves rests what was left of the gallant old _bon homme richard_. yonder is the sea on which i struck one good and ringing blow for my country!" "and made the name of paul jones immortal," replied archy, feeling his heart swell at the sight of the man who had earned so much glory on that spot. the parting was painful for both, although they expected to meet shortly in their own liberated and victorious country; but it was brief. the brigantine sent a boat ashore, and almost before archy realized that he had said good-bye to his friend and captain, paul jones was aboard, and the brigantine was stretching out to sea with a fair wind. archy turned towards the little public-house where the horses were baited, and ordered some breakfast for himself. he felt dazed. it seemed to him as if weeks separated him from the same hour the day before. after getting his breakfast he went to the chaise, while the horses were resting, entered it, and fell sound asleep. he did not stir until noon. by that time the horses were being put to, and they took the road for home. archy, who was a good sleeper, dozed nearly all the way, but he was disturbed by troubled dreams and thoughts of langton. however, when in the dusk of evening he drove up to bellingham he was quite wide awake, and not all his anxieties for his friend could wholly damp his glee at his prospective triumph over mary and isabel. he had no fears as to the manner in which lord bellingham would receive him after knowing the name of his mysterious guest. his grandfather would never on earth admit that he had been hoodwinked in any way, and no matter how chagrined he was he would put a bold face on it. but isabel and mary! archy rushed in the hall and found them sitting around the fire as they had been the previous evening, with the addition of colonel baskerville and mrs. langton. "grandfather," bawled archy, quite unable to moderate his exultation, "do you know who it was you entertained last night? ha! ha!" "perfectly," replied lord bellingham, with a cold smile. archy felt rather flat, and looked reproachfully at colonel baskerville, who, he felt convinced, had robbed him of the pleasure of springing the sensation on his grandfather. but mary and isabel were left. colonel baskerville had not been cruel enough to deprive him of that delicious triumph over them. "do _you_ know, mary and isabel?" he cried. "no," replied isabel, "but he was so graceful and agreeable. we told mamma we were sure he is a man of rank." "so he is," shouted archy, in reply. "and there was something so romantic about him," chimed in mary. "when he showed us the portrait of queen marie antoinette, we thought it might be possible--though i dare say it was foolish enough--that he might be the king's brother, the comte d'artois." at this archy capered with delight. colonel baskerville whispered something to mrs. langton, who started with surprise, but who laughed in her gentle way at the little comedy being played by archy, whom she had learned to love, and mary and isabel. "at all events, he was very civil," announced isabel, "and i am sure i hope he liked the way we curtseyed. oh, how easy it is to tell persons of rank and birth." "indeed, that is true," mary echoed; "and i dare say, cousin archy, your friend is very much opposed to these extraordinary american sympathies and notions of yours." "do you want to know who he is?" shrieked archy, joyfully. "do you want to know, i say? he is captain paul jones, of the continental navy--so much for his rank; and as for his birth, he is the son of a gardener. o-oo-ooh!" archy's yells of rapturous laughter fairly made the roof ring, and it was so infectious that even lord bellingham burst into a cackle--the nearest approach he ever made to audible laughter. but it was no laughing matter to mary and isabel. they sat as if paralyzed, looking blankly at each other, and quite stunned by the magnitude of the mistake they had made. mary gasped out: "paul--" and isabel added, faintly: "jones." and then, unable to stand the laughter, in which even their mother joined, while colonel baskerville haw-hawed openly, they flung out of the hall and rushed up to their rooms, where, locked in each other's arms, they wept bitterly from pure chagrin. all this was bliss to archy, but serious thoughts were lurking in his mind. he took the first opportunity to speak to colonel baskerville alone without attracting observation--and that opportunity did not come until bedtime, in the colonel's own room. then he repeated what paul jones had told him of langton's illness. "poor lad! poor lad!" said colonel baskerville, pacing the floor. "i never saw him, but in my heart i love him. i think, with you, it is best not to tell his mother of this new anxiety, but it would be well to let lord bellingham know. as captain paul jones says, the duc de crillon is most chivalrous in permitting communications with the garrison at gibraltar respecting individuals, and there might be means, through lord bellingham's influence at the admiralty, to find out something about langton." next morning all the members of the household were surprised when they found that lord bellingham's solicitor had arrived from york at an early hour. archy surmised that the solicitor had been sent for in regard to making lord bellingham's will, and was not surprised, during the course of the afternoon, to be invited to his grandfather's room. lord bellingham thought he had made up his mind to make langton his sole heir, but archy had so won upon his pride and ambition, which took the place of a heart with him, that he could not forbear one last appeal to him. when archy, so frank, so manly, so handsome, stood before him, lord bellingham yearned to make him the heir; and for that purpose assumed a dignity and sweetness of manner which he possessed, but rarely exhibited. although archy's determination was too firm to be shaken, he realized that lord bellingham could be, when he chose, a very persuasive man. lord bellingham used every argument, and one in especial was peculiarly touching to archy, while not convincing. "i will acknowledge," he said, "after having been of another mind for thirty years, that i was unduly hard on your father. he was a better son to me than i was a father to him. suffer me, therefore, to ease my conscience of its reproach to my dead son by helping me to give you your rights." archy remained silent. he knew not how to put his refusal in words, but presently he rose. "grandfather," he said, "i thank you for your justice to my father. he had his faults to other people, but he had none to me; and if i follow his injunctions i shall never disgrace him or you or myself. i feel sure, though, that he would advise me to stand by my country, and i must do it. but you have another grandson--at least, i hope you have--who is much more likely to fulfil your expectation than i am--trevor langton." all this was very pretty, thought lord bellingham, but it did not serve to give him his own way, which he dearly loved, and especially in this great and important matter. from the most winning mildness he suddenly changed to the blackness of wrath. he sat quite silent, beating the devil's tattoo on the floor, and suddenly burst out with-- "hang it! i'll give you a thousand pounds and let you go back to your damned country!" "thank you--thank you!" cried archy, who inherited his grandfather's disinclination to acknowledge that he was disappointed. "a thousand pounds! i'll be glad to get a hundred, sir! and a thousand! it will buy me my outfit for the navy, when we get one, and leave enough to live like a prince on besides!" at which lord bellingham most unexpectedly found himself laughing, in his silent way, to see that what he had intended to be a miserable pittance should be received so debonairly by this unconventional youngster. "and now, sir, may i go and tell my aunt that you have cut me off with a shilling, so to speak--for i take it that langton is to be your heir now, poor chap, if he is living?" "you may; and i say, you dog--i'll give you two thousand pounds." archy dashed into mrs. langton's sitting-room, where, with colonel baskerville, isabel, and mary, she was anxiously awaiting the result of the conference. "hurrah, aunt!" he cried, "my grandfather has behaved like a king. he has given me two thousand pounds, and the rest will be trevor's. and now, miss mary and miss isabel," he added, maliciously, "i beg you to notice that i could have been as english as you if i had chosen, and could have been a lord to boot--but not i! if i can but get a lieutenant's commission in the american navy, i'd rather have it than to be lord bellingham of bellingham castle. do you believe me now?" and even mary and isabel received the announcement with respect. mrs. langton kissed him tenderly, saying: "you are a noble boy, and i wish you were my son, too," while colonel baskerville shook his hand warmly. "you have done the very thing i could not wish you to do," he said, "but i must admit that you have acted the gentleman and the man of honor." lord bellingham showed that he was in earnest in sending for his solicitor to make his will, but the news they had just learned of langton's illness made it important that it should be known whether he were still alive at the moment of disposing of so much property. lord bellingham showed the most intense eagerness. after having put off making his will until his old age, he then became morbidly desirous to make it; and at last, after many conferences with his solicitor and colonel baskerville, the colonel hit upon a plan in his own mind on which he congratulated himself. he spoke privately to the solicitor about it before mentioning it to archy or lord bellingham. "my nephew, mr. baskerville, has a safe-conduct from the french government which would easily enable him to go to gibraltar by way of france. he could go there, find out whether trevor langton is alive or dead--alive, i trust and pray--and return in one-half the time it would take for an inquiry through the regular channels. i have no doubt he would go. he is at the restless age which, happily, does not last always; and besides, if he does this for langton, it must meet with a reward from my brother besides the paltry two thousand pounds he has promised, or rather threatened, in his will. but not a word of this to my nephew. he is not without perversity, and besides, having done a noble and disinterested thing, however mistaken we may think it, he is too acute to sully it by trying to make interest with his grandfather afterwards." lord bellingham grasped eagerly at this, and, of his own volition, said: "i should not fail to remember this in making my testamentary arrangements." it was enough to mention the journey to archy. the eyes of europe were turned on gibraltar. the moment was fast approaching when the last mortal struggle was coming between the dauntless garrison and the gigantic naval and military power of france and spain, and no young man of spirit but would have been fascinated at the idea of seeing the climax of these great events. archy could not start soon enough to please himself, and, within the week, had taken the road to london. he travelled in state, in lord bellingham's private post-chaise, which was to take him to london. he carried with him letters to admiral kempenfelt, who commanded the _royal george_--one of the splendid fleet of thirty-four vessels that were being made ready at spithead, night and day, for an effort to save gibraltar--and numerous other letters, calculated to forward his journey to france under a flag of truce, and he had also a considerable sum of money in gold. he stopped but a day in london, to have his safe-conduct viséd at the admiralty. then he sent the post-chaise back with a long letter to his grandfather, and a short but affectionate one to trevor langton's mother. in this last, he actually forced himself to send his love to mary and isabel, but he could not forbear adding at the bottom: "p.s.--dear aunt,--i hope my cousins are not pining away for captain paul jones. he admires the ladies very much, but i do not think he has the intention to ask any particular fair one to share his glorious destiny with him. break this gently to my cousins. "a. b." that very afternoon archy took post for portsmouth, and arrived there in a few hours. he went to the celebrated angel inn, and tumbled into bed, and was astir early the next morning to find a way of reaching the mighty and invincible rock. footnote: [ ] paul jones did possess this list, and he never revealed the source of his information, which was supposed to be some one high in authority at the admiralty. chapter xix the next morning, the th of august, , broke clear, bright, and beautiful. a magnificent fleet lay out in the roads, and, towering among them, archy recognized the _royal george_, with her three great decks, her huge, broad-beamed hull, and her lofty masts. no one who ever sailed on this ship but liked her. she had a record of good fortune which made her a favorite with both officers and men. her quarters were comfortable, and she was commonly thought to be a weatherly ship, although the terrible fate which was impending over her on that august morning made it a miracle that she had survived so long, for at that time she was the oldest ship of the line in the british service. afloat and ashore, all was the orderly bustle and despatch of getting a fleet of more than thirty ships ready for sea in short order. every moment was precious, but archy saw for himself that much remained to be done, and it would be many days yet before the ships could be made ready to leave. about ten o'clock in the morning he hired a small boat and put out to the _royal george_. as he neared her, he saw her great hull slowly and almost imperceptibly careen on the starboard side, by which he was approaching her, and, presently, a gang of men in slings were let down over her port side. archy knew very well what that meant. something was to be done to her hull below the water-line, and as the day was perfectly still, without a breath to ruffle the dead calm of the water, the ship had been heeled over to save time, instead of the more tedious process of being put in dry-dock to have the work done. soon the sound of ripping planks off and the noise of hammers and chisels echoed over the water. a swarm of little boats were gathered around the monster, and her decks were alive with people. forward was a crowd of women and children, families of the men, who were allowed on board for an hour or two, as all work was suspended while the ship was being heeled over. the ladder was over the starboard side, and as archy, on reaching the ship, ran lightly up it he felt a strange joy at again touching the deck of a ship; and, with the joyful expectation of youth, he fancied that in a little while the american navy would possess a whole fleet of noble ships like those he saw around him. as he stepped over the side the officer of the deck was standing close by, and, on archy's explaining that he knew admiral kempenfelt and had a letter for him, the lieutenant called the admiral's orderly, and in a few moments archy was shown into the great cabin. "ah, my young friend, happy to see you!" cried admiral kempenfelt, rising from his table, where he was writing, and shaking archy's hand cordially. "so it seems, from lord bellingham's letter, which i have glanced over, that you have had some adventures since i saw you last." "yes, sir," replied archy, smiling, and returning the admiral's kindly grasp. "but not the sort i want. the _seahorse's_ people seem to have ended my fighting career when they picked me up at the texel nearly three years ago, and now that our countries are on the verge of peace, it looks as if i would never have another chance to do a little whacking on my own account." "ah, that's the way with you youngsters; nothing but whack--whacking all the time. wait until you get my age and you will love peace, as i do. i am heartily glad, though, that this quarrel with our late colonies is over. not one-tenth of our people have been in favor of the war for two years past, and both sides have done enough now to come to an honorable peace. i have heard something of you since you have been in england this time. so you won't turn englishman for bellingham and all it carries with it?" "no, sir. would you turn frenchman for versailles and st. cloud, and the louvre thrown in?" "no, hanged if i would!" archy bowed and slapped himself on the breast, saying: "i perceive i am in good company, sir." "well, now, mr. baskerville, let us see about getting you to gibraltar before we get there. a vessel--the _fox_--is now waiting for a wind to carry some french officers across, to be exchanged off ushant. you could go very well in her, and, once in france, you can take care of yourself. i apprehend no difficulty in your communicating with your cousin. the duc de crillon is well known to be most courteous in conveying letters to the garrison, and even sent some delicacies to general eliot, who was forced to decline them, and there is actually much polite communication between the two commanders-in-chief. i will myself give you letters to the admiral, and to captain wilbur, of the _fox_, which, i am sure, will secure you a berth in her." admiral kempenfelt took up a pen and began writing rapidly; but the cabin floor, which had been at an angle, was tilted still more, and his chair slid down, while archy caught the table as it was slipping after the chair. "deuced inconvenient, this heeling of the ship; but it saves time, and time is everything to our brave fellows at gibraltar," and the admiral calmly resumed his writing. but archy was not so calm. he looked out of the cabin windows on the starboard side, and the nearness of the rippling water gave him a kind of shock. he tried to calculate the angle of the floor, which perceptibly became more acute, and a sudden apprehension flashed over him that the ship was over too far to one side--but he dared not speak. meanwhile the admiral went on calmly writing, threw sand on the two letters he had written, and after reading them over handed them to archy. "there," he said, "i hope these will serve your turn. it gives me pleasure to do you a kindness, even if you are an enemy," and he placed his hand affectionately on archy's shoulder. "may we meet again under happier circumstances: in peace, all our quarrels forgot, and nothing but good-will between us all--amen." something in the admiral's kind voice, the grasp of his manly hand, touched archy's heart. the feeling of instant and dreadful apprehension had grown upon him in the few minutes that the admiral continued writing. every moment he hoped that the ship would be righted; instead of that, the floor became a more sharply inclined plane. against her stout wooden walls he could hear the ringing of the carpenters' blows, and it sounded like a knell of death to him. he looked closely into admiral kempenfelt's eyes to see if there was any premonition of danger; but the admiral seemed strangely unconscious of what so powerfully affected archy, and although barely able to keep his feet on rising, gave no sign of fear that the ship might go over. archy longed to ask the admiral to go on deck with him, and even faltered out: "will you not come above, sir?" "no," replied the admiral, surprised at the suggestion. "i have work to do. remember me to my friends at gibraltar. good-bye, and all good go with you." "if we do not meet again, admiral," said archy, in a voice which trembled a little, and then, all at once, the words he had meant to utter left him, and an overmastering impulse made him turn and walk out of the cabin as quickly as he could. outside the door the orderly had braced himself against one of the quarter-deck guns. something in the man's face arrested archy's attention at that instant. there were strange noises about the ship, a dull reverberation like thunder, followed by a slight crash, and the men were running to and fro. "what is the matter?" asked archy of the man. "nothing, sir, except that the ship is heeled over too far; the guns have broken loose, and i believe in five minutes we shall all be under eighteen fathom of water," coolly replied the orderly. the appearance of the deck was far from reassuring. as archy took off his cap in passing the officer in charge of the deck he observed the carpenter say a few words in a low tone to the officer, whose reply was perfectly audible. "if you know more about this ship, sir, than i do, you had better take the deck." archy ran to the ladder. the platform was far under water, and on looking for his boat he saw the boatman about twenty yards off, pulling away for his life. "come here!" shouted archy. the man simply shook his head, pulled a little farther out, and then lay on his oars. archy put his hand in his pocket and held up his purse. at that the boatman quickly picked up his oars, and, rowing as if his life depended on it, in a few minutes was alongside. archy's conduct had not escaped observation. several officers were walking about the deck, and, although they said nothing, their faces were grave enough as they leaned over the rail and watched the boat, into which archy sprang while it was yet several feet away from the half-submerged ladder. "it wasn't the money for myself, sir, that brought me back," gasped the boatman, as with tremendous strokes the boat shot away from the leaning hull of the ship; "but it was worth while to try for my wife and family. that there ship is in the most dangersome way i ever see a ship. one puff of wind now will send her over." "lay on your oars," said archy, watching with painful interest the mighty hull on which the hammering and pounding sounded preternaturally loud. the perilous position of the ship was plain to the whole fleet, and every eye was turned towards her. on several of the ships near her the order was quietly given to stand by to lower the boats. in the stillness of the august morning every sound could be heard, and on board the _royal george_ was much noise. the women and children forward were laughing and chattering with the sailors, and every moment a burst of loud laughter showed that the men were enjoying their little holiday time. the noise of the workmen striking the hull was incessant, but above all there would come the frequent ominous sound of a gun that would break loose from its fastenings and roll down the inclined plane to starboard. the officer of the deck continued to walk up and down in what seemed to every eye that watched him an almost insane ignorance of the danger of the ship. the boatman turned to archy and said: "i see the carpenter go up to him once afore, but he didn't take no heed. i dare say the carpenter won't ax him no more." however, at this moment the officer turned and disappeared below. thousands of eyes were fixed upon the _royal george_ in agonizing apprehension. archy, in uncontrollable agitation, cried aloud: "why don't they haul the guns back? the ports are all open, and if she heels a foot more she is gone. oh, god!" for the _royal george_ was slowly, inch by inch, heeling over more; and at the same instant, afar off, the bright water grew dark with an advancing wind--the wind of death--which stole towards the great ship softly and silently. suddenly the people on board the doomed ship seemed to realize their peril. the officer of the deck reappeared and ran quickly aft. the crowd forward stopped its shouting and singing and laughing; the sharp blare of the boatswain's pipe was heard, calling all hands on deck--but it was too late. the towering hull gave one lurch as the wind struck it, the awful shriek of a thousand voices smote the air, and in another moment, with a roar that was heard for miles, the _royal george_ went down, head foremost, in a black vortex of her own making. for a few minutes archy was dazed and paralyzed with the horror of the sight. he saw the black and seething whirlpool made by the monster, with her hundred and twenty guns, her giant masts and spars, her huge anchors and cables, for one horrible moment upon the blue and sunlit water. he heard the roar of the rushing air through her ports, the thunder of guns and anchors breaking through the decks, and a frightful crashing, as if every mast and spar and deck in the ship had been splintered at once; and, worst of all, one wild shriek from twelve hundred souls, swallowed up with her; and never, to his dying hour, could archy baskerville forget that cry--a cry that haunted forever, night and day, all who heard it. it was only when it had ceased, when instead of the stately ship he saw a seething mass of waters where she lay a minute before, and where now a few human beings were tossed like leaves upon the water--it was only then that he came a little to his senses, and shouted to the boatman: "give me an oar, and pull--pull!" in a little while they were among the floating bodies. the few minutes had somewhat sobered archy. he still felt as if he were in some terrible dream, but almost without his own volition he began to act rationally. he threw down his oar, and, leaving the management of the boat to the boatman, stripped off his jacket, trousers, and shoes, and, plunging into the water, swam vigorously towards the first man he saw. as he got near enough he recognized the orderly who had been on duty at the admiral's door. the man could not swim; but, although almost sinking in his heavy clothes, quietly obeyed archy, who called to him: "don't catch me around the neck--put your hand on my shoulder." he would have been hard to save, as his clothes were heavy with water, but the boat came alongside at that moment and he was hauled in. archy cried to him: "the admiral?" "gone," briefly answered the marine. "he never left the cabin." every ship in the fleet sent boats, and in half an hour all of the survivors were picked up, and then came a terrible reaction. the flags were half-masted, the booming of minute-guns over the water was heard, and the people on the ships and crowds that ran to the shore gave way to paroxysms of grief and horror. even those who had lost no friend or relative, and they were few, were overcome with the dreadful shock of the disaster. archy baskerville's nerve lasted him until, with the boatman's help, he had handed the orderly and three other men they had saved over to the large cutter which was collecting the survivors from the small boats, and then he gave way to a perfectly hysterical burst of grief. within an hour from the time that he had shown the utmost coolness and courage in saving life, he could only throw himself down in the boat and weep and sob like a nervous woman over the horrors he had seen. the boatman, his stolid face ashy pale, sat trembling, and presently said, in a thick voice, to archy: "'tis lucky, sir, that both of us wasn't took this way when there was something to do. i swear to you, sir, my arms is so weak i can hardly pull the boat ashore, and i know my wife is near wild with fright, and--and--i don't seem to feel that, nor nothin', sir." "pull me to the _fox_, and then you can go ashore and fetch my portmanteau," said archy. all he wanted then was to get away from that dreadful spot. the _fox_, a small gun-brig, was then getting up her anchor, as the wind was increasing, for which she had waited, and her orders admitted of no delay. as archy came over the side of the brig, the men, with white, set faces, were walking around the capstan in silence, the creaking sound painfully audible. the officers, mute, and, as archy could see, many of them as shaken as he, were standing about the deck, and as archy handed captain wilbur--a stern, weather-beaten man--admiral kempenfelt's letter, on which the ink was scarcely dry, he tried to speak, but he could only say, "admiral kempenfelt," and burst into tears. captain wilbur lifted his cap as he took the letter, and then turned aside, to conceal his agitation. presently he spoke in a low voice: "everything shall be attended to at once. i will send admiral kempenfelt's letter to the flag-ship immediately, and we will not be detained more than an hour. would that we had sailed before we saw that awful sight!" the afternoon sun was declining when the _fox_ passed out to sea. archy looked resolutely seaward--he could not bear to turn his eyes towards the dreadful spot where the _royal george_ had gone down. at eight bells, after relieving the watch, captain wilbur called all hands on deck, and, having no chaplain, he himself held a simple religious service, in which all, both officers and men, joined fervently. captain wilbur, although a dashing officer, was a stern man, a rigid moralist, and counted as puritanical--but all hearts were subdued by the terrible calamity they had just witnessed. archy felt that he had special cause for gratitude, and he gave thanks with a greater devoutness of spirit than he had felt since the hour that commodore jones--a man of deep though unobtrusive piety--had exhorted him to thank god for the glorious success of their country. they had sailed on the th of august, and by extraordinary good-fortune found themselves off ushant within thirty-six hours. there, waiting for them, was the french frigate _alceste_, with the english officers to be exchanged for the french. to archy's delight and surprise he found that as soon as the french officers were landed at ushant the _alceste_ was to take aboard the comte d'artois, the king's brother, and the duc de bourbon, who were determined to see the last act in the tragedy and to sail for gibraltar. the gallant french officers expressed the utmost sympathy for the terrible disaster suffered by the british navy, and especially at the loss of admiral kempenfelt, who was admired and respected even by his enemies. the admiral's letter--the last he had ever penned--was recommendation enough to archy, even without his prestige as having served under paul jones. he was at once offered a berth on the _alceste_, which he gladly accepted, and on the th day of september he came in sight, for the third time, of the rock of the lion. so celebrated had this siege become that persons from all parts of europe came, as the comte d'artois and the duc de bourbon, to see the last mortal struggle between spain and england for this mighty fortress. on that september day when they cast anchor in the harbor of algeciras, the shore, as far as the eye could reach, was an armed camp. the gigantic fortifications, armed with hundreds of the heaviest siege guns, were manned by forty thousand men. fifty french and spanish battle-ships, nine of which wore admiral's flags, were drawn up in menacing array, and beside them were a hundred gunboats, mortar vessels and bomb-ketches, ten enormous floating batteries, and three hundred smaller boats, to land men when a practicable breach in the defences should be made. from these enormous forces of attack, archy turned his eyes on the great fortress. the golden light of morning bathed the summit of the rock in fire, and the ensign of st. george floated proudly above it. there were not six thousand men, and less than a hundred guns, to oppose the tremendous bombardment of the spaniards and french; but these were the seasoned sailors, soldiers, and marines who had held out stubbornly against death and defeat in every form for more than three years. precisely at seven o'clock in the morning a signal-gun boomed over the water, and then began the unparalleled assault, which made all that had gone before it mere child's-play. chapter xx on that september morning, as the sun rose in unclouded glory, every man of the heroic garrison of gibraltar was at his post; every soldier and sailor in the tremendous array of ships and batteries meant to annihilate the fortress was ready for the assault; and uncounted thousands of persons, both on sea and land, watched and waited to see this terrible and unmatched bombardment. at seven o'clock three hundred heavy guns on the land side opened fire upon the rock. fifty ships of the line and the ten great floating batteries, protected by bomb-proof shields, moved up to within a thousand yards and poured their broadsides upon the fortress. the garrison had less than a hundred guns to reply with, but these were served with a steadiness and vigor that made them doubly effective. from these guns were thrown red-hot shot, which were frightfully destructive to the ships, but rolled harmlessly off the shields of the formidable floating batteries into the water, from which clouds of steam arose to mingle with the dense smoke that made the fair day dark. the thunder of the guns was indescribable. the solid rock itself seemed to roar and tremble as it replied to the hurricane of shot and shell that rained upon it. the huge ships fired broadside after broadside, while from the isthmus the batteries were worked by ten thousand men. soon, all below the summit of the rock became as black as midnight with the smoke, and it was lighted by the red flames from the guns and the explosion of magazines on land and sea. but high above all, serene in the light of morning, floated the proud standard of england. as archy baskerville, from the _alceste's_ deck, watched the terrible and imposing sight of war in all its majesty, he felt a thrill of pride that those six thousand indomitable men were of the same blood as himself. all day this hell of fire and fury lasted, and as night came on its horrors were increased by the ships and floating batteries catching fire. by that time the fortress had proved its impregnable nature, and the superiority of its cannonade became manifest. one after another of the ships caught fire from the red-hot shot, and by midnight, in spite of the utmost efforts, the _pastora_, admiral moreno's flagship, was seen to be blazing from stem to stern. other of the smaller vessels were in flames, and as the day had been made dark by the smoke, so now the blaze lighted up the whole bay with a frightful glare that was reflected in the lurid heavens, while the rock itself seemed a mountain on fire. the hot shot had told with terrible effect on the spanish fortifications on the land side, and they were blazing in more than fifty places at once. by midnight it had proved equally appalling upon the fleets and floating batteries. nearly every one of the smaller spanish vessels was on fire, and distress signals were seen in all parts of the bay. the wind was adverse, and, with the powerful currents, was driving the ships of the line away from the rock, so they could be of no assistance in saving these smaller vessels, which drifted about helplessly until the fire reached their magazines, and then would be exploded with a concussion that seemed to shake gibraltar to its base. about two o'clock in the morning the floating batteries, which were the chief hope of the besiegers, were seen to be in disorder. it was then, by the fierce light of battle, that archy baskerville, from the _alceste's_ deck, recognized captain curtis, as, in command of a few light gunboats, he put off from the new mole, and, rapidly forming a line upon the flank of the floating batteries, drove them directly under the guns of the fortress. this was their destruction, and the spaniards abandoned them so quickly that scores of wounded men were left aboard of them to perish in the flames. then archy saw captain curtis in a cutter make for the blazing and exploding boats, and with other officers and men drag forth the wounded, who would otherwise have perished in the flames. archy's heart swelled almost to bursting. "oh, that i were there! that i were there!" he almost cried aloud, so overpowering to the heart and the imagination is the sight of heroism. at one moment the cutter was alongside a gunboat just as the magazine blazed up. the whole vessel seemed to rise in the coppery sky and to break into a million pieces before it descended. no one ever expected to see the cutter and its heroic company again, but when the first horrible shock and crash were over she was seen still afloat. the dreadful night wore away and the dawn came on. archy, who thought that he had seen the most terrible sight in the world at the sinking of the _royal george_, now realized that there was something more dreadful still. the bay was covered with wreckage, to which drowning men clung. dead bodies floated everywhere--the smell of powder and of blood was in the murky air. on the land side it was, if anything, worse. fortifications were destroyed, guns were dismounted, the trenches were encumbered with the dead and dying. it was then, when the full scene of destruction was visible, that the hopelessness of the attack was seen. the preparations that had been months in making had been tried and had failed, and the flag of england still flew steadily over gibraltar. as if by common consent the tremendous cannonade ceased, and just as the last gun was fired the first pale gleam of the sun shone upon the british ensign, and from the rock came borne a cry of triumph as the salute was played. archy baskerville, who had watched through the whole day and night, felt a thrill of something strangely like joy at the success of the indomitable garrison. he would have liked to echo that cry of triumph, and it required all of his self-control not to do so; but he remembered that he was on a ship of his allies, and, whatever his heart might feel, he spoke no word that indicated the conflict of emotions within him. the french officers were equally on their guard, but archy, looking into the faces near him on the _alceste's_ deck, when that shout was wafted towards them from the invincible fortress, saw that they had no more hope. the fortress that could withstand the assault of the previous twenty-four hours was impregnable. by common consent there was peace on the day after this frightful bombardment, and on that day archy was permitted to go ashore, in the effort to communicate with langton. the duc de crillon at once gave permission for him not only to communicate with langton, but to go inside the landport gate. the most generous relations were maintained during the whole time that general eliot and the duc de crillon were opposed to each other, and every favor consistent with prudence was granted on each side. at nightfall, therefore, archy was taken to the landport gate blindfolded, and led inside the fortress, when presently he found himself in a casemate, and there--oh, joy! were langton and captain curtis, both overjoyed to see him. but langton was white and gasping for breath, and as weak as a child. "he has not yet recovered from his fever, though he worked like a hero yesterday; but i think he will not be able to do any more during the siege," said captain curtis. langton could only smile feebly, and ask eagerly after his mother and sisters. "but you must get well now, to be our grandfather's heir, because, i assure you, he means to make you so," cried archy, trying to be cheerful, but feeling a sinking at the heart as he looked at langton. and then archy declared he would not leave the fortress without a glimpse of mrs. curtis and dolly and judkins. they were all sent for, and there was a brief interview--too hurried for joy, but yet comforting when archy clasped their hands and felt dolly's childish arms around his neck. but, presently, like a dream, it was over, and he was once more outside the walls. archy had formed a plan before he had seen langton for five minutes, and the very next day he carried it into effect. he got an audience with the duc de crillon, and told him briefly the story of his relations with langton, and his forced imprisonment during a part of the siege, and then, in a burst of frankness, he said: "pardon, sir, but mr. langton can be of no more service at gibraltar. i am almost afraid if released now that he will not live to return to england; but if he could be released on parole--he seems almost dying now--his mother--" archy stopped, and the duc de crillon, after a pause, turning to his military secretary, said: "make out a parole for midshipman langton, of the royal navy, and address it to general sir george eliot, saying if, in his judgment, mr. langton is a non-combatant now, and likely to remain so, that this parole is at his service." archy tried to express his thanks, but his heart was too full for his tongue to be glib. his very hesitation and embarrassment, however, were not without their eloquence, and the duc de crillon did not for one moment suspect him of a want of gratitude. it still took some days to arrange the preliminaries, and archy was permitted to enter the fortress several times. he could scarcely believe his eyes when he saw how little damage had been inflicted by the greatest bombardment in history, and he could hardly believe his ears when the slight loss sustained by the besieged was mentioned to him. one thing appeared settled, that gibraltar could never be taken by assault, and that the spanish and french commanders would make no further efforts. archy, being plentifully supplied with money, through the assistance of the spanish authorities was enabled to get a small neutral vessel, which agreed to take to england himself and langton and a few other non-combatants who were permitted to leave the fortress. on the last day of september they embarked. at the landport gate archy met langton, looking frightfully ill, and supported by captain curtis and judkins, while mrs. curtis and dolly walked behind. the kindest farewells were exchanged. "we will meet soon in england," said archy; "the siege is over, the war with my country is over, and as soon as parliament meets a general peace will be proclaimed. but, american as i am, i can never think of what i saw at gibraltar without being proud to be of the same race as the men who defended it, and the women too." at this, dolly said, gravely: "i love you, archy, even if you are a rebel," which made them all laugh and relieved the sadness of the parting. once on board the vessel and under a fair wind for home, langton seemed to take a new lease of life. their quarters were cramped and their discomforts many, but he was homeward bound, and that was enough. they had a quick voyage to gravesend, and taking post-horses for london, arrived at lord bellingham's town house in berkeley square, and, the first thing, archy almost ran into colonel baskerville's arms. "i have brought langton himself back, instead of news concerning him," cried archy, as soon as they were inside the doors; and the next moment he heard a faint cry beside him. mrs. langton, her arms wide open, had entered the room, and there langton was in his mother's arms; and colonel baskerville and archy turned their backs and pretended to be very busy talking, while the mother and son were in the first rapture of meeting. and then mary and isabel rushed in, and laughed and cried as they hugged langton, and even condescended to be glad to see archy; and presently they were all marched off to lord bellingham's room, who was to see, for the first time, the grandson for whom he destined a great fortune and a brilliant future. langton was still pale and weak, but it only made his face more interesting, and his bearing was still military. archy watched keenly the meeting between the old man and the young one. lord bellingham's piercing glance travelled all over langton's person, and then wandered for a moment to archy, who was, at all times, the handsomer and the more spirited of the two. but langton's calm dignity and manly self-possession were not without their power, and even lord bellingham had no reason to be dissatisfied with him. and now archy, having, as he justly thought, a right to express himself, indulged his natural and incurable propensity for speaking his mind, and, looking lord bellingham squarely in the eye, said: "i hope, grandfather, you have now a grandson who will suit you in all respects, and i only wish you could give langton the title, as i don't want it. by-the-way, sir, i hear that king george is preparing to back down as gracefully as possible at the meeting of parliament." to which lord bellingham's reply was to say, good-humoredly: "grandson, you have earned the right to be impertinent." langton was immediately established in the position of heir-apparent, and lord bellingham could scarcely allow him to recover from the fatigues of his journey before sending for the family solicitor to make his will. but archy's position was far from unpleasant. he was a hero to langton and to mrs. langton, and in course of time actually subdued mary and isabel, while colonel baskerville, who had always felt a deep affection for him, became every day more attached to him. as for lord bellingham, he seemed to find archy a source of perpetual interest and diversion, and although he gave no hint of intending to do more than give him the promised two thousand pounds, it was plain that he was far from indifferent to his american grandson. archy had always taken liberties, hitherto unheard of, with his grandfather, and so far from producing explosions of temper, they only provoked the silent laughter which was lord bellingham's way of showing amusement. but archy himself had undoubtedly improved. he was learning, by degrees, to be frank without being disagreeable, to have his joke without trampling upon the sensibilities of others, and to be considerate of the faults and foibles of old age. in fact, his self-love became enlisted on his grandfather's side, for, as colonel baskerville sometimes reminded him, dryly: "if you had been born a peer with a great rent-roll, i think you would have been more domineering and dictatorial than lord bellingham." there was still no love lost between archy and his two girl cousins, but their nimble tongues were silenced by archy's generosity towards langton, who was the family darling. it must be admitted that archy took rather mean advantage of this, and when he received a long letter from paul jones, the lives of mary and isabel were made miserable by his chaff and jeers. langton had to hear the whole story of their infatuation for paul jones, which lost nothing in archy's telling, and made langton laugh for a week; and when the letter by some untoward accident was lost, archy declined to be convinced that mary and isabel had not cribbed it for a keepsake. so several weeks passed in the gloomy old mansion, which archy disrespectfully called an old rattle-trap. but they were not gloomy weeks to any one in it. for the first time in his life lord bellingham was surrounded by those who should be nearest and dearest to him, and he found life a very different and far pleasanter thing than when he had been at war with his whole family. his daughter's kind attentions added to his comfort, and his four handsome grandchildren were a source of infinite pride to him--and pride meant pleasure to lord bellingham. parliament was to meet on the th of december, and lord bellingham determined to attend in his peer's robes and coronet, according to the custom of the times. the day was dull and gloomy outside, but archy baskerville thought it the happiest and brightest day that had ever yet shone upon him, for the king, in his speech from the throne, was to acknowledge the independence of the american colonies. about ten o'clock on that morning the family coach was at the door, and colonel baskerville, archy, and langton awaited lord bellingham to drive to the house of lords. when he appeared in his scarlet robes, and carrying his coronet in his hand, something very like a smile appeared upon the countenances of his brother and his two grandsons. archy mentally congratulated himself that he would never have to appear in such a rig, and even whispered as much to langton. lord bellingham was in a very bad humor as the result of his trailing robes and troublesome coronet, but nothing could damp archy's enthusiasm. "we shall be mobbed," fretfully exclaimed lord bellingham. "this young gentleman here will probably begin huzzaing out of the coach window for the colonies, and god knows what will befall us then!" "i'll take care of all of you, grandfather," magnanimously declared archy, which only increased the earl's irritation, and archy proceeded to fan the flame by remarking that he supposed the king, too, was in a very bad humor that morning. and so he was. when, amid a death-like stillness in the house of lords, the king rose to read his speech to parliament assembled, he gave every indication of agitation and embarrassment. he proceeded falteringly until he announced the cessation of the american war, and then, attempting to utter the sentence, "i offer to declare them free and independent states," he broke down completely, and, after a painful and agitated silence, with a distressing effort read the fateful words. archy was squeezed in a corner of the gallery close by colonel baskerville, who kept a keen watch upon him to check any characteristic outbreak of enthusiasm, and was actually enabled to prevent it until the tedious but imposing proceedings were over. outside the houses of parliament a vast crowd was assembled. there were a few cheers for the king's speech, but most of the multitude accepted the tremendous event in solemn silence. as archy came out with the surging crowd he suddenly shouted out a long and loud "huzza!" but the next moment colonel baskerville had clapped his hand over archy's mouth, had hustled him into the coach, and they were driving off, lord bellingham scowling in the corner seat. but langton, shaking archy's hand cordially, cried out: "congratulations, archy. we shall yet live to glory in our kin beyond the sea." * * * * * ten years after that, one christmas eve, a new and handsome equipage dashed into the village of bellingham about dusk. as the coachman pulled up the horses, the footman jumped down, threw open the door, and let down the steps. forth stepped langton, now a handsome man of eight-and-twenty, and after him came colonel baskerville, not looking a day older than on that november afternoon, ten years before, when he had travelled from york with the young american midshipman, quite unconscious of the close relationship between them. the coach from york was almost due, and they had not long to wait before it rolled in, the horses steaming in the wintry air. without waiting for it to come to a full stop, archy baskerville made a flying leap from the box-seat, and langton and himself, grasping each other, indulged in a bear-hug worthy of their midshipman days. archy then turned his attention to colonel baskerville, and treated him to a similar embrace, which almost broke his ribs, but which the colonel bore uncomplainingly for the quiet joy the meeting with archy gave him. langton promptly shoved archy into the coach, the footman seized the portmanteaus from the boot of the york coach, and the four blooded horses took the road through the path towards bellingham castle. "langton," cried archy, as soon as they were in the coach, "you are a thousand times welcome to the castle and the title, and even our grandfather's peer's robes and coronet, when they come to you, for i have now the prospect of having what my heart has yearned for during ten years. congress has authorized the building of six fine frigates, and i have the promise of one of them. i shall be captain baskerville at last!" "then i know you will be happy," replied langton. "i remember you always declared you would rather have a fine ship than the greatest castle in england." "i do not think you have changed much," said colonel baskerville. "oh, you are mistaken, uncle," answered archy, quite confidently. "i have learned prudence, i assure you, and a great many of the other beggarly virtues," at which the colonel smiled significantly. "and whom, think you, have we to meet you at bellingham besides my mother and sisters? dolly curtis, now a lovely girl of twenty-two, and very anxious to see her old playfellow," said langton. "how jolly!" was archy's reply. but when he tried to imagine dolly as anything but a little girl, who played with him and scrambled all over him, and rode upon his shoulders and sang songs with judkins, he failed utterly. presently they rattled up to the door and were in the great hall in a moment, and mrs. langton's arms were around archy's neck, and she was leading him to lord bellingham's chair by the fire, where the old man sat quite tremulous with joy to see him. and archy burst out with the very thing that pleased lord bellingham most: "i wished to see all my friends in england, grandfather, but especially you; for after i went back to america and experienced your generosity in providing for me, i recalled all your kindness while i was here, and i wondered how you put up with such a presumptuous little beggar as i was." isabel and mary, two handsome and dignified young women, came forward and greeted him with the utmost cordiality, and they all three burst out laughing involuntarily at the same moment, remembering their ancient squabbles. and then a charming, beautiful, modest girl advanced, who looked at archy with strange but not unfriendly eyes--dolly's eyes--and gave him her hand--over which he bowed--and said to him in a sweet and thrilling voice one word which brought back the stirring past: "gibraltar!" the end proofreading canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net the palace in the garden. by mrs. molesworth, author of "carrots," "silverthorns," "four winds farm," etc. london: hatchards, piccadilly. . contents. chapter i. page we three chapter ii. the scored-out name chapter iii. "rosebuds" chapter iv. the door in the garden wall chapter v. what gerald found chapter vi. open, sesame chapter vii. grandpapa's secretary chapter viii. stepped out of the frame chapter ix. our fairy chapter x. three starlings chapter xi. brother and sister chapter xii. the story of the old house the palace in the garden. chapter i. we three. "sisters and brothers, little maid, how many may you be?" i think the best beginning is the morning that grandpapa sent for us to come down to the study. tib and gerald, don't think so. they say i should begin by telling our names, and how old we were, and all that--at least, gerald says so; tib isn't quite sure. tib very often isn't quite sure. she has got too grand ideas, and if she were going to write a story, she would make it like poetry, very difficult to understand, and awfully long words, and lots about feelings and sorrows and mysteries. i like mysteries, too--i think they are very interesting, and i _have_ one to tell about, as you will see, only i must tell it my own way, and after all, as this story is only to be read by tib and gerald--and our children--we have settled that when we are all three grown-up and married, and have children, it shall be made into a book for them--i daresay it doesn't much matter how it is told. well, that morning we were all poking our heads as far as we dared out of the school-room window--miss evans hadn't yet come--to see the first primrose man that had passed that year. we heard his "all a blowing, all a growing," far off down the street, but we hadn't yet seen him and his basket with the beautiful light yellow bunches at the top, and we were wondering if we could get fanny to run out and buy us twopence-worth, when bland stuck his solemn and rather crabbed-looking face in at the door. bland is grandpapa's "own man," as they say, and his name doesn't suit him at all--at least, it didn't then--he's not so bad now we're older. "young ladies and master gerald," he said, "my master wishes you all to come down stairs to speak to him before he goes out." down we all tumbled from the window-sill. tib and i began smoothing our aprons and tugging at each other's hair--grandpapa was very particular. gerald only looked at his hands. "they are rather dirty," he said seriously. "but i did wash them so very well this morning, and it's not ten o'clock yet. do you think, gussie----?" i knew what he was going to say, so i cut him short. "yes, i do think you'd better run and wash them _at once_--why, you might have had them done by now--they are just perfectly grimy." for gerald would any day talk for ten minutes about why he _needn't_ wash his hands rather than run off and do them. i am afraid he was rather a dirty little boy--he'll be very angry if he sees that, for he is now getting to be very particular indeed--for though he liked bathing in the sea, he would do anything to avoid washing--regular good soapy washing. but he was too afraid of grandpapa to stand out when i said his hands were as bad as "grimy;" so off he went. "are we to come down at once?" asked tib. "yes, miss. your grandpapa has ordered the brougham to be round in ten minutes," bland graciously informed us as gerald started off. "i wonder what it's about?" said tib. "i hope he's not vexed with us." for it wasn't often that grandpapa sent for us in the morning, except on birthdays or christmas day, when he had presents for us. he never forgot about that, i must say. "why should he be vexed with us?" i said. "we've not done anything naughty;" for tib was standing there with the tears on their way to her big blue eyes, as i could see quite well--and i've no patience with people who look as if they had been naughty when they haven't. "well, you go in first, then, gussie," said tib. "i wish i wasn't frightened, but i can't help it." by this time we were on the stairs, not far from the study door, and gerald had run after us, with very red shiny paws, you may be sure, and in another moment we were all three in "the august presence," as tib called it afterwards. grandpapa had just finished his breakfast. he used often to have it like that, just on a little tray in the study. it didn't look very comfortable, and he might quite as well have had it in the dining-room all nicely set out, and tib and me to pour out his coffee in turns. but he did not think of it, i suppose, and at that time i don't think we did, either. we had never seen any other "ways;" we didn't know how other families lived--families where there were mammas, or any way grandmammas, or aunts, as well as children, and we were so young that we just took things as we found them. i think children are generally like that, especially if they see very little outside their own homes. grandpapa was not old-looking at all--not the least like the pictures in old-fashioned books of a very aged man, with a gentle and rather silly face, and a white beard, and a stick, sitting in a big arm-chair by the fire, and patting a very curly-haired grandchild on the head. i'm quite sure grandpapa never patted any of us on the head; and _now_, of course, we're too big. but i didn't mind his not being like the pictures of grandpapas, and now i mind it still less, for i'm really proud of his being so nice-looking. that morning i can remember quite well how he looked as he sat by the table, with the tray pushed away, and a whole bundle of letters before him. he glanced up at us as we came trooping in, with his bright dark eyes and a half smile on his face. we were not very fond of that half smile of his: it made it so difficult to tell if he was in fun or earnest. "well, young people," he said, "and how does the wind blow this morning?" he looked at gerald as he spoke. gerald was staring at his red hands. "i don't know, grandpapa," he said; and then seeing that grandpapa's eyes were still fixed on him, he got uncomfortable, and tugged tib, who was next him. "tib knows, p'r'aps," he said. "i'm only seven, grandpapa." grandpapa moved his eyes to tib. "it strikes me," he said, "that you're getting too big, young woman, to be spoken of as if you were a kitten. you must call your sister by her proper name, gerald." "it's hard for him to say, grandpapa," said tib. "that's why gussie and he always say tib, instead of mercedes." "umph!--yes--tom-fool name!" said grandpapa, which made me rather angry. "no, grandpapa, it's not a tom-fool name," i said. "it's spanish; and it was because our papa and mamma lived in spain that they called it her." i daresay i spoke pertly. any way, i was punished, for my words had the effect of bringing the eyes upon me in my turn. "called it her? called it her?" he repeated slowly. "what english! miss evans is to be congratulated on her success! so mercedes is a spanish name, is it? thank you--thank you very much indeed for the information. now perhaps you will all be good enough to listen to some information from me." i had got very red while grandpapa was speaking, quite as much from anger as from shame, for i wasn't so easily put down as tib and gerald; i had a quicker temper. but when grandpapa spoke of having information to give us, i felt so curious to know what it could be that i tried to look as if i hadn't minded what he said. so he went on: "i'm going to send you all off to the country next week; i don't want to keep this house open. i am very busy, and i would rather live at my club." grandpapa stopped a minute. i think he wanted to see what we would say. "are we to go to ansdell friars so soon?" i said. i suppose i didn't seem very pleased, and no more did tib or gerald. it wasn't very long--only three or four months--since we had come from there, and there was nothing at ansdell we much cared about. we knew it all so well. it was a regular big, grand country house; but its bigness was not much good to us, as we were strictly shut up in our own rooms, and sharply scolded if we were found out of them; and there was nothing amusing or interesting there. the country is not pretty, and the walks are not to be compared with those at--never mind where; i shall tell you the name of the place in a little while. so we had no particular reason for being glad to go back there; on the whole, i think we liked london better. we had less of miss evans in london, for she only came every day; but at ansdell friars she lived with us. grandpapa had persuaded her to do so, but she didn't like it, and we didn't like it, so we were not very happy together. she didn't like children, and was only a governess because she had to be, not because she liked it, and she was always telling us so. i used to think then all governesses were the same, but i know better now. there are some _awfully_ nice, who really like teaching, and aren't always scolding the children, as if it was their own fault that they are children and have to be taught. "and is miss evans coming?" said gerald, dolefully. "you are not going to ansdell friars at all; and, i am sorry to say," grandpapa went on, "miss evans is not able to go with you. nurse will have to look after you till i can find another miss evans." our faces fell, i have no doubt, at the last sentence. another miss evans! still, it was very nice to think there'd be _no_ miss evans for a while. nurse looking after us meant, as we knew very well, that we should do pretty much as we liked; for nurse spoiled us most horribly. it was a very delightful prospect. "we'll try to be very good, grandpapa," said tib. "umph!" said grandpapa. "and when are we going, please?" i could not resist putting in. i was burning with curiosity, and so, i am sure, were the others, though they were afraid to ask. grandpapa looked at me. "upon my word, gustava," he said, "i think you might give me time to tell you. when i was young, children were not allowed to cross-question their elders. you are going to a little country house i have which you have never seen nor heard of. it is much nearer town than ansdell friars, so i shall be able to come down every now and then to see you, and to hear if you are behaving properly. it is a much smaller place than ansdell--in fact, it's quite a small house. but there's a good garden; you will have plenty of space to play in. only i wish you to understand one thing: there are other houses near--it isn't like ansdell, all alone in a park--and neighbours, of course. now, i won't have you make friends with any one unless i tell you you may. you are not to go into other people's houses or to chatter to strangers. do you understand?" "yes, grandpapa," we all three replied, feeling rather frightened. i don't think we did quite understand, for we never had made friends with any one. we had lived very solitary lives, without any companions of our own age--for we had scarcely any relations, and none that we knew anything of. and as people don't miss what they have never had, i don't think it would ever have come into our heads to do what grandpapa was so afraid of. he certainly made us think more about other people than we had ever done before. "what is the name of the place, please, grandpapa?" asked tib in her soft voice. if it had been _me_ that had asked it, he would have snubbed me again. but it was certainly true, as the servants all said, that he favoured tib the most. perhaps it was that she was so pretty--perhaps it was for a reason that i can't tell just yet. "the name of the place," he repeated--"of the house, i suppose you mean? the name of the place does not matter to you. you will not have to take your own tickets at the station. the house has an absurd name, but as it has always been called so, it is no use thinking of changing it. it is called 'rosebuds.'" grandpapa stood up as he spoke, and just then bland opened the door to announce the carriage. so we all said good-bye to him and trotted off. we knew we should probably not see him again for two or three days, but we were so used to it we did not care; and we had plenty to interest our minds and give us something to talk of. "what a very pretty name 'rosebuds' is," tib exclaimed, as soon as we were safely out of hearing. "i'm sure it must be a very pretty place to have such a name. i daresay it's a white cottage, with beautiful old-fashioned windows, and roses climbing all over." "i don't like cottages with roses growing over them," said gerald. "there are always witches living in cottages like that, in the fairy tales. there is in _snow-white and rose-red_." "well," said tib, "it would be rather fun to have a witch at rosebuds. i do hope there'll be something interesting and out of the common there--something _romantic_." tib said the last word rather slowly. i don't think she was quite sure how to say it, and i am quite sure none of us knew what it meant. "i hope there'll be nice hide-and-seek places in the garden, and nice trees for climbing up, and perhaps grassy hills for rolling down," said i. "if grandpapa only comes to see us now and then, and there's no miss evans, and only old liddy"--old liddy was nurse--"it _will_ be very jolly. i shouldn't wonder--i really shouldn't--if it was more jolly than we've ever had anything in our lives--more like how the children in story-books are, you know, tib." for about this time we had begun to read a good deal more to ourselves, and among the old books in grandpapa's library we had found a nest which contained great treasures; many of the volumes had belonged to our father when he was a boy, and some even had been grandpapa's own childish books. grandpapa had given us leave to read them, and you can fancy what a treat it was to us, who had had so little variety in our lives, to get hold of _holiday house_, and the _swiss family robinson_, and the _parent's assistant_, and best of all perhaps, the dearest little shabby, dumpy, dark-brown book of real old-fashioned fairy tales. i have it still--no shabbier for all our thumbing of it: it is so strongly bound, though it is so plain and dingy-looking, and i mean to keep it for my children. "but grandpapa said he was going to find another miss evans, gussie," said gerald. "never mind. she isn't found yet; and i don't believe there _could_ be another quite as bad as this one," i said, consolingly. but a brilliant idea struck tib. she stopped short on the top step but one--we were climbing up stairs by this time--before the school-room landing, and turned round so as to face us two--gerald and me. "i tell you what, gussie and gerald," she said: "suppose we were to be very, just _dreadfully_ good at our lessons for a little, don't you think it _might_ make miss evans tell grandpapa that she really thought we should be the better for a holiday. i should think even _she_ would like to do something good-natured before she left." gerald and i stood listening. it was a grave matter, and we did not want to commit ourselves hastily. "do you mean being very quiet in the school-room, never whispering to each other, or making even the least little bit of funny faces when she's not looking? or do you mean doing our lessons for her just awfully well?" "both," said tib, solemnly. "oh, i don't think i _could_," i replied. "it is so very nice to be naughty sometimes." "but, gussie," said gerald, "any way, you might settle to do our lessons terribly well. don't you see, if we did them quite well miss evans might think we knew everything, and she might tell grandpapa we didn't need to learn anything more." "and you might settle to be naughty with _us_ or with liddy," said tib, persuasively. "gerald and i will promise not to mind, won't we, gerald? and we'll explain to liddy." "i'll think about it," was all i could say. chapter ii. the scored-out name. "how new life reaps what the old life did sow." edwin arnold. i was the naughty one of the family. i dare say you--whoever you are--that are going to read this will have found this out already, and it was best to make it plain at the beginning. tib and gerald were really very good--at least, they would have been if i had let them. but still, as i used often to say to them as a sort of a make-up for the troubles i got them into, it _would_ have been rather dull work had we all three been extra good. and even the great thing that i have to write about, _the_ thing that put it into my head to write at all, would never have come but for our being in a way naughty--that is very queer, isn't it? to think that good and nice things should sometimes come out of being naughty! i have often puzzled about it. i think it must be that there are different kinds of naughtiness--_perfectly_ different--for nothing good could come out of real, wicked naughtiness--telling lies, or being cruel to each other, or things like that; but the sort of naughtiness of just being mischievous, and of being so bubbling over with the niceness of being alive, that you _can't_ keep quiet, and remember about not knocking things over and tearing yourself, and the naughtiness of hating your lessons on a beautiful day, when it's really too tempting out-of-doors--all these kinds of naughtiness and lots of others i could tell you, for i've thought so much about it--all these kinds are different, surely? and one can fancy good and nice things coming out of them without getting one's ideas muddled. that's one thing i'm going to be very particular about with my children--i'm going to explain to them _well_ about the two kinds of being naughty, so that they won't get all into a puzzle about it. i think i even shall settle to have two kinds of words for them; for i do know, i am sorry to say, what it is to be really naughty too. just a few times in my life i can remember the dreadful feeling of real, boiling anger at some one--i had it several times to miss evans, and once or twice to--no, i won't say; it's all so different now. and _once_ i told what wasn't true, quite knowing all about it. but i _never_ did it again. the horribleness of the feeling was too bad, and in _that_ way my naughtiness did me good! our plan for getting miss evans to help us to a holiday hadn't much chance, as you shall hear. when we got to the school-room we found she hadn't come, though it was a quarter to ten, and she generally came at half-past nine. "everything seems going topsy-turvy to-day," said i, seating myself on the high guard, and swinging my feet about. it was a very dangerous seat, as the guard was anything but steady, and if it toppled over, there was no saying but that you might be landed in the middle of the fire. "miss evans late--and us going away to a place we never heard of before! it's almost as nice as if the sun had forgotten to get up--what fun that would be!" "i don't think that would be fun at all," said gerald. "i'd much rather he should forget to go to bed some night. which would you rather, tib?" but tib wasn't listening. she was pressing her face against the window, her thoughts intent upon primroses again. "hush!" she said; "i'm sure i heard him. he can't be far off yet, or else it's another man. listen." and as she held up her finger there came softly through the distance again the "all a growing, all a blowing." "i wonder why things seem so much prettier far off," said tib, thoughtfully. but just then the cry came again, and this time unmistakably nearer. off darted tib. "i will try to get fanny to catch him," she said; and in five minutes she was back again in triumph. "fanny wasn't to be found, of course," she said. "but that good liddy poked up the little page-boy--he's new, so he hasn't learnt to be impudent yet--and sent him down the street. we shall have the primroses directly. oh, i say, gussie and gerald"--and tib flung herself down on the hearth-rug, and rolled herself over, as if she were on a lawn of beautiful fresh grass--"just fancy if we were in the country, and could gather primroses for ourselves--as many as ever we wanted. _wouldn't_ it be lovely?" "perhaps we may--perhaps they won't be over when we go to that place," said gerald. "i wonder when exactly we shall go?" i said. and then our thoughts all returned to rosebuds, and what our grandfather had said about it. "i wonder why he doesn't want us to make friends with any of the neighbours?" i said. "i think it's rather crabby of him. there may be some nice children there, and we never have any playfellows." "i suppose he's got some reason for it," said tib. "perhaps the people who live there are all very common. you know, grandpapa is right to be particular about us." "i don't think it is that. i think he has some other reason. tib, do you know," i exclaimed, as a curious idea flashed across my mind, "i have an idea that----" but i was interrupted before i could say more by the entrance of old liddy, bringing the primroses. they were not very big bunches, but they were very sweet and fresh, and we all sniffed at them in a way that must have astonished the poor things. nurse smiled at us. "i'd like to see you gathering them for yourselves, my dears," she said. "well, we shall, perhaps, if we go to the country so soon. do you know that place where we're going to, liddy?" asked tib. she shook her head--she had come to us from mamma's family, and she didn't know much about the ansdells. "no, miss tib. i never heard of it till your grandpapa told me last night about getting you ready. and that reminds me--bland told me just now that his master forgot to say miss evans wouldn't be coming to-day." "miss evans not coming to-day!" we all three exclaimed in the greatest astonishment, for it must be confessed miss evans was the most exact person possible. "is she never coming any more, liddy?" nurse shook her head. "nay, my dear, how should i know? i only heard what bland said. miss evans isn't coming with us to the country, master said." "but he's going to get another," said gerald. "will she be just _exactly_ the same--will she have a big freckle on her cheek, and will she nip up her mouth the same, do you think, nursey?" we all burst out laughing at poor gerald. "it would quite spoil rosebuds to have the big freckle there," said tib. "but, nursey, do you know grandpapa says we're not to make any friends there, and not to know anybody?" this time liddy nodded her head. "i know, my dears. well, it can't be helped. it'll be no duller for you there than at ansdell friars, any way, and it's a beautiful country for walks, cook says. she comes from somewhere that way." "but why does grandpapa not want us to know anybody there--do you know, nursey? does cook know, perhaps?" liddy looked uncomfortable. "my dears, there may be reasons for many things that you're too young to understand," she said. "if your grandpapa had wanted to give his reasons to you, he'd have done so himself; and if he didn't wish to give you any, it would ill become me to be telling you over any fancies or chatter i might hear about master's affairs." tib's eyes grew very round. "i do believe there's a mystery," she said. "oh, how beautiful! nursey, i'm sure you know something. what fun it would be if there was really a mystery, and if we were to find it out. gussie, do listen." but i wouldn't listen just that minute. the thought which had been put out of my mind by nurse coming in with the primroses had come back again. "wait a minute, tib," i said, "i've got an idea. i'm only going down to the library to fetch a book. i may go as miss evans isn't coming;" and off i flew. the library was not a large room--indeed, it was a good deal smaller than grandpapa's study--but it held a great many books. it was nothing but books, for there were shelves all round it, packed as close as they could hold. in one corner were all the books that grandpapa allowed us to read. he had shown them to us himself, and simply told us we might read any of them we liked, provided we always put them back again in their places, but that we mustn't ever take any other books without asking his leave. that was one thing grandpapa was very nice about; though he was so cold and strict, he always trusted us, and never doubted our words. i'm sure that is the best way to make children quite truthful. except that one time i've told you of, i don't remember any of us telling a story. it didn't seem to come into our heads to do so--we had been with grandpapa ever since we could remember, and he had always been the same. we had never known what it was to be loved or petted, except by liddy, for both papa and mamma had died of a fever in spain, and we had been sent home with old nurse. (i suppose i should have explained this at the beginning; but it doesn't matter.) well, i ran down to the library and went straight to our own corner. they were funny-looking books--mostly rather shabby, for they had been children's books for two, and some of them for three, generations. it took me a little while to find the one i was in search of; indeed, i wasn't quite sure which it was, and i had to take out several, and open them to see the page at the beginning before i got the right one. it was a small book; the name of it was _ornaments discovered_, and on the first leaf was written the name of the person it had belonged to. there were two names, but the first had been so scored through that one could only distinguish the first letter of it, which was "r," and the second name was our name and grandpapa's name, "ansdell." and lower down on the page was the date, and the name of a place just above it. but this name also had been scored through, only not so blackly as the other, so that it was still easy to make out that it was that of the house we were going to live at: "rosebuds." i remembered it quite well now--i had often puzzled over the writing in this book, and though i had never made out the name before, "ansdell," i remembered having read that the other was "rosebuds." i understood now a sort of feeling i had had when grandpapa had told us the name that morning, that i had heard it before--or, as it turned out, _seen_ it before. i rushed up stairs with the little red book in my hand. "tib," i said, looking and feeling very excited, "just look at this." up jumped tib--she had been down on the floor arranging the primroses in some little glasses that we always kept on the mantelpiece for any flowers that came our way. liddy had left the room, and gerald had gone with her. we leant over the book together. "you see?" i said, pointing to the word above the date. "yes," said tib; "it's certainly 'rosebuds.' i suppose grandpapa had it when he was a little boy, there." "oh, you stupid!" i exclaimed. "you're always wanting to make up wonderful stories of adventures and mysteries, and now, when i've found you a real mystery, all ready made, you won't see it. if it had just been grandpapa's book, what would he have scored the name out for? besides, you know very well that his name is 'gerald,' like papa and gerald. and _this_ name begins with a 'r.'" tib had taken the book in her own hands by this time, and was peering at it. "you may call me stupid, if you like," she said, "but i've found out something else. the name is 'regina'--my second name;" for tib's whole name was mercedes regina. "mercedes regina ansdell"--isn't that an awfully grand name for a little girl? she was a little girl then. i seized the book in my turn. sure enough, now that tib had put the idea into my head, it seemed quite plain--even through the very thick crossing-out one could see the confused shapes of the word "regina." "you're right, gussie," said tib; "there _is_ a mystery. you remember that time that grandpapa was grumbling at my name--like he did this morning--and i said, 'mightn't i be called by my second name?' how he snapped out, 'no, certainly not.' it frightened me so, i remember. there must have been somebody called 'regina ansdell' that he didn't like, or he was angry with, or _something_. oh! how i do wonder who she was, and why he has never told us about her?" "we might ask nurse," i said. "i am sure she knows something--for you see, this regina ansdell must have lived at rosebuds, and it's something about there that liddy has heard, and won't tell us. and i shouldn't wonder if it has to do with grandpapa's not wanting us to know any of the people there." "what can it be?" said tib, her eyes growing bigger and rounder. "there can't surely be any one shut up there--a mysterious lady called 'regina.' oh, no, that can't be it, for grandpapa would never take us there if there were. besides--though he's rather frightening and strict--grandpapa's not bad and wicked." "the queen wouldn't let him be in the parliament if he were," said i. "at least, i _suppose_ not." "it's good of him to have all of us living with him. nursey says it is. i don't think we've got any money of our own." "well, we're his grandchildren, and it isn't our fault that papa and mamma died," i said. "i don't think _that's_ so very good of him. still, he is good to us in some ways, i know." tib was still staring at the book. "i don't think it's any use asking nurse," she said. "if she does know anything she doesn't want to tell us. and it's no use telling gerald: he's too little. if we told him not to speak of it, he'd very likely get red the first time grandpapa looked at him--like that day you filled the hood of miss evans' waterproof with peas, and he kept staring at it all the time of our lessons, till she found out there was something the matter." "no," said i; "it's better not to tell him. of course, tib, we mustn't do anything _naughty_. it would be naughty to go prying into grandpapa's secrets, if he has any. but what we've found out hasn't been with prying. it's impossible not to _wonder_ a little about it. and it's grandpapa's own fault for telling us so sharply not to know anybody or speak to anybody at rosebuds. of course, we'll obey him, but we can't help our minds wondering--they're made to wonder." tib considered for a while. then her face cleared. "i'll tell you what we can do, gussie," she said; "we can turn it into a play. we can't leave off wondering, as you say, but we can mix up our wondering with fancy, and make up a plan of how it all was. it will be _very_ interesting, for we shall know there _is_ something real, and yet we can make it more wonderful than anything real could be now that everything's grown so plain and--and--i don't know the word--the opposite of poetry and fairy stories, i mean--in the world. we must think about it, gussie. we might make it an 'ancient times' story, or an ogre story, or----" "yes," i said, "we'll think about it." i did not want to disappoint tib, and i thought, in a way, it was rather a good idea. but i am not so fond of fancying or pretending as tib--i like real things. and the idea of a real secret or mystery had taken hold of my mind, and i wanted to find out about it. still, the making a play of it wasn't a bad idea. as tib said, it would be more interesting than an altogether make-up play. we didn't say anything about the name in the book to liddy. it was no use worrying the poor old thing by teasing her about what she thought would be wrong to tell; even if it had not anything to do with our mystery, it would have been wrong and unkind of _us_. and we said nothing to gerald either; and indeed for some days we did not think or speak much about our discovery even to each other; we were so very much taken up about the real preparing to go away. it was much more of a nice bustle and fuss than it had ever been to go to ansdell friars. there, everything was left from year to year just as we had always had it. the rooms had all we needed, and there was very little besides our clothes to pack up and take. but for going to rosebuds it was quite different. none of the servants had ever been there, and they were all in a to-do about it, especially as only about half of them were to go; and the other half were cross at being sent away, and kept telling the others they'd be sure to find everything wrong there. nurse was the only one who was really pleased to go; and i am sure, dear old thing, it was more for our sakes than her own. "it'll be a real change for them, poor dears," she kept saying; and this gave her patience to bear all our teasing and the servants' grumbling. what a time she had of it, to be sure! from gerald's "nursey, may i take _all_ my horses? if i leave sultan in the cupboard won't the mouses and butterflies eat him?"--gerald always called moths butterflies--"will there be any wheelbarrows, like at ansdell?" to fanny's suggestion that there'd be no nursery tea-service there--"a house that nobody's been in for years and years"--everything fell on old liddy! and you see she dared not go asking grandpapa all sorts of things, as if he'd been a lady. he was even rather cross when she went trembling one day to ask if there were shops anywhere near rosebuds, or if she must plan to take everything we could want for all the summer. "shops," said grandpapa--i heard him, for liddy had caught him on his way down stairs one morning, and i was standing just inside the school-room doorway; "of course there are shops near enough--five miles off or so. i'm not going to take you to the middle of africa. i dare say there are shops enough in the village for common things. mrs. munt will tell you all that. no need to worry me about it." "mrs. munt!" i had never heard that name before. i pricked up my ears, but i was dreadfully afraid that liddy would be too frightened to ask any more. to my satisfaction i heard her meek old voice again: "and who may mrs. munt be, sir, if you please?" at this grandpapa stopped short and looked at her--i couldn't see him, but i _felt_ him stop short and look at her. poor liddy! "upon my soul!" he said. then some reflection seemed to strike him, for his next words were more amiable. "mrs. munt is the housekeeper at rosebuds. she's been there ever since _i_ can remember. you didn't suppose i was going to trust to that mary ann's cooking?" mary ann was the kitchen-maid. she was coming with us, but not the cook, who was leaving to be married. "mrs. munt is, or used to be, a very good cook, and a very good sort of person altogether." "oh, thank you, sir," said liddy very heartily. mrs. munt was a great relief to her mind, for the idea of mary ann's cooking on the days that "master" came down to rosebuds had been weighing on it. to me the idea of mrs. munt brought back the thought of the mystery. if she had been there as long as _grandpapa_ could remember, what must she not know? i flew off to tib with the news, but she did not receive it with much interest. "an old cook!" she said disdainfully. "why, that would spoil it all. it wouldn't matter so much for an ogre story, if we could fancy her a witch, but for an 'ancient times' one, it would never do." "oh, bother!" i exclaimed, "i don't want pretending. i want to know about it really. if you only wanted make-ups, you can always get things that will do for them. i am sure miss evans would have been a _beautiful_ witch! oh, tib, aren't you glad she isn't coming any more?" for miss evans had left off coming altogether. she was going to begin a school--how we pitied the scholars!--and had asked grandpapa to let her off at once. she came to say good-bye to us, and gave us each a present of a book--and, to our surprise, there were tears in her eyes when she kissed us! people are really very queer in this world--they never seem to care for things till they know they are not going to have them any more. we all felt rather ashamed that we couldn't cry too, and tib said she was afraid we must have very little feeling, which made gerald and me quite unhappy for a while. all the same, we weren't at all in a hurry to hear of the new "miss evans." chapter iii. "rosebuds." "to one who has been long in city pent, 'tis very sweet to look into the fair and open face of heaven." keats' _sonnets_. i suppose it is true, as older people say, that things very seldom turn out as one expects. sometimes they are not so bad as one feels sure they will be--and very often, or almost always, they are not so nice as one has thought they would be, if one has been fancying and picturing a great deal about them. and any way, they are never quite _what_ one expects. i am beginning to find this out for myself now--looking back, i can recollect very few nice things in my life that have turned out as nice as i had imagined them. but of these few, rosebuds was one, and that has made me always remember with particular distinctness all about our first acquaintance with the dear little place. i think i could tell _everything_ about our arrival there, exactly how each room looked, and what we had for tea--oh, how hungry we were that first evening! and i seem to feel again the feeling of the snowy white sheets and the sort of faint hay-ey--tib said it was lavender--scent in our beds when we got into them that first night--very tired, but very happy. what plans we made for the next day--how we settled to get up with the sun, to ramble about and see everything--and how, after all, we slept, of course, much later than usual! still, it was a delicious waking. do you know how beautiful a first waking in the real country is when you have been a long time in london? there is a sort of clear stillness in the air that you can _feel_, and then a cock crows--with quite a different crow from the poor london cocks, i always think, and hens cluck a little, just under your window perhaps; or, best of all, a turkey gobble-wobbles and some ducks quack--perhaps there is a rush of all together if your window happens to be not far from the poultry-yard, and the girl is coming out with the creatures' breakfast--and further off you hear a moo from some cows, and nearer, and yet more distant, the clear sweet notes of the ever busy little birds as they pass by on their way up to who knows where? oh, it is too delicious--and when you hear all those sounds, as you are lying there still dreamy and sleepy, there is a sort of strangeness and _fairy-ness_--i must make up that word--that makes you think of red riding-hood setting off in the early morning to her grandmother's cottage, or of the little princess who went to live with the dwarfs to keep house for them. but i must come back to the evening before--the evening, that is to say, of our arrival at rosebuds. it had been a pouring wet day when we left london (it went on pouring till we were only about half-an-hour from our journey's end); and just at the last moment grandpapa had got a telegram which stopped his coming with us. he grumbled a little, but i don't think he had been looking forward with _much_ pleasure to the journey in our company, and though we thought it our duty to look grave, and tib said gently, "what a pity!" i don't think _we_ minded much either. indeed, to tell the real truth--and it isn't any harm telling it in here, as grandpapa will never see this story--i think it was his not being with us, and our feeling so lovelily free and unafraid, that made that first evening at rosebuds so delightful. _and_ mrs. munt!--oh, yes, it had to do with mrs. munt. there never was anybody so nice as mrs. munt--there never could be! but i _must_ go straight on, and not keep slipping a little bit backwards, and hurrying on too far forwards, this sort of way. well then, as i was saying, it rained and rained all through the three hours' journey, or at least two hours and a half of it, so that we all felt rather doleful and shivery, and liddy began hoping there'd be no mistake about the carriage from the inn meeting us at the station, as grandpapa had told her it should. poor liddy was rather inclined to get nervous when she was thrown on her own resources. "never mind, nursey," we said, all three, to comfort her; "we can easily walk if it isn't there. you know grandpapa said it was only about half a mile, and we've got our big cloaks on--the rain wouldn't hurt us." but liddy still looked rather unhappy, till suddenly from her side of the railway carriage tib called out, "it's clearing up--it's clearing up splendidly; and oh, gussie! do look--there's such a lovely rainbow!" so there was. i never before or since saw such a rainbow--it seemed a very nice welcome for us, and after all, liddy's fears were quite without reason. for the queer old "one-horse fly" was waiting for us, and we all bundled into it and drove off without any mishaps, except that nurse was sure the packet of umbrellas had been left in the railway carriage, and stood shouting to the guard to stop after the train was already moving out of the station, which made us all laugh so, that we hadn't breath to tell her that it was all safe in the fly. though rosebuds is almost _in_ the village--at least, a very tiny bit out of it--it is some little way from the station, because for some reason that i've never found out, the station stands away by itself in the fields, as if it and the village had quarrelled and wouldn't have anything to say to each other. i dare say it's not a bad thing that it is so: the nice country-ness of it all would have been a little spoilt by the trains whistling in and out, and as it is, we scarcely hear it, as the railroad is low down and is hardly noticed. and the road from the station to the village _is_ so pretty. i never, even now, go along it without remembering that first evening when we drove to rosebuds in the clear brightness that comes after rain, the fields and the hedges glistening with the water diamonds, the little clouds hurrying away as if they were afraid of being caught, and over all the sort of hush that seems to me to follow a regular rainy day--as if the world were a naughty child that had cried itself to sleep with the tears still on its cheeks. it is a hilly bit of road--first it goes down, and then it goes up, and when it comes into the village it does so quite suddenly. you see a high, ivy-covered wall, which is the wall of the church-yard, and then comes a row of sweet little alms-houses, and then the inn, and one by one all the village houses and shops in the most irregular way possible. some one said once that it was more like an old german village than an english one, but i have never been in germany, so i can't tell, only it certainly is very unlike everywhere else. we were so pleased to see it so queer and funny, that we kept tugging each other to look out, first at one side, and then at the other, and sometimes at both at once. then we began wondering which of the houses, as we came to them, could be rosebuds, and i think we would have been quite pleased whichever it was--they _all_ looked so tempting and snug. but we were all wrong in our guesses, for, as i said, rosebuds was quite at the end, and, like the village itself, we came upon it quite suddenly, turning sharply down a sort of lane so shaded with trees that you could scarcely see where you were going; then with some tugging at the old horse, and some swaying of the clumsy old fly, in we drove at an open gate, and pulled up in front of a low white house, nestling, so to speak, in thickly-growing, bushy trees. never was a house so like its name! the trees were not really planted so very close as they looked, but it seemed at first sight as if it was almost buried in them: it stood out so white against their green. it looks at first sight smaller than it really is, for it extends a good deal out at the back. but large or small, to us it was just perfection, and so was the very rosy old woman who stood smiling and bobbing in the porch. she was so comical-looking that we could hardly help laughing. i think she must find the world a very good-humoured place, for nobody _could_ be cross when they look at her! "mrs. munt, ma'am, i suppose?" said nurse as she got down. and, "certainly, ma'am," replied mrs. munt, and then the two old bodies shook hands very ceremoniously. it was so funny to see their politeness to each other. but mrs. munt was too eager to see us to waste much time on liddy. "and is these the dear young ladies and gentleman?" she said, hastening forward as we emerged from the fly. "dear, dear! to think you should be so big already, and me never to have seen you before!" the tears were in her eyes, and we felt rather at a loss what to say or do. she seemed to know all about us so well that we felt really ashamed to think--though it certainly was not our fault--that we had never heard of her till about two days ago. i felt too shy to speak, but tib held out her hand. "i am very glad to see you, mrs. munt," she said. "i am the eldest, you know. i am miss ansdell." a slight shadow of pain crossed the old woman's face. "miss ansdell," she repeated, with a strange sadness in her tone: "yes, my dear--to be sure--you _are_ miss ansdell--master gerald's eldest." "_i'm_ gerald, too," said gerald himself. "i'm called after grandpapa and papa. did you know papa when he was as little as me?" mrs. munt smiled. "i should think so, indeed--and your grandpapa too," she said. "and this is miss gustava--you're not like the others, my dear. perhaps you take after your mamma's family--the ansdells have all blue eyes and dark hair. i remember master gerald writing about his lady's beautiful light hair." "yes, indeed," said nurse, rather primly, very anxious to put in a word for her side of the house, "miss gussie's hair is very nice, but it's nothing to what her dear mamma's was." but we didn't want to stand at the door all the evening while the old bodies discussed our looks in this way. gerald, who somehow seemed less shy with mrs. munt than tib and i, put a stop to it in his own way. "mrs. munt," he said, "i'm dreadfully hungry. i'm only seven years old, you know, though i look more; and nurse says seven's a hungry age." "and we're hungry too--tib and i, though i'm ten and tib's eleven," said i. "and we do _so_ want to see all the rooms and everything. oh, i do think rosebuds is far the nicest place in the world." my words quite gained mrs. munt's heart. "indeed, miss, i don't think you're far wrong," she said. and then, just for a moment before going in, we stood and looked round. in front of the house there was a beautiful lawn, right down to the low wall which separated it from the high road. and away on the other side of that, the ground sloped down gradually, so that we seemed to have nothing to interfere with the view, which was really a very lovely one--right over the old forest of evold, to where the river rother flows quietly along at the foot of the rothering hills. but children don't care much for views--it's since i've got big that i've learnt to like the view--we were much more interested to follow mrs. munt into the house, across the low square hall into a short wide passage, with a window along one side, and a flight of steps at one end. a door stood open close to the foot of the stairs, and mrs. munt led the way through it into a bright, plainly-furnished room, where tea was already set out for us. "i might have got it ready in the dining-room this first evening," she said, "but i thought master would be coming, and that there'd be his dinner to see to. this is the old play-room--the school-room as used to be is now a bed-room--and i thought this would be the best for you to have quite as your own." "it will be very nice, i'm sure," said tib, whom mrs. munt looked at as the eldest. "and there's a door right out into the garden--oh, that will be nice! won't it, gussie?" "so that we can come out and in whenever we like. yes, i'm glad of that," i said. "is the garden big, mrs. munt? i hope it is, because--because we've no chance of being allowed to play in any other," i was going to say, but i stopped, and i felt myself grow a little red. i wondered if mrs. munt knew why grandpapa was so strict about our not making any friends; and i fancied she looked at me curiously as she replied-- "yes, miss gustava; it's a good big garden, and it's nice to play in, for there's a deal of rather wild shrubbery--down at the back. our young ladies and gentlemen long ago used to say there was nowhere like rosebuds for hide-and-seek." "who were your young ladies and gentlemen?" i asked quietly. "papa had no brothers and sisters, i know." "ah! but i was here long before your dear papa's time, miss gustava," said mrs. munt. "i was here when your grandpapa was a boy. i'm five years older nor master." "and had _grandpapa_ brothers and sisters, then?" i asked again. mrs. munt grew a little uneasy. "you must have heard of your uncle, the colonel, who was killed in india," she said. "and there was miss mary, who died when she was only fifteen. you must have seen her grave at ansdell friars." i shook my head. "no, i don't think so. but i do remember the tablet in the church to colonel baldwin ansdell. i often wondered who he was. you remember it, tib? but hadn't grandpapa any other sisters? you said young _ladies_, mrs. munt." i had forgotten all my shyness now in curiosity. but it was not fated to be satisfied just then. nurse suddenly interrupted. "miss gussie, dear, you must wait a while to hear all these things from mrs. munt. the tea's all ready, and i'm sure you're all hungry. just run up stairs with miss tib to take off your hats, there's a dear. will you show us the rooms, mrs. munt, please?" so we were all trotted off again--up stairs this time, though it scarcely seemed like going up stairs at all, so broad and shallow were the steps compared with the high-up flights in our london house. and tib and i were so pleased with the room which mrs. munt told us was to be ours, that we should have forgotten all about the talk down stairs if she hadn't made another remark, which put my unanswered question into my head again. "yes, it is a nice room," she said, looking round with pleasure at the light-painted furniture and the two white beds side by side, the old-fashioned cupboards in the wall, two of them with glass doors, letting us see a few queer old china cups and teapots inside; "_and_ so little changed, even to its name. we've always called it the young ladies' room." there it was again--the young _ladies_; but nurse was listening and evidently fussing to get us down to tea. i must trust to cross-questioning mrs. munt some other time. and the tea was really enough to take up all our attention. there was everything of country things--fresh eggs, and butter and milk of the best, and bread, and tea-cakes, and strawberry jam, and potted fish--all "home-made," of course. i think mrs. munt and nurse were really a little frightened to see how much we ate. after tea we wanted, of course, to go out, but liddy decided that it was too damp, and mrs. munt consoled us by giving us leave to go all over the house, for it was barely six o'clock and quite light. she took us into the front hall and showed us the dining-room, out of which opened the study, and beyond that again, what had been the school-room, and was now grandpapa's bed-room. there was nothing _very_ interesting in these rooms, though they were all quaint and old-fashioned; and through all the house there was the sort of clean, fresh, and yet _not new_ feeling--a mixture of faint old scents that cannot be got away, and wood-fires long ago burnt out, and yet the sweet, pure country air preventing their being musty or stale--that you never notice except in an old country house that has been carefully kept, and yet not really lived in for many years. and then mrs. munt, taking us through the hall again, showed us the door of the drawing-room, and told us we might look at it by ourselves, which we were pleased at. it was _much_ more interesting, for, though a small room, it was filled with pictures and curiosities. the pictures were mostly miniatures--such queer things some of them were; gentlemen in uniform and the funniest fancy dresses, some with wigs down to their waists, some of them with helmets to make them like roman soldiers. and ladies to match--some looking dreadfully proud, with towers of hair on the top of their heads, and some simpering in a silly way. one of these last was really rather like tib when she smiles in what i call her "company" manner--though it's hardly fair to say that now, as she has really left it off--and she was very angry at my saying so, and told me that the most stuck-up-looking one of all was very like _me_; "and it's better to look silly than to be so horribly proud," she added. we were really rather near quarrelling, which would have been a bad beginning for our life at rosebuds, when we caught sight of an old cabinet in one corner, of which the top half stood open, showing rows and rows of little drawers, and here and there queer shaped doors opening into inside places, where there were more drawers and shelves. it was a japanese cabinet, of course--a very old and valuable one. i have never seen one so large and curious, and it quite absorbed our attention till nurse came tapping at the door--i don't know why she tapped; i suppose she had an idea that, as we were in the drawing-room, she must--to tell us it was time, and more than time, to go to bed. and though i wanted to talk to tib in bed about the queerness of there having been young _ladies_ long ago in this very room, and that mrs. munt evidently didn't want to tell us about them, i was so sleepy, and so was tib, that our conversation got no further than, "tib, don't you think----" and a very indistinct murmur of "yes, gussie, of course i do," before we were both fast asleep and---- chapter iv. the door in the garden wall. "deep in a garden, rank and green, it were scarce older now than then, for all the seasons gone between." c. c. fraser tytler. the next thing we knew it was to-morrow morning--our first morning at rosebuds! i have told already about this first morning--how beautiful it was to wake to all the fresh sweet country sounds and feelings. i have felt this several times since then in my life, but never quite so newly and strongly as that morning, and every time since then that i have felt it, that day has come back to my mind. it was very fine and bright, and immediately after breakfast we got leave to go out into the garden. "not outside, of course," said nurse, anxiously. "when you want to go a walk i will go with you--i or fanny. mrs. munt will tell us all the nicest walks." "we shall never want to go walks here, i am sure," said tib. "the garden is much nicer, and we can find lots of things to amuse us in it. besides, nursey, you know you don't care about walks with your rheumatics, and fanny is sure to say she hasn't time, as she has to be housemaid too here." "it's much best to let us play in the garden always," i said. "i'm sure grandpapa would like it best." "any way, till the new miss evans comes," said gerald. but tib and i turned on him. "oh, you horrid little boy!" we said; "what is the use of spoiling our nice first day by speaking of anything so dreadful?" "i don't believe there ever could be anybody at all like miss evans--that's one comfort, any way," i added. but gerald looked rather grumpy: he couldn't bear being called a "little boy"--he wouldn't have minded being called "horrid" if we hadn't put in the "little." all grumpiness, however, was forgotten when we found ourselves out of doors, and free to do as we chose. this first day, of course, the great thing to do was to explore, and that we did pretty thoroughly. the lawn in front was a beautiful place for running races on, or for "miller's ground," or games like that--and the walk all round it was interesting because mrs. munt told us that twelve times round it, made a mile. "we might have walking matches," said tib, consideringly. "it wouldn't be very amusing; but still, if we got tired of everything else, it would be worth remembering;" and then we proceeded to inspect the rest of our domain. _the_ place of places was the tangle, or shrubbery, as mrs. munt had called it, away down at the back. it was quite a large place, and you could not distinguish easily where it ended, for the wall which edged it was so old, and so covered with ivy and other creepers run wild, that till you actually felt it you couldn't have told it was there. here and there in the tangle there were little clearings, as it were, carefully enough kept--indeed, the gardeners did clear out the tangle itself once or twice a year, only it was meant to be wild--where you were sure to find a bench, or a rustic seat, and in one place there was even a summer-house, though a rather unhappy looking one. "i don't suppose," said tib, when we came upon this arbour, "i don't suppose any one's been here since those children--grandpapa and the brothers and sisters who are dead, or that we can't hear about--played here, ever, ever so long ago. papa hadn't any brothers or sisters, and he wasn't much here--nurse knows that much. it looks like as if it had never been touched since then--doesn't it? _isn't_ it queer to think of?" and tib sat down on one of the shady seats, still feebly holding together, and looked very serious. "isn't it queer?" she repeated. "it would be a nice place for a robber's castle," said gerald, who had mounted up beside tib, and was peeping out at a little slit in the side which had been meant to let light in by, in the days when the summer-house had a door that would shut. "see here, this hole would just do for an archer to shoot through when he saw the--the others you know," he went on, getting rather muddled, "marching up the hill--we could fancy it was a hill." "nonsense, gerald!" i said. "you're mixing up robbers' dens and feudal castles. you're too little to plan plays. all you can do is to be what tib and i fix for you in our plans." gerald was very indignant. he muttered something about "just like girls," but he dared not say it loud out; we kept him in far too good order for that. tib and i went on talking without noticing him, and he sat down in a corner, and amused himself by poking about among the dry fir needles that lay like a sort of sand on the floor, for the arbour was made of fir branches and cones. i remembered afterwards hearing him give a sort of little squeak, and say, "hi! i declare!" or something like that, but at the time i paid no attention, and he stayed quite quiet in his corner. his words, though i snubbed him so, had reminded tib of her plans, and we went on talking about them for some time. she was all for a regular romance--there was to be a beautiful lady shut up by a cruel baron, who wanted to get all her money by forcing her to marry his hump-backed son (i am afraid that among the old children's books, one or two not quite children's books had got in; i remember one, called "the imprisoned heiress," which we read a chapter or two of, and then it got stupid), and she was to escape by "scaling the fortress wall," which meant, we had a hazy idea, stripping it down stone by stone, as if it were a fish with scales. we decided that the summer-house would do very well for the lonely tower, and we sallied forth at last, all three of us, to inspect the wall and choose a good place for the imaginary escape. but time had fled faster than we fancied; we had only gone a few steps, when we heard fanny's voice in the distance. "miss tib, miss gussie, master gerald! master gerald, miss gussie, miss tib! oh, dear, dear, wherever can they be? your dinner's ready--din--ner! din--ner!" she went on at last, as if she thought the word "dinner" would be the best bait to catch us by. we were rather hungry again already. we all set up a shout, and set off in a scamper to where fanny stood, the image of despair, at the beginning of the tangle, which she dared not enter in her thin london slippers, as the moss-grown paths looked damp and dirty. that afternoon, to our vexation, was showery--it was not so hopelessly rainy as to prevent our going out at all, but nurse told us we must stay in the front, on the short-cropped lawn and the dry gravel paths. so it was not till the next day that we returned to the old summer-house and the tangle. we had, in the meantime, talked over the plan of the play, and got it more into shape. you will see that it had nothing to do with the "mystery," as tib and i still called it to ourselves. we had decided to wait a little before playing at _it_. i did not care for gerald to hear about it, for fear he should chatter to nurse, and i also wanted to see if there really was anything else to find out. there was no knowing but what in time mrs. munt would tell us more about the family history, and though tib was rather reluctant to give up making a story of it, i persuaded her that so far we really knew too little. we began cleaning out the summer-house, for i wanted to make it habitable for the unfortunate heroine. "you see," said i, "it would be more natural for the cruel baron to persuade her that he was bringing her here for safety, as he had heard his castle was going to be attacked by some enemy; so he makes it pretty comfortable for her. and then, when she's been living here alone for some time, and she must be finding it very dull, he sends the horrid little hump-back, who pretends to be against his father, and tells her she is going to be kept there unless she'll marry him, and that he is dreadfully sorry for her, and----" "i don't see why he need pretend to be against his father," said tib; "he might just say straight off that she must marry him or else she'll never get out. but i think it would be much better to fancy it was a horrid dungeon. gerald, i don't think you need trouble to rake up the cones and leaves into a bed for her. i don't see any sense in pretending it's comfortable." "i do--and it makes it much more of a play," i said. "any way, we might make it that way at first, and have her thrown into the dungeon afterwards, and escape from there." tib did not object to this. but the word "escape" reminded her of the wall. she proposed that we should examine it, and find the best place. we had to scramble in among the bushes before we got to the wall. and it proved to be a much higher one than we expected. "the play will have to be all pretence," said tib; "we couldn't possibly get over this, or pull any stones away. it is far too strong." we went on, however, a few steps, still at the foot of the wall. suddenly tib gave a little exclamation. "look here, gussie," she said, and with her hands she pulled back some branches of ivy--"look here--there's a door in the wall--a very old door, and not opened for ever so long; for see, the ivy has grown right across it." gerald and i pushed forward eagerly. yes, tib was right. there was a door in the wall--not a very big one, but very strong, for it did not rattle or shake at all when we pounded on it. it was locked, firmly locked we soon found out, when we had torn away as much of the ivy as we could. the lock was a great big one, clumsy, but very strong, and so rusty that, even without the testimony of the ivy, it would have been clear that no one had passed through that doorway for a great number of years. we all three stood and looked at each other. "another mystery," was what tib and i were thinking, though we did not say it aloud. but gerald looked rather "funny;" his round rosy cheeks were rosier than usual, and there was a queer sparkle in his eyes as he said-- "_wouldn't_ you like to open it? _wouldn't_ it be nice if one could find the key?" and he jumped about and turned--or tried to turn--head over heels: there wasn't much room in among the bushes, and he kept saying, "wouldn't it be nice if somebody could find a key to fit it? but little boys are too little and silly to know anything, aren't they? they're not like big young ladies." and though tib got hold of him, and we both _shook_ him we were so provoked, that was all he would say. so we settled that he was just in one of his teasing humours; he didn't have them very often, it is true. so the only use to make of the door in the wall was another pretence. we settled that it should be the entrance to the dungeon; it didn't do badly for that, as two or three steps, looking very black and slimy, led down to it. and we fixed that, instead of "scaling the wall," the lady should escape by hiding in the wood till the prince who was to be her rescuer passed that way. gerald had to be the prince, in turns with the horrid little hump-back, for i had to be the baron, and also a lady attendant on the heiress, and tib, of course, was the heiress. we didn't much like having gerald after the tiresome way he had been going on, but there was no help for it. and the next two or three days passed very happily. there was still a great deal to see and inspect about rosebuds; the house itself--especially the drawing-room, with its treasures, which mrs. munt showed us, and sometimes, when she found that we were careful children, allowed us to examine for ourselves; the stables, where lived the old pony who was still able to draw the still older pony-carriage, or "shay"--as the farm-man called it--as far as the little town, where mrs. munt liked to go once a month, and to bring home her purchases herself instead of trusting them to the railway. then there were the dairy and poultry-yard, her great pride, though she was rather mortified to hear that we had never known that the butter and fresh eggs we ate in london were sent up from rosebuds every week. "why, we never even heard of rosebuds till a few days before we came here," i told her. her face grew sad at this, and i was sorry i had said it. "grandpapa is very _funny_," i went on, thinking, perhaps, we might get round to the subject of the "young ladies" and the scored-out name, which we couldn't help connecting together; "he never tells us anything. i don't believe he'd have ever told us we'd had a papa and mamma if nurse hadn't been our mamma's nurse, and so could tell us all about her." "your grandpapa's had a deal of trouble, my dears," said mrs. munt. "and there's some as trouble softens and makes more loving to all about them and some as it hardens, or seems to harden, leastways to shut them up in themselves. and i think it's no harm of me to tell you, now i see what sensible children you are, that it's been that way with your grandpapa. it's not really hardened him, for you know he has not got selfish or unmindful of others. he is very good to you?" and poor mrs. munt made the question anxiously, as if half afraid of what we might answer. "nurse says he's very good to us," said tib, slowly. "he gives us everything we have." "but it isn't our fault that we are his grandchildren," i said, rather bitterly. "we didn't ask to be it. and he has plenty of money--what could he do with it if he hadn't us?" "gussie," said tib, reproachfully. but old mrs. munt only looked distressed, not vexed. "he does love you, my dears: i feel sure of it," she said. "only he's got out of the way of showing it--that's what's wrong. if you had your grandmamma now, or----" and then she stopped. "a lady--a woman in the family makes all so different. but try, my lovies, to believe that he does love you. it is true, as miss gussie says--for i'd never be one to say to children what their own sense feels is nonsense--that it would be very wrong of your grandpapa _not_ to give you all you should have. you're his own flesh and blood, for sure. still, he might have done it in a different way--he might have sent you to some sort of school, or to some lady who'd have taken care of you all, and him have no trouble about it. no one would have thought it unnatural if he'd done that way, instead of taking up house again in london, when he'd got quite out of the way of it, and settling all so that he should have you always near him." we both looked surprised. "did he do that?" we said. "yes," said mrs. munt, "he did indeed; and much more that he didn't, so to speak, _need_ to have done--without, all the same, having fallen short of his duty." "i wish he would tell us things like that," i said. "how are we to know?" "no," said tib, "not quite that. i think it seems more for his _not_ telling. but i wish--i wish he'd let us feel that he loves us, and then we would, indeed we would, love him;" and some tears slowly made their way into tib's blue eyes. "well, well, dears, that's the right way to feel, any way. and maybe things will change somehow. it's wonderful how things come round when people really mean right. so keep up heart, and don't be afraid of letting master see that you want to please him, and to love him too." this talk with the old housekeeper made a great impression on us--so great that it almost put the mystery out of our heads altogether. for a great deal seemed explained by the thought of grandpapa's old troubles, and what these had been in time past we knew quite well. he had lost so many dear to him. grandmamma, to begin with, had died quite young; then there was the brother baldwin, killed in india, and the sister mary, buried at ansdell friars. that was sad enough--and then his only son to have died too, leaving us three helpless babies. "i dare say he'd just as soon have been without us, and have had nobody at all belonging to him," i said to tib. "it must have been a great nuisance to have us stupid little things sent home, and not even poor mamma to take care of us. do you remember, tib, how we used to cry and run back to nurse when he sent for us down to the library to see him? we thought him a sort of an ogre." a few days after this talk with mrs. munt, grandpapa came down to rosebuds from a saturday to a monday. we weren't exactly glad to see him, but what the old housekeeper had said was fresh in our minds, and we were all anxious to do our best to please him. so we made no objection when nurse called us a full hour before he could possibly arrive, "to be made neat against your dear grandpapa comes." poor old liddy--she would have thought it her duty to call him our dear grandpapa even if he _had_ been an ogre, i do believe! and we had worked ourselves up to being so extra good, that we did not even grumble at the long time we had to sit still doing nothing on the window-seat in the hall, watching, or listening rather, for the first rumble of the carriage wheels as the signal for all running out into the porch to meet him. that part of it was a "plan" of tib's--everything with her was sure to run into "plans," and with this new idea of pleasing grandpapa, she was constantly casting about in her head what we could do. "i think seeing us standing together in the porch will touch him, you see, gussie," she said. "it is a little like some scene i've read of in a story-book--the orphans, you know--oh, _where_ was it?--and the stern guardian, and it quite melts him, and----" "he begins to cry, i suppose," i said, rather contemptuously, i fear; "i must say i'd be a good deal astonished to see _grandpapa_ begin to cry over us, wouldn't you, gerald?" but the idea was quite beyond gerald's imagination. "i do wish one thing," he said solemnly. "what?" asked tib and i eagerly. when gerald had an idea, it was rather startling. "if he--grandpapa, you know--really wished to please us--he might be thinking of us on the journey, you know--wouldn't it be beautiful if he was to bring us each a packet of that splendid butter-scotch that there was at the station in london? i looked at it while we were waiting. i really _could_ love him if he did." "you greedy little pig!" said tib. it wasn't often tib condescended to use such expressions, but no doubt gerald's butter-scotch seemed rather a come-down from her romantic ideas. i was sorry for her, but i _couldn't_ help laughing at the look of disgust in her face, and at gerald's face of astonishment. he muttered something i couldn't hear--of course there was something about "girls," and "sha'n't get it out of me," which i didn't understand. but tib's indignation next fell upon me. "how can you laugh at him--such low ideas," she said, reproachfully, to which i answered rather crossly. indeed, we were all on the verge of a quarrel when at last the sound of wheels turning in at the gate was heard, and up we all jumped. chapter v. what gerald found. "give a little love to a child, and you get a great deal back."--ruskin. it was very funny, after all poor tib's great preparations, when she really saw grandpapa that she seemed as if she could say nothing. i had already run forward, and quite without thinking of pleasing him, or of anything except that i was awfully glad he was there, because i _was_ so tired of sitting still and squabbling, i called out quite loudly-- "oh, grandpapa, i _am_ so glad you've come!" he was just getting down from the dog-cart--he had had it and a horse and groom sent down to rosebuds to be ready for taking him to and from the station; the old one-horse fly wouldn't have suited grandpapa, i can assure you!--and when he heard me he turned round with quite a nice, not the least "making-fun-of-you," smile on his face. i don't think i had ever before seen his face look so nice. "are you really glad i have come, gussie? i'm sure i feel very flattered." i felt both pleased and vexed. i did so wish i could have let him go on thinking i meant it that way, and i felt myself getting very red as i blurted out-- "yes, grandpapa, i am--we are all glad you've come. but i meant, perhaps, partly that we've been dressed and waiting for you _such_ a time, and we were all getting rather cross." a slight look of disappointment--it was really disappointment, and it made me feel still more sorry--crossed grandpapa's face at my words. then he smiled again, but this time i was sorry to see there _was_ a little of the old smile in it. "you are candid, at least, my dear granddaughter. ah, well! we must take the goods the gods send us, and not expect impossibilities, i suppose! and that any one should be glad to see _me_, in the ordinary acceptation of the words, comes within that category, naturally." he used such long words, he puzzled me. (i must tell you that i have been helped here and there to write things that grandpapa said by some one who knows quite well his sort of way, otherwise i couldn't have got it quite right, though i remember it all in my own way.) i looked up and said, "grandpapa, i don't understand you." then his face grew nicer again, and he stooped down to kiss us in his usual way, saying to me as he did so, "never mind; such understanding comes soon enough." and tib, who, i suppose, had been gathering courage all this time, then looked up, and said very prettily--tib _is_ very pretty, you know, and that makes what she says pretty too, i think-- "grandpapa, perhaps we could understand some things--nice things--better than you think. we do understand that you're very good to us--it was very good of you to let us come here. we are so happy!" grandpapa put his hand under tib's chin, and raised her face so that he could see straight into her blue eyes. "has any one been putting that into your head, mercedes?" he said, almost sternly. "the truth, now, child--for heaven's sake let me see if you are true! _can_ she be with those eyes--those very same eyes?" he added to himself, so low that no one but i--for i have dreadfully quick ears--heard it. tib didn't; she told me so afterwards, but that was perhaps because she was thinking so what she should answer. but she looked up fearlessly, and she didn't get red. "mrs. munt has been speaking to us very nicely, grandpapa," she said. "but she didn't tell me to say anything to you--oh no, grandpapa. all she did was to make us think perhaps better than we have ever done before how very good you are to us;" and then, with the last words tib's courage began to go away, and the tears came welling up into her eyes. grandpapa looked at her still for a minute, and then he said quietly-- "what i do is no more than you have a right to. still, at your age the less thought about rights--and wrongs too--the better, no doubt. and so you are happy here?" "very," we all replied, heartily. and then gerald--oh, that tiresome boy!--must needs add-- "and it is _so_ nice without miss evans!" grandpapa laughed at this, really laughed; but tib and i could have pinched gerald. for, alas! grandpapa added-- "that's right--not to have let me forget about finding a new miss evans;" and if he saw--which i don't know--tib's and my faces when he said that, he must have been satisfied that we could _look_ what we felt very candidly. grandpapa only stayed two days; but his visit was really much nicer than we had fancied it would be. he took us to church on sunday himself. but, rather to our disappointment, not to the pretty old church we had passed on first entering the village, but to one at least three miles off, which was not at all pretty nor interesting. there was nobody at all there except very stupid-looking, poor country people, and the sermon was very long, and the clergyman very dull and stupid himself. to be sure, the driving there and back in the dog-cart a _little_ made up for it; but still, we were very vexed when grandpapa said we were to come to this church every sunday, if it was fine, in the dog-cart, tib in front beside reeves the groom, and me behind with nurse, and gerald stuck in beside tib; and if it was rainy, in the old fly from the inn in the village. we heard grandpapa giving these orders to reeves on the way home. "oh, grandpapa!" i said--i was sitting on the back seat, so i felt more courageous, i suppose--"must we go every sunday to that stupid little church? i'm sure the one in the village is much nicer." "have you been there?" said grandpapa, very sharply. "no, grandpapa," i replied; "we've not been anywhere at all in the village. but we saw the church the day we came." "then you cannot possibly know anything about it; and if you were even capable of having an opinion, it would not make the slightest difference to mine," he said, in his very horridest cold way. but he got nicer again after a bit. he even took us a little walk with him in the afternoon, round a very pretty way, going away down the lane into which the gate of rosebuds opens, and into some woods and copsey sort of places that were awfully nice. grandpapa was very quiet, and didn't speak much; but he wasn't sharp or catching up. once or twice he stood still, and looked about him with an expression on his face i had never seen there before, and he said to us-- "i remember these woods--every tree in them, i believe--as long as i remember myself;" and then he gave a little sigh. "do you really, grandpapa?" we said. "won't you tell us a little about when you were a little boy?" "can you remember so long ago? was it as much as a hundred years ago?" asked gerald, opening his mouth very wide. "not quite so long--but too long ago to tell you stories about," he replied, and then he walked on without speaking. grandpapa had taken us an in-and-out sort of way--we hadn't exactly noticed where we were going, and we were surprised to find ourselves suddenly quite near home again. we had come up another lane, on the other side of rosebuds, as it were; this lane was skirted by a high stone wall, a wall that looked something like the one that bordered our "tangle." "is inside there our garden, then?" asked tib, for grandpapa had just said to us we were close to home. "no," said grandpapa, but without looking in the direction she pointed, "that is not the rosebuds' garden yet." "then what's behind there, please?" said gerald, in his slow way. i didn't expect grandpapa to take the trouble of answering him, but he did. "there is another garden behind there," he replied, "the garden of another house, that is to say. but it is a house that has been uninhabited for a great number of years--the garden must be a perfect wilderness by now--the place is going to be sold immediately, and the house pulled down most likely, or else turned into a mere farmhouse--the owner of the farm over there," and he pointed over our heads, "wants to buy it. so much the better." there was a sort of dreaminess in the way grandpapa spoke, as if his thoughts were looking back somehow far beyond his words. "may we play in that garden if there's nobody there?" asked gerald. "why should you want to play there?" said grandpapa. "it does not belong to me." "and i'm sure we couldn't have a nicer garden than our own, and it's very big too," said i. "we may go anywhere we like in _our_ garden, mayn't we?" said gerald. "yes," said grandpapa. "and if we _could_ get through the door in the wall, we might, mightn't we?" gerald continued in his slow, drawly way. he speaks better now, but then he had a way of going on once he began, all in the same tone so that you really hardly noticed that he was talking. i have thought since that grandpapa didn't in the least know what he was consenting to, when for the second time he replied "yes." gerald would have gone on, no doubt, but tib interrupted him. "does that door lead into a tool-house, grandpapa?" she said. her voice was soft and gentle. it was only i that had a quick, sharp way of speaking. "a tool-house?" repeated grandpapa, "oh, yes, i fancy so." he must have thought that tib was asking him if there was a tool-house in the garden. "oh," she said in a rather disappointed tone. there wasn't much mystery about a tool-house! just then the lane stopped, and we came out on a path bordered by a field on one side, and on the other by a wall which _was_ that of our own garden. very near the foot-path in the field lay two or three ponds or pools of water close together, and on one of them floated some large leaves looking like water-lily leaves, with some bushy high-growing green among them. tib darted forward. "oh, look, gussie," she said, "there'll be the most lovely water forget-me-nots here in the summer, and--" but she stopped short in a fright, for grandpapa had caught her by the arm and was pulling her back. "child, take care," he said sharply, "another minute, and you would have been in the water. the edge is as slippery as glass. if the field were mine, i would soon have these pits filled in," he went on, looking round as if he wished there were some one at hand to give the order to on the spot. "but they are such little pools, grandpapa, they don't take up much room," i objected, "and if there were water-lilies, and forget-me-nots there in the summer, it would be a dreadful pity to take them away." "and when the lilies and forget-me-nots come out, what is more likely than that you or mercedes should be stretching over to get them and fall in," said grandpapa. "but if we did it wouldn't hurt us," said i. "if tib fell in, i would pull her out, and if i fell in, she would pull me out." "and if both tib and gussie fell in i would pull them both out," said gerald, feeling, i suppose, that he had been left rather out in the cold. grandpapa, who had been poking at the back of the pit with his stick, turned sharp round upon us. "children," he said, "listen to me. if one of you, or two of you, or all of you fell into one of those ponds, you would be drowned--as certainly as that i am standing here, you would be drowned. they are very, _very_ deep--there would be no chance of saving you, far less than in a larger piece of water, even if it were as deep. i cannot have the pits filled up nor railed round, for the place does not belong to me, and i cannot ask anything of the person it does belong to. all i can do is to make you promise--to make you give your word of honour, if you know what that means--that you will never come here alone, and never try to reach flowers; if you come this way with nurse, you must pass by as quickly as possible. now, do you hear? do you quite understand? have i your promise?" we all stood still, looking and feeling rather frightened. "do you promise?" repeated grandpapa. "yes, grandpapa," we all said together, "we do promise." "that's right," he said, and then we all walked on in silence. grandpapa's earnestness had impressed us. i think the same thought was in all our minds: "he must love us, after all, or he would not be so afraid of our being drowned." i don't think we had ever felt ourselves of so much consequence before. "was ever anybody drowned in those pools, please, grandpapa?" i ventured to ask. "not that i know of," he said; "but two or three cows have been drowned there. the place is exceedingly dangerous--it is a shame to leave it so. i shall speak to farmer blake about it when he comes into possession." then we went in to tea, and early the next morning grandpapa went back to london. but oh! i am forgetting--before he went he told us another thing. our holidays were over already. he had found us another miss evans! no; i am joking. it was not quite so bad as that. he _couldn't_ find another miss evans, so he had had to make another plan. we were to have a tutor instead of a governess; and i don't think we were sorry to hear it. the tutor was a young man living in the town, two stations from _our_ station, and he was to come every morning, except saturday, for two hours. that wasn't so bad, was it? he wasn't to come before half-past ten, so we could have an hour and a half's play in our dear garden before he came, and all the afternoons to ourselves; for we were quite sure we could do all the preparing of our lessons in the evening, and grandpapa had always been very sensible about not wanting us to have too many lessons to do. it turned out very well. mr. markham began to come that very week, but he was really very nice, and he didn't give us too much to do, though what he did give was pretty hard, for he would have it done very well. only when we did try he was pleased, and told us so. but of course we did not see very much of him, as he was very busy at his home, and he had to leave as soon as ever lessons were over, to get back in time. we went on with our fancy play in the tangle. in the mornings it was hardly worth while beginning it, for if you have ever played at that sort of game you will know that it needs a comfortable feeling of plenty of time before you can get into it properly. we should have liked to dress up a little for it, but nurse wouldn't let us do so till the weather was warmer, and we were obliged to promise her never to take off our hats and jackets in the garden for fear of catching cold. we were more in danger of "catching hot," gerald told her, for we really worked pretty hard, particularly at getting the summer-house into order. we got some nails and a hammer from mrs. munt, and hammered the broken seats together again; we fastened on the door rather cleverly by making hinges of an old leather belt of gerald's, and we put up one or two shelves on the walls, as we called them, on which the princess, or heiress--we called her sometimes one, and sometimes the other--could keep her tea-cups and saucers in her tower. these tea-cups and saucers were the remains of an old toy set, which mrs. munt had found and given us to play with--no doubt, tib and i said to each other, the "young ladies" had played with them long ago! then we "carted" heaps of dry leaves from one corner, where they were really dry and not sodden, to make a bed for her. this carting was an uncertain sort of business, for we had to be content with gerald's wheelbarrow, which was painfully low and little, except when we could get hold of the gardener's standing about. and _his_ was, on the contrary, disagreeably heavy and big. but at last, one fine afternoon we came to an end of our labours, and stood surveying them with considerable satisfaction. "it really looks quite nice and comfortable," tib said. "i really think to-morrow the baron may carry her off to the tower--he's to pretend, you know, to be only taking her out a walk in her litter." "a _walk_ in a litter," i said; "why, a litter's a lying-down-in thing, and we haven't got anything the least like one." "well, then, a walk on her feet," said tib, testily; "that did very well the other day," for you must understand that we had acted it all several times, and then we found what was wanting in the way of scenery, &c. "if only we had the dungeon," she went on. "it's a very poor pretence to call those steps the dungeon--besides, they're horribly damp and dirty." "oh, for that part of it, all the better," i said. "dungeons always are damp and dirty." "but my frock?" said tib, ruefully. "i _can't_ sit down on those steps without getting it horribly spoilt. if we could but get into the tool-house!" gerald, who was standing beside us--we were close to the door in the wall--gave a sudden exclamation and darted off. tib and i looked at each other in surprise. "what's the matter with him?" we said. but he was back again in a moment, holding something in his hand. as he came near us he put both his hands behind his back. "i've got something," he said. "i'd forgot about it. it was the day you teased me i found it. and i hid it, and i was afraid it was lost among the leaves, and all that, but it wasn't. i'd hidden it safe. guess what it is." we tried, but we couldn't. gerald raised his hand slowly. "shut your eyes," he said; and we shut them. "now open them;" we opened them. "what is it?" we said, breathlessly. "the key of the door!" he said, solemnly. "the key of the tool-house!" exclaimed tib. "how do you know it is it? where did you find it?" "i found it among the prickly things on the floor of the summer-house," he replied. "it's quite dry and clean, see!" and so it was, as if it had been packed in sawdust. "but how do you know what key it is?" we asked. "i tried it--i stayed behind a minute that day; you didn't notice. it is the key. it fits _pairfittly_," said gerald. "only it's very stiff, and my hands wasn't quite strong enough. if we all try, perhaps." he put the key into the lock. yes, it was evident it _was_ the key, lost for who knows how many years. how queer that no one had ever had another made; there was another tool-house, and one was enough, perhaps. but still, it did seem queer. first tib, then i, tried to turn it, but it was no use. "if we put a stick through the end of the key, we might turn it that way." "but it might break it; don't you remember we broke the nursery door key in london by trying to turn it with a tooth-brush handle?" i said. "it wants oiling, tib--that's it; not the key, perhaps, but the lock. we must wait till to-morrow, and get some oil in one of the doll's cups, and a feather, and then i'm sure it'll do. but what a bother to have to wait till to-morrow!" there was no help for it, however. wait till to-morrow we must. chapter vi. open, sesame. "i know thee not; but well my heart interprets, darling, what thou art; light of some old ancestral hall, queen-gem of some proud coronal! for, certes, such a perfect grace, such lustrous loveliness of face, such artless majesty as thine proclaims thee of no sordid line!" _the unknown portrait_--sir noel paton. there was time the next morning, before mr. markham came, for coaxing a little oil out of mrs. munt, and fetching a feather from the poultry-yard, but for no more. for mrs. munt, kind as she was, very naturally objected to giving us the oil in one of the best tea-cups, which gerald had brought for the purpose, thinking it must be "an old one," which it was indeed, though not in his sense of the word. so tib ran off to the princess's tower for one of the doll ones, and gerald and i went in the other direction for a long feather. and by the time that we were ready for operations, it was within a quarter of an hour of lessons, and being rather sensible children in some ways--we had early learnt experience and responsibility in our own affairs, having no one to advise or arrange for us in such matters--we decided it was better to wait till we were sure of plenty of, and uninterrupted, time. "you see, if fanny came shouting for us just as we had got into the tool-house, she might see it, and it would be no longer a private place of our own; we must keep it quite for our own," i said. "_certainly_," said tib. "you know i asked grandpapa about it, and he didn't seem to mind." but lessons that morning did go very slowly. once or twice mr. markham had to call us to attention, and there was even a slight threat on his part of "extra work to be done for to-morrow," if the rest of our preparation should not prove better done. it was not the fault of the preparation--which had been done as well as usual--it was that our heads were all agog over the tool-house! but we pulled up after this, and things ended fairly well. and at last--though not till after our dinner, for we were never allowed more than "a run," and that well within view of the schoolroom window, between lessons and dinner--we found ourselves again in safety before the door in the wall--oil-cup and feather in hand. we set to work methodically--with the help of nurse's largest scissors and a skewer--how gerald had got the skewer i don't know: we raked out all the little bits of dirt and rubbish that had collected in the lock; then we oiled it as thoroughly as we knew how, though under the circumstances this was certainly a process of working in the dark. then we carefully inserted the key--it went in to perfection, but we all looked at each other, and grew hot with excitement when it came to the moment for trying to turn it. tib as the eldest had the first try--a barren honour; she hurt her hands over it, but it would not move--not a hair's breadth! then it came to me. i have larger hands than tib, and stronger muscles; i fancy i set to work in a more business-like manner. with me the key turned--with groans and grunts, it must be allowed--but still it turned--half-way! then i too looked blank. fortunately it did not refuse to turn back again, and then i took it out and looked at it reproachfully. gerald laid hands on it. it was _his_ turn, but what i had failed in, it was not likely his little, fat, stumpy paws would achieve. but gerald is sharp in some ways. he first examined the key all over. then he took up the oily feather again. "see here," he said, "some parts of the key are quite oily, but some, inside, are quite dry. we should have oiled the key as well as the lock." he was right; his small grasp did what ours had failed in. grunting and groaning still, but forced to obey, the old key woke from its sleep of thirty or forty years and did the work it was made for. and in another minute we had tugged at the door till it moved on its rusty hinges--you will understand afterwards how they came to be no rustier--slowly opening and revealed-- what did it reveal? for a few minutes we were too dazzled to tell--really dazzled--as well as amazed. a perfect flood of light seemed to pour out upon us, and instead of the dingy, musty tool-house we had been expecting, we found ourselves standing at what at first sight appeared like the entrance to some fairy palace of brightness and brilliance. we stood, dazed, rubbing our eyes and looking at each other. _was_ it magic? had we chanced upon some such wonder of old world times as our little heads were stuffed with? tib--and gerald too, perhaps--would have been ready to believe it. had the door there and then shut upon us, leaving us but the remembrance of the vision, they would have lived upon beautiful fancies for the rest of their lives. but i--practical i--did not long stand bewildered. a slight creak of the door brought me back to common-place. "come inside, quick!" i said, pulling at the others--we were all huddled together on the steps--"shut the door, or else some one will see the light through the trees," for i have told you how _very_ dark the tangle is, even on a bright day. "stay--dare we shut the door? is there a keyhole on the inside? oh, yes; and not rusty at all," and quick as thought i drew the key out and fitted it in to the other side; it turned now with ease. "that's right;" and before tib or gerald had found out for certain whether they were awake or dreaming, we were all three safe inside the enchanted palace, at liberty to look about us and find out where we really were. i feel in a way sorry to explain it. but this is not a fairy story; and in the end i think you will allow, when you have come to know the whole, that it _is_ very interesting, perhaps more interesting than a fairy story after all. so i will go on without leaving you in perplexity any more. the place where we found ourselves was a conservatory: it was prettily built in a high, round-roofed sort of way, so as to catch all the light and sun-heat possible. it was, to begin with, a very bright afternoon; then the shrubbery on our side was _very_ dark; high up in the conservatory there was a band of coloured glass, rich red, and little bits of every colour at the edge, like a strip of rainbow, through which the light came in gleams of all sorts of beautiful tints. you can easily see how startlingly brilliant it had seemed to us; and besides this, the conservatory itself was not at all in a neglected state. there were few _pots_ of flowers; the shelves were mostly empty; but there were plants growing in earth borders along the sides, which were evidently cared for, as they twined up the walls luxuriantly. and the whole place was heated, though not very much. _that_, you see, was how the door and the lock remained in such good condition. we found out all these particulars for ourselves by degrees; and gradually we noticed other things. the conservatory had evidently, at some time or other, been a favourite place to sit in. there was a little _very_ old and shaky rustic table, and two or three seats to match; there was a little corner shelf on which still lay two or three old books. after we had got over our first surprise, we were conscious of something about the whole place which made the tears come to our eyes. but our spirits soon rose again. "_what_ a bower for the princess!" exclaimed tib. i felt quite out of patience with her. "rubbish!" i said, "i can't think any more of the princess or any make-up things. this is _far_ more interesting. i want to find out all about what place it is, and why it is shut up and deserted, as it evidently is." "perhaps it's been shut up for hundreds of years," suggested gerald. "_that's_ rubbish, if you like," answered tib. "it doesn't look as if anybody lived here, but it's not dirty--scarcely even dusty." "there must be some other way of getting into it besides our door, then," i said, "for certainly the _door_ hasn't been opened for a great many years. if we look about, perhaps we'll find some other entrance." at first sight there was no appearance of any, and we began to think the conservatory must, after all, belong to rosebuds, and that from time to time the gardener _did_ open the door and get in to clean it. only why, then, was it always locked up? just as we were feeling quite puzzled, gerald called out-- "oh! see here, tib and gussie, this is another door--here in the glass; here's a handle that turns. why, see, it's a door made of looking-glass!" that was why we had not noticed it. it was cleverly managed to imitate panes, like the rest of the conservatory, and it was somewhat in the shade in one corner. there was no lock to this door; it opened at once, and before us we saw a long, rather narrow, covered passage, lighted by a skylight roof. it was all growing more and more mysterious; half frightened, but too eager and curious to think of being afraid, on we ran. the passage ended in a short flight of steps, at the top of which was another door, a regular proper door this time, with a handle and a lock, but no key in the lock. "oh! supposing it's locked," i cried, excitedly; "it will be too bad. we can't find out any more." but it wasn't. the key, as we afterwards found, was inside, and not turned in the lock. they were evidently not very afraid of robbers. all the years the house had stood empty, no one had ever broken into it; we were the first intruders. we pressed forward. first we found ourselves in a sort of little ante-room, very small, hardly bigger than a closet, and out of this, through another door, opened a very large and handsome drawing-room. it had a row of windows at one side looking out upon a terrace, and a large bow window at one end, with closely-drawn blinds--we could not see what it looked on to; the floor was of beautifully polished wood, inlaid in a pattern such as you see more often in french houses than in english ones; the two mantelpieces were very high, and beautifully carved, and from the centre of the ceiling hung an immense gilt and crystal chandelier, covered up in muslin. there was not much furniture in the room, and what there was looked stiff and cold: two or three great cabinets against the walls, and some gilt consol-tables, and in one corner a group of sofas, and chairs, and arm-chairs all drawn together, and all in white linen covers. everything was handsome, and stately, and melancholy; the very feeling of the room told you it had not been really lived in for many a day. but the one thing which caught our attention was a life-size portrait hanging at the end of the room opposite the bow window. it was the only picture of any kind, and even though we were ignorant children, we could see in a moment that it was a very beautiful one. it represented a young girl, richly dressed in the fashion of a hundred years ago or more, with long-waisted bodice, and skirt of white satin, looped up over an under-one of rose-coloured brocade. she was standing on a terrace--this very terrace we afterwards found--her hat hanging on her arm, and a greyhound beside her. it was all pretty much the same as one often sees in portraits of that time, but her face was _so_ charming! and immediately we saw it, both gerald and i exclaimed-- "oh, tib, she is exactly like you!" and going close to examine it more particularly, i saw some letters in one corner, and, to my immense surprise, they were those of the name scored out in the old book, "ornaments discovered," and of tib's second name also--"regina." the initials of the artist--"l.k.," i think--were there also. "it is my name," said tib, opening her eyes in astonishment; "how very strange! can it be the picture of some great-great-grandmother of ours, i wonder? but this is not grandpapa's house. how could any portrait of our family be here?" we were completely puzzled, but, children-like, we did not think very much more about it. it was such fun to slide up and down the polished floor, or to climb over among the shrouded chairs and sofas, and make ourselves a comfortable nest among them. for it was plain that our discoveries were not to go further--the large double doors of this drawing-room were securely locked from the outside. we went close up to this door, putting our ears to the keyhole even, and listened, but not the least sound was to be heard. "the house must be shut up," i said. "there is certainly no one moving about in it." "perhaps it is enchanted," said gerald, in an awe-struck tone. "perhaps that lady is _really_ alive, and the fairies have fastened her up into that picture till--till--" and he hesitated; his imagination had come to an end of its flight. tib and i looked at each other without speaking. we did not snub gerald as we often did for such speeches--somehow it didn't seem so very impossible! everything was so strange; the room itself so unlike anything we had ever seen, the mysterious way into it, the silence and desertedness, yet the signs of care; above all, the portrait so wonderfully like tib, and actually bearing her name. there was no explaining it by anything we could think of or imagine. "we may as well use it all to make a play of," said tib, at last, returning to her favourite idea. "we can pretend that the lady in the portrait _is_ the princess something, as gerald says. yes, it would be still nicer to make her be enchanted instead of only shut up, and then, gussie, you must help me to plan how she's to be got out." "but, tib," i said, "do you think we can come here again? don't you think grandpapa would mind, after all he said to us about not making friends, or going into any houses in the village?" "and are we making friends?" said tib. "unless the portrait comes out of its frame some day, and begins talking to us, there's certainly nobody else to talk to here." "do you think there's nobody living in the house?" i said, doubtfully. "i'm sure there's not. most likely some one comes to dust it every now and then." "and don't you remember," said gerald, "that last sunday i asked grandpapa if we might come through the door in the wall if we _could_, and he said 'yes'? p'r'aps he knew about this place, and didn't mind if we did come here to play." "perhaps," i said; "anyway we can ask him the next time he comes." "we needn't say anything about it to mrs. munt, or nurse," said tib, decidedly. "as long as we haven't been told _not_ to come, we're not disobeying, and it's much nicer not to ask any one but grandpapa himself." with that i quite agreed, especially as i felt sure grandpapa himself would like it better. we knew we were doing no mischief; there was nobody to speak to, as tib had said, so we felt quite at ease, and spent a most agreeable afternoon. when we had examined everything there was in the big drawing-room, or saloon, as tib preferred to call it--and that did not take us very long; there were no curiosities or small ornaments about, as in the rosebuds drawing-room--we began to plan again about our play story. we arranged it most beautifully, and the portrait was a great help, for it almost gave us another actor, as we could always pretend it was the princess, when tib was wanted for another person. and it was such a wonderfully life-like picture--you could really have fancied its expression changed as we talked to it. but at last we began to get frightened that we should be missed at home if we stayed any longer. "we must go, gussie," said tib, "let us all say good-night to the princess. it is sad to leave you alone here, princess," she went on, turning to the portrait, and speaking in the tone of one of the ladies in the play, who were going to help her to escape, "but, alas, there is no other way to do. if we stayed longer we should only be suspected of plotting, so we must resign ourselves." "and i dare say you're pretty well accustomed to being left alone by this time. you must be nearly a hundred years old, though you look so young," said gerald, as he bowed to her. i could not help laughing, though tib was rather vexed. "i wish you wouldn't think it clever to turn everything into ridicule, gerald," but he looked up with such a surprised face that we saw he hadn't been in fun at all. "there's one thing we'd better do if we want ever to get in here again," i said. "we must hide the key of the door leading from the passage. i dare say the person who comes to dust will never notice it's not there. they can't be in the habit of locking it regularly; but it's as well to hide it," and so saying, i took the key out of the lock and slipped it inside a drawer of one of the big cabinets, where it may be lying still, for all i know (i must look, by the by: writing this all out has reminded me of several things i had forgotten). then we closed the door carefully and ran down the passage to the conservatory again, where we found everything just as we had left it--_our_ key, as we called it, sticking in the lock inside. it was still rather stiff to turn--and the next morning we oiled it again--but we managed to unlock it, and then to lock the door again on the outside. and gerald ran off with the key to hide it again in the summer-house; only we wrapped it up in paper before burying it in the fir dust. "who would have thought," said tib, as we ran in, "who _could_ have thought, what we should find this afternoon?" but our surprises, as you shall hear, were not yet at an end. chapter vii. grandpapa's secretary. ... "children are the best judges of character at first sight in the world."--hogg. grandpapa did not come down to rosebuds again for three or four weeks. mrs. munt wrote to him regularly to tell him how we were, and we, once or twice--it was she who put it in our heads, i must confess--wrote a little scrap to put inside hers, for which he told her to thank us when he wrote back to her, but he never sent _us_ any letter. we didn't mind his not coming, except that now and then we thought we should like to tell him of our discovery, and hear what he said about it. but we were very happy; we never cared to go out for walks, which i don't think nurse regretted; we always said we were much happier playing about. and the conservatory and the saloon became our regular haunts every, or almost every, afternoon. no one ever disturbed us--we never heard the slightest sound in the house where the big drawing-room was; indeed, for all we knew, it might not have been a house at all, but just that one large room, for the other door--the proper door of the room--was never opened. we tried it two or three times; it was always firmly locked. but still it was clear that somebody came to dust the room and the conservatory, if not every day, at least two or three times a week, for they were not allowed to get any dustier. it was a good thing we were quiet children, not given to mischief, or rough and wild, otherwise we might have done harm in some way, such as breaking the glass in the conservatory, or spoiling the beautiful "parquet" floor. and we certainly would have been discovered. it was partly the fear of this that made us so careful, as well as a queer fancy we had that the picture on the wall--the princess, as we still called her--watched all we did, and that she would be very vexed if we were not quite good. "of course," tib used to say, "it's a great honour to be allowed to play in a palace, and we must show we are to be trusted." for after a while we got tired of our play-story about the baron and the humpback and all the rest of it, and then we pretended that we came to visit the princess in her beautiful palace, and that she was very kind to us indeed. sometimes we brought our books and work with us; on a rainy day we always found it difficult to get to our secret haunts, for of course we wouldn't tell stories about it, and nurse naturally didn't approve of our going out in the damp. but after a while, when nurse found that we came in quite dry, and that we never caught cold even when she left us to our own devices on a wet day, she gave up being so fidgety, and so we often did get to our palace all the same. one friday at last there came a letter, saying grandpapa would be down the next day and a gentleman with him. "what a bore that he's not coming alone," said i. "we shan't have a word with him, and the gentleman's sure to be one of those stupid parliamentary people that talk to grandpapa about 'the house,' and 'so-and-so's bill,' all the time." for we had had some experience of grandpapa's friends sometimes at ansdell, when we had come in to dessert and heard them talking. "i wonder if they go on all day long in the 'house' about bills, tib? there must be a fearful lot of people who never pay theirs if it takes all those clever gentlemen all their time to be settling about them in the 'house.'" we were rather proud of knowing what the "house" meant, you see. we thought from grandpapa's being in it, that we knew all about the government things. tib looked rather solemn. "i suppose it's because of the national debt," she said. "it shows how careful people should be not to spend too much, doesn't it, gussie? but i'm not sure that i care to speak to grandpapa more than usual. i'm so awfully afraid of his stopping us going to the palace." "_are_ you?" said i. "i'm not. that is to say, if i thought he'd mind it, i wouldn't go there. what i want is to _find out_ about it from him. i have still such an idea that it has something to do with the old mystery." "if i thought that," said tib, "i'd be far too frightened to tell him about it." we spent a long time that afternoon in the big drawing-room. when we were coming away, we all somehow felt a little melancholy. "we are pretty sure not to be able to come to-morrow, and certainly not on sunday," said tib, sadly. "dear princess," she went on, looking at the portrait, "you mustn't forget us if we don't come to see you for a few days. it won't be _our_ fault, you may be sure;" and really we could have fancied that the sweet face smiled at us as we turned to go. we were playing on the lawn when grandpapa arrived the next day. nurse had intended to have us all solemnly prepared, like the last time, but he came by an earlier train, and somehow she didn't know about it early enough, so we were all in our garden things quite comfortably messy, when we heard the sound of wheels, and looking round, saw to our astonishment that it was the dog-cart. there was no help for it; we hadn't even time to wash our hands, and there was no use trying to get out of the way, for to have gone hurry-skurrying off as if we were ashamed would have vexed grandpapa more than anything, especially as he had a friend with him. so we marched boldly across the lawn and stood waiting, while the gentlemen got down. "how do you do, grandpapa?" i said. "we didn't expect you quite so soon." "indeed," said he, as he kissed us in his usual cool sort of way, "an unwelcome surprise--eh?" tib got red at this, and looked as if she were going to cry. but i didn't feel inclined to be put down like that, before a stranger, too. "no, grandpapa; it's not an unwelcome surprise, but we would have liked to have been tidier; you know we generally are _quite_ tidy when you see us." "for my part, i prefer to see small people when they're _not_ very tidy," said a pleasant, hearty voice; and then the owner of it came round from the other side of the dog-cart where he had jumped down. "you must introduce me, mr. ansdell, please, to my--small, i was going to say, but i'm surprised to see the word would be almost a libel--cousins." "umph," said grandpapa, "'cousins,' in the scotch sense; how many degrees removed, it would be difficult to say." "_i've_ not been taught to count you so very far away," said the gentleman, good-humouredly, but with something in his tone that showed he wasn't the sort of person to be very easily put down; "besides, sir, as i'm your _godson_ as well as your cousin----" "i might be a little more civil, eh, charles?" said grandpapa, laughing a little. "ah, well, i'm too old to learn, i fear. nevertheless, i have no objection to your calling each other cousins if you choose. mercedes, gustava, and gerald--your cousin, mr. charles truro." we looked at him, and he looked at us. what we saw was a well-made, pleasant-looking young man, not very tall, though not short, with merry-looking grey eyes, close cut brown hair, and a particularly kindly expression, a great improvement upon most of grandpapa's gentlemen friends, who never looked at us as if they saw us. "mercedes and gustava," he repeated, slowly. "i thought one of them was called re----" but grandpapa interrupted him. "mercedes is an absurd name for an english child," he said. "it was a fancy of poor gerald's--they were in spain, you know." "but you needn't call tib 'mercedes,' unless you like," i said, boldly--i don't really know what spirit of defiance, perhaps of curiosity, made me say it--"she has another name; her second name is regina, like----" would you believe it? i was on the point of saying "like the picture;" but i cut myself short before i said more, and even had i not stopped, grandpapa's tone would have startled me into doing so. "will you be so good, gustava, as to answer questions and remarks that are addressed to you, and those only?" he said, in his horrible, icy way. _i_ felt myself getting red now, especially as i was certain mr. truro was looking at me. i made a silent vow that i wouldn't try to be nicer to grandpapa, and that i would _certainly_ not tell him about our secret. this comforted me a little, and i glanced up, to find that the stranger was looking at me, but in such a nice way that i couldn't have felt vexed if i had tried. "will you take me round the garden?" he said. "i am quite stiff with sitting so long." he spoke to us all, but i think he meant it most for me. grandpapa didn't seem to mind. i think that when he had said anything very crabbed, he _was_ sorry, though he wouldn't say so. "don't be very long, charles," he said, as he went into the house and we turned the other way, "i shall want you to look over those papers." "all right, sir, i won't be long," mr. truro called back in his cheery tone. "why does he want you to do his papers?" i asked. mr. truro laughed. "because i'm acting as mr. ansdell's secretary just now," he said. tib looked disappointed. "oh," she said, "i thought you were a----" and she stopped. "say on," said mr. truro. "a--a gentleman," said tib. "well, i hope i am," he said, smiling. "but doesn't he," i said, nodding my head towards the house, for i perfectly understood what tib meant, "pay you for being that?" "in point of fact mr. ansdell does _not_ pay me," he said. "what i learn from being with him is far more valuable than money to me. but all the same, if your grandfather _did_ pay me for my services, _that_ would not make me less of a gentleman!" and mr. truro stood erect, and gave a little toss to his head, which showed he could be in earnest when he liked. but then he laughed again, and we saw he was not really vexed. "may i make a remark in turn?" he said. "are you young people in the habit of talking of mr. ansdell as 'he' and 'him?' 'she,' i know, is 'the cat.' i have yet to learn who 'he' is." we laughed, but we blushed too, a little. "we don't always," said tib; "but you see you _are_ a cousin; mayn't we tell him things?" she exclaimed, impulsively, turning to gerald and me. "he's got such a kind face, and--and we haven't anybody like other children." mr. truro turned his face away for half a second. i fancy he didn't want us to see how sorry he looked. by this time we had sauntered round to the other side of the lawn, out of sight of the house almost. there was a garden seat near where we stood. mr. truro took tib and me by the hand, and gerald trotted after. "let's sit down," he said. "now, that's comfortable. yes, dears, i _am_ a cousin, and i think you'll find me a faithful one. do tell me 'things.' i won't let you say anything not right of your grandfather; there is no man living i respect more. but perhaps i may help you to understand him better." "is he never cross to you?" asked tib; "at least, not so much cross as that horrid laughy-at-you-way--laughy without being funny or nice, you know." "yes, i do know," he answered. "i think mr. ansdell is inclined to be that way to everybody a little. i wish you could hear how he makes some of them smart now and then in the house." "the people who don't pay their bills--the people who make the national debt, do you mean?" i asked. "the how much?" asked our new cousin in his turn, opening his eyes very wide. and when i explained what i meant, about all the talk we had heard about _bills_, and how tib had read something about the national debt, and thought it must mean that, you should have seen how he laughed; not a bit like grandpapa, but just _roaring_. i know better now, of course. i know that there are different kinds of bills, and that the ones we had heard of being talked about in parliament are new plans or proposals that the gentlemen there--"members," like grandpapa--want to have made into laws, because they think they would be good laws. i know, too, pretty well--at least a little--about the national debt, and that somehow it isn't a bad thing, though little debts are very bad things. i don't see how, but i suppose i shall understand when _i'm_ big, that things that are bad when they're little aren't always bad when they're very big. when mr. truro had finished laughing, he began to listen to all we had to tell him. you would hardly believe how much we told him. indeed, when we thought it over afterwards we could hardly believe it ourselves; to think that here was a strange gentleman we hadn't known an hour, whose name we had never heard in our lives, and that we were talking to him as we had never before talked to anybody. he had such a way of looking as if he really _cared_ to hear. i think it was that that made it so easy to talk to him; and then, of course, his being a cousin made a difference. he wasn't a very near one, but i have noticed that sometimes rather far-off cousins care for you quite as much or more than much nearer ones. and anything in the shape of a cousin was a great deal to us; we had never heard of having any at all. after we had chattered away for some time, some little remark, i forget what exactly, something about what we did with ourselves all day after lessons were over, seeing that we had no friends or companions, for we had told him about grandpapa's not allowing us to know any neighbours; something of that kind brought us dreadfully near the subject of our discovery. we had already said _something_, though very little, about the old book with the scored-out name, and mr. truro listened eagerly, though it struck me afterwards more than at the time that he had not seemed very surprised. and when we did not at once answer about how we amused ourselves, he repeated the question. we looked at each other. then tib got rather red, and said, quietly, "we can't tell you all we do, at least, i don't think we can," she said, glancing at gerald and me. mr. truro looked a little startled. "why not?" he said. "i am sure, at least i think i may be, that you wouldn't do anything you shouldn't. if, for example, you had been tempted to make friends with any of the village children, it would be much better to tell your grandfather; he might not mind if they were good children, even if they were not of the same class as you. but it would be wrong not to tell him." we began to feel a little frightened, and for the first time a misgiving came over us that perhaps grandpapa might be angry at our having played in the palace. i suppose our faces grew so solemn that mr. truro felt more uneasy. "come now," he said, "can't you tell me all about it? i don't look very ogre-y, do i? that is, if you've no real objection to telling me before you tell mr. ansdell." "we meant to tell him; we were going to tell him to-day," i said. "indeed, we, at least i, _wanted_ to tell him. i thought perhaps he'd explain, or that we'd find out about it. but he isn't as kind this time as he was the last, and perhaps he'd be angry, really angry. i never thought before that it was a thing he could be angry about, did you, tib?" "no," said tib, faintly; "and it would be so dreadful not to go there any more." gerald began to cry. mr. truro's face grew graver and graver. "my dear children," he began, "my dear little cousins, i must speak very earnestly to you. you must tell this secret, whatever it is, to your grandfather. it might not make him angry just now, but if you did _not_ tell him, i very much fear it might." "but he is so very sharp to-day," said tib; "you could see he was. and when he is like that we can't tell things properly, and it somehow seems as if we were naughty when we aren't really. we can't tell him _to-day_, can we?" mr. truro reflected. "it is true," he said, "that mr. ansdell is _particularly_ busy and worried. he has been terribly overworked lately; indeed, he came down here expressly to be able to work without interruption. can't you confide in me, children? i promise to advise you to the very best of my ability." "and you wouldn't tell him--grandpapa, i mean," said tib, correcting herself, "without _telling_ us you were going to?" "certainly not. i should have no right to tell him without your leave," he replied. we all looked at each other again. "i suppose we'd better, then," i said. "you begin, tib. it's rather difficult to think where it began," i went on. "it had to do with grandpapa telling us so about not knowing the neighbours, or making friends with any one, and we had never heard of rosebuds before, you know, and then i remembered seeing it in the book, and tib likes mysteries so, and----" "take breath, gussie, there's no such dreadful hurry," said mr. truro, and his face grew more smiling as i went on. "we fixed to make a story about it. it didn't seem like prying to play at it that way," said tib. and then we went on to tell all about the imprisoned princess, and the old arbour, and the supposed tool-house, which was to be a dungeon, and gerald finding the key, and just everything--all that i have written; i needn't tell it all again. and with every word mr. truro's kind face grew kinder and brighter; all the grave, uneasy look went quite out of it, and this, of course, made it much easier to tell it all quite comfortably. by the time we had quite finished--it took a good while, for gerald _would_ interrupt to tell that _he_ had found the key, and _he_ had made it turn when tib and gussie couldn't--mr. truro's face had grown more than bright, it looked quite beaming. "and the portrait of the princess is like tib, you say--mercedes, i _should_ say? i would like best of all to call you 'regina';" and he passed his hand softly over tib's dark hair. "awfully like tib, only prettier," i said, bluntly. but tib didn't mind. something in mr. truro's tone had caught her attention. "did you ever know any one called regina?" she asked. "you seem to like it so." mr. truro did not answer for a moment. then he said, quietly, "it is a family name with me, too. i have heard it all my life. you know i am your cousin." "oh, of course," we all said. then he went on to talk of what we had been telling him. "will you let me think over about it?" he said. "i am the last person to advise you not to tell your grandfather _everything_, but i do not think it would be wise to tell him anything just now, as he is extremely busy and worried. i will tell you what i think you should do before i go." of course we agreed readily to what he said. chapter viii. stepped out of the frame. "and, even as one on household stairs, who meets an angel unawares, might hold his breath; in silent awe we stood." _the unknown portrait_--sir noel paton. we saw very little of grandpapa during this visit, and not as much of mr. truro as we would have liked. for it was some very bothering time about government things, and everybody that had to do with them was very busy. we came in to dessert, as we always did, and grandpapa was kind in his own way. he seemed pleased that we were such good friends with mr. truro. i remember he said something to him about his having done already what _he_--grandpapa--had not been able to do himself--"gained our hearts," or something like that. and mr. truro answered. "you could if you would, sir, or probably you _have_ if you would but think so." but grandpapa only shook his head, though he smiled a little in a nice way. and then they began talking again about all the papers and writings they had to do, and we got tired of sitting still, and fidgeted with the wine glasses and things on the table, so that grandpapa told us we had better go to bed. the next day, sunday, was pouring wet. we didn't see either grandpapa or our cousin till we were sitting in church. we had come with nurse in the one-horse fly, which knew it always had to come for us on wet sundays, and we didn't hear anything of the two gentlemen. we couldn't bear the long drive in the stuffy fly, and we did not like the church, for the clergyman was old, and mumbled his words, and the music wasn't nice nor anything else. "if we might only go to the pretty church in the village!" we whispered to each other, as we whispered every sunday. for this about the church was the thing we disliked at rosebuds, and at ansdell we loved going to church. it was so nice; beautiful hummy music and lovely singing, and all so pretty. and the clergyman with a nice clear voice, and not too long sermons. and--perhaps you will be shocked at this--everybody at ansdell knew us, and there was always a little sort of rustle when we went in, and i could almost hear the school-girls talking in whispers about "our young ladies' hats;" and if we happened to see one of them we knew, and gave her a little nod and smile, she looked as proud as proud! it was just as different as could be from this ugly, stupid little church that grandpapa had taken it into his head to make us go to here, and we were very pleased when we saw mr. truro coming up the aisle after grandpapa, both of them looking so nice and grand, even though in a way we felt ashamed for our cousin to see what an ugly little church it was. "he'll see for himself," i whispered to tib, "and perhaps he'll say something to grandpapa." for we were beginning to think of mr. truro as a sort of good fairy who was to put everything right. grandpapa and he had driven over in the dog-cart of course; they didn't mind the rain, though i'm sure _we_ didn't mind it either, for that matter--we should only have been too happy to drive over in the dog-cart under waterproofs and mackintoshes; and when we were getting into the fly after church, gerald looked so woebegone, that mr. truro took pity on him, and picked him out again. "i'll find a corner for you where you shan't get wet," he said, in his nice, bright way. lucky gerald! we heard him chattering as he went off in mr. truro's arms. "you know it _is_ worstest for me, isn't it? for i'm only seven, and it does make my head ache so." i suppose he had--what is it you call it?--squeams of conscience, is that the word? i must ask re--oh, how stupid i am! that it was selfish of him to desert us. he always takes refuge in his being the youngest and "only seven," as it was _then_, when he is afraid he is going to be blamed. but, after all, it was a good deal better in the fly without him. nurse doesn't think it rude of us to whisper when we are alone with her, so tib and i could say anything we liked to each other all the way home, without gerald's rosy round face poking in between us every moment to say, "_what_ did you say, tib?" "i can't hear, gussie!" what we did keep saying to each other was mostly about mr. truro. what was he going to fix we should do? would he "think it over" till he found out we should tell grandpapa at once; and if grandpapa were worried, and said in a hurry we must never go to our palace any more, how horrible it would be! "i don't _think_ he will," said tib. "he's so very understanding. if he could only see the place himself, he would quite understand that we can't get any harm there, or do any mischief." "yes," i said, "i wish we could have shown it him. besides, if he's our cousin, and has heard about 'reginas,' he _might_ find out something about our princess." but tib didn't care about this idea. "i don't want it spoilt," she said; "i've got used to her being just our princess, and to there being a mystery. i don't want to undo it." it didn't look very like undoing it. we never saw mr. truro all that afternoon, and it was one of the longest i ever remember. it cleared up about tea-time, and we went three times round the lawn, on the gravel path, of course, and we saw grandpapa at the drawing-room window, which he had thrown open for some air, as we came in, and he asked us if we had seen mr. truro. and when we said no, he turned away, saying, rather crossly, "i wish he'd be quick; i'm sure it's not a very tempting day for a long walk," and tib and i rather agreed with gerald that we shouldn't much care to be grandpapa's "scretchetary." but late that evening--near bed-time it was--we heard a quick step coming to the schoolroom door. "may i come in?" said mr. truro's voice. we all jumped up to welcome him, and nurse discreetly retired. "i can't stay long, dears," he said, "and we are off first thing to-morrow morning. but listen; i don't think you need speak to your grandfather about your discovery just now. wait till he comes back the next time, a fortnight hence. i shall come with him, and he will not then be nearly so busy. i have satisfied myself that you cannot come to any harm in your palace, and i am sure you will do no mischief there." "no; and _perhaps_ grandpapa knew of it--what do you think?--the day he said we might go through the door in the wall if we could. and he only forbade us making friends with people." "not with portraits," said mr. truro, with a smile. "well, good-bye, my dear little cousins. i can't tell you how pleased i am to have made friends with you." he stooped and kissed us all, hurriedly, for we heard doors opening, and a voice in the distance, which we were quite sure was grandpapa's, "where is mr. truro?" and then he was gone, and we didn't see him again the next morning. it almost seemed like a dream his having been at rosebuds at all, especially when we again found ourselves in the saloon that afternoon, our dear princess smiling down at us as usual. "you don't know, princess, what a nice new cousin we have got," we said to her, for we had got into the way of telling her everything that interested us; "i'm sure you'd like him, and i'm sure he'd like _you_," tib went on, and we really could have fancied the sweet, proud face gave a little amused smile. "i think he was very sorry not to come to see you, but perhaps he will the next time he's here." then we went on with some of our usual plays, and we were as happy as could be. it seemed somehow a good long while since we had been in the palace, though in reality it was only three days, and we were tempted to stay a little later than usual. but just as we were thinking we must go, a rather queer thing happened. you remember my telling you that the other door of the saloon, the real big door, which must have been the regular way of coming into the room from the rest of the house--if there was a house--i don't think we had really ever thought seriously if there was a house, or if the saloon was a sort of pavilion in a garden all by itself--well, this door was locked, firmly locked; we had tried it two or three times, but it was quite fast. not stuck or stiff, or anything like that, but quite locked. but this day, just as we were coming away, we heard a little, very little, faint squeak, like some one trying to open or shut a door very, very softly, and looking at the big heavy gilt handles--it was a double door, with two sets of handles and all that, you understand--we distinctly saw one of them turn, and then all was quiet and motionless again. we looked at each other, and then we all darted forward--i think it _was_ rather brave of us--and seized _the_ handle. it turned certainly, easily enough, as door handles generally do, but that was all. the door didn't open; it was as firmly fastened as before. "if we hadn't _all_ seen it," said tib, "i should have thought it was fancy." but we were satisfied that it wasn't. "whoever turned the handle must have locked the door again on the other side as quick as thought," i said. "they must have been peeping in at us without our hearing, and then when they heard the squeak the handle made as they were closing the door again, they must have quietly locked it, expecting us to come to see who was there. i wonder who it was!" we all wondered, but in vain. "it _may_ have only been the person who comes in to dust," said tib; "there must be such a person, unless the princess herself comes out of her frame in the night to do it. only if it were that person, most likely she'd have come in and asked us who we were, and what business we had there; it's very queer." we decided when we went home that the next day we should make our way in as quietly as we possibly could, so that if any one were there, they shouldn't hear us in time to run away. "and we'll sit quite still all the afternoon," said gerald; "we won't make the least bit of noise, so that they'll think we're not there, and then they'll come straight in." "they must have known we were there to-day; it's not likely they'll come straight in if they don't want us to see them," said tib. "i can't make it out; whoever they are, they've more right there than we have. i think the only way is to take our books to-day and sit quietly reading; and we had better hide ourselves as much as we can, so that we shouldn't be seen all at once." "aren't you at all frightened?" said gerald. "s'pose it was some kind of robbers?" "nonsense," said i. "mr. truro said he was satisfied we couldn't come to any harm there: i believe what he said. i'm not going to be frightened--are you tib?" "n--no. i don't think so," she replied, rather doubtfully. "any way, i shouldn't at all like never to go there again." but we all three did feel very excited the next afternoon, and i think all our hearts were beating a good deal faster than usual as we noiselessly made our way out of the conservatory and along the passage now so familiar to us, through the little anteroom, and then, as quietly as possible, opened the door into the saloon. and then-- you know, i dare say--big people must know all about these things better than children--how _very_ quickly thoughts, or feelings, or something not exactly either--since i wrote that, a big person has told me that the word that best says what i mean is _impressions_: i am not sure that it says it to me; but that is, perhaps, because i have never thought of the word in that way before--you must know how _very_ quickly one seems to know a thing sometimes, before there could have been time, even, to get to know it by any regular way of hearing or seeing. well, that was how it was with us that day. the very instant the door opened we knew there was something different in the room--it seemed warmer, more alive, there was more feeling in it; and yet it was darker than we had ever seen it before--at least, that end of the room where our princess was had got into the shade somehow. _her_ face was not the first thing that caught our eyes, as it usually was; or _was_ it her face? i dare say you will think us too silly when i tell you that for about half a second we _did_ think the princess had really stepped down out of the frame. it was _so_ like her. there she stood, quite still, but smiling at us as if she had expected us. her hair was dark--like tib's and like the picture's--her eyes just the same as both of theirs; but she was far, far prettier than either! she was dressed in something white, and there was some pink about it, too; and though of course it wasn't really made the same way as the dress in the picture, it was like enough to give a confused feeling at the first of being the same. and she was standing a little in the same way, and a hat--a black hat with drooping feathers--was slung on her arm. we three just stood and gaped, and stared as if our eyes would come out of our heads. and she stood, still smiling, but perfectly motionless. gerald was the first to come to his senses. he ran forward a little towards the end of the room where the portrait was--it was still there; it was only that one of the blinds had been drawn down so as to cast it into shade--and glancing up at the wall, he called out, "it's still there--it isn't _it_. it's another princess." and at his words a peal of laughter--not very loud, but such pretty clear laughter, i wish you could hear it!--rang through the room, and the new princess, the living, moving princess, came forward to us, holding out her hands. "so you have come at last," she said; "i expected you this morning. i knew you heard me at the door yesterday, and i thought your curiosity would bring you early." i didn't quite like her calling us "curious." it wasn't quite the right word to use for all our pretty fancies about the princess, and even about the mystery. "we never can come in the morning," i said, "because of our lessons. and--it wasn't _curiosity_." "indeed!" she replied, a tiny little bit mockingly; "not curiosity. what shall i call it, then, your inquiring minds, eh?" i felt my face get red, and i felt that tib's was getting red too. "i don't know who you are," i burst out, "and if you don't choose to tell us, i am not going to ask. _that_ isn't curiosity. but i wish you hadn't come; you've spoilt it all. our own princess," and i glanced up at the portrait, looking, i could not but confess, like a washed-out doll beside the brilliant living beauty of the girl beside us, "our own princess is much nicer than you. and if we had been so curious we might have tried to find out things in pokey ways. we've never done that." i looked, i suppose ready to cry. the lady's face changed, and then i knew that while she had been talking in that half teasing way, something in her voice and smile had reminded me of grandpapa--of grandpapa, i mean, when he was in that sort of laughing-at-us way that we couldn't bear. perhaps this had made us all feel more vexed at her than she really deserved us to be. but when her face changed, and a soft, sorry look came over it, she reminded me of _more_ than any real face i had ever seen--she reminded me of all the prettiest and nicest fancies i had ever had; the sweet look in her eyes was _so_ sweet, that i wished i might put my arms round her and kiss her. and tib told me afterwards that she had felt exactly the same. "i'm very sorry," she said, simply; "i didn't come here to hurt your feelings. good fairies never do that, unless to very naughty children, whose feelings need to be hurt. and yours don't need to be hurt, for i know you're not naughty children--very far from it. of course you wouldn't try to find out things in any way that wasn't nice, i know that. but wouldn't you like to know my name?" "if you like to tell it," we said, smiling up at her. "or would you rather count me a sort of a fairy?" she went on. "_are_ you one?" said gerald, softly stroking the pretty soft stuff of which her dress was made. "perhaps," she said, smiling again. "i shouldn't wonder if you could decide that better than i can. try to find out--think of some things i couldn't know unless i were a fairy." "i know," said gerald; "_our_ names. you _couldn't_ know them if you weren't a fairy, or--or if perhaps you knowed some fairies who had told you them," he added, getting a little muddled. "if i had a fairy godmother, for instance, who had told me them," she said. "yes--that might be it," said gerald. "well, then--dear me, i mustn't make any mistake, or my godmother would be very angry, after all her teaching," she said, pretending to look very trying-to-remember, like gerald when he stops at "eight times nine," and screws up his mouth and knits his brows. "well, to begin with, the eldest. this is tib--but her real name is mercedes regina; this is gustava; and this is gerald charles. and gustava is generally called 'gussie.' now, have i said my lesson rightly?" we all stared at her. "you must be a fairy," said gerald. but tib and i felt too puzzled to say anything. "what shall we call you?" i asked. "anything you like. i've got a lot of names. one of them, curious to say, is the same as the name scribbled on the portrait just above the name of the painter. did you ever notice it?" "do you mean the same name as tib's second one?" i asked; "regina?" the young lady nodded her head. "that's very funny," we said. "that's the name in the book in london too." "what book?" she asked, quickly. i hesitated a moment. then i thought as i had said so much it would be stupid not to explain. so i told her. she looked sad and thoughtful as she listened. "it was scored out, you said?" she asked. "yes, with a thick black stroke, as if somebody had been very angry when they did it," i said. "if we hadn't known the name, from its being tib's, i don't think we could ever have made it out." "ah," said the young lady, and it sounded like a sigh. but in a moment she smiled again. "i didn't come here to make you sad," she said. "won't you tell me about the games you play, and let me play with you. perhaps my fairy godmother has taught me some that you don't know and that you would like to learn." but we didn't feel quite ready for playing games yet. there were two or three things on our minds. the new princess saw that we looked uncertain. "what is it?" she said. "you look as if you were afraid of me." "no," said tib, and "no," said i. "it isn't that, but there are some things we want to ask you." "ask them. i won't call you curious, i prom----" but just that moment a bell rang--not loudly, but she heard it at once, and started up. she had been sitting on one of the old couches, with us all about her. "i must go," she said. "come to-morrow and i will tell you all i can. good-bye; good-bye till to-morrow," and in half an instant--i never saw any one move so quick--she had gone. we heard a key turn in the lock of the double door outside, and that was all! we looked at each other again without speaking. surely she must be a fairy of some kind, after all! chapter ix. our fairy. "a creature not too bright or good for human nature's daily food." wordsworth. it seemed a very long time to the next afternoon, and if liddy hadn't been the most unnoticing old woman in the world, she would certainly have seen that there was something unusual in our heads. we could think of nothing but our new friend the fairy, or "the other princess," as gerald would call her. who could she be? where had she come from? how--and this, perhaps, was the thing we wondered most about--how in the world did she know all about us, or our names, even down to our pet names, any way? then another thought was in my mind and tib's. grandpapa had told us to make no friends with the neighbours. would it be disobeying him to go to meet the young lady in the saloon and play with her, as she had asked us? "is she a neighbour?" said tib. "we don't know--we don't know if she lives there, or where she lives, or anything." "we must ask her," i said; "any way, we must go and see her again to ask her. we must go to see her _once_, and we will tell her what grandpapa said." "i think she is a fairy, and that she lives in fairyland; and grandpapa didn't say we weren't to speak to fairies," said gerald. "oh! how i wish mr. truro was here; we could ask him about it," i said. "and there's another thing," said tib: "we almost promised mr. truro we wouldn't say anything about the palace and all that to grandpapa just now--not till they came again. it's rather a muddle altogether, don't you think, gussie?" "i dare say she--we must get a name for her, tib----" "we'd better just call her regina," tib said. "she said it was her name." "well, i dare say regina will tell us what she thinks we should do. any way, as you say, we must go to see her once to tell her about it. i wonder what the bell was that rang, and made her rush off in such a hurry. that part of it was really very like a fairy story." "if only she had left a slipper behind her, it would have been a little like cinderella," i said; "though the deserted, quiet rooms, and that part of it, is more like the sleeping beauty." "and the first day, when we were trying to get in at the door in the wall, was like one of the stories of dwarfs and gnomes in the woods, wasn't it?" said tib. "we've really had a good many adventures at rosebuds." this conversation took place the morning after we had first seen regina. we were in the schoolroom, waiting for mr. markham. it was a little past his usual time when he came in. "i'm a little late, i fear," he said. "i had to go to the rectory to settle about giving some holiday lessons to one of the boys there. it will be whit-week holidays soon, you know." we didn't care very much; whit-week would make no difference to us. indeed, christmas itself we didn't look forward to in _those_ days, as most children do. it brought no happy family meetings, no christmas-trees, or merry blind-man's buff and snap-dragon to us. but we knew too little about these things in other homes to think about what we missed, and grandpapa always gave us a pound each to spend as we chose. and at ansdell, the christmases we happened to be there, the servants had a party, and we used to watch them from the gallery that runs round the big hall. but whit-week we cared nothing about. "we're not to have holidays, then, are we?" i asked. "oh, no; mr. ansdell has said nothing about it," mr. markham replied. "by the by, miss gussie, you don't know when he will be coming down again, do you?" "no," i said. "it won't be next saturday, and perhaps not the saturday after." "ah well! i can write to him. i thought perhaps he would say something for me to the rector--you don't know the family at the rectory, i think?" "no," said tib. "it is curious," said mr. markham--he was rather talkative this morning; perhaps it had put him into an extra good humour to have the hope of some more pupils--"it is curious--i saw a young lady there this morning that i could really have thought was an elder sister of miss tib's--she was so very like her." we were all ears and attention now. "so like tib?" said gerald and i. "so like me?" said tib. "yes," repeated mr. markham, "exceedingly like." he didn't add, as i have done, "only a great deal prettier." perhaps it is because tib is my own sister, and i'm always seeing her and know her face so well, that i don't think her as pretty as other people do--or rather, i don't think about it. when you love people dearly you don't think about whether they're pretty or not--even now with reg----oh! i am too stupid again. "it is very funny," we said, in which mr. markham agreed. he was thinking, of course, that the likeness was curious; _we_ were thinking of far more than that--of how strange it would be if our mysterious lady was staying at the rectory. if so, how did she get into the saloon?--how did she know our names?--how did she know that we went there to play? "yes, i should like you to see it for yourselves. but you don't know the family there?" "no," repeated tib, rather sharply, "we don't. grandpapa doesn't wish us to make any friends here." "oh, exactly--i beg your pardon," said poor mr. markham. probably grandpapa had said something about it to our tutor himself, which for the moment he had forgotten, for he got rather red, poor young man, and began rather hurriedly to get the books ready. "we mustn't waste any more time," he said, and, as we were sorry to see him looking uncomfortable, we didn't remind him, as we might have done, that it was he, and not we, who had begun the conversation. it was a little later than usual when we got out that afternoon. nurse had kept us to try on some new frocks she was making for us, and we were very cross about it, i remember. but after all, it didn't matter. when we found ourselves at last in the saloon, and looked round eagerly, there was no one to greet us, but the smiling face of the portrait--the same which we had before thought so lovely, but which now seemed uninteresting and disappointing compared to the living, changing, half-mischievous, half-tender face, which already i really believe we had learnt to love. "she'll be coming soon, i dare say," said tib. "let's sit down quietly, and think of all we want to ask her, in case she makes off in a hurry like yesterday," and we were turning towards the end of the room where stood all the old chairs and couches, when something on one of the marble consols caught our eyes. it was something lightly covered with a sheet of white tissue-paper, and lifting it up, there were three little nosegays of lovely flowers--delicate, brilliant hot-house flowers they were, and each nosegay lay on a book, and a card with writing on it was put so that it could be seen at once on the middle nosegay. the words on the card were these:-- "for tib, gussie, and gerald. i am so sorry i cannot come to-day. the books are to amuse you instead, and i will come again the first day i can. "r." we were very disappointed. still, it was very nice and funny to receive messages and presents in this mysterious way. the flowers were really beautiful, and the books were chosen as if she had known us all our lives. we knew at once which was for which, by the way they were lying on the table. gerald's was about animals--stories, i mean--and tib's was lamb's _tales from shakespeare_, and mine was _the wonder book_. we sat down and looked at our books, and scented our flowers--don't you think it's very ugly to talk of _smelling_ flowers? _we_ always say "scenting," though somebody laughs at us for it, and says it isn't the proper meaning of the word--and then we all three made ourselves very comfortable in different corners of the arm-chairs and couches, and read our new stories. and thus we spent the afternoon. it wasn't as long a one as usual, for we had come so late. but before we went away we got into a great puzzle about how to thank her for the books and flowers. "it would be rude to go away and leave no message," said tib. "and she doesn't say she'll come to-morrow, only 'the first day i can.' perhaps she'll come in the morning, and look to see if we've taken the books." but not one of us had a pencil or a scrap of paper in our pockets, though we turned them inside out. gerald had a top and some nails, and an awful little pink and white grimy ball that he called his "handkercher"; and tib had her garden gloves, and a rather clean handkerchief, and some red wool with a crochet needle stuck in it, as she was learning to crochet; and i had nothing at all. what was to be done? "i know," i said; "you don't mind using your wool, do you, tib? well, look here, we'll write with it on the white marble," and i set to work, and very soon i had written the words, "thank you, kind fairy," to which gerald made me add, "come soon," and our initials, "t" and two "g's." it really looked quite pretty, and one comfort was, there was no fear of any one spoiling it before regina saw it. and then we went home, but we left our new books in the conservatory, because we shouldn't have known what to say if nurse had asked us about them. the next day, to our great vexation, something prevented our going at all--i forget what it was--oh no! i remember. it was that nurse took us to the little town where mr. markham came from, to get us spring hats. she had got grandpapa's leave to take us when he was at rosebuds, and she hadn't told us--poor old liddy!--because she thought it would be such a delightful surprise. it would have been a great treat if we hadn't had our heads so full of regina, and wanting to see her again. but we were not so unkind and selfish as not to look pleased when nurse told us about it. "how are we to go to the station?" i asked, for nurse had said it was two stations off by train, and when she said we should walk to the station--it was quite fine, and if it hadn't been fine we would have had to wait for another day--we were very pleased. "we can peep in at the rectory garden as we pass," i said to tib, "and perhaps we'll see the lady that's like you, whoever she is. i _wonder_ if she is regina?" "so do i," said tib; "i wonder about it altogether." but though we stared in with all our eyes at the garden of the pretty house next the church, on our way to the station, there was nobody to be seen. "that is the rectory, isn't it, nurse?" tib asked her. "i suppose so, my dears," she replied, rather nervously. "but i couldn't say for certain, having been so little in the village." she was always in such a fright, for fear of getting to know any one or anything in the village. it was rather stupid of her to show it so, for it only put all grandpapa's funny ways about it more into our heads, but we didn't like to tease her, so we said no more. but on the way home we took another peep in at the rectory gates. nurse was a little way behind, loaded with parcels which she _wouldn't_ let us help her to carry; and we ran on a little. it was easy to peep in without being seen, but what we saw added to our puzzle. a lady was walking up and down the avenue with a book in her hand which she was reading, and as she turned our way, we saw her face clearly. "tib," i whispered, "_she's_ like you, and she's like regina, too--only she's old. _and_, tib, she's like grandpapa." so she was. she had the same straight-up, rather proud way of holding herself as he has, dark hair, which was beginning to get grey, and those pretty blue eyes with the bright eager look which all the blue eyes among us have--yes, she was like them _all_--the portrait, too. and just as we were staring, there came a call from the house, and an old, quite old, lady came to a glass door which opened on to the terrace. i knew afterwards that this old lady was the clergyman's mother or his wife's mother, who lived with them, and they have all lived there a very long time. "regina, queenie, my dear," the old lady called out, "tea is ready. frances wants you to come in." the lady turned quickly. "i'm coming, mrs. leslie," she said, and then she walked quickly to the house. "regina, another regina!" we exclaimed. "and queenie: what a pretty name for a pet name! i wonder our regina didn't tell us to call her 'queenie.'" for of course, as we had learned a little latin, we knew that regina meant "queen." "we must ask her why she didn't," said gerald. you can fancy how we looked forward to the next afternoon, and how we hoped our pretty lady would be there. it all went right for once. nurse was more busy than usual about all the things she had bought for us at welford, and very glad to get rid of us as soon as we had had our dinner. for, happily, she had no trying-on to do to-day. "you may have a good long afternoon in the garden," she said. "i must say you're wonderful good children for amusing yourselves. there's never any tease-teasing, like with some i've known--'what shall we do, nurse?' or, 'we've nothing to play at.' and you're getting very good, too, about never getting into mischief. you're _much_ better, miss gussie, than you were last year at ansdell: for it was you as was the ringleader." "yes," said i, not very much ashamed of the distinction. "do you remember the day i took grandpapa's new railway rug to make a carpet to our tent, and left it out all night, and it rained and all the colour ran? and do you remember when i pushed gerald into the pond to catch the little fishes, and how he stood shivering and crying?" "ah, yes, indeed," said nurse. "but speaking of ponds--the one at ansdell was nothing; but those nasty pits or pools in the fields near by: you never go near them? your grandpapa has a real fear of them, and he told me not to let you forget what he'd said." "no fear," we all answered, "we never go near them. we promised him we wouldn't, nurse." then off we ran. "even if she isn't there, she's sure to have left some message for us, like the last time," said gerald as we ran. "i wish she'd bring us some butter-scotch." "_gerald!_" exclaimed tib and i, "what sort of ideas have you? fairies and butter-scotch mixed in the same breath. i only hope," tib went on, "that she won't think we're ungrateful for the books, or that we don't care for them, because we had to leave them in the conservatory." "if only she's there, we can explain everything," said i. and she _was_ there. not waiting in the saloon this time, but running down the long passage to meet us as soon as she heard our steps, looking prettier, and merrier, and sweeter than ever. _dear_ regina! i have never minded her teasing since that first day, when i really didn't understand her. i shall never mind it again, i am sure. she led us into the big drawing-room, where she had prepared another little surprise for us. she was as pleased about it as we were ourselves. it was more of gerald's kind of treat this time--not butter-scotch, but fruit--grapes, and beautiful little tangiers oranges, and little cakes and biscuits of ever so many kinds. they were so nice, and we ate such a lot of them, and regina ate a good many herself. "you see, though i am a fairy, i like nice things," she said. "do you have afternoon luncheon every day?" asked gerald. "oh, how i would like to be you." "_isn't_ he a greedy boy?" i said; and then i told her about the butter-scotch, and somehow the butter-scotch led to our talking of grandpapa--you remember about gerald wishing he'd bring us some--and then we all got rather grave, for we had a great deal to tell our new princess, and to ask her. we sat together in a little group on one of the arm-chairs, and regina listened to us very attentively. we told her all that grandpapa had said to us before we came to rosebuds, and all about the book in the library in london, and how we wanted to love grandpapa better, as mrs. munt had told us we should, but that it was rather difficult. we told her all we had told mr. truro, only more, for we had to tell her all about him as well. and then we asked her if she thought it was disobeying grandpapa for us to come to see her; and when we had told her all we could think of, we waited very anxiously to hear what she would say. her face looked grave, though not exactly sad. "your friend--mr. truro--told you to wait till he came back again?" she said. "yes, but that was only about coming in here to play. we hadn't seen you then--and grandpapa told us not to make friends with any of the neighbours. are you a neighbour? do you live here?" "no," said regina. "i live far from here." "and how can you come so often to see us, then?" we asked. she smiled. "can't you fancy i come on a sunbeam, or a cloud, or on a broomstick if you like? or if i had only thought of taking the picture away, you might really have thought i had come out of the frame! no children, i'm not going to tell you where i come from, or how i come, or _anything_. then you can feel you're not hearing from me anything your grandfather would not wish you to hear, and when he and mr. truro come here again, you can tell them all--everything, and see what they say. you can bring mr. truro here to see me, if you like, and we'll talk it over. now, as who knows how seldom we may see each other again, suppose we make the best use of our time. i've got some games to teach you--new games. let us be as happy and merry as we can be while we _are_ together." and you cannot fancy what fun we had. she kept us playing, and guessing tricks and riddles, and even singing little glees--she had such a pretty voice--so busily that we hadn't time to ask her any more questions, and indeed forgot to do so. so that when it grew late and we had to go home, and regina kissed us and said good-bye, we knew as little about her, or where she had come from or was going to, as if she had really flown down to us from some fairy country invisible to mortal eyes. "and will you come again soon?" we asked. "whenever i can, but that is all i can promise," she said, and then she disappeared behind the heavy doors, and we heard the key turn in the lock on the other side. and we went home, wishing it were to-morrow. "no, not to-morrow--she's sure not to come so soon again, but, all the same, we must come and see." chapter x. three starlings. "'i can't get out; i can't get out,' said the starling. 'god help thee,' said i; 'but i'll let thee out.'" _sentimental journey._ she didn't come the next day, but instead of her we actually found three little packets of butter-scotch tied up in white paper, with a different coloured ribbon on each: mine was pink, and tib's blue, and gerald's green. i think nothing that had happened to us pleased gerald as much as this, though he couldn't pretend to think it had come from fairyland. and two days after that, the girl herself came again, and we had another merry afternoon of games and fun. how we laughed! there never was any one as clever as our new princess at games. and when we were all too tired and hot to play any more, she told us to sit down quietly to rest, and to shut our eyes, and pretend to go to sleep for five minutes. and when we did so we heard a little faint rustling, and if we had not promised i am sure we should have opened our eyes, we were so afraid she was tricking us, and running away without saying good-bye. but in a minute we heard the rustling again. "open your eyes," said her voice, and when we opened them, lo and behold! there was a glass jug filled with lemonade--it was so good--and four little tumblers, and sponge cakes. the tumblers were red and of a queer shape, and so was the big jug. "these might have come from fairyland," i said. "you know, regina"--for she would make us call her so--"gerald won't give up about you being a fairy; only when it came to packets of butter-scotch----" "even he couldn't believe there were butter-scotch manufactories in fairyland," said she, laughing. and then we all laughed just because we were so happy. "we've never laughed so much in our lives before, i don't think," said tib. "poor little pets," said regina, "it won't do you any harm. it should do the old house good too--it's many a long day since it heard any merry voices." "the old house," said i; "what do you mean?" "why, the old house we're in--the place where you are. where do you suppose yourself to be at this moment?" she asked, seeing i looked more and more puzzled. "i don't know," i said. "we thought it was perhaps just this room, or else that it was a sort of a palace. we never thought of it as a regular house." "a pavilion of some kind, i suppose you mean," said she. "why do you call it the _old house_? is it very old?" asked tib. "yes," said regina, "it is. it has got into being called the old house because it is the oldest anywhere about, i suppose. and then, you see, when people haven't lived in a place for very, very long, they get into that way of speaking of it--out of a sort of affection--just as one speaks of the old days, you know, when one speaks of long ago." "did you live here long ago, and then not for a great while?" "no, i never lived here, and then i'm not so old as all that. i heard about the old days of course from----" but then she got red, and stopped suddenly. "i think it's time to go," she said. "wait a minute," said i; "will you show us some of the rooms of the house? we should so like to see them." the new princess hesitated. then she shook her head. "no, dears," she said, "i'd better not. just try to keep to your old fancies, and take gerald's way: it's the best just now. and now listen: this is wednesday. i can't come to-morrow. you'll promise to come on friday?" "yes," we all said. "i particularly want you to come on friday," she went on, and her face grew a little sad, "though i can't quite explain why--except--just that after that perhaps i can't see you for a good while." "oh! don't say that," we all cried together; "do try and not let it be that way. we will come on friday, you may be sure." "but don't expect me very early," she said. "i may not be able to come till pretty late." and then she kissed us all again, and she went her way, and we ours. it happened very well that she had asked us to come on friday, and not on thursday, for on thursday it was so _extra_ pouring wet that nurse wouldn't let us go out at all. and we were exceedingly anxious on friday morning to see what the weather was going to be, and we were all delighted to see it was fine. "we must have a long afternoon to ourselves, nurse," we said. "it's horrid to be cooped up in the house all day." "well, i'm sure, my dears, i'm as sorry as you can be when it has to be so," said nurse. "but it's very wet everywhere still to-day. it did pour so yesterday. you must be sure to take your goloshes, and to come in at once if you feel chilly or shivery. i wouldn't for anything have you take cold." "we never do, nurse," tib said. "you must allow that we don't give you much trouble about our being ill." "as if i'd grudge any trouble, my dear," said liddy--she was very matter of fact. "but it's true you've given no trouble of any kind since you've been here, and so i shall tell your dear grandpapa--and so, i'm sure, will mrs. munt. she thinks there never were such children. but do be careful now, dears, not to catch cold just as your dear grandpapa's coming?" "grandpapa coming! you never told us," we exclaimed. "when is he coming?" "to-morrow; and mr. truro too. at least, mrs. munt's sure it's him, though mr. ansdell only says to prepare the same rooms as last time. i meant to tell you when we began speaking--mrs. munt just got the letter this morning." "what a good thing he's not coming to-day," we said to ourselves. "nurse would never have let us out at all, or else we would have had to come in early, and _she_ said she couldn't come early. i wonder, tib," i went on, "i wonder if somehow her wanting us so much to-day, and what she has said, has anything to do with grandpapa's coming?" "how could _she_ know he was coming before we knew it ourselves, even? gussie, it's not _me_ that's too fanciful nowadays," said tib. "of course, on _our_ side, knowing he was coming might have made us say perhaps it would be the last time. you know we've promised her and ourselves to tell mr. truro all about her, and then he or we must tell grandpapa, and who knows what he'll say? it's to be hoped he's not so busy and worried as he was when he was here before." but the thought that it _might_ be the last time we should see our pretty princess--that grandpapa might even forbid our ever going to our palace, as we still called it, at all, made us rather sad and subdued, and it was not as merrily as usual that we ran through the tangle to the door in the wall. "be quick, gerald," i said, when he had got the key in the lock, and was turning it--he always counted it his business; "what are you pulling at?" "it's stiff to-day--it may have got rusty with it raining so yesterday," he said. for we still always left the key in the summer-house--we were afraid to take it into the house. "it needs oiling again, perhaps;" but he had managed to open the door by this time, and he took the key out of the lock as he spoke, and we all passed through, gerald locking the door again _inside_, and leaving the key in the lock, as we always did. regina was not yet there, but we were not surprised: she had said she might be late of coming, and we had not waited, just _for fear_ of nurse stopping us at the last minute. we amused ourselves with some of the puzzles she had brought and left for us to play with when we were not inclined for noisier games, and in about an hour, to our delight, we heard the key turn in the big door, and in came our princess, a basket on her arm, which she set down on the floor, while she locked the door inside, and put the key in her pocket. "you needn't do that," said tib and i, rather offended; "we're not going to try to go out of the room, since you told us you didn't want us to." "i did it without thinking," said regina. "i know i can trust you. now kiss me, darlings, and let us be as happy as we can." "but we're not very happy," we answered; and then we told her that grandpapa and mr. truro were coming the next day, and that perhaps we wouldn't be allowed to come to see her any more. she looked sorry, but not very surprised. "we must hope the best," she said. "mr. truro is so kind, you say. won't _he_, perhaps, be able to get your grandpapa to let you come?" "perhaps," we said. but it was only "perhaps." but regina wouldn't let us be sad. she opened her basket, which was filled with things she thought would please us, and we had our afternoon luncheon, as gerald called it, together. then as we weren't much in the humour for games, she sat and told us stories--such pretty ones, i wish i could write some of them down, for i believe she made them up out of her head--till, feeling afraid it was getting late, she looked at her watch, and jumped up in a fright, like cinderella again. "darlings, darlings!" she cried, "i must go," and she kissed us very lovingly, but very hurriedly. "and when are we to see you again?" regina shook her head. "that is more for you to know than for me," she said. "we must leave it this way--if you _can_ come again, you'll find some message from me, and you can leave one for me, and then i'll come." "but listen," i said; "the other day you said you weren't sure that _you_ could come, and to-day you didn't seem surprised that perhaps _we_ can't come. regina, tell me, did you know grandpapa was coming before we did? _are_ you a fairy?" she shook her head, laughing, but she would say nothing, and in another moment she was gone. we sat still, talking, for some time after she had gone--we couldn't help feeling dull and sad. we were so afraid of what grandpapa might say. "it's a very good thing mr. truro's coming," said tib. "it would have been too dreadful to have had to tell grandpapa ourselves." "i don't see that," i said. "you speak as if we had done something very naughty, that we should be ashamed of telling. i'm not a bit afraid of telling grandpapa, in that way; _i'm_ only afraid for fear he should forbid us ever to come to the old house again;" we had left off calling it the palace, since regina had explained it was really a house, and the "_old_ house" sounded nice, somehow. "well, yes," said tib, "that's what i'm the most afraid of too, of course." "and there's something we can't understand altogether," i went on. "why did grandpapa stop us knowing anybody here? i'm sure the people at the rectory would be kind to us, and i daresay there are other nice people. then, who is regina? and how does she know about us? and whose house is this? and why is it shut up? and----" i stopped, out of breath. "and who is the portrait? and why is it like her, and like me? and the lady at the rectory--the oldish lady, and the young one mr. markham spoke of--who are they? oh yes, there are just thousands of things we don't understand. i don't think i shall ever wish for mysteries again," said tib, dolefully. "just because regina is so fond of us, and we are so fond of her--just because of that you may be sure we shall never see her again." at these words gerald began to cry. i was half vexed with him, and half sorry for him. "don't cry, gerald," i said; "though, all the same, tib, i don't see why you need always make the worst of things. it may be all right, gerald dear--perhaps grandpapa may not mind. and just think how nice it would be to be able to have her to come to see us at rosebuds!" gerald began drying his eyes, for which purpose another little grimy ball--this time blue and white--was brought into requisition. "i'm sure i love her the best of us all," he said, as a sort of apology. "you can't love her more than we do," said tib and i, rather grumpily. then we began to think perhaps we had better be going home. we had some lessons still to do for mr. markham, and it must be near tea-time, though we weren't very hungry, on account of the afternoon luncheon we had had. we left the saloon with a lingering look at all, especially at the old princess, as we now called her--our first friend, whom we felt we had rather neglected of late. there she was, smiling as usual, with the sweet, but slightly contemptuous smile she had always worn--as if she knew herself to be above all foolish weaknesses and changeablenesses, and could afford to smile at them amiably. "good-bye, princess," i said. "i don't know if we shall ever see you again, but if not, we thank you for your politeness to us, though we can't pretend to say we love you as much as our new princess." "it isn't her fault, poor thing," added tib, "she can't help being only a picture instead of a living person. and, gussie, she must have been a living person once; i mean there must have been a person just like her, and that person must have been very like regina. isn't it sad to think that there's nothing left of her except this cold picture, always smiling the same, whatever happens?" "it's no more sad about her than about any other picture," i said, rather crossly. sometimes i do get cross with tib when she is sentimental. i'm sure i don't know why--it _is_ ill-natured. "i wonder," i went on, more eagerly, "i wonder if possibly she could be the portrait of the oldish lady--when the oldish lady was young, you know, tib, for she is so like regina." it was tib's turn to snub _me_ now. "the portrait of _that_ lady," she said. "my goodness, gussie! for it to be her portrait she would need to be about a hundred and twenty years old. can't you tell that by the dress, and the _look_ of the picture?" "well, never mind," i said. "we can't find out anything about her, so it's no use squabbling. we must go, tib; i'm sure it's late; and we don't want to do anything that could vex nurse just as grandpapa's coming, for you know he always asks her if we've been good." "come along, then," said tib. we walked slowly down the long passage and into the conservatory, where everything looked just exactly the same as the first day we had seen it. "oh dear, i am so unhappy!" said gerald, again. "i've got a _feeling_ that all the nice has finished." "open the door quick, gerald, or let me do it, and don't make things worse by talking nonsense." gerald turned to the door--the key was sticking in the lock, as i said--gerald always left it _after_ locking it. "do be quick," said tib, impatiently. whether it was her hurrying him that made him awkward or jerky, or whether it was just that something had gone wrong with the lock or the key--you remember we had noticed it was stiffer than usual when we came in--i can't say. but, however that may have been, this is what happened. the key wouldn't turn in the lock! gerald fumbled at it for some time, then tib and i got impatient. "what _is_ the matter?" said tib. "what _are_ you doing?" said i; and we both ran forward, pushing poor gerald aside, and each trying to get hold of the key. we each took a turn at it, like the first day, only now our flurry and fear made us less cool and careful. it was no use; we pressed, and pulled, and tugged, we took the key out, and rubbed it and cleaned it as if we had been bluebeard's wife, and put it back again to try afresh. no use! "i really think keys have got spirits in them sometimes," said tib. "they _are_ so contrary." and then, hot and worried, beginning to be frightened too, we looked at our sore fingers, which the horrid key had bruised and scratched, and asked ourselves what to do. tib started forward again--she had spied a strong bit of stick in a corner. "i believe it's only stiffness, after all," she said. "there _can't_ be anything the matter with the key." she seized the stick--it _was_ a very stout one--ran it through the ring of the key, and before gerald and i really knew what she was doing, she had grasped the two ends with her two hands, and was turning vigorously. "ah! i told you so," she cried, as she felt that the stick _did_ turn, "it only wanted some strength. but oh, gussie! oh, gerald!" she screamed the next moment, "see, see!" she drew back a little--we did see--the key had _broken_, not turned! the ring was still hanging on the stick; the useless end of the key stuck out of the lock as if in mockery. "oh, tib!" i cried, for somehow one's first feeling always is to blame some one, "why were you so hasty? oh dear! what _shall_ we do?" tib was too subdued to resent my blame. "it wouldn't turn before," she said meekly. "perhaps we are no worse off than before." "yes, we are," i said angrily. "then, at least, we could take the key out and shout through the key-hole. now we can't even do that," for i had tried, and found that there was now no moving the key the least little bit. there really was _nothing_ to be done. but we did not realise that all at once. we set to work shouting and kicking on the door, in hopes that somebody might be passing by the tangle, though nothing was more unlikely. we climbed up on the shelves of the conservatory, in hopes somebody might be in that garden--the garden of the old house, as we now knew it to be. but very little was to be seen--only some grass stretching towards a belt of trees, and no sign of anybody--it wasn't till afterwards that we knew there _was_ another door into the conservatory, concealed in a corner--a door for gardeners to come in by, but it hadn't been used for many years, and the key was lost, so the knowledge wouldn't have done us much good--and we gave up that hope in despair. then another idea struck us--we ran back to the saloon to try the door by which regina came in. if _possibly_ she hadn't locked it, we might get into the house, and out through it, and so home. but no--the great double doors were as firm as a rock. regina had locked them only too securely! "she might have left it unlocked," we said, in a sort of unreasonable rage; "she might have thought perhaps we might need to get out this way." and then we remembered that she had been used to see us coming in and out quite easily. she had had no reason for any misgiving. "but there may be some one in the house," said tib. so again we set to work calling, and knocking, and banging at the doors. in vain--in vain! we were completely locked in, and evidently there was no one near enough to hear us. tired out at last, we sat down, huddled together, on one of the arm-chairs, where we had sat so happily with regina. "we must stay all night," i said. "till the dusting person comes in the morning," said tib. "any way, it's a good thing we had some afternoon luncheon," said gerald, though even this consoling reflection did not prevent the tears rolling down his poor fat cheeks. we didn't as yet feel hungry--nor did we feel exactly frightened, though it did begin to feel "eerie." but very soon we felt very cold. it is strange how cold an unused room gets to feel as soon as the bright daylight goes. we had our jackets on, fortunately, and we took some of the linen covers off the chairs, and wrapped them round us, so that we looked like ghosts or dancing dervishes. and thus enveloped, we huddled together as close as we could. and the last thing we saw as the light faded, so that everything in the room grew dim and shadowy, was the calmly smiling face of the "old princess" up above us on the wall. i never see it now without remembering that strange evening. chapter xi. brother and sister. "for this relief, much thanks."--_hamlet._ my story is getting rather difficult to manage now. indeed, i don't quite see how to do. i _think_, if i had known how long it would be, and what a lot of half-holidays i should have to stay in to write it, i _think_ i would never have begun it. but i won't be laughed at for "beginning, and not ending." and if i get it rather muddley, and can't do it the way authors do who know how to plan stories, and write them so that they seem all to come of themselves, like flowers growing, you good people, whoever you are, that come to read it must forgive me and believe i did my best. but i can't go on regularly the "i" way now. that is what puzzles me. i have to be, as it were, in three places at once. first of all--we three are all locked up in the old house now--i must tell you what was happening at rosebuds. nurse didn't miss us for a good while; she was busy helping mrs. munt, as there was always a good deal of fuss when grandpapa was expected. and just as they were getting things pretty ready, and nurse _would_ have begun seeing about our tea, up comes a man from the telegraph office at welford with the usual brown envelope and pink paper inside, addressed to mrs. munt, to say that grandpapa was coming _that_ evening, would be there about eight o'clock. immediately, of course, all the bustle and fuss began over again, only twice as bad; for mrs. munt had to get a dinner ready all in a hurry, and to send one running this way and another that way for all the things needed. nurse went with her to the kitchen, calling to fanny to take up our tea, and see that we got it properly; you can understand that, just thinking of us as at play in the garden, it never occurred to nurse to ask if we were in, or to feel the least anxious. fanny, on her side, wasn't at all given to being anxious about anything except her own bonnets and caps, so she merely set the tea, and then, "supposing" we were up stairs, and would come down when we heard the bell, off she went to her own room and her bonnets. but the tea got cold in the teapot, the bread-and-butter was untouched, the honey was at the disposal of all the flies who chose to sip it--we three never came! and when nurse, after helping mrs. munt till the two old bodies were satisfied that all would be right, trotted up to the schoolroom to put _us_ in order next, there was no one to be seen! just at first, i fancy, she was more vexed than frightened. "dear, dear!" says i (this is nurse, you understand, telling it over to me afterwards), "where can they be, the naughty children? but i wasn't not to say afraid of anything wrong. i called fanny, idle girl that she is, and sent her out into the garden to look for you, never doubting but that in two minutes she'd be back with you all." but when fanny, after considerably more than two minutes, reappeared with the news that we were nowhere to be seen, then poor nurse was dreadfully upset. she ran to mrs. munt, and the two trotted everywhere about the grounds, giving the alarm to the gardener and his boy, who joined them in the search. it was getting near the time for grandpapa's arrival. the dog-cart had started for the station before our absence had been discovered, and to add to her own great anxiety, nurse had the fear of grandpapa's driving in every moment and demanding what was the matter. it must really have been a terrible evening for both nurse and mrs. munt; and as time passed and grandpapa did not come, their fear of his displeasure gave way to the wish that he were there to advise and direct them what to do. they had exhausted all their energies when at last--about nine o'clock--the dog-cart appeared with him. he had missed the train which stopped at our little station, and had come on by the next--an express, by which he was obliged to get out at welford. so he had telegraphed to the groom to drive on, and meet him there instead. mrs. munt met him at the door; a moment before, she had been at the gate, but when she heard the dog-cart approaching, she hurried back to the house. not even her fears of every kind could set aside her ideas of what was proper and respectful. "god grant mr. truro may be with master!" she said to herself, and her heart sank still lower when she saw that grandpapa was alone. "good evening, mrs. munt," he said, as he got down; "you will have been wondering what has become of me," and then he quickly explained what had happened. but receiving no distinct reply, he looked at her, and saw that she was crying. "what's the matter?" he said. "are the children ill?" "oh, sir!" she exclaimed, "oh, my dear master, i only wish i knew!" and then she told him of our strange disappearance. he listened, but for some time he could not believe it was quite as she said. "they are hiding somewhere to trick you, you may be sure," he said. "but they'd never keep it up so long, sir," she replied. "nine o'clock at night--their bedtime, and had nothing to eat since their dinner at one. oh no, sir--i wish i could think it--but it's not in the nature of children to keep it up so long. and not of those dear children: they'd have come out wherever they were, on hearing poor nurse and me a-praying and a-begging of them to come out." grandpapa did not speak, but mrs. munt saw that he began to take it seriously. he would not go into the house till every corner of the grounds had again been searched under his own eye. and not the grounds only, but the house; and when at last there was nowhere else to look, and grandpapa had shouted to us in every tone--scolding, appealing, entreating--fancy him entreating--us to give some sign of life, promising not to be angry, never again to be vexed with us whatever we did, if we would but answer: when _everywhere_ had been searched, and everything said and done that could be thought of, poor grandpapa, looking quite old and shaky all of a sudden, sat down by the table in the dining-room, where his dinner was so neatly set out, and buried his face in his hands. it was terrible, both nurse and the old housekeeper told us--terrible to see the cold, strong man so overcome, and to hear what he murmured to himself. "all that i had left--all," he said. "my own children, for she was as my daughter to me, and my poor boy--one gone, one to have deceived me. and now, in my old age, these little creatures whom i was learning to love! is it my fault? was i too harsh to them? did i neglect them? why is it that all belonging to me seem doomed in some way?" and then he raised his poor white face, and told what he was thinking. "munt," he said, abruptly, "i have refused to allow the idea in my mind--but it must be the truth. i have tried not to entertain it, for i knew if it were the case, there was nothing to be done. it is so dreadfully deep----" and he gave a little shudder. "they must have fallen into the pits at the corner of the old house fields. i had a presentiment of it from their first coming here. tell the man to fetch the ropes--there must be the right thing in the village, for cows have fallen in before now; those pools must be dragged." mrs. munt gave a little scream. then she grew quiet again. "no, sir," she said, "the dear children are too obedient for that. they remembered what you said to them about not going to those pits, and they repeated their promise to nurse only a day or two ago." grandpapa looked up with a gleam of hope. but it faded again, and he only repeated the words-- "those pools must be dragged. send the men. i can do no more." then he half fell back upon his chair, and stayed thus--almost unconscious, mrs. munt thinks--while she went away to obey his orders, till---- but now i must take up another end of the story. the family at the rectory went early to bed as a rule, even when they had visitors with them. this eventful evening they and their two visitors were just standing about the drawing-room, preparing to say good-night and to light their bed-room candles, when they were startled by a loud violent ringing at the door. "dear me," said they all, "what can that be? so late, too; it is past ten." "some one ill, and wanting me, possibly," said the rector, and he went out to the hall, where the footman was already at the door, leaving the four ladies--his mother-in-law, and mrs. lauriston, his wife, and the two visitors--looking at each other rather startledly. still, there was no reason to expect anything wrong--all the young lauristons were upstairs safe in bed their mother remembered with satisfaction. they heard voices at the door--then the rector came back, looking shocked and troubled. "i must go out," he said; "a sad, a terribly sad thing is supposed to have happened." "where? any of our people?" exclaimed his wife. mr. lauriston hesitated--he glanced at the two stranger ladies--at the elder one especially--the lady tib and i had seen from the rectory gate. "you must hear it sooner or later," he said; "i'm very sorry to have to tell it. it is at--at rosebuds--the children there, poor gerald's children--are missing, and it is feared they have fallen into the pits--near--near your house, mrs. mowbray. they have sent to me for the things to drag with." (there was a pond almost big enough to be called a little lake in the rectory grounds: that was how they had ropes there.) mrs. mowbray gave a scream. "the children--_drowned_!" she cried in an agony. "oh, edith! oh, william! if it is so, it is my fault. i should not have left these pits to be filled up by farmer jackman when he buys the place. the moment i knew the children were at rosebuds, _i_ should have done it. oh god! it is too awful, and too cruel--just when i was beginning, faintly beginning, to hope." she seemed as if she were going to faint. but her daughter, _our_ regina, our dear fairy, darted from the room, calling out as she did so-- "wait a moment, dear mamma. don't be so miserable. it may be a mistake." she rushed to the hall, where stood the rectory servants in a group, and barstow, grandpapa's very spruce, stuck-up london groom, who had come to ask for the ropes, with a very solemn face, but very proud, all the same, to be the centre of information. regina seized hold of him by the coat collar, i believe; he told nurse afterwards that the young lady shook him, shook him hard, "as if it was all _my_ fault," he said to nurse. "leave off chattering and gossiping," she said, for our princess can be very determined when she likes, "and attend to me. are the children _known_ to be in the pool? were they seen near there? or heard? or how is it?" "oh no, bless you, miss," said barstow, shaking himself free rather resentfully. "it's only that they're not to be found nowhere else. they've been out a-playing in the garden, as everybody thought, since two or three o'clock, and they've never come home, and they're nowhere to be found; and my master--gerald ansdell, esq., m.p., if you please, miss,"--for regina and all the rectory folk were perfect strangers to him "my master has got it in his head that the young ladies and master gerald is--has--must be drowned, miss, to speak plain." regina dashed back to the drawing-room. "mamma darling, it's all right. mr. lauriston, mrs. lauriston, all of you, help me to explain. _i_ know where the children are--they're locked in, in the old house--that's all that's wrong--i'm sure of it. it was a little plan of charles truro's and mine; we thought if i got to know the dear little things it might lead to something--to a reconciliation. they had found their way there by themselves, and told him about it. but i must go at once to let them out, the poor darlings. and, mamma, mamma, take courage--seize the moment. while i fetch them, you go to uncle ansdell and tell him the good news. you may never have such a chance again. don't you think so, mr. lauriston--you who know the whole story--oh, do say you think she should do it?" and regina wrung her hands in her eagerness. it took a little cross-questioning to make them understand all; but regina got her way. barstow, to keep him quiet, was allowed to go off with the gardener to get the drags, and in less time than you would have thought it possible they all set off--mr. lauriston, regina, and her mother. but at the gate of rosebuds they separated. regina hurried on down the lane with the rector, her mother with trembling, shaking steps, went in and made her way up to the porch. the front door stood open; in the confusion and excitement nobody had thought of closing it. grandpapa--poor grandpapa--was sitting as mrs. munt had left him when she went off to give orders about dragging the pools. a little noise, the door softly opening and closing again, made him look up. a tall figure, all dressed in black, with a white, sweet, anxious face and blue eyes, like tib's and grandpapa's own, streaming with tears, stood beside him. he stared at it half stupefied. i think he thought he was dreaming. but it spoke. "brother, dear, dear brother, it is i. do you know me--will you forgive me at last? oh, dear, dear brother, forgive me." he gazed at her as if he did not see her. "i do not know why you have come," he said. "do you know what has happened? my children--poor gerald's children--are drowned, all of them. i am quite alone in the world." "no, no," she cried, "they are not drowned. they will be here in a few minutes. it was that gave me courage to come--to bring you the good news. gerald, for _their_ sake, for the dear children's sake, won't you at last forgive me and let me help you with them? oh, i will love them so if you will let me. brother, say quick before they come--say you will forgive me at last. i have so suffered, i have been punished so long. brother, say you forgive your poor queenie." she half knelt, half sank down beside him--all i am writing is from what regina has told me, and her mother herself told her--grandpapa stretched out his arms, and she flung herself into them. "queenie, my little queenie," he said, "_you_ have brought me the good news--is it true, quite true?" auntie--that is, of course, what she is to us--auntie was almost frightened. he was so gentle, so clinging, and unlike his usual cold decided self. and a sort of terror went through her for a moment, "suppose it didn't turn out to be true that we were safe." "i should never forgive myself, _never_," she thought, "if i have raised his hopes only for them to be dashed again;" and even while she went on repeating that it was true, he would see us directly, she trembled. but there came a noise--a very slight, distant sound at first--of many voices and steps approaching. auntie's ears are quick, and that evening they were quicker than usual, even. she heard it ever so far off, long before grandpapa heard anything. and she listened, trembling. were the voices cheerful?--_was_ it all right? i have so often heard all the story of that evening--of other people's part of it, i mean--that i seem to be able to see it all for myself as it must have looked to them. i can so picture auntie standing there, scarcely daring to breathe in her anxiety to hear! and the first thing that quite reassured her was regina's voice speaking in a pitying, petting, yet laughing way to gerald. "my poor old man! no one will be vexed with you for crying, for, as you say, you _are_ only seven years old." _of course_, in gerald's troubles he had begun his old cry! and in another moment the dining-room door opened and a queer-looking group appeared. there was regina in a shawl thrown over her head, she had not waited to put on her hat; there was mr. lauriston and two or three gardeners and people we had gathered on the way--for, of course, we had come round by the proper entrance to the old house, and had found them all at the pit--and in the middle of the crowd three very dishevelled-looking little figures, with eyes swollen with crying, and now blinking at the sudden light, who rushed forward to grandpapa, calling out all together-- "oh! dear grandpapa, please forgive us. we didn't mean to disobey you." and before we knew where we were he had us all in his arms at once, and he was hugging us as he had never hugged us before. "my children," he said, "my dear little children." but when he looked up and saw regina, he really did start. "is it----?" he began, and then he looked round at auntie. "it is yourself over again," he said, "it is you, queenie--as i last saw you." fancy that; fancy the years and years that had gone by since they had met! how very, very strange it must have seemed. but auntie explained who regina was, and then grandpapa kissed her too, with a curious wistful look in his eyes. and then came hurrying in nurse and mrs. munt, whom the good news of our return had just reached, and we were bundled off to bed, where we each had some nice hot stuff to drink, and regina explained all the queer story to the two old servants, while down stairs grandpapa and auntie were together alone. and all that _they_ had to tell and ask of course we would never expect to hear, but still, we had enough told to us to make all that had puzzled us plain, and to clear away all remains of our family "mystery." this i will tell you in the next chapter. and i will also explain to you how regina had come to know of our having found our way into the old house, the hopes that this had put into her head--hopes which had been more than fulfilled, thanks to the accident with the key, which had so strangely turned to good. chapter xii. the story of the old house. "old house! that time hath deigned to spare, 'mid sunny slopes and gardens fair."--sigourney. it all seemed like a dream the next morning. we slept much later than usual, for we were quite tired out. i can never even now think of that evening--shut up in the dark in the big bare room--without a sort of shudder. it really was dreadful: we were so cold that when we did fall asleep it was only to wake again with a start to find ourselves shivering and aching. and it was frightening, too: though we squeezed together as close as we could, we felt dreadfully alone. and alone we really were; for, as we understood afterwards, there was nobody at all in the old house. the person who dusted it was the woman who lived at the lodge, and only came up in the mornings. regina had taken her a little into her confidence. the day she hurried away when a bell rang, it was the woman ringing to let her know the rectory pony-carriage was coming up the lane. auntie knew that regina came to the old house, but she thought it was just to wander about the garden, and that day she had promised to call for her at the lodge. for the old house belonged to auntie: it had belonged to the mowbrays for a very, very great many years. and this brings me to the story of the long-ago troubles which we were told--the story which explained everything which had puzzled us. it was mrs. munt who told it us. she came into our room--tib's and my room--that morning before we were up--we had had our breakfast in bed--and sat down between our cots. "my dears," she began, "your dear grandpapa and--and my dear lady, mrs. mowbray, miss queenie as was--they have asked me to tell you something of the past, so that you may understand all. it is a great honour they have done me, and i will endeavour to show that i feel it such. but oh," and here she fairly broke down, "this is a happy, a blessed day--to see them at one again, and oh, my dears, it was a happy day that brought you to rosebuds, for all the anguish of heart of mrs. liddy and myself last night, we shall never but be thankful to the over-ruling powers as directed the finding of the key, and your innocent minds to the old house." at this point mrs. munt stopped. it was a sort of little address which she thought it her duty to make, and after this, she went straight on. "it is a many years ago," she said, "that it all happened. when i first came to rosebuds as a young girl to help in the cooking, there was living here your grandpapa, then a little boy of ten, and his brother baldwin, and miss mary, with their mother, and their father, who was on the point of going abroad with his regiment. not long after he left, miss regina was born; then came the news of your great-grandpapa's death, and the shock affected your great-grandmamma so much that she never recovered it. she died a year or two after, master baldwin being by that time preparing for the army, for he was five years older than master gerald, and miss mary older than he. miss mary took charge of things with a lady to help her. you can fancy that everybody was devoted to miss regina, master gerald especially. some years later, ansdell friars came to master baldwin, by his uncle's death. he came home from time to time, and we used to spend a part of the year there, but it never seemed home to us, like rosebuds. your grandpapa married young--he was about twenty-four, and miss queenie was thirteen. poor miss mary died the year before his marriage; you have seen her tomb at ansdell, and it seemed well to him to marry, to have a lady at the head of things, him having so much charge like, for his brother. and your papa was born when miss queenie was about fifteen. your grandpapa's marriage was a very happy one; mrs. ansdell was a very sweet lady, and suited him well. she had not half the spirit nor the cleverness of miss queenie, and she gave in to her husband, and she joined with him in thinking there never was so beautiful a creature as miss queenie. how they did spoil her! poor master gerald--your papa, my dears, seemed nobody and nothing in the family, compared with his auntie, though he was a dear little boy. well, to explain--next door to rosebuds, as you now understand, is the old house. it is a far finer and larger place than this, and it has always belonged to the mowbrays, who are cousins of the ansdells, by a miss regina mowbray having married an ansdell--your grandpapa's grandmother she was, as well as i can remember. it is her picture that hangs in the big drawing-room--" "the old princess!" we exclaimed, at which mrs. munt smiled--"and," she went on, "it is from her, they always say, that comes the beauty--the dark hair and blue eyes, the ansdells are, so to say, proud of. well,"--mrs. munt here hurried on a little, i think she thought it not good for us to say much about family beauty; it didn't matter to _me_, with my shaggy light hair, and browny-greeny eyes, but tib is different--"the families at the two houses were very intimate--that door in the wall was made in the old house conservatory as a short cut for the young ladies to run in and out by--they and the rectory family, this mr. lauriston's uncle it was then, but this one was a great deal there, were all most friendly. at the old house there were some sisters--one is living still, being mr. truro's mother--and two brothers. the eldest brother _was_ a nice gentleman, just everything a gentleman should be, and your grandpapa was delighted when he spoke to him for miss queenie. miss queenie laughed and made fun of it, but in the end she said 'yes,' and all would have been well--for he was a gentleman no woman could have failed to care for as a husband--had not the younger brother come home on leave. he had not seen miss queenie since she was grown up, for he was a sailor, and had been long away. he was handsome, and had a taking way with him--a sort of dash about him, and he was selfish and false. he fell in love with her, and persuaded her that she had fallen in love with him, and rather than be open about it, bad as it was to have lured her away from his brother, he made it worse by getting her to run away with him, and not let any one know where they were, till he wrote to say they were married. my dears, from that day till yesterday, your grandpapa and she never met again." "was he so angry?" we asked. "anger is no word for it. he was turned to stone to her. the deceitfulness--that was always his cry. poor mr. john mowbray--his great friend, the one who had really the most to complain of, was far gentler, though it broke his heart. he never married, and at his death, two years ago, all came to your auntie as his brother's widow, for mr. conrad, the brother, was dead. that is how the old house is now your auntie's, but she has never lived there. she could not bear it, seeing her brother would not forgive her, and she had made up her mind to sell it, and came to stay at the rectory to get it all arranged. it was partly hearing it was going to be sold, made your grandpapa think of coming here again at last--he thought it was all quite settled, and no fear of any one coming about. for he has not even had any friendliness with the rectory folk all these years; the old rector spoke to him before he died, and begged him to forgive miss queenie, but it only made him harder. he would never hear her name--he scored it out wherever he came across it in a book--" "oh, yes, we saw that in london," we interrupted. "_nothing_," continued mrs. munt, "but the sight of her poor, sweet, worn face would have changed him, and to think that _she_ should have been the one to tell him the good news last night--it is indeed wonderful how it has come about." "was auntie very unhappy with that man--the one she married?" asked tib in a low voice. mrs. munt looked sad and grave. "my dears," she said, solemnly, "no good comes of ill-doing. the man who deceived his kind brother, who set himself to wile a girl away from her truest and best friends, was not the man to make a good husband. she must have suffered more than you--or we, maybe--could understand. but it is past, and you need never think of it again, except as a warning. your dear auntie may tell you more herself as you grow older. but for me, i think i have done my part; and, indeed, i could almost feel the work of my life is near its end now i have lived to see my dear master and his best-loved sister united again," and poor mrs. munt wiped her eyes as she kissed us, and said we might get up now--we were to go to the rectory to luncheon. you will be glad to hear that she is living still, and likely to live for many peaceful years to come. we were, of course, very much interested in all she had told us. it took some time to get it quite straight and clear in our heads, especially as we felt that we should not much like to talk over the saddest parts of it with any one but ourselves: not even with regina, for, of course, the man who had brought so much misery to them all--mr. conrad mowbray--was her father (i am not going to let her read this last chapter if i can help it); and even about dear auntie, we felt it would not be kind to talk about it to regina--though _now_ i can scarcely fancy even regina herself feeling more tender about anything and everything to do with her mother than tib and i, who are really only her grandnieces, do. we were at the same time in a hurry to get dressed, and go down stairs, and yet a little afraid. "last night i wasn't afraid of grandpapa," said tib; "we seemed all worked up, so that only the _realest_ feelings mattered. little top feelings, like being shy and all that, seemed pushed away." i didn't answer for a moment. i was thinking over what she said. "do you think our being afraid of grandpapa and fancying we don't love him is only a top feeling after all?" i said. "yes," said tib, "i do. anyway, _i'm_ going to love him now. perhaps, if he has so many to love him now--auntie and regina, and you and me--all at once, the lot of it will make up for his having had so little all these years. things come like that sometimes, i suppose." while we were talking--we took a good while to dress, for we wanted to be very neat to go to the rectory--there came a tap at the door, and in walked gerald, as cool as a cucumber. "i'm ready," he said, and indeed one could see by the scrubby look of his cheeks that he had had an extra amount of soap. "i've got my best suit on to go to the rectory." "but, gerald," said tib, "don't you want to hear all about how it's all been. gussie and i can tell you," for i forgot to say that mrs. munt had told us we had better explain a little to him. "don't you want to know why the old house that we called the palace was shut up, and how it comes to be auntie's, and how she is our auntie, and--" "no," interrupted gerald. "i don't want to know anything. it puzzles me. i'm only seven years old." we looked at him in astonishment. then we fairly burst out laughing. "i never saw such a boy," said tib. "you're so lazy, gerald, you won't even let your mind work enough to understand about your own family." "i do understand all i need," said gerald; "i understand that we've got an auntie, and that she's very kind, and that regina is a cousin, and she's very nice too--so nice that i'm still going to think she's a fairy. that's what i've settled, and i think it's quite enough when i'm only seven." and from that day to this i have never heard him express any curiosity or make any inquiries as to all that had happened. i fancy gerald will get through life comfortably--though to do him justice he is working very well at school, and doesn't seem to be considered lazy at all. tib and i had still enough questions to ask to make up for his not asking any. we were in a fever to see regina, and very glad when gerald ran up stairs again to say that she had just driven over in the lauristons' pony-carriage to fetch us, and was waiting downstairs, and we hurried down as fast as we could. "but what about grandpapa?" said tib, as we got to the first landing. "should we not go to say good morning or something to him?" i hesitated, but just at that moment we heard his voice. he was standing in the porch talking to regina. you can't think how funny it seemed. when he heard us he came into the hall and met us at the foot of the stairs. then he kissed us each, in a way he had never kissed us before. it was like saying, "you understand all now. let us begin a new life together;" though his _said_ words were only, "good morning, my dear children. are you all quite well and not tired now?" "quite well, thank you, dear grandpapa," and i am sure he understood "between the lines," as people say of a letter meaning more than it shows. "i wish you could come with us, uncle gerald," said regina, as we were driving off. "thank you, my dear, but i am very busy," he said. there was a look in his eyes to her that i had never seen before. "but charlie will be here this afternoon, and he does help you, doesn't he?" she said. "very much," grandpapa replied. we looked back at him, standing there in the doorway. "grandpapa is changed since last night," said tib. "how?" said regina, anxiously. "you don't think he's ill?" "no," said tib, "though he does look very pale. but his face seems older and _yet_ younger. it has got a sort of softer look, as if at last he wasn't going to fight against himself anymore, but that it has tired him." "yes," said regina, "i understand. then _you_ understand now--you and gussie?" "yes," we answered. "mrs. munt has told us a great deal. but there are some things only you can tell us, and we want dreadfully to ask you." "fire away," said regina, and she did so laugh when we didn't understand her; for, of course, though she had never had any brothers or sisters, she hadn't lived the shut-up way we had done. "we want to know," we began, "how you knew about us going to the--the old house, and how you knew our names and about us altogether." "it was charlie truro that told me about you," she said. "he is my cousin as much--no, a good deal more--than he is yours, and we have always been a great deal together. he has known what a terrible sorrow it was to mamma to be estranged from her only brother, and he and i have often planned what we could do. we were very glad when uncle gerald agreed to take him as a sort of secretary for a while--it seemed a sort of beginning." "i wonder grandpapa ever did," i said. "wasn't it rather a wonder? for he knew he was a near cousin of yours, i suppose?" "yes," said regina, "but it came about naturally enough, through some friends who had no connection with us. and once he had seen charlie, uncle gerald seems to have taken a fancy to him. we came down here to stay at the rectory, not knowing any one was at rosebuds. your coming was kept very quiet. then charlie told us of it, when he wrote, and when he came down here he managed to come to see us one day--a sunday it was--at the rectory, and told us all about you. and to me, though to no one else, he told of your funny trouble, about having got into the old house and wondering if it was naughty, and then we planned together--he and i--that i should meet you there. i don't know exactly what i hoped for--i think charlie had a vague idea that some day uncle gerald might see me, and that--with me being so like mamma--it might do some good. but we hadn't fixed anything, we meant to talk it all over the next time he came--to-day, that is. he little thought he would find it all done when he came." "won't he be surprised!" i said. "mamma sent him a telegram this morning," she said. "he deserved it." but by this time we were at the rectory. we couldn't help feeling rather shy; we had really never been out anywhere before except once, in london, when we had gone to have tea with a niece of nurse's, who had a shop in one of the big streets, and we had tea in the parlour behind. so that was _quite_ different, of course. at the rectory it was very nice except for our being shy. but after luncheon, when we went out into the garden with auntie, she soon sent away the shyness. she was just as kind and understanding as she could be, as she has been ever since--such a _perfect_ auntie that our only wonder now is how we ever did without her all those years. we had to tell her all _our_ story over again, all from the beginning of grandpapa's telling us we were to come to rosebuds, and the book with the name scored through; we _had_ to tell her, though we were afraid of making her cry, down to our finding the key and getting into the house, and the old princess, and the new princess, and all. she asked us questions, too, about ansdell friars, and in what ways it was changed since she had seen it. "i should like to see it again," she said; "though it would never seem as much home to me as here," and she sighed a little. "but you're not going away from here now, auntie," we said, "you're not going to sell the old house?" auntie smiled. "i hope not," she said. "they all think i am in no way bound to jackman. indeed, it was his haggling so about the price that brought me down here this summer. but one thing i have already given orders for: those horrid pools are to be filled up at once. i won't have dear gerald's peace of mind disturbed by any anxiety _i_ can do away with." we stared--it wasn't for a minute or two that we understood whom she was talking of. it was so funny to hear grandpapa spoken of as "gerald"--and when we found out whom she meant, we all burst out laughing. and while we were still laughing we heard wheels, and there was mr. truro, who had looked in for a moment on his way from the station. i don't think i ever saw any one's face look so happy and pleased as his did! we all went back together to rosebuds. auntie and regina said they were going to have afternoon tea with grandpapa, and you don't know how nice it looked, all neatly put out in the pretty old drawing-room, and poor auntie kept giving little cries of mixed pleasure and pain as she recognised one old friend after another among the china and the silver, and even the _cakes_, which were a secret of mrs. munt's that no one could make but herself. and after tea we had a great treat. auntie persuaded grandpapa that the air would do him good, and so she coaxed him out into the garden and then down the lane, and so on into the old house grounds. and then she and regina took us all over it--"it is best to get over the first seeing it again at once," i heard auntie whisper to grandpapa, "and the children's pleasure will make it seem different." it _is_ such a beautiful old house. i could write almost another book about it, and it was so strange to get into the big drawing-room by the double doors through which regina used to disappear, to see our old princess smiling down at us in our happiness just exactly as she had done in our trouble! poor old, ever young princess! we shall always love you, but nothing, _nothing_ like our own dear bright living fairy who has brought such new joy and good into our lives. we have seldom been parted from her and her mother since that day; we are almost always together, grandpapa and auntie and regina and we children, and very often mr. truro too. grandpapa says he is getting very old, but he _really_ doesn't look so, and even when he _does_ get "very old," we shall all only love him the better. the end. richard clay and sons, london and bungay. [illustration: up the mountain to grandfather] heidi _by_ johanna spyri illustrated by alice carsey whitman publishing co. racine · · chicago copyright by whitman publishing co. racine · · chicago introduction there is here presented to the reader a careful translation of "heidi," one of the most popular works of the great swiss authoress, madam johanna spyri. as particulars of her career are not easily gathered, we may here state that johanna heusser was born at zurich, june , . she wrote nothing in her youth. she was happily married to the advocate spyri. later, the franco-prussian war evoked from her a book devised for a charitable purpose, and the success of this volume revealed her future. she died at her home in zurich in . her fame has spread to all countries, and her many books have delighted not only the children for whom they were so artfully written, but they have become favorites with lovers of children as well. as to "heidi," itself, wherever mountains are seen or read about, the simple account of the early life of the swiss child, amid the beauties of her passionately-loved home, will be a favorite book for younger readers and those who seek their good. johanna spyri lived amidst the scenes she so gracefully described. in all her stories she shows an underlying desire to preserve her young readers alike from misunderstanding and the mistaken kindness that frequently hinders the happiness and natural development of their lives and characters. among her many works are the following: "arthur and his squirrel," "on sunday," "from the swiss mountains," "a scion of the house of lesa," "the great and the small all may aid," "from near and far," "cornelius," "lost but not forgotten," "gritli's children," volumes, "without a country," "what shall then become of her?," "sina," "from our own country," "ten stories," volumes, "in leuchtensa," "uncle titus," "a golden saying," "the castle wildenstein," "what really happened to her," "in the valley of the tilonne," "the hauffer mill." m. h. m. contents i. heidi's first mountain climb ii. a new home with grandfather iii. little bear and little swan iv. shooting down the mountain side v. a railroad journey vi. clara, the patient little invalid vii. the unfriendly housekeeper viii. surprises for the children ix. mr. sesemann takes heidi's part x. clara's lovable grandmother xi. home-sickness xii. "my house is haunted" xiii. at home again on the mountain xiv. the coat with the silver buttons xv. a great disappointment xvi. the doctor comes with presents xvii. excursions over the mountains xviii. a new home for the winter xix. heidi teaches obstinate peter xx. a strange looking procession xxi. happy days for the little visitor xxii. wicked peter and the unlucky chair xxiii. good-bye to the beautiful mountain illustrations up the mountain to grandfather (_color_) frontispiece heidi tenderly stroked the two goats in turn heidi drank in the golden sunlight, the fresh air and the sweet smell of the flowers (_color_) heidi now began to give a lively description of her life with the grandfather (_color_) "why, there is nothing outside but the stony streets" miss rottermeyer jumped higher than she had for many long years (_color_) grandmother's kind advice brings comfort to heidi (_color_) heidi learns to make doll clothes the doctor discovers heidi's home-sickness "our milk tastes nicer than anything else in the world, grandfather" it was not long before the fir trees began their old song (_color_) a strange-looking procession was making its way up the mountain (_color_) the little invalid finds that she is able to walk "we must not overdo it," he said, taking clara up in his arms peter went rolling and bumping down the slope "are you really my little clara?" (_color_) [illustration: heidi] chapter i heidi's first mountain climb on a bright june morning two figures--one a tall girl and the other a child--could be seen climbing a narrow mountain path that winds up from the pretty village of mayenfeld, to the lofty heights of the alm mountain. in spite of the hot june sun the child was clothed as if to keep off the bitterest frost. she did not look more than five years old, but what her natural figure was like would be hard to say, for she had on apparently two dresses, one above the other, and over these a thick red woolen shawl. her small feet were shod in thick, nailed mountain-shoes. when the wayfarers came to the hamlet known as doerfli, which is situated half-way up the mountain, they met with greetings from all sides, for the elder girl was now in her old home. as they were leaving the village, a voice called out: "wait a moment, dete; if you are going on up the mountain, i will come along with you." the girl thus addressed stood still, and the child immediately let go her hand and seated herself on the ground. "are you tired, heidi?" asked her companion. "no, i am hot," answered the child. "we shall soon get to the top now. you must walk bravely on a little longer, and take good, long steps, and in another hour we shall be there," said dete. they were now joined by a stout, good-natured looking woman, who walked on ahead with her old acquaintance. "and where are you going with the child?" asked the one who had just joined the party. "i suppose it is the child your sister left?" "yes," answered dete. "i am taking her up to uncle, where she must stay." "this child stay up there with alm-uncle! you must be out of your senses, dete! how can you think of such a thing! the old man, however, will soon send you both packing off home again!" "he cannot very well do that, seeing that he is her grandfather. he must do something for her. i have had the charge of the child till now, and i can tell you, barbel, i am not going to give up the chance which has just fallen to me of getting a good place, for her sake." "that would be all very well if he were like other people," said barbel, "but you know what he is. and what can he do with a child, especially with one so young! the child cannot possibly live with him. but where are you thinking of going yourself?" "to frankfurt, where an extra good place awaits me," answered dete. "i am glad i am not the child," exclaimed barbel. "not a creature knows anything about the old man up there. he will have nothing to do with anybody, and never sets his foot inside a church from one year's end to another. when he does come down once in a while, everybody clears out of his way. the mere sight of him, with his bushy, grey eyebrows and immense beard, is alarming enough. all kinds of things are said about him. you, dete, however, must certainly have learnt a good deal concerning him from your sister." "yes, but i am not going to repeat what i heard. suppose it should come to his ears. i should get into no end of trouble about it." barbel put her arm through dete's in a confidential sort of way, and said: "now do just tell me what is wrong with the old man. was he always shunned as he is now, and was he always so cross? i assure you i will hold my tongue if you will tell me." "very well then, i will tell you--but just wait a moment," said dete, looking around for heidi who had slipped away unnoticed. "i see where she is," exclaimed barbel, "look over there!" and she pointed to a spot far away from the footpath. "she is climbing up the slope yonder with peter and his goats. but tell me about the old man. did he ever have anything more than his two goats and his hut?" "i should think so indeed," replied dete with animation; "he was at one time the owner of one of the largest farms in domleschg, where my mother used to live. but he drank and gambled away the whole of his property, and when this became known to his mother and father they died of sorrow, one shortly after the other. uncle, having nothing left to him but his bad name, disappeared and it was heard that he had gone to naples as a soldier. after twelve or fifteen years he reappeared in domleschg, bringing with him a young son whom he tried to place with some of his kinspeople. every door, however, was shut in his face, for no one wished to have any more to do with him. embittered by this treatment, he vowed never to set foot in domleschg again, and he then came to doerfli where he lived with his little boy. his wife, it seemed, had died shortly after the child's birth. he must have accumulated some money during his absence, for he apprenticed his son tobias to a carpenter. he was a steady lad, and kindly received by every one in doerfli. his father, however, was still looked upon with suspicion, and it was even rumored that he had killed a man in some brawl at naples." "but why does everyone call him uncle? surely he can't be uncle to everyone living in doerfli," asked barbel. "our grandmothers were related, so we used to call him uncle, and as my father had family connections with so many people in doerfli, soon everyone fell into the habit of calling him uncle," explained dete. "and what happened to tobias," further questioned barbel, who was listening with deep interest. "tobias was taught his trade in mels, and when he had served his apprenticeship he came back to doerfli and married my sister adelaide. but their happiness did not last long. two years after their marriage tobias was killed in an accident. his wife was so overcome with grief that she fell into a fever from which she never recovered. she had always been rather delicate and subject to curious attacks, during which no one knew whether she was awake or sleeping. and so two months after tobias had been carried to the grave, his wife followed him. their sad fate was the talk of everybody far and near, and the general opinion was expressed that it was a punishment which uncle deserved for the godless life he had led. our minister endeavored to awaken his conscience, but the old man grew only more wrathful and stubborn and would not speak to a soul. all at once we heard that he had gone to live up on the alm mountain and that he did not intend to come down again. since then he has led his solitary life up there, and everyone knows him now by the name of alm-uncle. mother and i took adelaide's little one, then only a year old, into our care. when mother died last year, and i went down to the baths to earn some money, i paid old ursel to take care of her. so you see i have done my duty, now it's uncle's turn. but where are you going to yourself, barbel? we are now half way up the alm." "we have just reached the place i wanted," answered barbel. "i must see peter's mother who is doing some spinning for me. so, good-bye, dete, and good luck to you." she went toward a small, dark brown hut, which stood a few steps away from the path in a hollow that afforded it some protection from the mountain wind. here lived peter, the eleven-year-old boy, with his mother brigitta and his blind grandmother who was known to all the old and young in the neighborhood as just "grandmother." every morning peter went down to doerfli to bring up a flock of goats to browse on the mountain. at sundown he went skipping down the mountain again with his light-footed animals. when he reached doerfli he would give a shrill whistle, whereupon all the owners of the goats would come out to take home the animals that belonged to them. dete had been standing for a good ten minutes looking about her in every direction for some sign of the children and the goats. meanwhile heidi and the goatherd were climbing up by a far and roundabout way, for peter knew many spots where all kinds of good food, in the shape of shrubs and plants, grew for his goats. the child, exhausted with the heat and weight of her thick clothes, panted and struggled after him, at first with some difficulty. she said nothing, but her little eyes kept watching first peter, as he sprang nimbly hither and thither on his bare feet, clad only in his short, light breeches, and then the slim-legged goats that went leaping over rocks and shrubs. all at once she sat down on the ground, and began pulling off her shoes and stockings. then she unwound the hot red shawl and took off her frock. but there was still another to unfasten, for dete had put the sunday dress on over the everyday one, to save the trouble of carrying it. quick as lightning the everyday frock followed the other, and now the child stood up, clad only in her light short-sleeved under garment. she stretched out her little bare arms with glee. leaving all her clothes together in a tidy little heap, she went jumping and climbing up after peter and the goats as nimbly as any of the party. now that heidi was able to move at her ease, she began to enter into conversation with peter. she asked him how many goats he had, where he was going to with them, and what he had to do when he arrived there. at last, after some time, they came within view of dete. hardly had the latter caught sight of the little company climbing up towards her when she shrieked out: "heidi, what have you been doing! what a sight you have made of yourself! and where are your two frocks and the red wrapper? and the new shoes i bought, and the new stockings i knitted for you--everything gone! not a thing left! what can you have been thinking of, heidi; where are all your clothes?" the child quietly pointed to a spot below on the mountain side and answered, "down there." "you good-for-nothing little thing!" exclaimed dete angrily, "what could have put it into your head to do that? what made you undress yourself? what do you mean by it?" "i don't want any clothes," said heidi. [illustration] "you wretched, thoughtless child! have you no sense in you at all?" continued dete, scolding and lamenting. "peter, you go down and fetch them for me as quickly as you can, and you shall have something nice," and she held out a bright new piece of money to him that sparkled in the sun. peter was immediately off down the steep mountain side, taking the shortest cut, and was back again so quickly with the clothes that even dete was obliged to give him a word of praise as she handed him the promised money. peter promptly thrust it into his pocket and his face beamed with delight, for it was not often that he was the happy possessor of such riches. "you can carry the things up for me as far as uncle's, as you are going the same way," went on dete, who was preparing to continue her climb up the mountain side, which rose in a steep ascent immediately behind the goatherd's hut. peter willingly undertook to do this, and followed after her. after a climb of more than three-quarters of an hour they reached the top of the alm mountain. uncle's hut stood on a projection of the rock, exposed indeed to the winds, but where every ray of sun could rest upon it, and a full view could be had of the valley beneath. behind the hut stood three old fir trees, with long, thick, unlopped branches. beyond these rose a further wall of mountain, the lower heights still overgrown with beautiful grass and plants. against the hut, on the side looking towards the valley, uncle had put up a seat. here he was sitting, his pipe in his mouth and his hands on his knees, quietly looking out, when the children, the goats, and dete suddenly clambered into view. heidi was at the top first. she went straight up to the old man, put out her hand, and said, "good-evening, grandfather." "so, so, what is the meaning of this?" he asked gruffly, as he gave the child an abrupt shake of the hand, and gazed at her from under his bushy eyebrows. heidi stared steadily back at him in return with unflinching gaze. meanwhile dete had come up, with peter after her. "i wish you good-day, uncle," said dete, as she walked towards him, "and i have brought you tobias and adelaide's child. you will hardly recognize her, as you have never seen her since she was a year old." "and what has the child to do with me up here?" asked the old man curtly. "you there," he then called out to peter, "be off with your goats, you are none too early as it is, and take mine with you." peter obeyed on the instant and quickly disappeared. "the child is here to remain with you," dete made answer. "i have done my duty by her for these four years, and now it is time for you to do yours." "that's it, is it?" said the old man, as he looked at her with a flash in his eye. "and when the child begins to fret and whine after you, what am i to do with her then?" "that's your affair," retorted dete. "if you cannot arrange to keep her, do with her as you like. you will be answerable for the result if harm happens to her, though you have hardly need to add to the burden already on your conscience." now dete was not quite easy in her own conscience about what she was doing, and consequently was feeling hot and irritable, and said more than she had intended. as she uttered her last words, uncle rose from his seat. he looked at her in a way that made her draw back a step or two, then flinging out his arm, he said to her in a commanding voice: "be off with you this instant, and get back as quickly as you can to the place whence you came, and do not let me see your face again in a hurry." dete did not wait to be told twice. "good-bye to you then, and to you too, heidi," she called, as she turned quickly away and started to descend the mountain at a running pace, which she did not slacken till she found herself safely again at doerfli. chapter ii a new home with grandfather as soon as dete had disappeared the old man went back to his bench, and there he remained seated, staring at the ground without uttering a sound, while thick curls of smoke floated upward from his pipe. heidi, meanwhile, was enjoying herself in her new surroundings; she looked about till she found a shed, built against the hut, where the goats were kept; she peeped in, and saw it was empty. she continued her search but presently came back to where her grandfather was sitting. seeing that he was in exactly the same position as when she left him, she went and placed herself in front of the old man and said: "i want to see what you have inside the house." "come then!" and the grandfather rose and went before her towards the hut. "bring your bundle of clothes in with you," he bid her as she was following. "i shan't want them any more," was her prompt answer. the old man turned and looked searchingly at the child, whose dark eyes were sparkling in delighted anticipation of what she was going to see inside. "she is certainly not wanting in intelligence," he murmured to himself. "and why shall you not want them any more?" he asked aloud. "because i want to go about like the goats with their thin light legs." "well, you can do so if you like," said her grandfather, "but bring the things in, we must put them in the cupboard." heidi did as she was told. the old man now opened the door and heidi stepped inside after him; she found herself in a good-sized room, which covered the whole ground floor of the hut. a table and a chair were the only furniture; in one corner stood the grandfather's bed, in another was the hearth with a large kettle hanging above it; and on the further side was a large door in the wall--this was the cupboard. the grandfather opened it; inside were his clothes. on a second shelf were some plates and cups and glasses, and on a higher one still, a round loaf, smoked meat, and cheese, for everything that alm-uncle needed for his food and clothing was kept in this cupboard. heidi thrust in her bundle of clothes, as far back behind her grandfather's things as possible, so that they might not easily be found again. she then looked carefully round the room, and asked, "where am i to sleep, grandfather?" "wherever you like," he answered. heidi was delighted, and began at once to examine all the nooks and corners to find out where it would be pleasantest to sleep. in the corner near her grandfather's bed she saw a short ladder against the wall; up she climbed and found herself in the hay-loft. there lay a large heap of fresh, sweet-smelling hay, while through a round window in the wall she could see right down the valley. "i shall sleep up here, grandfather," she called down to him, "it's lovely, up here. come up and see how lovely it is!" "oh, i know all about it," he called up in answer. "i am getting the bed ready now," she called down again, as she went busily to and fro at her work, "but i shall want you to bring me up a sheet; you can't have a bed without a sheet; you want it to lie upon." "all right," said the grandfather, and presently he went to the cupboard, and after rummaging about inside for a few minutes he drew out a long, coarse piece of stuff, which was all he had to do duty for a sheet. he carried it up to the loft, where he found heidi had already made quite a nice bed. she had put an extra heap of hay at one end for a pillow, and had so arranged it that, when in bed, she would be able to see comfortably out through the round window. "that is capital," said her grandfather; "now we must put on the sheet." they spread it over the bed, and where it was too long or too broad, heidi quickly tucked it in under the hay. it looked as tidy and comfortable a bed as you could wish for, and heidi stood gazing thoughtfully at her handiwork. "we have forgotten something now, grandfather," she said after a short silence. "what's that?" he asked. "a coverlid; when you get into bed, you have to creep in between the sheet and the coverlid." "oh, that's the way, is it? but suppose i have not got a coverlid?" said the old man. "well, never mind, grandfather," said heidi in a consoling tone of voice, "i can take some more hay to put over me," and she was turning quickly to fetch another armful from the heap, when her grandfather stopped her. "wait a moment," he said, and he climbed down the ladder again and went towards his bed. he returned to the loft with a large, thick sack, made of flax, which he laid tidily over the bed. "that is a splendid coverlid," said heidi, "and the bed looks lovely altogether! i wish it was night, so that i might get inside it at once." "i think we had better go down and have something to eat first," said the grandfather. while the kettle was boiling the old man held a large piece of cheese on a long iron fork over the fire, turning it round and round till it was toasted a nice golden yellow color on each side. heidi watched all that was going on with eager curiosity. suddenly some new idea seemed to come into her head, for she turned and ran to the cupboard, and then began going busily backwards and forwards. presently the grandfather got up and came to the table with a jug and the cheese, and there he saw it already tidily laid with the round loaf and two plates and two knives each in its right place. "ah, that's right," said the grandfather, "i am glad to see that you have some ideas of your own," and as he spoke he laid the toasted cheese on a layer of bread, "but there is still something missing." heidi looked at the jug that was steaming away invitingly, and ran quickly back to the cupboard. at first she could only see a small bowl left on the shelf, but she was not long in perplexity, for a moment later she caught sight of two glasses further back, and without an instant's loss of time she returned with these and the bowl and put them down on the table. "good, i see you know how to set about things; but what will you do for a seat?" the grandfather himself was sitting on the only chair in the room. heidi flew to the hearth, and dragging the three-legged stool up to the table, sat herself down upon it. the grandfather filled the bowl with milk, and pushed it in front of heidi. then he brought her a large slice of bread and a piece of the golden cheese, and told her to eat. heidi lifted the bowl with both hands and drank without pause till it was empty, for the thirst of all her long, hot journey had returned upon her. then she drew a deep breath--in the eagerness of her thirst she had not stopped to breathe--and put down the bowl. "was the milk nice?" he asked. "i never drank any so good before," answered heidi. "then you must have some more," and the old man filled her bowl again to the brim and set it before the child, who was now hungrily beginning her bread, having first spread it with the cheese, which after being toasted was soft as butter. the meal being over, the grandfather went outside to put the goat-shed in order, and heidi watched with interest while he first swept it out, and then put fresh straw for the goats to sleep upon. then he went to the little well-shed, and there he cut some long, round sticks, and a small, round board; in this he bored some holes and stuck the sticks into them, and there, as if made by magic, was a three-legged stool just like her grandfather's, only higher. heidi stood and looked at it, speechless with astonishment. "what do you think that is?" asked her grandfather. "it's my stool, i know, because it is such a high one; and it was made all of a minute," said the child, still lost in wonder and admiration. "she understands what she sees, her eyes are in the right place," remarked the grandfather to himself. and so the time passed happily on till evening. then the wind began to roar louder than ever through the old fir trees; heidi listened with delight to the sound, and it filled her heart so full of gladness that she skipped and danced round the old trees, as if some unheard of joy had come to her. the grandfather stood and watched her from the shed. [illustration: heidi tenderly stroked the two goats in turn] suddenly a shrill whistle was heard. down from the heights above, the goats came springing one after another, with peter in their midst. heidi sprang forward with a cry of joy and rushed among the flock, greeting first one and then another of her old friends of the morning. as they neared the hut the goats stood still, and then two of their number, two beautiful, slender animals, one white and one brown, ran forward to where the grandfather was standing and began licking his hands, for he was holding a little salt which he always had ready for his goats on their return home. peter went on down the mountain with the remainder of his flock. heidi tenderly stroked the two goats in turn, jumping about in her glee at the pretty little animals. "are they ours, grandfather? are they both ours? are you going to put them in the shed? will they always stay with us?" heidi's questions came tumbling out one after the other, so that her grandfather had only time to answer each of them with "yes, yes." when the goats had finished licking up the salt her grandfather told her to go and fetch her bowl and the bread. heidi obeyed and was soon back again. the grandfather milked the white goat and filled her basin, and then breaking off a piece of bread, "now eat your supper," he said, "and then go up to bed. dete left another little bundle for you with a nightgown and other small things in it, which you will find at the bottom of the cupboard if you want them. i must go and shut up the goats, so be off and sleep well." "good-night, grandfather! good-night. what are their names, grandfather, what are their names?" she called out as she ran after his retreating figure and the goats. "the white one is named little swan, and the brown one little bear," he answered. "good-night, little swan, good-night, little bear!" she called again at the top of her voice. then she ate her supper and went indoors and climbed up to her bed, where she was soon lying as sweetly and soundly asleep as any young princess on her couch of silk. chapter iii little bear and little swan heidi felt very happy next morning as she woke up in her new home and remembered all the many things that she had seen the day before and which she would see again that day, and above all she thought with delight of the dear goats. she jumped quickly out of bed and a very few minutes sufficed her to put on the clothes which she had taken off the night before, for there were not many of them. then she climbed down the ladder and ran outside the hut. there stood peter already with his flock of goats, and the grandfather was just bringing his two out of the shed to join the others. heidi ran forward to wish good-morning to him and the goats. "do you want to go with them on to the mountain?" asked her grandfather. nothing could have pleased heidi better, and she jumped for joy in answer. the grandfather went inside the hut, calling to peter to follow him and bring in his wallet. peter obeyed with astonishment, and laid down the little bag which held his meagre dinner. "open it," said the old man, and he put in a large piece of bread and an equally large piece of cheese, which made peter open his eyes, for each was twice the size of the two portions which he had for his own dinner. "there, now there is only the little bowl to add," continued the grandfather, "for the child cannot drink her milk as you do from the goat; she is not accustomed to that. you must milk two bowlfuls for her when she has her dinner, for she is going with you and will remain with you till you return this evening; but take care she does not fall over any of the rocks, do you hear?" they started joyfully for the mountain. heidi went running hither and thither and shouting with delight, for here were whole patches of delicate red primroses, and there the blue gleam of the lovely gentian, while above them all laughed and nodded the tender-leaved golden cistus. enchanted with all this waving field of brightly-colored flowers, heidi forgot even peter and the goats. she ran on in front and then off to the side, tempted first one way and then the other, as she caught sight of some bright spot of glowing red or yellow. and all the while she was plucking whole handfuls of the flowers which she put into her little apron, for she wanted to take them all home and stick them in the hay, so that she might make her bedroom look just like the meadows outside. peter had therefore to be on the alert, and his round eyes, which did not move very quickly, had more work than they could well manage, for the goats were as lively as heidi; they ran in all directions, and peter had to follow whistling and calling and swinging his stick to get all the runaways together again. finally they arrived at the spot where peter generally halted for his goats to pasture and where he took up his quarters for the day. it lay at the foot of the high rocks, which were covered for some distance up by bushes and fir trees, beyond which rose their bare and rugged summits. on one side of the mountain the rock was split into deep clefts, and the grandfather had reason to warn peter of danger. having climbed as far as the halting-place, peter unslung his wallet and put it carefully in a little hollow of the ground, for he knew what the wind was like up there and did not want to see his precious belonging sent rolling down the mountain by a sudden gust. then he threw himself at full length on the warm ground, and soon fell asleep. heidi meanwhile had unfastened her apron and rolling it carefully round the flowers laid it beside peter's wallet inside the hollow; she then sat down beside his outstretched figure and looked about her. the goats were climbing about among the bushes overhead. she had never felt so happy in her life before. she drank in the golden sunlight, the fresh air, the sweet smell of the flowers, and wished for nothing better than to remain there forever. suddenly she heard a loud, harsh cry overhead and lifting her eyes she saw a bird, larger than any she had ever seen before, with great, spreading wings, wheeling round in wide circles, and uttering a piercing, croaking kind of sound above her. "peter, peter, wake up!" called out heidi. "see, the great bird is there--look, look!" peter got up on hearing her call, and together they sat and watched the bird, which rose higher and higher in the blue air till it disappeared behind the grey mountain-tops. "where has it gone to?" asked heidi, who had followed the bird's movements with intense interest. "home to its nest," said peter. "is his home right up there? oh, how nice to be up so high! why does he make that noise?" "because he can't help it," explained peter. "let us climb up there and see where his nest is," proposed heidi. "oh! oh! oh!" exclaimed peter, his disapproval of heidi's suggestion becoming more marked with each ejaculation, "why, even the goats cannot climb as high as that, besides didn't uncle say that you were not to fall over the rocks." peter now began suddenly whistling and calling in such a loud manner that heidi could not think what was happening; but the goats evidently understood his voice, for one after the other they came springing down the rocks until they were all assembled on the green plateau. [illustration] heidi jumped up and ran in and out among them, for it was new to her to see the goats playing together like this. meanwhile peter had taken the wallet out of the hollow and placed the pieces of bread and cheese on the ground in the shape of a square, the larger two on heidi's side and the smaller on his own, for he knew exactly which were hers and which his. then he took the little bowl and milked some delicious, fresh milk into it from the white goat, and afterwards set the bowl in the middle of the square. "leave off jumping about, it is time for dinner," said peter; "sit down now and begin." heidi sat down. "is the milk for me?" she asked. [illustration: heidi drank in the golden sunlight, the fresh air and the sweet smell of the flowers] "yes," replied peter, "and the two large pieces of bread and cheese are yours also, and when you have drunk up that milk, you are to have another bowlful from the white goat, and then it will be my turn." "and which do you get your milk from," inquired heidi. "from my own goat, the piebald one. but go on now with your dinner," said peter, again reminding her it was time to eat. heidi took up the bowl and drank her milk, and as soon as she had put it down empty peter rose and filled it again for her. then she broke off a piece of her bread and held out the remainder, which was still larger than peter's own piece, together with the whole big slice of cheese to her companion, saying, "you can have that, i have plenty." peter looked at heidi, unable to speak for astonishment. he hesitated a moment, for he could not believe that heidi was in earnest; but the latter kept on holding out the bread and cheese, and as peter still did not take it, she laid it down on his knees. he saw then that she really meant it; he seized the food, nodded his thanks and acceptance of her present, and then made a more splendid meal than he had known ever since he was a goat-herd. heidi the while still continued to watch the goats. "tell me all their names," she said. peter knew these by heart, so he began, telling heidi the name of each goat in turn as he pointed it out to her. she listened with great attention, and it was not long before she could herself distinguish the goats from one another and could call each by name, for every goat had its own peculiarities which could not easily be mistaken. there was the great turk with his big horns, who was always wanting to butt the others, so that most of them ran away when they saw him coming and would have nothing to do with their rough companion. only greenfinch, the slender, nimble, little goat, was brave enough to face him, and would make a rush at him, three or four times in succession. then there was little white snowflake, who bleated in such a plaintive and beseeching manner that heidi already had several times run to it and taken its head in her hands to comfort it. just at this moment the pleading young cry was heard again, and heidi jumped up running and, putting her arms around the little creature's neck, asked in a sympathetic voice, "what is it, little snowflake? why do you call like that as if in trouble?" the goat pressed closer to heidi in a confiding way and left off bleating. peter called out from where he was sitting--for he had not yet got to the end of his bread and cheese--"she cries like that because the old goat is not with her; she was sold at mayenfeld the day before yesterday, and so will not come up the mountain any more." "who is the old goat?" called heidi back. "why, her mother, of course," was the answer. "where is the grandmother?" called heidi again. "she has none." "and the grandfather?" "she has none." "oh, you poor little snowflake!" exclaimed heidi, clasping the animal gently to her, "but do not cry like that any more; see now, i shall come up here with you every day, so that you will not be alone any more, and if you want anything you have only to come to me." the goats were now beginning to climb the rocks again, each seeking for the plants it liked in its own fashion, some jumping over everything they met till they found what they wanted, others going more carefully and cropping all the nice leaves by the way, the turk still now and then giving the others a poke with his horns. little swan and little bear clambered lightly up and never failed to find the best bushes, and then they would stand gracefully poised on their pretty legs, delicately nibbling at the leaves. heidi stood with her hands behind her back, carefully noting all they did. "peter," she said to the boy who had again thrown himself down on the ground, "the prettiest of all the goats are little swan and little bear." "yes, i know they are," was the answer. "alm-uncle brushes them down and washes them and gives them salt, and he has the nicest shed for them." all of a sudden peter leaped to his feet and ran hastily after the goats. heidi followed him as fast as she could, for she was too eager to know what had happened to stay behind. peter dashed through the middle of the flock towards that side of the mountain where the rocks fell perpendicularly to a great depth below, and where any thoughtless goat, if it went too near, might fall over and break all its legs. he had caught sight of the inquisitive greenfinch taking leaps in that direction, and he was only just in time, for the animal had already sprung to the edge of the abyss. all peter could do was to throw himself down and seize one of her hind legs. greenfinch, thus taken by surprise, began bleating furiously, angry at being held so fast and prevented from continuing her voyage of discovery. she struggled to get loose, and endeavored so obstinately to leap forward that peter shouted to heidi to come and help him, for he could not get up and was afraid of pulling out the goat's leg altogether. heidi had already run up and she saw at once the danger both peter and the animal were in. she quickly gathered a bunch of sweet-smelling leaves, and then, holding them under greenfinch's nose, said coaxingly, "come, come, greenfinch, you must not be naughty! look, you might fall down there and break your leg, and that would give you dreadful pain!" the young animal turned quickly and began contentedly eating the leaves out of heidi's hand. meanwhile peter got on to his feet again and took hold of greenfinch by the band round her neck from which her bell was hung, and heidi taking hold of her in the same way on the other side, they led the wanderer back to the rest of the flock that had remained peacefully feeding. peter, now he had his goat in safety, lifted his stick in order to give her a good beating as punishment, and greenfinch seeing what was coming shrank back in fear. but heidi cried out, "no, no, peter, you must not strike her; see how frightened she is!" "she deserves it," growled peter, and again lifted his stick. then heidi flung herself against him and cried indignantly, "you have no right to touch her, it will hurt her, let her alone!" peter looked with surprise at the commanding little figure, whose dark eyes were flashing, and reluctantly he let his stick drop. "well, i will let her off if you will give me some more of your cheese tomorrow," he said, for he was determined to have something to make up to him for his fright. "you shall have it all, tomorrow and every day, i do not want it," replied heidi, giving ready consent to his demand. "and i will give you bread as well, a large piece like you had today; but then you must promise never to beat greenfinch, or snowflake, or any of the goats." "all right," said peter, "i don't care," which meant that he would agree to the bargain, and let go of greenfinch, who joyfully sprang to join her companions. and thus imperceptibly the day had crept on to its close, and now the sun was on the point of sinking out of sight behind the high mountains. heidi was again sitting on the ground, when all at once she sprang to her feet, "peter! peter! everything is on fire! all the rocks are burning, and the great snow mountain and the sky! o look, look! the high rock up there is red with flame! o the beautiful, fiery snow! stand up, peter! see, the fire has reached the great bird's nest! look at the rocks! look at the fir trees! everything, everything is on fire!" "it is always like that," said peter composedly, continuing to peel his stick; "but it is not really fire." "what is it then?" cried heidi. "it gets like that of itself," explained peter. "look, look!" cried heidi in fresh excitement, "now they have turned all rose color! look at that one covered with snow, and that with the high, pointed rocks! what do you call them?" "mountains have not any names," he answered. "o how beautiful, look at the crimson snow! and up there on the rocks there are ever so many roses! oh! now they are turning grey! oh! oh! now all the color has died away! it's all gone, peter." and heidi sat down on the ground looking as full of distress as if everything had really come to an end. "it will come again tomorrow," said peter. "get up, we must go home now." he whistled to his goats and together they all started on their homeward way. "is it like that every day, shall we see it every day when we bring the goats up here?" asked heidi, as she clambered down the mountain at peter's side; she waited eagerly for his answer, hoping that he would tell her it was so. "it is like that most days," he replied. "but will it be like that tomorrow for certain?" heidi persisted. "yes, yes, tomorrow for certain," peter assured her in answer. heidi now felt quite happy again, and her little brain was so full of new impressions and new thoughts that she did not speak any more until they had reached the hut. the grandfather was sitting under the fir trees, where he had put up a new seat. heidi ran up to him, followed by the white and brown goats, for they knew their own master and stall. peter called out after her, "come with me again tomorrow! good-night!" for he was anxious for more than one reason that heidi should go with him the next day. "o, grandfather," cried heidi, "it was so beautiful. the fire, and the roses on the rocks, and the blue and yellow flowers, and look what i have brought you!" and opening the apron that held her flowers she shook them all out at her grandfather's feet. but the poor flowers, how changed they were! heidi hardly knew them again. they looked like dried bits of hay, not a single little flower cup stood open. "o, grandfather, what is the matter with them?" exclaimed heidi in shocked surprise, "they were not like that this morning, why do they look so now?" "they like to stand out there in the sun and not to be shut up in an apron," said her grandfather. "then i will never gather any more. but, grandfather, why did the great bird go on croaking so?" she continued in an eager tone of inquiry. "go along now and get into your bath while i go and get some milk; when we are together at supper i will tell you all about it." heidi obeyed, and when later she was sitting on her high stool before her milk bowl with her grandfather beside her, she repeated her question, "why does the great bird go on croaking and screaming down at us, grandfather?" "he is mocking at the people who live down below in the villages, because they all go huddling and gossipping together, and encourage one another in evil talking and deeds. he calls out, 'if you would separate and each go your own way and come up here and live on a height as i do, it would be better for you!'" there was almost a wildness in the old man's voice as he spoke, so that heidi seemed to hear the croaking of the bird again even more distinctly. "why haven't the mountains any names?" heidi went on. "they have names," answered her grandfather, "and if you can describe one of them to me that i know i will tell you what it is called." heidi then described to him the rocky mountain with the two high peaks so exactly that the grandfather was delighted. "just so, i know it," and he told her its name. then heidi told him of the mountain with the great snowfield, and how it had been on fire. the grandfather explained to her it was the sun that did it. "when he says good-night to the mountains he throws his most beautiful colors over them, so that they may not forget him before he comes again the next day." heidi was delighted with this explanation, and could hardly bear to wait for another day to come that she might once more climb up with the goats and see how the sun bid good-night to the mountains. but she had to go to bed first, and all night she slept soundly on her bed of hay, dreaming of nothing but of shining mountains with red roses all over them, among which happy little snowflake went leaping in and out. chapter iv shooting down the mountain side the next morning the sun came out early as bright as ever, and then peter appeared with the goats, and again the two children climbed up together to the high meadows, and so it went on day after day till heidi, passing her life thus among the grass and flowers, was burnt brown with the sun, and grew so strong and healthy that nothing ever ailed her. she was happy too, and lived from day to day as free and lighthearted as the little birds that make their home among the green forest trees. then the autumn came, and the wind blew louder and stronger, and the grandfather would say sometimes, "today you must stay at home, heidi; a sudden gust of the wind would blow a little thing like you over the rocks into the valley below in a moment." whenever peter heard that he must go alone he looked very unhappy, for he saw nothing but mishaps of all kinds ahead, and did not know how he should bear the long, dull day without heidi. then, too, there was the good meal he would miss, and besides that the goats on these days were so naughty and obstinate that he had twice the usual trouble with them, for they had grown so accustomed to heidi's presence that they would run in every direction and refuse to go on unless she was with them. heidi was never unhappy, for wherever she was she found something to interest or amuse her. she liked best, it is true, to go out with peter up to the flowers and the great bird, but she also found her grandfather's hammering and sawing and carpentering very entertaining, and if it should chance to be the day when the large, round goats'-milk cheese was made she enjoyed beyond measure watching her grandfather stir the great cauldron. the thing which attracted her most, however, was the waving and roaring of the three old fir trees on these windy days. she would stand underneath them and look up, unable to tear herself away, looking and listening while they bowed and swayed and roared as the mighty wind rushed through them. there was no longer now the warm, bright sun that had shone all through the summer, so heidi went to the cupboard and got out her shoes and stockings and dress. then it grew very cold, and peter would come up early in the morning blowing on his fingers to keep them warm. but he soon left off coming, for one night there was a heavy fall of snow and the next morning the whole mountain was covered with it, and not a single little green leaf even was to be seen anywhere upon it. there was no peter that day, and heidi stood at the little window looking out in wonderment, for the snow was beginning again, and the thick flakes kept falling till the snow was up to the window, and still they continued to fall, and the snow grew higher, so that at last the window could not be opened, and she and her grandfather were shut up fast within the hut. heidi thought this was great fun and ran from one window to the other. the next day, the snow having ceased, the grandfather went out and shoveled it away from the house, and threw it into such great heaps that they looked like mountains. heidi and her grandfather were sitting one afternoon on their three-legged stools before the fire when there came a great thump at the door. it was peter all white with snow for he had had to fight his way through deep snowdrifts. he had been determined, however, to climb up to the hut, for it was a week now since he had seen heidi. "good-evening," he said as he came in; then he went and placed himself as near the fire as he could, his whole face beaming with pleasure at finding himself there. heidi looked on in astonishment, for peter was beginning to thaw all over with the warmth, so that he had the appearance of a trickling waterfall. "well, general, how goes it with you?" said the grandfather, "now that you have lost your army you will have to turn to your pen and pencil." "why must he turn to his pen and pencil," asked heidi immediately, full of curiosity. "during the winter he must go to school," explained her grandfather, "and learn how to read and write; it's a bit hard, although useful sometimes afterwards. am i not right, general?" "yes, indeed," assented peter. heidi's interest was now thoroughly awakened, and she had so many questions to ask peter about school, and the conversation took so long that he had time to get thoroughly dry. "well, now, general, you have been under fire for some time and must want some refreshment. come and join us," said the grandfather as he brought the supper out of the cupboard, and heidi pushed the stools to the table. there was also now a bench fastened against the wall, for as he was no longer alone the grandfather had put up seats of various kinds here and there, long enough to hold two persons, for heidi had a way of always keeping close to her grandfather whether he was walking, sitting, or standing. peter opened his round eyes very wide when he saw what a large piece of meat alm-uncle gave him on his thick slice of bread. it was a long time since peter had had anything so nice to eat. as soon as the pleasant meal was over he began to get ready for returning home, for it was already growing dark. he had said his "good-night" and his thanks, and was just going out, when he turned and said, "i shall come again next sunday, this day week, and my grandmother sent word that she would like you to come and see her some day." it was quite a new idea to heidi that she should go and pay anybody a visit, and she could not get it out of her head; so the first thing she said to her grandfather the next day was, "i must go down to see the grandmother today, she will be expecting me." "the snow is too deep," answered the grandfather, trying to put her off. not a day passed but what she said five or six times to her grandfather, "i must certainly go today, the grandmother will be waiting for me." on the fourth day, when heidi was sitting on her high stool at dinner with the bright sun shining in upon her through the window, she again repeated her little speech, "i must certainly go down to see the grandmother today, or else i shall keep her waiting too long." the grandfather rose from the table, climbed up to the hayloft and brought down the thick sack that was heidi's coverlid, and said, "come along then!" the child skipped out gleefully after him into the glittering world of snow. the old fir trees were standing now quite silent, their branches covered with the white snow, and they looked so lovely as they glittered and sparkled in the sunlight that heidi jumped for joy at the sight and kept on calling out, "come here, come here, grandfather! the fir trees are all silver and gold!" the grandfather had gone into the shed and he now came out, dragging a large hand-sleigh; inside there was a low seat, and the sleigh could be pushed forward and guided by the feet of the one who sat upon it with the help of a pole that was fastened to the side. the old man got in and lifted the child on to his lap; then he wrapped her up in the sack, that she might keep nice and warm, and put his left arm closely round her, for it was necessary to hold her tight during the coming journey. he now grasped the pole with his right hand and gave the sleigh a push forward with his two feet. it shot down the mountain side with such rapidity that heidi thought they were flying through the air like a bird, and shouted aloud with delight. suddenly they came to a standstill, and there they were at peter's hut. her grandfather lifted her out and unwrapped her. "there you are, now go in, and when it begins to grow dark you must start on your way home again." then he left her and went up the mountain, pulling his sleigh after him. heidi opened the door of the hut and stepped into a tiny room that looked very dark, with a fireplace and a few dishes on a wooden shelf; this was the little kitchen. she opened another door, and found herself in another small room, for the place was not a herdsman's hut like her grandfather's, with one large room on the ground floor and a hay-loft above, but a very old cottage, where everything was narrow and poor and shabby. a table was close to the door, and as heidi stepped in she saw a woman sitting at it, putting a patch on a waistcoat which heidi recognized at once as peter's. in the corner sat an old woman, bent with age, spinning. heidi was quite sure this was the grandmother, so she went up to the spinning-wheel and said, "good-day, grandmother, i have come at last; did you think i was a long time coming?" the old woman raised her head and felt for the hand that the child held out to her, and when she had found it, she passed her own over it thoughtfully for a few seconds, and then said, "are you the child who lives up with alm-uncle, are you heidi?" "yes, yes," answered heidi, "i have just come down in the sleigh with grandfather." "is it possible! why, your hands are quite warm! brigitta, did alm-uncle come himself with the child?" peter's mother had left her work and risen from the table and now stood looking at heidi with curiosity, scanning her from head to foot. "i do not know, mother, whether uncle came himself; it is hardly likely, the child probably makes a mistake." but heidi looked steadily at the woman, and said, "i know quite well who wrapped me up in my bedcover and brought me down in the sleigh: it was grandfather." "there was some truth then perhaps in what peter used to tell us of alm-uncle during the summer, when we thought he must be wrong," said grandmother; "but who would ever have believed that such a thing was possible; i did not think the child would live three weeks up there. what is she like, brigitta?" the latter had so thoroughly examined heidi on all sides that she was well able to describe her to her mother. heidi meanwhile had not been idle; she had made the round of the room and looked carefully at everything there was to be seen. all of a sudden she exclaimed, "grandmother, one of your shutters is flapping backwards and forwards: grandfather would put a nail in and make it all right in a minute. it will break one of the panes some day; look, how it keeps on banging!" "ah, dear child," said the old woman, "i am not able to see it, but i can hear that and many other things besides the shutter. everything about the place rattles and creaks when the wind is blowing, and it gets inside through all the cracks and holes. the house is going to pieces, and in the night, when the two others are asleep, i often lie awake in fear and trembling, thinking that the whole place will give way and fall and kill us. and there is not a creature to mend anything for us, for peter does not understand such work." "but why cannot you see, grandmother, that the shutter is loose. look, there it goes again, see, that one there!" and heidi pointed to the particular shutter. "alas, child, i can see nothing, nothing," said the grandmother in a voice of lamentation. "but if i were to go outside and put back the shutter so that you had more light, then you could see, grandmother?" "no, no, not even then, no one can make it light for me again." "but if you were to go outside among all the white snow, then surely you would find it light; just come with me, grandmother, and i will show you." heidi took hold of the old woman's hand to lead her along, for she was beginning to feel quite distressed at the thought of her being without light. "let me be, dear child; it is always dark for me now; whether in snow or sun. it will never be light for me again on earth, never." at these words heidi broke into loud crying. in her distress she kept on sobbing out, "who can make it light for you again? can no one do it? isn't there any one who can do it?" the grandmother now tried to comfort the child, but it was not easy to quiet her. heidi did not often weep, but when she did she could not get over her trouble for a long while. at last the old woman said, "dear heidi, you cannot think how glad i am to hear a kind word when i can no longer see, and it is such a pleasure to me to listen to you while you talk. so come and sit beside me and tell me what you do up there, and how grandfather occupies himself. i knew him very well in the old days; but for many years now i have heard nothing of him, except through peter, who never says much." this was a new and happy idea to heidi; she quickly dried her tears and said in a comforting voice, "wait, grandmother, till i have told grandfather everything, he will make it light for you again, i am sure, and will do something so that the house will not fall; he will put everything right for you." heidi now began to give a lively description of her life with the grandfather, and of the days she spent on the mountain with the goats, and then went on to tell what she did during the winter, and how her grandfather was able to make all sorts of things, seats and stools, and mangers where the hay was put for little swan and little bear, besides a new large water-tub for her to bathe in when the summer came, and a new milk-bowl and spoon. the grandmother listened with the greatest attention, only from time to time addressing her daughter, "do you hear that, brigitta? do you hear what she is saying about uncle?" the conversation was suddenly interrupted by a heavy thump on the door, and in marched peter, who stood stock-still, opening his eyes with astonishment, when he caught sight of heidi; then his face beamed with smiles as she called out, "good-evening, peter." "what, is the boy back from school already," exclaimed the grandmother in surprise. "i have not known an afternoon to pass so quickly as this one for years. how is the reading getting on, peter?" "as usual," was peter's answer. the old woman gave a little sigh, "ah, well," she said, "i hoped you would have something different to tell me by this time, as you are going to be twelve years old this february." "what was it you hoped he would have to tell you?" asked heidi, interested in all the grandmother said. "i mean that he ought to have learnt to read a bit by now," continued the grandmother. "up there on the shelf is an old prayer-book, with beautiful songs in it which i have not heard for a long time and cannot now remember to repeat to myself, and i hoped that peter would soon learn enough to be able to read one of them to me sometimes; but he finds it too difficult." heidi now jumped up from her low chair, and holding out her hand hastily to the grandmother said, "good-night, grandmother, it is getting dark; i must go home at once," and bidding good-bye to peter and his mother she went towards the door. but the grandmother called out in an anxious voice, "wait, wait, heidi, you must not go alone like that, peter must go with you. have you got something warm to put round your throat?" "i have not anything to put on," called back heidi, "but i am sure i shall not be cold," and with that she ran outside and went off at such a pace that peter had difficulty in overtaking her. the children had taken but a few steps before they saw the grandfather coming down to meet them, and in another minute his long strides had brought him to their side. "that's right, heidi; you have kept your word," said the grandfather, and then wrapping the sack firmly round her he lifted her in his arms and strode off with her up the mountain. they had no sooner got inside the hut than heidi at once began: "grandfather, tomorrow we must take the hammer and the long nails and fasten grandmother's shutter, and drive in a lot more nails in other places, for her house shakes and rattles all over." [illustration: heidi now began to give a lively description of her life with the grandfather] "we must, must we? who told you that?" asked her grandfather. "nobody told me, but i know it for all that," replied heidi, "for everything is giving way, and when the grandmother cannot sleep, she lies trembling, for she thinks that every minute the house will fall down on their heads; and everything now is dark for grandmother, and she does not think any one can make it light for her again, but you will be able to, i am sure, grandfather. tomorrow we must go and help her; we will, won't we, grandfather?" the child was clinging to the old man and looking up at him in trustful confidence. the grandfather looked down at heidi for a while without speaking, and then said, "yes, heidi, we will do something to stop the rattling, at least we can do that; we will go down about it tomorrow." the child went skipping round the room for joy, crying out, "we shall go tomorrow! we shall go tomorrow!" the grandfather kept his promise. on the following afternoon he brought the sleigh out again, and as on the previous day, he set heidi down at the door of the grandmother's hut and said, "go in now, and when it grows dark, come out again." then he put the sack in the sleigh and went round the house. heidi had hardly opened the door and sprung into the room when the grandmother called out from her corner, "it's the child again! here she comes!" heidi ran to her, and then quickly drew the little stool close up to the old woman, and seating herself upon it, began to tell and ask her all kinds of things. all at once came the sound of heavy blows against the wall of the hut and grandmother gave such a start of alarm that she nearly upset the spinning-wheel, and cried in a trembling voice, "ah, my god, now it is coming, the house is going to fall upon us!" but heidi caught her by the arm, and said soothingly, "no, no, grandmother, do not be frightened, it is only grandfather with his hammer; he is mending up everything, so that you shan't have such fear and trouble." "is it possible! is it really possible! so the dear god has not forgotten us!" exclaimed the grandmother. "do you hear, brigitta, what that noise is? did you hear what the child says? go outside, brigitta, and if it is alm-uncle, tell him he must come inside a moment that i may thank him." brigitta went outside and found alm-uncle in the act of fastening some heavy pieces of new wood along the wall. she stepped up to him and said, "good-evening, uncle, mother and i thank you for doing us such a kind service, and she would like to tell you herself how grateful she is; i do not know who else would have done it for us; we shall not forget your kindness, for i am sure--" "that will do," said the old man, interrupting her. "i know what you think of alm-uncle without your telling me. go indoors again, i can find out for myself where the mending is wanted." brigitta obeyed on the spot, for uncle had a way with him that made few people care to oppose his will. he went on knocking with his hammer all round the house, and then mounted the narrow steps to the roof, and hammered away there, until he had used up all the nails he had brought with him. meanwhile it had been growing dark, and he had hardly come down from the roof and dragged the sleigh out from behind the goat-shed when heidi appeared outside. the grandfather wrapped her up and took her in his arms as he had done the day before, for although he had to drag the sleigh up the mountain after him, he feared that if the child sat in it alone her wrappings would fall off and that she would be nearly if not quite frozen, so he carried her warm and safe in his arms. so the winter went by. after many years of joyless life, the blind grandmother had at last found something to make her happy. she listened for the little tripping footstep as soon as day had come, and when she heard the door open and knew the child was really there, she would call out, "god be thanked, she has come again!" and heidi had also grown very fond of the old grandmother, and when at last she knew for certain that no one could make it light for her again, she was overcome with sorrow; but the grandmother told her again that she felt the darkness much less when heidi was with her, and so every fine winter's day the child came traveling down in her sleigh. the grandfather always took her, never raising any objection, indeed he always carried the hammer and sundry other things down in the sleigh with him, and many an afternoon was spent by him in making the goatherd's cottage sound and tight. it no longer groaned and rattled the whole night through, and the grandmother, who for many winters had not been able to sleep in peace as she did now, said she should never forget what the uncle had done for her. chapter v a railroad journey heidi was now in her eighth year; she had learnt all kinds of useful things from her grandfather; she knew how to look after the goats as well as any one, and little swan and little bear would follow her like two faithful dogs, and give a loud bleat of pleasure when they heard her voice. twice during the course of this last winter peter had brought up a message from the schoolmaster at doerfli, who sent word to alm-uncle that he ought to send heidi to school, as she was over the usual age, and ought indeed to have gone the winter before. uncle had sent word back each time that the schoolmaster would find him at home if he had anything he wished to say to him, but that he did not intend to send heidi to school. as heidi was running about one sunny march morning, and had just jumped over the water-trough for the tenth time at least, she nearly fell backwards into it with fright, for there in front of her stood an old gentleman dressed in black. when he saw how startled she was, he said in a kind voice, "don't be afraid of me, for i am very fond of children. shake hands! you must be the heidi i have heard of; where is your grandfather?" "he is sitting by the table, making round wooden spoons," heidi informed him, as she opened the door. it was the old village pastor from doerfli who had been a neighbor of uncle's when he lived down there. he stepped inside the hut, and going up to the old man, who was bending over his work, said, "good-morning, neighbor." the grandfather looked up in surprise, and then rising said, "good-morning" in return. he pushed his chair towards the visitor as he continued, "if you do not mind a wooden seat there is one for you." the pastor sat down. "it is a long time since i have seen you, neighbor," he said. "i think you know already what it is that has brought me here," and as he spoke he looked towards the child who was standing at the door. "heidi, go off to the goats," said her grandfather. "you can take them a little salt and stay with them till i come." heidi vanished on the spot. "the child ought to have been at school a year ago, and most certainly this last winter," said the pastor. "the schoolmaster sent you word about it, but you gave him no answer. what are you thinking of doing with the child, neighbor?" "i am thinking of not sending her to school," was the answer. "how are you going to let her grow up then?" "i am going to let her grow up and be happy among the goats and birds; with them she is safe, and will learn nothing evil." "but the child is not a goat or a bird, she is a human being. it is time she began her lessons. this is the last winter she must be allowed to run wild; next winter she must come regularly to school every day." "she will do no such thing," said the old man with calm determination. "do you mean that you intend to stick obstinately to your decision?" said the pastor, growing somewhat angry. "you have been about the world, and i should have given you credit for more sense, neighbor." "indeed," replied the old man, "could you expect me to send a young child down the mountain on ice-cold mornings through storm and snow, and let her return at night when the wind is raging? have you forgotten the child's mother, adelaide? she was a sleep-walker, and had fits. might not the child be attacked in the same way if obliged to over-exert herself? and you think you can come and force me to send her? i will go before all the courts of justice in the country, and then we shall see who will force me to do it!" "perhaps you are right, neighbor," said the pastor in a friendly tone of voice. "if it is impossible to send the child to school from here, come down into doerfli and live again among your fellow-men. what sort of a life is this you lead, alone, and with bitter thoughts towards god and man." "no, pastor, as to going down to doerfli to live, that is far from my thoughts; the people despise me and i them; it is therefore best for all of us that we live apart." the visitor had risen and stood holding out his hand to the old man as he added with renewed earnestness, "i will wager, that next winter you will be down among us again, and we shall be good neighbors as of old. promise me that you will come and live with us again and become reconciled to god and man." alm-uncle gave the pastor his hand and answered him calmly and firmly, "you mean well by me, i know, but i will not send the child to school nor come and live among you." "then god help you!" said the pastor, as he left the hut and went down the mountain. alm-uncle was out of humor. when heidi said as usual that afternoon, "can we go down to grandmother now?" he answered, "not today." he did not speak again the whole day, and the following morning when heidi again asked the same question, he replied, "we will see." but before the dinner bowls bad been cleared away another visitor arrived, and this time it was dete. she wore a fine feathered hat and a long trailing dress which swept the floor. the grandfather looked her up and down without uttering a word. but dete was prepared with an exceedingly amiable speech and began at once to praise the looks of the child. she should hardly have known her again, and it was evident that heidi had been happy and well-cared-for with her grandfather. but she had just heard of something that would be a lucky chance for her. some wealthy people in frankfurt wanted a companion for their only daughter who was an invalid. heidi was just the sort of child they were looking for, simple-minded and unspoiled, and after dete had given them a description of heidi, they had agreed to take her. and no one could tell what good fortune there might not be in store for her, for if these rich people should take a fancy to heidi-- "have you nearly finished what you had to say?" broke in alm-uncle, who had allowed her to talk on uninterruptedly so far. "ugh!" exclaimed dete, throwing up her head in disgust, "one would think i had been talking to you about the most ordinary matter; why, there is not one person in all praettigau who would not thank god if i were to bring them such a piece of news as i am bringing you." "you may take your news to anybody you like, i will have nothing to do with it." dete leaped up from her seat like a rocket and cried, "if that is all you have to say about it, why, then i will give you a bit of my mind. the child is now eight years old and knows nothing, and you will not let her learn. you will not send her to church or school, as i was told down in doerfli, and she is my own sister's child. i am responsible for what happens to her, and this is a good opening for her. i have everybody in doerfli on my side; there is not one person there who will not take my part against you; and i advise you to think well before bringing it into court, if that is your intention; there are certain things which might be brought up against you that you would not care to hear, for when one has to do with lawcourts there is a great deal raked up that had been forgotten." "be silent!" thundered the uncle, and his eyes flashed with anger. "go and be done with you! and never let me see you again with your hat and feather." and with that he strode out of the hut. "you have made grandfather angry," said heidi, and her dark eyes had anything but a friendly expression in them as she looked at dete. "he will soon be all right again; come now," said dete hurriedly, "and show me where your clothes are." "i am not coming," said heidi. "come, come, you will have all sorts of good things that you never dreamed of." then she went to the cupboard and taking out heidi's things rolled them up in a bundle. "come along now, there's your hat; it is very shabby but will do for the present; put it on and let us make haste off." "i am not coming," repeated heidi. "don't be stupid and obstinate, like a goat; i suppose it's from the goats you have learnt to be so. listen to me: you saw your grandfather was angry and heard what he said, that he did not wish to ever see us again; he wants you to go away with me and you must not make him angrier still. you can't think how nice it is at frankfurt, and if you do not like it you can come back again; your grandfather will be in a good humor by that time." "can i return at once and be back home again here this evening?" asked heidi. "what are you talking about, come along now! i tell you that you can come back here when you like. today we shall go as far as mayenfeld, and early tomorrow we shall start in the train; it will bring you home again in no time when you wish it, for it goes as fast as the wind." they started down the mountain and as they neared the grandmother's hut they met peter coming round the corner carrying an immense bundle of long, thick hazel sticks on his shoulders. he stood still and stared at the two approaching figures; as they came up to him, he exclaimed, "where are you going, heidi?" "i am only just going over to frankfurt for a little visit with dete," she replied; "but i must first run in to grandmother, she will be expecting me." "no, no, you must not stop to talk; it is already too late," said dete, holding heidi, who was struggling to get away. "you can go in when you come back," and she pulled the child on with her. peter ran into the hut and banged against the table with his bundle of sticks with such violence that everything in the room shook, and his grandmother leaped up with a cry of alarm from her spinning-wheel. "what is the matter? what is the matter?" cried the frightened old woman. "she is taking heidi away," explained peter. "who? who? where to, peter, where to?" asked the grandmother, growing still more agitated; but even as she spoke she guessed what had happened, for brigitta had told her shortly before that she had seen dete going up to alm-uncle. the old woman opened the window and called out beseechingly, "dete, dete, do not take the child away from us! do not take her away!" the two who were hastening down the mountain heard her voice, and dete evidently caught the words, for she grasped heidi's hand more firmly. heidi struggled to get free, crying, "grandmother is calling, i must go to her." but dete had no intention of letting the child go, and quieted her as best she could by promising that she could take something nice back to grandmother. this was a new idea to heidi, and it pleased her so much that dete had no longer any difficulty in getting her along. "what could i take back to her?" heidi asked. "a soft roll of white bread; she would enjoy that, for now she is old she can hardly eat the hard, black bread," answered dete. "yes, she always gives it back to peter, telling him it is too hard," affirmed heidi. "do let us make haste, for then perhaps we can get back soon from frankfurt, and i shall be able to give her the white bread today." and heidi started off running so fast that dete with the bundle under her arm could scarcely keep up with her. * * * * * from that day forward alm-uncle looked fiercer and more forbidding than ever when he came down and passed through doerfli. he spoke to no one, and looked such an ogre as he came along with his pack of cheeses on his back, his immense stick in his hand, and his thick, frowning eyebrows, that the women would call to their little ones, "take care! get out of alm-uncle's way or he may hurt you!" the old man took no notice of anybody as he strode through the village on his way to the valley below, where he sold his cheeses and bought what bread and meat he wanted for himself. after he had passed, the villagers all crowded together looking after him. they agreed that it was a great mercy the child had got away from him. only the blind grandmother would have nothing to say against him, and told those who came to bring her work, how kind and thoughtful he had been with the child, how good to her and her daughter, and how many afternoons he had spent mending the house. all this was repeated down in doerfli; but most of the people who heard it said that grandmother was too old to understand, and very likely had not heard rightly what was said; as she was blind, probably she was also deaf. [illustration] chapter vi clara, the patient little invalid in her home at frankfurt, clara, the little daughter of mr. sesemann, was lying on the invalid couch on which she spent her whole day, being wheeled in it from room to room. her little face was thin and pale, and at this moment her two soft blue eyes were fixed on the clock, which seemed to her to go very slowly this day, and with a slight accent of impatience, which was very rare with her, she asked, "isn't it time yet, miss rottermeyer?" this lady was sitting very upright at a small work-table, busy with her embroidery. she wore a dome-shaped head piece which made her look very solemn and dignified. for many years past, since clara's mother had died, the housekeeping and the superintendence of the servants had been entrusted to miss rottermeyer. the father who was often away from home, left her in sole charge, with the condition only that his little daughter should have a voice in all matters, and that nothing should be done against her wish. as clara was putting her impatient question for the second time, dete and heidi arrived at the front door. tinette, the maid in dainty cap and apron, ushered them upstairs into the library. dete remained standing politely near the door, still holding heidi tightly by the hand, for she did not know what the child might take it into her head to do amid these new surroundings. miss rottermeyer rose slowly and went up to the little new companion for the daughter of the house, to see what she was like. she did not seem very pleased with her appearance. heidi was dressed in her plain little woolen frock, and her hat was an old straw one bent out of shape. the child looked innocently out from beneath it, gazing with unconcealed astonishment at the lady's towering head dress. [illustration] "what is your name?" asked miss rottermeyer, after examining the child for some minutes, while heidi in return kept her eyes steadily fixed upon the lady. "heidi," she answered in a clear, ringing voice. "what? what? that's no christian name for a child; you were not christened that. what name did they give you when you were baptized?" continued miss rottermeyer. "i do not remember," replied heidi. "what a way to answer!" said the lady, shaking her head. "dete, is the child a simpleton or only saucy?" "if the lady will allow me, i will speak for the child, for she is very unaccustomed to strangers," said dete, who had given heidi a silent poke for making such an unsuitable answer. "she is certainly not stupid nor yet saucy, she speaks exactly as she thinks. this is the first time she has ever been in a gentleman's house and she does not know good manners; but she is very willing to learn. she was christened adelaide, after her mother, my sister, who is now dead." "well, that's a name that one can pronounce," remarked miss rottermeyer. "but i must tell you, dete, that i am astonished to see so young a child. i told you that i wanted a companion of the same age as the young lady of the house, one who could share her lessons, and all her other occupations. miss clara is now over twelve; what age is this child?" "if the lady will allow me," began dete again, in her usual fluent manner, "i myself had lost count of her exact age; she is certainly a little younger, but not much; i cannot say precisely, but i think she is ten, or thereabouts." "grandfather told me i was eight," put in heidi. dete gave her another poke, but as the child had not the least idea why she did so she was not at all confused. "what--only eight!" cried miss rottermeyer angrily. "four years too young! of what use is such a child! and what have you learnt? what books did you have to learn from?" "none," said heidi. "how? what? how then did you learn to read?" continued the lady. "i have never learnt to read, or peter either," heidi informed her. "mercy upon us! you do not know how to read! is it really so?" exclaimed miss rottermeyer, greatly horrified. "is it possible--not able to read? what have you learnt then?" "nothing," said heidi with unflinching truthfulness. "young woman," said the lady to dete, "this is not at all the sort of companion we want. how could you think of bringing me a child like this?" but dete was not to be put down so easily, and answered warmly, "if you will allow me, the child is exactly what i thought you required; she is unlike all other children, and i thought this child seemed as if made for the place. but i must go now, for my mistress will be waiting for me; if you will permit i will come again soon and see how she is getting on." and with a bow dete quickly left the room and ran downstairs. miss rottermeyer stood for a moment taken aback and then ran after dete. but she had disappeared out the front door. heidi remained where she had been standing since she first came in. clara had looked on during the interview without speaking; now she beckoned to heidi and said, "come here!" heidi went up to her. "would you rather be called heidi or adelaide?" asked clara. "i am never called anything but heidi," was the child's prompt answer. "then i shall always call you by that name," said clara, "it suits you. i have never heard it before, but neither have i ever seen a child like you before. have you always had that short curly hair?" "yes, i think so," said heidi. "are you pleased to come to frankfurt?" went on clara. "no, but i shall go home again tomorrow and take grandmother a white loaf," explained heidi. "well, you are a funny child!" exclaimed clara. "don't you know you were sent for to come here and stay with me and share my lessons? they are dreadfully dull, and i think the morning will never pass away. my tutor comes every morning at about ten o'clock, and then we go on with lessons till two, and it does seem such a long time. sometimes he takes up the book and holds it close up to his face, as if he were very short-sighted, but i know it's only because he wants to gape, and miss rottermeyer takes her large handkerchief out also now and then and covers her face with it, as if she was moved by what we had been reading, but that is only because she is longing to gape too. and i myself often want to gape, but i dare not, for if miss rottermeyer sees me gaping she runs off at once and fetches the cod-liver oil and says i must have a dose, as i am getting weak again, and the cod-liver oil is horrible. but now it will be much more amusing, for i shall be able to lie back and listen while you learn to read." heidi shook her head doubtfully when she heard of learning to read. "oh, nonsense, heidi, of course you must learn to read, everybody must, and my tutor is very kind, and never cross, and he will explain everything to you. but mind, when he explains anything to you, you won't be able to understand; but don't ask any questions, or else he will go on explaining and you will understand less than ever. later, when you have learnt more and know about things yourself, then you will begin to understand what he meant." miss rottermeyer now came back into the room; she had not been able to overtake dete, and was evidently very much put out. she walked backwards and forwards in a state of agitation between the study and the dining-room, and began scolding the butler. "make haste, sebastian, or we shall get no dinner today at all," she said. then hurrying out, she called to tinette to see that the bed-room was prepared for the little girl who had just arrived. meanwhile sebastian had flung open the folding doors leading into the dining-room with rather more noise than he need, for he was feeling cross, although he did not dare answer back when miss rottermeyer spoke to him; he went up to clara's chair to wheel her into the next room. heidi stood staring at him. seeing her eyes fixed upon him, he suddenly growled out, "well, what is there in me to stare at like that?" which he would certainly not have done if he had been aware that miss rottermeyer was just then entering the room. "you look so like peter," answered heidi. the housekeeper clasped her hands in horror. "is it possible!" she stammered half-aloud, "she is now addressing the servant as if he were a friend! i never could have imagined such a child!" sebastian wheeled the couch into the dining-room and helped clara on to her chair. miss rottermeyer took the seat beside her and made a sign to heidi to take the one opposite. beside heidi's plate lay a nice white roll, and her eyes lighted up with pleasure as she saw it. when sebastian came up to her side and handed her the dish of fish, she looked at the roll and asked, "can i have it?" sebastian nodded, and heidi immediately seized the roll and put it in her pocket. sebastian still remained standing beside heidi; it was not his duty to speak, nor to move away until she had helped herself. heidi looked wonderingly at him for a minute or two, and then said, "am i to eat some of that too?" sebastian nodded again. "give me some then," she said, looking calmly at her plate. "i see i shall have to teach you the first rules of behavior," said the housekeeper with a sigh. "you must not speak to sebastian at table, or at any other time, unless you have an order to give him, and then you are not to address him as if he was some one belonging to you. never let me hear you speak to him in that way again! it is the same with tinette, and for myself you are to address me as you hear others doing. clara must herself decide what you are to call her." "why, clara, of course," put in the latter. then followed a long list of rules as to general behavior, during the course of which heidi's eyes gradually closed, for she had been up before five o'clock that morning and had had a long journey. she leaned back in her chair and fell fast asleep. miss rottermeyer having at last come to the end of her lecture said, "now remember what i have said, adelaide! have you understood it all?" "heidi has been asleep for ever so long," said clara, her face rippling all over with amusement, for she had not had such an entertaining dinner for a long time. "it is really insupportable what one has to go through with this child," exclaimed miss rottermeyer, in great indignation, and she rang the bell so violently that tinette and sebastian both came running in; but no noise was sufficient to wake heidi, and it was with difficulty that they roused her sufficiently to get her to her bed-room. chapter vii the unfriendly housekeeper when heidi opened her eyes on her first morning in frankfurt she could not think where she was. then she rubbed them and looked about her. she was sitting up in a high white bed, in a large, wide room with very long white curtains; near the window stood two chairs covered with large flowered material and then came a sofa with the same flowers, in front of which was a round table; in the corner was a washstand, with things upon it that heidi had never seen in her life before. but now all at once she remembered that she was in frankfurt. she jumped out of bed and dressed herself; then she ran first to one window and then another; she wanted to see the sky and country outside; she felt like a bird in a cage behind those great curtains. but they were too heavy for her to put aside, so she crept underneath them to get to the window. but she could see nothing but walls and windows. she felt quite frightened and ran backwards and forwards, trying to open first one and then the other of the windows, for she felt that somewhere outside there must be the green grass, and the last unmelted snows on the mountain slopes. but the windows remained immovable, try what heidi would to open them. suddenly there was a knock on the door, and immediately after tinette put her head inside and said, "breakfast is ready." heidi had no idea what an invitation so worded meant, and tinette's face did not encourage any questioning on heidi's part. heidi was sharp enough to read its expression and acted accordingly. so she drew a little stool out from under the table, put it in the corner and sat down upon it, and there silently awaited what would happen next. shortly after, miss rottermeyer appeared. she seemed very much put out, and called to heidi, "what is the matter with you, adelaide? don't you understand what breakfast is? come along at once!" heidi had no difficulty in understanding now and followed at once. clara gave her a kindly greeting, her face looking considerably more cheerful than usual, for she looked forward to all kinds of new things happening again that day. breakfast passed off quietly; heidi ate her bread and butter in a perfectly correct manner, and when the meal was over and clara wheeled back into the study, miss rottermeyer told her to follow and remain with clara until the tutor should arrive and lessons begin. as soon as the children were alone again, heidi asked, "how can one see out from here, and look right down on to the ground?" "you must open the window and look out," replied clara amused. "but the windows won't open," responded heidi sadly. "yes, they will," clara assured her. "you cannot open them, nor i either, but when you see sebastian you can ask him to open one." it was a great relief to heidi to know that the windows could be opened and that one could look out. clara now began to ask her questions about her home, and heidi was delighted to tell her all about the mountain and the goats, and the flowery meadows. meanwhile her tutor had arrived; miss rottermeyer, however, did not bring him straight into the study but drew him first aside into the dining-room, where she poured forth her troubles. it appeared that she had written some time back to mr. sesemann to tell him that his daughter very much desired to have a companion. miss rottermeyer had wished for this arrangement on her own behalf, as it would relieve her from having always to entertain the sick girl. the father had answered that he was quite willing to let his daughter have a companion, provided she was treated in every way like his own child. but now she went on to explain how dreadfully she had been taken in about the child, and related all the unimaginable things of which she had already been guilty, so that not only would he have to begin with teaching her the a b c, but would have to start with the most rudimentary instruction as regarded everything to do with daily life. she could see only one way out of this disastrous state of affairs, and that was for the tutor to declare that it was impossible for the two to learn together without detriment to clara, who was so far ahead of the other; that would be a good excuse for getting rid of the child. but she dared not send her home without mr. sesemann's order, since he was aware that by this time the companion had arrived. the tutor was a cautious man and said that if the little girl was backward in some things she was probably advanced in others, and a little regular teaching would soon set the balance right. when miss rottermeyer saw that he was not ready to support her, and evidently quite ready to undertake teaching the alphabet, she opened the study door, which she quickly shut again as soon as he had gone through remaining on the other side herself, for she had a perfect horror of the a b c. she walked up and down the dining-room, thinking over in her own mind how the servants were to be told to address adelaide. the father had written that she was to be treated exactly like his own daughter, and this would especially refer, she imagined, to the servants. she was not allowed, however, a very long interval of time for consideration, for suddenly the sound of a frightful crash was heard in the study, followed by frantic cries for sebastian. she rushed into the room. there on the floor lay in a confused heap, books, exercise-books and inkstand, with the table-cloth on the top, while from beneath them a dark stream of ink was flowing all across the floor. heidi had disappeared. "here's a state of things!" exclaimed miss rottermeyer. "table-cloth, books, work-basket, everything lying in the ink! it was that unfortunate child, i suppose!" "yes, heidi did it," explained clara, "but quite by accident; she must on no account be punished; she jumped up in such violent haste to get away that she dragged the table-cloth along with her, and so everything went over. there were a number of vehicles passing, that is why she rushed off like that; perhaps she has never seen a carriage." "is it not as i said? she has not the smallest notion about anything! but where is the child who has caused all this trouble? surely she has not run away! what would mr. sesemann say to me?" she ran out of the room and down the stairs. there, at the bottom, standing in the open doorway, was heidi, looking in amazement up and down the street. "what are you doing? what are you thinking of to run away like that?" called miss rottermeyer. "i heard the sound of the fir trees, but i cannot see where they are, and now i cannot hear them any more," answered heidi, looking disappointedly in the direction whence the noise of the passing carriages had reached her, and which to heidi had seemed like the blowing of the south wind in the trees, so that in great joy of heart she had rushed out to look at them. "fir trees! do you suppose we are in the woods? what ridiculous ideas are these? come upstairs and see the mischief you have done!" heidi followed miss rottermeyer upstairs; she was quite astonished to see the disaster she had caused, for in her joy and haste to get to the fir trees she had been unaware of having dragged everything after her. "i excuse you doing this as it is the first time, but do not let me hear of you doing it a second time," said miss rottermeyer pointing to the floor. "during your lesson time you are to sit still and attend. if you cannot do this i shall have to tie you to your chair. do you understand?" "yes," replied heidi, "but i will certainly not move again," for now she understood that it was a rule to sit still while she was being taught. when clara had been placed on her couch after dinner, and the housekeeper had retired to her room, heidi waited for sebastian who was coming up from the kitchen with a tray of silver tea-things, which he had to put away in the dining-room cupboard. as he reached the top stair heidi went up to him and addressed him in the formal manner she had been ordered to use by miss rottermeyer. sebastian looked surprised and said somewhat curtly, "what is it you want, miss?" "how can a window be opened?" "why, like that!" and sebastian flung up one of the large windows. heidi ran to it, but she was not tall enough to see out, for her head only reached the sill. "there, now miss can look out and see what is going on below," said sebastian as he brought her a high wooden stool to stand on. heidi climbed up, and at last, as she thought, was going to see what she had been longing for. but she drew back her head with a look of great disappointment on her face. [illustration: "why, there is nothing outside but the stony streets"] "why, there is nothing outside but the stony streets," she said mournfully; "but if i went right round to the other side of the house what should i see there, sebastian?" "nothing but what you see here," he told her. "then where can i go to see right away over the whole valley?" "you would have to climb to the top of a high tower, a church tower, like that one over there with the gold ball above it." heidi got down quickly from her stool, ran to the door, down the steps and out into the street. she passed a great many people, but they all seemed in such a hurry that heidi thought they had not time to tell her which way to go. then suddenly at one of the street corners she saw a boy carrying a hand-organ on his back and a funny-looking animal on his arm. heidi ran up to him and said, "where is the tower with the gold ball on the top?" "i don't know," was the answer. "do you know any other church with a high tower?" "yes, i know one." "come then and show it me." "show me first what you will give me," and the boy held out his hand as he spoke. heidi searched about in her pocket and presently drew out a card on which was painted a garland of beautiful red roses; she looked at it first for a moment or two, for she felt rather sorry to part with it; clara had only that morning made her a present of it--but then, to look down into the valley and see all the lovely green slopes! "there," said heidi holding out the card, "would you like to have that?" the boy drew back his hand and shook his head. "what would you like then?" asked heidi, not sorry to put the card back in her pocket. "money." "i have none, but clara has; i am sure she will give me some; how much do you want?" "five cents." "come along then." they started off together along the street, and on the way heidi asked her companion what he was carrying on his back; it was a hand-organ, he told her, which played beautiful music when he turned the handle. all at once they found themselves in front of an old church with a high tower; the boy said, "there it is." heidi caught sight of a bell in the wall which she now pulled with all her might. "if i go up to the tower you must wait here, for i do not know the way back, and you will have to show me." "what will you give me then for that?" "another five cents." they heard the key turning inside, and then some one pulled open the heavy, creaking door; an old man came out and at first looked with surprise and then in anger at the children, as he began scolding them: "what do you mean by ringing me down like this? can't you read what is written over the bell, 'for those who wish to go up the tower'?" "but i do want to go up the tower," said heidi. "what do you want up there?" said the old man. "has somebody sent you?" "no," replied heidi, "i only wanted to go up and look down on the valley." "get along home with you and don't try this trick again, or you may not come off so easily a second time," and with that he turned and was about to shut the door. but heidi took hold of his coat and said beseechingly, "let me go up, just once." he looked round, and his mood changed as he saw her pleading eyes; he took hold of her hand and said kindly, "well, if you really wish it so much, i will take you." the boy sat down on the church steps to show that he was content to wait where he was. when they had climbed to the top of the tower, the old man lifted heidi up that she might look out of the open window. she saw beneath her a sea of roofs, towers, and chimney-pots; she quickly drew back her head and said in a sad, disappointed voice, "it is not at all what i thought." "you see now, a child like you does not understand anything about a view! come along down and don't go ringing at my bell again!" on the way down they passed the tower-keeper's room. at the far end of this was a large basket, in front of which sat a big grey cat. heidi went up to the basket and broke out into expressions of delight. "oh, the sweet little things! the darling kittens," she kept on saying, as she jumped from side to side of the basket so as not to lose any of the droll gambols of the seven or eight little kittens that were scrambling and rolling and falling over one another. "would you like to have one?" said the old man, who enjoyed watching the child's pleasure. "for myself, to keep?" said heidi excitedly, who could hardly believe such happiness was to be hers. "yes, of course, more than one if you like--in short, you can take away the whole lot if you have room for them," for the old man was only too glad to think he could get rid of his kittens without more trouble. "but how can i take them with me?" asked heidi, and was going quickly to see how many she could carry away in her hands, when the old cat sprang at her so fiercely that she shrank back in fear. "i will take them for you, if you tell me where," said the old man, stroking the cat to quiet her. "to mr. sesemann's, the big house where there is a gold dog's head on the door, with a ring in its mouth," explained heidi. the old man had had charge of the tower for many a long year and knew every house far and near. "i know the house," he said, "but when shall i bring them, and who shall i ask for--you are not one of the family, i am sure." "no, but clara will be so delighted when i take her the kittens." "if i could just take one or two away with me! one for myself and one for clara, may i?" "well, wait a moment," said the man, and he drew the cat cautiously away into his room, and leaving her by a bowl of milk came out again and shut the door. "now take two of them." heidi's eyes shone with delight. she picked up a white kitten and another striped white and yellow, and put one in the right, the other in the left pocket. then she went downstairs. the boy was still sitting outside on the steps. in a very short time they had reached the door with the large dog's head for a knocker. heidi rang the bell. sebastian opened it quickly, and when he saw it was heidi, "make haste! make haste," he cried in a hurried voice. heidi sprang hastily in and sebastian shut the door after her, leaving the boy, whom he had not noticed, standing in wonder on the steps. "make haste, little miss," said sebastian again; "go straight into the dining-room, they are already at table; miss rottermeyer looks like a loaded cannon. what could make the little miss run off like that?" heidi walked into the room. the housekeeper did not look up, clara did not speak; there was an uncomfortable silence. sebastian pushed her chair up for her, and when she was seated miss rottermeyer said sternly: "adelaide, you have behaved in a most unmannerly way by running out of the house as you did, without asking permission, without any one knowing a word about it; and then to go wandering about till this hour; i never heard of such behavior before." "miau!" came the answer back. this was too much for the lady's temper; with raised voice she exclaimed, "you dare, adelaide, after your bad behavior, to answer me as if it were a joke?" "i did not--" began heidi--"miau! miau!" "that will do," miss rottermeyer tried to say, but her voice was almost stifled with anger. "get up and leave the room." heidi stood up frightened, and again made an attempt to explain. "i really did not--" "miau! miau! miau!" "but, heidi," now put in clara, "when you see that it makes miss rottermeyer angry, why do you keep on saying miau?" "it isn't i, it's the kittens," heidi was at last given time to say. "how! what! kittens!" shrieked miss rottermeyer. "sebastian! tinette! find the horrid little things! take them away!" and she rose and fled into the study and locked the door. when sebastian entered the dining-room, clara had the kittens on her lap, and heidi was kneeling beside her, both laughing and playing with the tiny, graceful little animals. "sebastian," exclaimed clara as he came in, "you must help us; you must find a bed for the kittens where miss rottermeyer will not spy them out, for she is so afraid of them that she will send them away at once; but we want to keep them, and have them out whenever we are alone. where can you put them?" "i will see to that," answered sebastian willingly. "i will make a bed in a basket and put it in some place where the lady is not likely to go; you leave it to me." he set about the work at once, sniggling to himself the while, for he guessed there would be a further rumpus about this some day, and sebastian was not without a certain pleasure in the thought of miss rottermeyer being a little disturbed. after some time had elapsed, miss rottermeyer opened the door a crack and called through, "have you taken those dreadful little animals away, sebastian?" he assured her twice that he had done so; and quickly and quietly catching up the kittens from clara's lap, disappeared with them. miss rottermeyer retired without speaking, clara and heidi following, happy in their minds at knowing that the kittens were lying in a comfortable bed. chapter viii surprises for the children the tutor had just been shown into the study on the following morning when there came a very loud ring at the bell. sebastian opened the door and there stood a ragged little boy carrying a hand-organ on his back. "what's the meaning of this?" said sebastian angrily. "i'll teach you to ring bells like that! what do you want here?" "i want to see clara," the boy answered. "you good-for-nothing little rascal, can't you be polite enough to say 'miss clara.' what do you want with her?" continued sebastian roughly. "she owes me ten cents," explained the boy. "you must be out of your mind! and how do you know that any young lady of that name lives here?" "she owes me five for showing her the way there, and five for showing her the way back." "the young lady never goes out, cannot even walk; be off and get back to where you came from, before i have to help you along." but the boy was not to be frightened away, and said in a determined voice, "but i saw her in the street, and can describe her to you; she has short, curly black hair, and black eyes, and wears a brown dress, and does not talk quite like we do." "oho!" thought sebastian, laughing to himself, "the little miss has evidently been up to more mischief." then, drawing the boy inside he said aloud, "i understand now, come with me and wait outside the door till i tell you to go in. be sure you begin playing your organ the instant you get inside the room; the lady is very fond of music." sebastian knocked at the study door, and a voice said, "come in." "there is a boy outside who says he must speak to miss clara herself," sebastian announced. clara was delighted at such an extraordinary and unexpected message. "let him come in at once," replied clara. the boy was already inside the room, and according to sebastian's directions immediately began to play his organ. miss rottermeyer hearing the music rushed into the room and saw the ragged boy turning away at his organ in the most energetic manner. "leave off! leave off at once!" she screamed. but her voice was drowned by the music. she was making a dash for the boy, when she saw something on the ground crawling towards her feet--a dreadful dark object--a tortoise. at this sight she jumped higher than she had for many long years before, shrieking with all her might, "sebastian! sebastian!" "take them all out, boy and animal! get them away at once!" she commanded him. sebastian pulled the boy away, the latter having quickly caught up his tortoise, and when he had got him outside he put something into his hand. "there is the ten cents from miss clara, and another ten cents for the music. you did it all quite right!" and with that he shut the front door upon him. quietness reigned again in the study, and lessons began once more; miss rottermeyer now stayed in the study in order to prevent any further dreadful goings-on. [illustration: miss rottermeyer jumped higher than she had for many long years] but soon another knock came to the door, and sebastian again stepped in, this time to say that someone had brought a large basket with orders that it was to be given at once to miss clara. "for me?" said clara in astonishment, her curiosity very much excited, "bring it in at once that i may see what it is like." sebastian carried in a large covered basket and retired. "i think the lessons had better be finished first before the basket is unpacked," said miss rottermeyer. clara could not conceive what was in it, and cast longing glances towards it. in the middle of one of her declensions she suddenly broke off and said to the tutor, "mayn't i just give one peep inside to see what is in it before i go on?" "on some considerations i am for it, on others against it," he began in answer; "for it, on the ground that if your whole attention is directed to the basket--" but the speech remained unfinished. the cover of the basket was loose, and at this moment one, two, three, and then two more kittens came suddenly tumbling on to the floor and racing about the room in every direction. they jumped over the tutor's boots, climbed up miss rottermeyer's dress, rolled about her feet, sprang up on to clara's couch, scratching, scrambling, and mewing. clara kept on exclaiming, "oh, the dear little things! how pretty they are! look, heidi, at this one; look, look, at that one over there!" and heidi in her delight kept running after them first into one corner and then into the other. the tutor stood up by the table not knowing what to do. miss rottermeyer was unable at first to speak at all, so overcome was she with horror, and she did not dare rise from her chair for fear that all the dreadful little animals should jump upon her at once. at last she found voice to call loudly, "tinette! tinette! sebastian! sebastian!" they came in answer to her summons and gathered up the kittens; by degrees they got them all inside the basket again and then carried them off to put with the other two. when miss rottermeyer learned that heidi was to blame for having the kittens brought into the house she was very angry and said: "adelaide, you little barbarian, you shall be put in a dark cellar with the rats and black beetles." heidi listened in silence and surprise to her sentence, for she had never seen a cellar such as was now described; the place known at her grandfather's as the cellar, where the fresh cheeses and the new milk were kept, was a pleasant and inviting place; neither did she know at all what rats and black beetles were like. but now clara interrupted in great distress. "no, no, miss rottermeyer, you must wait till papa comes; he has written to say that he will soon be home, and then i will tell him everything, and he will say what is to be done with heidi." miss rottermeyer could not do anything against this superior authority, especially as the father was really expected very shortly. she rose and said with some displeasure, "as you will, clara, but i too shall have something to say to mr. sesemann." and with that she left the room. two days now went by without further disturbance. miss rottermeyer, however, could not recover her equanimity; she was perpetually reminded by heidi's presence of the deception that had been played upon her, and it seemed to her that ever since the child had come into the house everything had been topsy-turvy, and she could not bring things into proper order again. clara had grown much more cheerful; she no longer found time hang heavy during the lesson hours, for heidi was continually making a diversion of some kind or other. she jumbled all her letters up together and seemed quite unable to learn them, and when the tutor tried to draw her attention to their different shapes, and to help her by showing her that this was like a little horn, or that like a bird's bill, she would suddenly exclaim in a joyful voice, "that is a goat!" "that is a bird of prey!". for the tutor's descriptions suggested all kinds of pictures to her mind, but left her still incapable of the alphabet. in the later afternoons heidi always sat with clara, and told her of the mountain and of her life upon it, and the longing to return would become so overpowering that she always finished with the words, "now i must go home! tomorrow i must really go!" but clara would try to quiet her and tell heidi that she must wait till her father returned, and then they would see what was to be done. after dinner heidi had to sit alone in her room for a couple of hours, for she understood now that she might not run about outside at frankfurt as she did on the mountain, and so she did not attempt it. at times she could hardly contain herself for the longing to be back home again. she remembered that dete had told her that she could go home whenever she liked. so it came about one day that heidi felt she could not bear it any longer. she tied all the rolls up in her red shawl, put on her straw hat, and went downstairs. but just as she reached the hall-door she met miss rottermeyer, just returning from a walk, which put a stop to heidi's journey. "what have you dressed yourself like that for?" exclaimed miss rottermeyer. "what do you mean by this? have i not strictly forbidden you to go running about in the streets? and here you are ready to start off again, and going out looking like a beggar." "i was not going to run about, i was going home," said heidi frightened. "what are you talking about! going home! what would mr. sesemann say if he knew! and what is the matter with his house, i should like to know! have you ever in your life before had such a house to live in, such a table, or so many to wait upon you? have you?" "no," replied heidi. "i should think not, indeed!" continued the exasperated lady. "you are an ungrateful little thing to be always thinking of what naughty thing you can do next!" then heidi's feelings got the better of her, and she poured forth her trouble. "indeed i only want to go home, for if i stay so long away snowflake will begin crying again, and grandmother is waiting for me, and greenfinch will get beaten, because i am not there to give peter any cheese, and i can never see here how the sun says good-night to the mountains; and if the great bird were to fly over frankfurt he would croak louder than ever about people huddling all together and teaching each other bad things, and not going to live up on the rocks, where it is so much better." "heaven have mercy on us, the child is out of her mind!" cried miss rottermeyer, and she turned and went quickly up the steps. "go and bring that unhappy little creature in at once," she ordered sebastian. "what, are you in trouble again?" said sebastian in a pleasant voice, as he led heidi back up the stairs. he tried to cheer her up by telling her he was taking good care of all the kittens. but she was too sad to care and silently crept away to her room. at supper that evening she sat without moving or eating; all she did was to hastily hide her roll in her pocket. next day miss rottermeyer made up her mind that she would supplement heidi's clothing with various garments from clara's wardrobe, so as to give her a decent appearance when mr. sesemann returned. she confided her intention to clara, who was quite willing to give up any number of dresses and hats to heidi; so the lady went upstairs to overhaul the child's belongings and see what was to be kept and what thrown away. she returned, however, in the course of a few minutes with an expression of horror upon her face. "what is this, adelaide, that i find in your wardrobe!" she exclaimed. "i never heard of any one doing such a thing before! in a cupboard meant for clothes, adelaide, what do i see at the bottom but a heap of rolls! will you believe it, clara, bread in a wardrobe! a whole pile of bread!" "tinette," she called, "go upstairs and take away all those rolls out of adelaide's cupboard and the old straw hat on the table." "no! no!" screamed heidi. "i must keep the hat, and the rolls are for grandmother," and she was rushing to stop tinette when miss rottermeyer caught hold of her: "you will stop here, and all that bread and rubbish shall be taken to the place they belong to," she said in a determined tone as she kept her hand on the child to prevent her running forward. heidi flung herself down on clara's couch and broke into a wild fit of weeping, sobbing out at intervals, "now grandmother's bread is all gone! they were all for grandmother, and now they are taken away, and grandmother won't have one," and she wept as if her heart would break. she could not get over her sobs for a long time; she would never have been able to leave off crying at all if it had not been for clara's promise that she should have fresh, new rolls to take to grandmother when the time came for her to go home. when heidi got into bed that night she found her old straw hat lying under the counterpane. she snatched it up with delight, made it more out of shape still in her joy, and then, after wrapping a handkerchief round it, she stuck it in a corner of the cupboard as far back as she could. it was sebastian who had hidden it there for her; he had been in the dining-room when tinette was called, and had heard all that went on with the child and the latter's loud weeping. so he followed tinette, and when she came out of heidi's room carrying the rolls and the hat, he caught up the hat and said, "i will see to this old thing." chapter ix mr. sesemann takes heidi's part a few days after these events there was great commotion and much running up and down stairs in mr. sesemann's house. the master had just returned, and sebastian and tinette were busy carrying up one package after another from the carriage, for mr. sesemann always brought back a lot of pretty things for his home. he himself had not waited to do anything before going in to see his daughter. heidi was sitting beside her, for it was late afternoon, when the two were always together. father and daughter greeted each other with warm affection, for they were deeply attached to one another. then he held out his hand to heidi, who had stolen away into the corner, and said kindly to her, "and this is our little swiss girl; come and shake hands with me! that's right! now, tell me, are clara and you good friends with one another, or do you get angry and quarrel, and then cry and make it up, and then start quarrelling again on the next occasion?" "no, clara is always kind to me," answered heidi. "and heidi," put in clara quickly, "has not once tried to quarrel." "that's all right, i am glad to hear it," said her father, as he rose from his chair. "but you must excuse me, clara, for i have had nothing to eat all day. afterwards i will show you all the things i have brought home with me." he found miss rottermeyer in the dining-room and when he had taken his place she sat down opposite to him, looking so gloomy that he turned to her and said, "what is the matter?" "mr. sesemann," began the lady in a solemn voice, "we have been frightfully imposed upon." "indeed, in what way?" asked mr. sesemann as he went on calmly drinking his wine. "well, i supposed i was getting a well-behaved and nicely brought up little swiss girl for clara's companion but i have been shockingly, disgracefully imposed upon." "but how? what is there shocking and disgraceful? i see nothing shocking in the child," remarked mr. sesemann quietly. "if you only knew the kind of people and animals she has brought into the house during your absence! the tutor can tell you more about that." "animals? what am i to understand by animals, miss rottermeyer?" "it is past understanding; the whole behavior of the child would be past understanding, if it were not that at times she is evidently not in her right mind." at that moment the door opened and the tutor was announced. "ah! here is some one," exclaimed mr. sesemann, "who will help to clear up matters for me. take a seat," he continued, as he held out his hand to the tutor. "and now tell me, what is the matter with this child that has come to be a companion to my daughter?" the tutor started in his usual style. "if i must give my opinion about this little girl, i should like first to state that, if on one side, there is a lack of development which has been caused by the more or less careless way in which she has been brought up--" "my good friend," interrupted mr. sesemann, "you are giving yourself more trouble than you need. i only want to know what your opinion is as to her being a fit companion or not for my daughter?" "i should not like in any way to prejudice you against her," began the tutor once more; "for if on the one hand there is a certain inexperience of the ways of society, owing to the uncivilized life she led up to the time of her removal to frankfurt, on the other hand she is endowed with certain good qualities, and, taken on the whole--" "excuse me, my dear sir, do not disturb yourself, but i must--i think my daughter will be wanting me," and with that mr. sesemann quickly left the room and went into the study to talk to clara. "and now, my dear," he said, drawing his chair nearer and laying her hand in his, "what kind of animals has your little companion brought into the house, and why does miss rottermeyer think that she is not always in her right mind?" clara had no difficulty in answering. she told her father everything about the tortoise and the kittens, and explained to him what heidi had said the day miss rottermeyer had been put in such a fright. mr. sesemann laughed heartily at her recital. "so you do not want me to send the child home again," he asked, "you are not tired of having her here?" "oh, no, no," clara exclaimed, "please do not send her away. time has passed much more quickly since heidi has been here, for something fresh happens every day, and it used to be so dull, and she has always so much to tell me." that evening when mr. sesemann and miss rottermeyer were alone, settling the household affairs, he informed her that he intended to keep heidi, for his daughter liked her as a companion. "i desire," he continued, "that the child shall be in every way kindly treated, and that her peculiarities shall not be looked upon as crimes. if you find her too much for you alone, i can hold out a prospect of help for i am expecting my mother here on a long visit, and she, as you know, can get along with anybody, whatever they may be like." "o yes, i know," replied miss rottermeyer, but there was no tone of relief in her voice as she thought of the coming help. mr. sesemann was only home for a short time; he left for paris again before the fortnight was over, comforting clara with the prospect of her grandmother's arrival, which was to take place in a few days' time. clara talked so much about her grandmother that heidi began also to call her "grandmamma," which brought forth a look of displeasure from miss rottermeyer. as she was going to her room that night, miss rottermeyer waylaid her, and gave her strict orders not to call mrs. sesemann "grandmamma," but always to say "madam." chapter x clara's lovable grandmother there was much expectation and preparation about the house on the following evening, for grandmother sesemann was coming. tinette had a new white cap on her head, and sebastian collected all the footstools he could find and placed them in convenient spots, so that the lady might find one ready to her feet whenever she chose to sit. at last the carriage came driving up to the door, and tinette and sebastian ran down the steps, followed by the housekeeper, who advanced to greet the guest. heidi had been sent up to her room and ordered to remain there until called down, as the grandmother would certainly like to see clara alone first. heidi sat herself down in a corner and repeated her instructions over to herself. she had not to wait long before tinette put her head in and said abruptly, "go downstairs into the study." heidi had not dared to ask miss rottermeyer again how she was to address the grandmother: she thought the lady had perhaps made a mistake, for she had never heard any one called by other than their right name. as she opened the study door she heard a kind voice say, "ah, here comes the child! come along and let me have a good look at you." heidi walked up to her and said very distinctly in her clear voice, "good-evening, mrs. madam." "well!" said the grandmother laughing, "is that how they address people in your home on the mountain?" "no," replied heidi gravely, "i never knew any one with that name before." "nor i either," laughed the grandmother again as she patted heidi's cheek. "never mind! when i am with the children i am always grandmamma; you won't forget that name, will you?" "no, no," heidi assured her, "i often used to say it at home." "i understand," said the grandmother, with a cheerful little nod of the head. then she looked more closely at heidi, and the child looked back at her with steady, serious eyes, for there was something kind and warm-hearted about this newcomer that pleased heidi, and indeed everything about the grandmother attracted her. she had such beautiful white hair, and two long lace ends hung down from the cap on her head and waved gently about her face every time she moved, as if a soft breeze were blowing round her, which gave heidi a peculiar feeling of pleasure. "and what is your name, child?" the grandmother now asked. "i am always called heidi; but as i am now to be called adelaide, i will try and take care--" heidi stopped short, for miss rottermeyer was at this moment entering the room. "mrs. sesemann will no doubt agree with me," she interrupted, "that it was necessary to choose a name that could be pronounced easily, if only for the sake of the servants." "my worthy rottermeyer," replied mrs. sesemann, "if a person is called 'heidi' and has grown accustomed to that name, i call her by the same, and so let it be." miss rottermeyer was always very much annoyed that the old lady continually addressed her by her surname only; but it was no use minding, for the grandmother always went her own way, and so there was no help for it. moreover, the grandmother was a keen old lady, and had all her five wits about her, and she knew what was going on in the house as soon as she entered it. when on the following day clara lay down as usual on her couch after dinner, the grandmother sat down beside her for a few minutes and closed her eyes, then she got up again as lively as ever, and trotted off into the dining-room. no one was there. "heidi is asleep, i suppose," she said to herself, and then going up to miss rottermeyer's room she gave a loud knock at the door. she waited a few minutes and then miss rottermeyer opened the door and drew back in surprise at this unexpected visit. "where is the child, and what is she doing all this time?" said mrs. sesemann. "she is sitting in her room, where she could well employ herself if she had the least idea of making herself useful; but you have no idea, mrs. sesemann, of the out-of-the-way things this child imagines and does." "i should do the same if i had to sit in there like that child, i can tell you; go bring her to my room; i have some pretty books with me that i should like to give her." "that is just the misfortune," said miss rottermeyer with a despairing gesture, "what use are books to her? she has not been able to learn her a b c's even, all the long time she has been here; it is quite impossible to get the least idea of them into her head, and that the tutor himself will tell you; if he had not the patience of an angel he would have given up teaching her long ago." "that is very strange," said mrs. sesemann, "she does not look to me like a child who would be unable to learn her alphabet." heidi now appeared and gazed with open-eyed delight and wonder at the beautiful colored pictures in the books which the grandmother gave her to look at. all of a sudden the child gave a start and burst into sobs, for she had turned to a picture of a green pasture, full of young animals, some grazing and others nibbling at the shrubs. in the middle was a shepherd leaning upon his staff and looking on at his happy flock. the grandmother laid her hand kindly on heidi's. "don't cry, dear child, don't cry," she said, "the picture has reminded you perhaps of something. but see, there is a beautiful tale to the picture which i will tell you this evening. and there are other nice tales of all kinds to read and to tell again. but now we must have a little talk together, so dry your tears and come and stand in front of me and tell me how you are getting on in your school-time; do you like your lessons, and have you learnt a great deal?" "o no!" replied heidi sighing, "but i knew beforehand that it was not possible to learn." "what is it you think impossible to learn?" "why, to read, it is too difficult." "you don't say so! and who told you that?" "peter told me, and he knew all about it, for he had tried and tried and could not learn it." "peter must be a very odd boy then! but listen, heidi, you must not always go by what peter says. you must believe what i tell you--and i tell you that you can learn to read in a very little while, as many other children do, who are made like you and not like peter. as soon as you are able to read you shall have that book for your own." heidi had listened with eager attention to the grandmother's words and now with a sigh exclaimed, "oh, if only i could read now!" "it won't take you long now to learn, that i can see; and now we must go down to clara; bring the books with you." and hand in hand the two returned to the study. * * * * * since the day when heidi had so longed to go home, and miss rottermeyer had met her and scolded her on the steps, and told her how wicked and ungrateful she was to try and run away, a change had come over the child. she at last understood that she could not go home when she wished as dete had told her, but that she would have to stay on in frankfurt for a long, long time, perhaps for ever. the weight of trouble on the little heart grew heavier and heavier; she could no longer eat her food, and every day she grew a little paler. she lay awake for long hours at night, for as soon as she was alone and everything was still around her, the picture of the mountain with its sunshine and flowers rose vividly before her eyes; and when at last she fell asleep it was to dream of the rocks and the snow-field turning crimson in the evening light, and waking in the morning she would think herself back at the hut and prepare to run joyfully out into the sun--and then--there was her large bed, and here she was in frankfurt far, far away from home. and heidi would often lay her face down on the pillow and weep long and quietly so that no one might hear her. her unhappiness did not escape the grandmother's notice. one day she called her into her room, and said, "now tell me, heidi, what is the matter; are you in trouble?" but heidi, afraid if she told the truth that the grandmother would think her ungrateful, and would then leave off being so kind to her, answered, "i can't tell you." "well, could you tell clara about it?" "oh no, i cannot tell any one," said heidi in so positive a tone, and with a look of such trouble on her face, that the grandmother felt full of pity for the child. "then, dear child, let me tell you what to do: you know that when we are in great trouble, and cannot speak about it to anybody, we must turn to god and pray him to help. you say your prayers every evening do you not?" "no, i never say any prayers," answered heidi. "have you never been taught to pray, heidi; do you not know even what it means?" "i used to say prayers with the first grandmother, but that is a long time ago, and i have forgotten them." "that is the reason, heidi, that you are so unhappy, because you know no one who can help you. think what a comfort it is to be able to tell everything to god, and pray him for the help that no one else can give us. and he can aid us and give us everything that will make us happy again." a sudden gleam of joy came into heidi's eyes. "may i tell him everything, everything?" "yes, everything, heidi, everything." heidi drew her hand away, which the grandmother was holding affectionately between her own, and said quickly, "may i go?" "yes, of course," was the answer, and heidi ran out of the room into her own, and sitting herself on a stool, folded her hands together and told god about everything that was making her so sad and unhappy, and begged him earnestly to help her and to let her go home to her grandfather. it was about a week after this that the tutor informed mrs. sesemann that heidi had really learnt to read at last. [illustration: grandmother's kind advice brings comfort to heidi] "it is indeed truly marvelous," he said, "because she never seemed able to even learn her a b c's before. i had made up my mind to make no further attempts at the impossible, but to put the letters as they were before her without any dissertation on their origin and meaning. now she has learnt her letters and started at once to read correctly, quite unlike most beginners." that same evening heidi found the large book with the pictures, lying on her plate when she took her place at table, and when she looked questioningly at the grandmother, the latter nodded kindly to her and said, "yes, it's yours now." "mine, to keep always? even when i go home?" said heidi, blushing with pleasure. "yes, of course, yours for ever," the grandmother assured her. "tomorrow we will begin to read it." "but you are not going home yet, heidi, not for years," put in clara. "when grandmother goes away, i shall want you to stay on with me." when heidi went to her room that night she had another look at her book before going to bed, and from that day forth her chief pleasure was to read over and over again, the tales which belonged to the beautiful pictures. chapter xi home-sickness every afternoon when clara was resting after dinner, the grandmother would take heidi to her own room where she had a lot of pretty dolls, and she showed her how to make dresses and aprons for them, so that the child learned how to sew and to make all sorts of beautiful clothes for the little people. and then grandmother liked to hear her read aloud, and the oftener heidi read her tales the fonder she grew of them. but still she never looked really happy, and her eyes were no longer bright. it was the last week of the grandmother's visit. she called heidi into her room as usual one day after dinner, and the child came with her book under her arm. the old lady laid the book aside, and said, "now, my dear, tell me why you are not happy? have you still the same trouble at heart?" heidi nodded in reply. "have you told god about it?" "yes." "and do you pray every day that he will make things right and that you may be happy again?" "no, i have left off praying." "do not tell me that, heidi! why have you left off praying?" [illustration: heidi learns to make doll clothes] "it is of no use, god does not listen," heidi went on in an agitated voice, "and i can understand that when there are so many, many people in frankfurt praying to him every evening that he cannot attend to them all, and he certainly has not heard what i said to him." "and why are you so sure of that, heidi?" "because i have prayed for the same thing every day for weeks, and yet god has not done what i asked." "you are wrong, heidi; you must not think of him like that. god is a good father to us all, and knows better than we do what is good for us. he did not think what you have been praying for was good for you just now; but be sure he heard you, for he can hear and see every one at the same time, because he is a god and not a human being like you and me. while god is watching over you, and looking to see if you will trust him and go on praying to him every day, you run away and leave off saying your prayers, and forget all about him. you would not like to grieve god, would you, heidi, when he only wants to be kind to you? so will you not go and ask him to forgive you, and continue to pray and to trust him, for you may be sure that he will make everything right and happy for you, and then you will be glad and lighthearted again." heidi had perfect confidence in the grandmother, and every word she said sank into her heart. "i will go at once and ask god to forgive me, and i will never forget him again," she replied repentantly. and she ran away and prayed that she might always remember god, and that he would go on thinking about her. the day came for grandmother's departure--a sad one for clara and heidi. but the grandmother was determined to make it as much like a holiday as possible and not to let them mope, and she kept them so lively and amused that they had no time to think about their sorrow at her going until she really drove away. then the house seemed so silent and empty that heidi and clara did not know what to do with themselves, and sat during the remainder of the day like two lost children. many weeks passed away. heidi did not know if it was winter or summer, for the walls and windows she looked out upon showed no change, and she never went beyond the house except on rare occasions when clara was well enough to drive out, and then they only went a very little way, as clara could not bear the movement for long. on these occasions they generally only saw more fine streets and large houses and crowds of people; they seldom got anywhere beyond them, and grass and flowers, fir trees and mountains, were still far away. heidi's longing for the old familiar and beautiful things grew daily stronger, so that now only to read a word that recalled them to her remembrance brought her to the verge of tears, which she suppressed with difficulty. so the autumn and winter passed, and again the sun came shining down on the white walls of the opposite houses, and heidi would think to herself that now the time had come for peter to go out again with the goats, to where the golden flowers of the cistus were glowing in the sunlight, and all the rocks around turned to fire at sunset. she would go and sit in a corner of her lonely room and put her hands up to her eyes that she might not see the sun shining on the opposite wall; and then she would remain without moving, battling silently with her terrible home-sickness until clara sent for her again. chapter xii "my house is haunted" for some days past miss rottermeyer had gone about rather silently and as if lost in thought. as twilight fell, and she passed from room to room, or along the long corridors, she was seen to look cautiously behind her, and into the dark corners, as if she thought some one was coming up silently behind her and might unexpectedly give her dress a pull. nor would she now go alone into some parts of the house. if she visited the upper floor where the grand guest-chambers were, or had to go down into the large drawing room, where every footstep echoed, she called tinette to accompany her. for something very strange and mysterious was going on in mr. sesemann's house. every morning, when the servants went downstairs, they found the front door wide open, although nobody could be seen far or near to account for it. during the first few days that this happened every room and corner was searched in great alarm, to see if anything had been stolen, for the general idea was that a thief had been hiding in the house and had gone off in the night with the stolen goods; but not a thing in the house had been touched, everything was safe in its place. the door was doubly locked at night, and for further security the wooden bar was fastened across it; but it was no good--next morning the door again stood open. at last, after a great deal of persuasion from miss rottermeyer, sebastian and john plucked up courage and agreed to sit up one night to watch and see what would happen. miss rottermeyer hunted up several weapons belonging to the master, and gave these and a bottle of brandy to them so that their courage might not faint if it came to a fight. on the appointed night the two sat down and began at once to take some of the strengthening cordial, which at first made them very talkative and then very sleepy, so that they leant back in their seats and became silent. as midnight struck, sebastian roused himself and called to his companion, who, however, was not easy to wake, and kept rolling his head first to one side and then the other and continuing to sleep. sebastian began to listen more attentively, for he was wide awake now. he did not feel inclined to go to sleep again, for the stillness was ghostly to him, and he was afraid now to raise his voice to rouse john, so he shook him gently to make him stir. at last, as one struck, john woke up, and came back to the consciousness of why he was sitting in a chair instead of lying in his bed. he got up with a great show of courage and said, "come, sebastian, we must go out in the hall and see what is going on; you need not be afraid, just follow me." whereupon he opened the door wide and stepped into the hall. just as he did so a sudden gust of air blew through the open front door and put out the light which john held in his hand. he started back, almost overturning sebastian, whom he clutched and pulled back into the room, and then shutting the door quickly he turned the key as far as he could make it go. then he pulled out his matches and lighted his candle again. sebastian, in the suddenness of the affair, did not know exactly what had happened, for he had not seen the open front door or felt the breeze behind john's broad figure. but now, as he saw the latter in the light, he gave a cry of alarm, for john was trembling all over and was as white as a ghost. "what's the matter? what did you see outside?" asked sebastian sympathetically. "the door partly open," gasped john, "and a white figure standing at the top of the steps--there it stood, and then all in a minute it disappeared." sebastian felt his blood run cold. the two sat down close to one another and did not dare move again till the morning broke and the streets began to be alive again. then they left the room together, shut the front door, and went upstairs to tell miss rottermeyer of their experience. they had no sooner given her details of the night's experience than she sat down and wrote to mr. sesemann, who had never received such a letter before in his life. she could hardly write, she told him, for her fingers were stiff with fear, and mr. sesemann must please arrange to come back at once, for dreadful and unaccountable things were taking place at home. then she entered into particulars of all that had happened, of how the door was found standing open every morning. mr. sesemann answered that it was quite impossible for him to arrange to leave his business and return home at once. miss rottermeyer, however, was determined not to pass any more days in a state of fear, and she knew the right course to pursue. she had as yet said nothing to the children of the ghostly apparitions, for she knew if she did that the children would not remain alone for a single moment, and that might entail discomfort for herself. but now she walked straight off into the study, and there in a low, mysterious voice told the two children everything that had taken place. clara immediately screamed out that she could not remain another minute alone, her father must come home. so miss rottermeyer wrote another letter to mr. sesemann, stating that these unaccountable things that were going on in the house had so affected his daughter's delicate constitution that the worst consequences might be expected. epileptic fits and st. vitus's dance often came on suddenly in cases like this, and clara was liable to be attacked by either if the cause of the general alarm was not removed. the letter was successful, and two days later mr. sesemann arrived home. clara greeted him with a cry of joy, and seeing her so lively and apparently as well as ever, his face cleared, and the frown of anxiety passed gradually away from it as he heard from his daughter's own lips that she had nothing the matter with her, and moreover was so delighted to see him that she was quite glad about the ghost, as it was the cause of bringing him home again. "and how is the ghost getting on?" he asked, turning to miss rottermeyer, with a twinkle of amusement in his eye. "it is no joke, i assure you," replied that lady. "you will not laugh yourself tomorrow morning, mr. sesemann; what is going on in the house points to some terrible thing that has taken place in the past and been concealed." "well, i know nothing about that," said the master of the house, "but i must beg you not to bring suspicion on my worthy ancestors. and now will you kindly call sebastian into the dining-room, as i wish to speak to him alone." mr. sesemann had been quite aware that sebastian and miss rottermeyer were not on the best of terms, and he had his ideas about this scare. "come here, lad," he said as sebastian appeared, "and tell me frankly--have you been playing at ghosts to amuse yourself at miss rottermeyer's expense?" "no, on my honor, sir; pray, do not think it; i am very uncomfortable about the matter myself," answered sebastian with unmistakable truthfulness. "well, if that is so, i will show you and john tomorrow morning how ghosts look in the daylight. you ought to be ashamed of yourself, sebastian, a great strong lad like you, to run away from a ghost! but now go and take a message to my old friend the doctor: give him my kind regards, and ask if he will come to me tonight at nine o'clock without fail; i have come by express from paris to consult him. i shall want him to spend the night here, so bad a case is it; so will he arrange accordingly. you understand?" "yes, sir," replied sebastian, "i will see to the matter as you wish." punctually at nine o'clock, after the children and miss rottermeyer had retired, the doctor arrived. he was a grey-haired man with a fresh face, and two bright, kindly eyes. he looked anxious as he walked in, but, on catching sight of his patient, burst out laughing and clapped him on the shoulder. "well," he said, "you look pretty bad for a person that i am to sit up with all night." "patience, friend," answered mr. sesemann, "the one you have to sit up for will look a good deal worse when we have once caught him, for there is a ghost in the house!" the doctor laughed again. "that's a nice way of showing sympathy, doctor!" continued mr. sesemann. "it's a pity my friend rottermeyer cannot hear you. she is firmly convinced that some old member of the family is wandering about the house doing penance for some awful crime he committed." "how did she become acquainted with him?" asked the doctor, still very much amused. so mr. sesemann recounted to him how the front door was nightly opened by somebody, according to the testimony of the combined household. the whole thing was either a joke gotten up by some friend of the servants, just to alarm the household while he was away or else it was a thief, who, by leading everybody at first to think there was a ghost, made it safe for himself when he came later to steal, as no one would venture to run out if they heard him. the two took up their quarters for the night in the same room in which sebastian and john had kept watch. the door was shut close to prevent the light being seen in the hall outside, which might frighten away the ghost. the gentlemen sat comfortably back in the arm-chairs and began talking of all sorts of things, now and then pausing to take a good draught of wine, and so twelve o'clock struck before they were aware. "the ghost has got scent of us and is keeping away tonight," said the doctor. "wait a bit, it does not generally appear before one o'clock," answered his friend. they started talking again. one o'clock struck. there was not a sound about the house, nor in the street outside. suddenly the doctor lifted his finger. "hush! sesemann, don't you hear something?" they both listened, and they distinctly heard the bar softly pushed aside and then the key turned in the lock and the door opened. mr. sesemann put out his hand for his revolver. "you are not afraid, are you?" said the doctor as he stood up. "it is better to take precautions," whispered mr. sesemann, and seizing one of the lights in his other hand, he followed the doctor, who, armed in like manner with a light and a revolver, went softly on in front. they stepped into the hall. the moonlight was shining in through the open door and fell on a white figure standing motionless in the doorway. "who is there?" thundered the doctor in a voice that echoed through the hall, as the two men advanced with lights and weapons towards the figure. it turned and gave a low cry. there in her little white nightgown stood heidi, with bare feet, staring with wild eyes at the lights and the revolvers, and trembling from head to foot like a leaf in the wind. the two men looked at one another in surprise. "why, i believe it is heidi," said the doctor. "child, what does this mean?" said mr. sesemann. "what did you want? why did you come down here?" white with terror, and hardly able to make her voice heard, heidi answered, "i don't know." but now the doctor stepped forward. "this is a matter for me to see to, sesemann; go back to your chair. i must take the child upstairs to her bed." and with that he put down his revolver and gently taking the child by the hand led her upstairs. "don't be frightened," he said as they went up side by side, "it's nothing to be frightened about; it's all right, only just go quietly." on reaching heidi's room the doctor put the candle down on the table, and taking heidi up in his arms laid her on the bed and carefully covered her over. then he sat down beside her and waited until she had grown quieter and no longer trembled so violently. he then took her hand and said in a kind, soothing voice, "there, now you feel better, and now tell me where you were wanting to go to?" "i did not want to go anywhere," said heidi. "i did not know i went downstairs, but all at once i was there." "i see, and had you been dreaming, so that you seemed to see and hear something very distinctly?" [illustration: the doctor discovers heidi's home-sickness] "yes, i dream every night, and always about the same things. i think i am back with grandfather, and i hear the sound in the fir trees outside, and i see the stars shining so brightly, and then i open the door quickly and run out, and it is all so beautiful! but when i wake i am still in frankfurt." and heidi struggled as she spoke to keep back the sobs which seemed to choke her. "and have you no pain anywhere? no pain in your head or back?" "no, only a feeling as if there were a great stone weighing on me here." "as if you had eaten something that would not go down." "no, not like that; something heavy as if i wanted to cry very much." "i see, and then do you have a good cry?" "oh, no, i mustn't; miss rottermeyer forbade me to cry." "so you swallow it all down, i suppose? are you happy here in frankfurt?" "yes," was the low answer; but it sounded more like "no." "and where did you live with your grandfather?" "up on the mountain." "that wasn't very amusing; rather dull at times, eh?" "no, no, it was beautiful, beautiful!" heidi could go no further; the remembrance of the past, the excitement she had just gone through, the long suppressed weeping, were too much for the child's strength; the tears began to fall fast, and she broke into violent weeping. the doctor patted her head kindly. "there, there, go on crying, it will do you good, and then go to sleep: it will be all right tomorrow." then he left the room and went downstairs to mr. sesemann; when he was once more sitting in the arm-chair opposite his friend, "sesemann," he said, "let me first tell you that your little charge is a sleep-walker; she is the ghost who has nightly opened the front door and put your household into this fever of alarm. secondly, the child is consumed with home-sickness to such an extent that she is nearly a skeleton already, and soon will be quite one; something must be done at once. there is but one remedy and that is to send her back to her native mountain air. so tomorrow the child must start for home; there you have my prescription." mr. sesemann had risen and now paced up and down the room in the greatest state of concern. "what!" he exclaimed, "the child a sleep-walker and ill! all this has taken place in my house and no one noticed it! and you mean, doctor, that the child who came here happy and healthy, i am to send back to her grandfather a miserable little skeleton? i can't do it; you cannot dream of my doing such a thing! take the child in hand, do with her what you will, and make her whole and sound, and then she shall go home; but you must cure her first." "sesemann," replied the doctor, "this illness of the child's is not one to be cured with pills and powders. the child has not a strong constitution, but if you send her back at once she may recover in the mountain air, if not--you would rather she went back ill than not at all?" mr. sesemann stood still; the doctor's words were a shock to him. "if you put it so, doctor, there is assuredly only one way--and that is to send her home at once." chapter xiii at home again on the mountain at daylight mr. sesemann went quickly upstairs and along the passage to miss rottermeyer's room, and there gave such an unusually loud knock at the door that the lady awoke from sleep with a cry of alarm. she heard the master of the house calling to her from the other side of the door, "please make haste and come down to the dining-room; we must make ready for a journey at once." when miss rottermeyer came down, with everything well adjusted about her except her cap, which was put on hind side before, mr. sesemann began without delay to give her directions. she was to get out a trunk and pack up all the things belonging to heidi, and a good part of clara's clothes as well, so that the child might take home proper apparel. miss rottermeyer stood as if rooted to the spot and stared in astonishment at mr. sesemann. she had quite expected a long private account of some terrible ghostly experience of his during the night. but mr. sesemann had no thought or time for explanations and left her standing there while he went to speak to clara. he told her everything that had occurred during the past night, and explained how heidi's nightly wanderings might gradually lead her farther and farther, perhaps even on to the roof, which of course would be very dangerous for her. and so they had decided to send her home at once, as he did not like to take the responsibility of her remaining, and clara would see for herself that it was the only thing to do. clara was very much distressed, and at first made all kinds of suggestions for keeping heidi with her; but her father was firm, and promised her, if she would be reasonable and make no further fuss, that he would take her to switzerland next summer. next he sent for sebastian and told him to make ready to start: he was to travel with heidi as far as basle that day, and the next day take her home. he would give him a letter to carry to the grandfather, which would explain everything, and he could then return to frankfurt. "but there is one thing in particular which i wish you to look after," said mr. sesemann in conclusion. "when you reach the hotel, go at once into the child's room and see that the windows are all firmly fastened so that they cannot be easily opened. after heidi is in bed, lock the door of her room on the outside, for the child walks in her sleep and might run into danger in a strange house if she went wandering downstairs and tried to open the front door; so you understand?" "oh! then that was it?" exclaimed sebastian, for now a light was thrown on the ghostly visitations. "yes, that was it! and you are a coward, and you may tell john he is the same, and the whole household a pack of idiots." and with this mr. sesemann went off to his study to write a letter to alm-uncle. meanwhile heidi was standing expectantly dressed in her sunday frock waiting to see what would happen next, for tinette had awakened her with a shake and put on her clothes without a word of explanation. the little uneducated child was far too much beneath her for tinette to speak to. when she appeared at the breakfast table, mr. sesemann said: "you are going home today, little one." "home?" murmured heidi in a low voice, turning pale; she was so overcome that for a moment or two she could hardly breathe. "don't you want to hear more about it?" "oh, yes, yes!" exclaimed heidi, her face now rosy with delight. "all right, then," said mr. sesemann as he sat down and made her a sign to do the same, "but now eat a good breakfast, and then off you go in the carriage." but heidi could not swallow a morsel though she tried to do what she was told; she was in such a state of excitement that she hardly knew if she was awake or dreaming, or if she would again open her eyes to find herself in her nightgown at the front door. "tell sebastian to take plenty of provisions with him," mr. sesemann called out to miss rottermeyer, who just then came into the room; "the child can't eat anything now, which is quite natural. now run up to clara and stay with her till the carriage comes round," he added kindly, turning to heidi. heidi had been longing for this, and ran quickly upstairs. an immense trunk was standing open in the middle of the room. "oh heidi," cried clara, as she entered; "see all the things i have had put in for you--aren't you pleased?" and she ran over a list of things, dresses and aprons and handkerchiefs, and all kinds of working materials. "and look here," she added, as she triumphantly held up a basket. heidi peeped in and jumped for joy, for inside it were twelve beautiful round white rolls, all for grandmother. in their delight the children forgot that the time had come for them to separate, and when some one called out, "the carriage is here," there was no time for grieving. heidi ran to her room to fetch her darling book; she knew no one could have packed that, as it lay under her pillow, for she had kept it by her night and day. this was put in the basket with the rolls. then she opened her wardrobe to look for another treasure--the old red shawl which had been left behind. heidi wrapped it round her old hat and laid it on the top of the basket, so that the red package was quite conspicuous. then she put on her pretty hat and left the room. miss rottermeyer was waiting at the top of the stairs to say good-bye to her. when she caught sight of the strange little red bundle, she took it out of the basket and threw it on the ground. "no, no, adelaide," she exclaimed, "you cannot leave the house with that thing. what can you possibly want with it!" heidi did not dare take up her little bundle, but she gave the master of the house an imploring look, as if her greatest treasure had been taken from her. "no, no," said mr. sesemann in a very decided voice, "the child shall take home with her whatever she likes, kittens and tortoises, if it pleases her; we need not put ourselves out about that, miss rottermeyer." heidi quickly picked up her bundle, with a look of joy and gratitude. as she stood by the carriage door, mr. sesemann gave her his hand and said he hoped she would remember him and clara. he wished her a happy journey, and heidi thanked him for all his kindness, and added, "and please say good-bye to the doctor for me and give him many, many thanks." for she had not forgotten that he had said to her the night before, 'it will be all right tomorrow,' and she rightly divined that he had helped to make it so for her. heidi was now lifted into the carriage, and then the basket and the provisions were put in, and finally sebastian took his place. then mr. sesemann called out once more, "a pleasant journey to you," and the carriage rolled away. heidi was soon sitting in the railway carriage, holding her basket tightly on her lap; she would not let it out of her hands for a moment, for it contained the delicious rolls for grandmother; so she must keep it carefully, and even peep inside it from time to time to enjoy the sight of them. for many hours she sat as still as a mouse; only now was she beginning to realize that she was going home to the grandfather, the mountain, the grandmother, and peter. all of a sudden she said anxiously, "sebastian, are you sure that grandmother on the mountain is not dead?" "no, no," said sebastian, wishing to soothe her, "we will hope not; she is sure to be alive still." then heidi fell back on her own thoughts again. now and then she looked inside the basket, for the thing she looked forward to most was laying all the rolls out on grandmother's table. after a long silence she spoke again, "if only we could know for certain that grandmother is alive!" "yes, yes," said sebastian half asleep, "she is sure to be alive, there is no reason why she should be dead." after a while sleep came to heidi too, and after her disturbed night and early rising she slept so soundly that she did not wake till sebastian shook her by the arm and called to her, "wake up, wake up! we shall have to get out directly; we are just in basle!" there was a further railway journey of many hours the next day. heidi again sat with her basket on her knee, for she would not have given it up to sebastian on any consideration; today she never even opened her mouth, for her excitement, which increased with every mile of the journey, kept her speechless. all of a sudden, before heidi expected it, a voice called out, "mayenfeld." she and sebastian both jumped up, the latter also taken by surprise. in another minute they were both standing on the platform with heidi's trunk, and the train was steaming away down the valley. sebastian looked after it regretfully, for he preferred the easier mode of travelling to a wearisome climb on foot, especially as there was danger no doubt as well as fatigue in a country like this, where, according to sebastian's idea, everything and everybody were half savage. he therefore looked cautiously to either side to see who was a likely person to ask the safest way to doerfli. just outside the station he saw a shabby-looking little cart and horse which a broad-shouldered man was loading with heavy sacks that had been brought by the train, so he went up to him and asked which was the safest way to get to doerfli. "all the roads about here are safe," was the curt reply. so sebastian altered his question and asked which was the best way to avoid falling over the precipice, and also how a trunk could be conveyed to doerfli. the man looked at it, weighing it with his eye, and then volunteered if it was not too heavy to take it on his own cart, as he was driving to doerfli. after some little interchange of words it was finally agreed that the man should take both the child and the trunk to doerfli, and there find some one who could be sent on with heidi up the mountain. "i can go by myself, i know the way well from doerfli," put in heidi, who had been listening attentively to the conversation. sebastian was greatly relieved at not having to do any mountain climbing. he drew heidi aside and gave her a thick rolled parcel, and a letter for her grandfather; the parcel, he told her, was a present from mr. sesemann, and she must put it at the bottom of her basket under the rolls and be very careful not to lose it, as mr. sesemann would be very vexed if she did. "i shall be sure not to lose it," said heidi confidently, and she at once put the roll and the letter at the bottom of her basket. the trunk meanwhile had been hoisted into the cart, and now sebastian lifted heidi and her basket on to the high seat and shook hands with her. the driver swung himself up beside heidi, and the cart rolled away in the direction, of the mountains, while sebastian, glad of having no tiring and dangerous journey on foot before him, sat down in the station and awaited the return train. the driver of the cart was the miller at doerfli and was taking home his sacks of flour. he had never seen heidi, but like everybody in doerfli knew all about her. he had known her parents, and felt sure at once that this was the child of whom he had heard so much. he began to wonder why she had come back, and as they drove along he entered into conversation with her. "you are the child who lived with your grandfather, alm-uncle, are you not?" "yes." "didn't they treat you well down there that you have come back so soon?" "yes, it was not that; everything in frankfurt is as nice as it could be." "then why are you running home again?" "only because mr. sesemann gave me leave, or else i should not have come." "if they were willing to let you stay, why did you not remain where you were better off than at home?" "because i would a thousand times rather be with grandfather on the mountain than anywhere else in the world." "you will think differently perhaps when you get back there," grumbled the miller; and then to himself, "it's strange of her, for she must know what it's like." he began whistling and said no more, while heidi looked around her and began to tremble with excitement, for she knew every tree along the way, and there overhead were the high jagged peaks of the mountain looking down on her like old friends. she nodded back to them, and grew every moment more wild with her joy and longing, feeling as if she must jump down from the cart and run with all her might till she reached the top. the clock was striking five as they drove into doerfli. as the miller lifted heidi down, she said hastily, "thank you, grandfather will send for the trunk." she climbed up the steep path from doerfli as quickly as she could; she was obliged, however, to pause now and again to take breath, for the basket she carried was rather heavy, and the way got steeper as she drew nearer the top. one thought alone filled heidi's mind, "would she find the grandmother sitting in her usual corner by the spinning-wheel, was she still alive?" at last heidi caught sight of the grandmother's house in the hollow of the mountain and her heart began to beat; she ran faster and faster and her heart beat louder and louder--and now she had reached the house, but she trembled so she could hardly open the door--and then she was standing inside, unable in her breathlessness to utter a sound. "ah, my god!" cried a voice from the corner, "that was how heidi used to run in; if only i could have her with me once again! who is there?" "it's i, i, grandmother," cried heidi as she ran and flung herself on her knees beside the old woman, and seizing her hands, clung to her, unable to speak for joy. and the grandmother herself could not say a word for some time, so unexpected was this happiness; but at last she put out her hand and stroked heidi's curly hair, and said, "yes, yes, that is her hair, and her voice; thank god that he has granted my prayer!" and tears of joy fell from the blind eyes on to heidi's hand. "is it really you, heidi; have you really come back to me?" "yes, grandmother, i am really here," answered heidi in a reassuring voice. "do not cry, for i have really come back and i am never going away again, and i shall come every day to see you, and you won't have any more hard bread to eat for some days, for look, look!" and heidi took the rolls from the basket, and piled the whole twelve up on grandmother's lap. "ah, child! child! what a blessing you bring with you!" the old woman exclaimed, as she felt and seemed never to come to the end of the rolls. "but you yourself are the greatest blessing." then heidi told her how unhappy she had been, thinking that the grandmother might die while she was away and would never have her white rolls, and that then she would never, never see her again. peter's mother came in and stood for a moment overcome with astonishment. "why, it's heidi," she exclaimed. heidi stood up, and brigitta could not say enough in her admiration of the child's dress and appearance; she walked round her, exclaiming all the while, "grandmother, if you could only see her, and see what a pretty frock she has on; you would hardly know her again. and the hat with the feather in it is yours too, i suppose? put it on that i may see how you look in it?" "no, i would rather not," replied heidi firmly. "you can have it if you like; i do not want it; i have my own still." and heidi so saying undid her red bundle and took out her own hat, which had become a little more battered still during the journey. she had not forgotten how her grandfather had called out to dete that he never wished to see her and her hat and feathers again, and this was the reason she had so anxiously preserved her old hat, for she had never ceased to think about going home to her grandfather. next she took off her pretty dress and put her red shawl on over her underpetticoat, which left her arms bare. "i must go home to grandfather now," she said, "but tomorrow i shall come again. good-night, grandmother." "yes, come again, be sure you come again tomorrow," begged the grandmother, as she pressed heidi's hands in hers, unwilling to let her go. "why have you taken off that pretty dress," asked brigitta. "because i would rather go home to grandfather as i am, or else perhaps he would not know me; you hardly did at first." brigitta went with her to the door, and there said in rather a mysterious voice, "you must be careful, for peter tells me that alm-uncle is always now in a bad temper and never speaks." heidi bid her good-night and continued her way up the mountain, her basket on her arm. soon she caught sight of the tops of the fir trees above the hut roof, then the roof itself, and at last the whole hut, and there was grandfather sitting as in old days smoking his pipe, and she could see the fir trees waving in the wind. quicker and quicker went her little feet, and before alm-uncle had time to see who was coming, heidi had rushed up to him, thrown down her basket and flung her arms round his neck, unable in the excitement of seeing him again to say more than "grandfather! grandfather! grandfather!" over and over again. and the old man himself said nothing. for the first time for many years his eyes were wet, and he had to pass his hand across them. then he unloosed heidi's arms, put her on his knee, and after looking at her for a moment, "so you have come back to me, heidi," he said, "how is that? you don't look much of a grand lady. did they send you away?" "oh, no, grandfather," said heidi eagerly, "you must not think that; they were all so kind--clara, and grandmamma, and mr. sesemann. but you see, grandfather, i used to think i should die, for i felt as if i could not breathe; but i never said anything because it would have been ungrateful. and then suddenly one morning quite early mr. sesemann said to me--but i think it was partly the doctor's doing--but perhaps it's all in the letter--" and heidi jumped down and fetched the roll and the letter and handed them both to her grandfather. "that belongs to you," he said, laying the roll of money down on the bench beside him. then he opened the letter, read it through, and without a word put it in his pocket. "do you think you can still drink milk with me, heidi?" he asked, taking the child by the hand to go into the hut. "but bring your money with you; you can buy a bed and bedclothes and dresses for a couple of years with it." "i am sure i do not want it," replied heidi. "i have got a bed already, and clara has put such a lot of clothes in my trunk that i shall never want any more." "take it and put it in the cupboard; you will want it some day i have no doubt." heidi obeyed and skipped happily after her grandfather into the house; she ran into all the corners, delighted to see everything again, and then went up the ladder--but there she came to a pause and called down in a tone of surprise and distress, "oh, grandfather, my bed's gone." "we can soon make it up again," he answered her from below. "i did not know that you were coming back; come along now and have your milk." [illustration: "our milk tastes nicer than anything else in the world, grandfather"] heidi came down, sat herself on her high stool in the old place, and then taking up her bowl drank her milk eagerly, as if she had never come across anything so delicious, and as she put down her bowl, she exclaimed, "our milk tastes nicer than anything else in the world, grandfather." a shrill whistle was heard outside. heidi darted out like a flash of lightning. there were the goats leaping and springing down the rocks, with peter in their midst. when he caught sight of heidi he stood still with astonishment and gazed speechlessly at her. heidi called out, "good-evening, peter," and then ran in among the goats. "little swan! little bear! do you know me again?" and the animals evidently recognized her voice at once, for they began rubbing their heads against her and bleating loudly as if for joy, and as she called the other goats by name one after the other, they all came scampering towards her helter-skelter and crowding round her. the impatient greenfinch sprang into the air and over two of her companions in order to get nearer, and even the shy little snowflake butted the great turk out of her way in quite a determined manner, which left him standing taken aback by her boldness, and lifting his beard in the air as much as to say, you see who i am. "so you are back again?" said peter, at last, taking heidi's hand which she was holding out to him in greeting. "i am glad you are back," he said, while his whole face beamed with pleasure, and then he prepared to go on with his goats; but he never had so much trouble with them before, for when at last, by coaxing and threats, he had got them all together, and heidi had gone off with an arm over either head of her grandfather's two goats the whole flock suddenly turned and ran after her. heidi had to go inside the stall with her two and shut the door, or peter would never have got home that night. when she went indoors after this she found her bed already made up for her. the grandfather had carefully spread and tucked in the clean sheets over the fragrant new mown hay. it was with a happy heart that heidi lay down in it that night, and her sleep was sounder than it had been for a whole year past. the grandfather got up at least ten times during the night and mounted the ladder to see if heidi was all right and showing no signs of restlessness, and to feel that the hay he had stuffed into the round window was keeping the moon from shining too brightly upon her. but heidi did not stir; she had no need now to wander about, for the great burning longing of her heart was satisfied; she was at home again on the mountain. chapter xiv the coat with the silver buttons the next afternoon heidi was standing under the waving trees waiting for her grandfather, who was going down with her to grandmother's, and then on to doerfli to fetch her trunk. she was longing to know how grandmother had enjoyed her white bread and impatient to see and hear her again. the grandfather came out, gave a look round, and then called to her in a cheerful voice, "well, now we can be off." it was saturday, a day when alm-uncle made everything clean and tidy inside and outside the house; he had devoted the morning to this work so as to be able to accompany heidi in the afternoon, and the whole place was now as spick and span as he liked to see it. they parted at the grandmother's cottage and heidi ran in. the grandmother had heard her steps approaching and greeted her as she crossed the threshold, "is it you, child? have you come again?" then she took hold of heidi's hand and held it fast in her own, for she still seemed to fear that the child might be torn from her again. she told heidi how much she had enjoyed the white bread, and how much stronger she felt already for having been able to eat it, and then peter's mother went on and said she was sure that if her mother could eat like that for a week she would get back some of her strength. "i know, grandmother, what i will do," said heidi eagerly, "i will write to clara, and she will send me as many rolls again, if not twice as many as you have already, for i had ever such a large heap in the wardrobe, and when they were all taken away she promised to give me as many back, and she would do so i am sure." "that is a good idea," said brigitta; "but then, they would get hard and stale. the baker in doerfli makes the white rolls, and if we could get some of those--but i can only just manage to pay for the black bread." a further bright thought came to heidi, and with a look of joy, "oh, i have lots of money, grandmother," she cried gleefully, skipping about the room in her delight, "and i know now what i will do with it. you must have a fresh white roll every day, and two on sunday, and peter can bring them up from doerfli." "no, no, child!" answered the grandmother, "i cannot let you do that; the money was not given to you for that purpose; you must give it to your grandfather, and he will tell you how you are to spend it." but heidi was not to be hindered in her kind intentions, and she continued to jump about, saying over and over again in a tone of exultation, "now, grandmother can have a roll every day and will grow quite strong again--and, oh, grandmother," she suddenly exclaimed, "if you get strong everything will grow light again for you; perhaps it's only because you are weak that it is dark." the grandmother said nothing, she did not wish to spoil the child's pleasure. as she went jumping about heidi suddenly caught sight of the grandmother's song book, and another happy idea struck her, "grandmother, i can also read now, would you like me to read you one of your hymns from your old book?" "oh, yes," said the grandmother, surprised and delighted; "but can you really read, child, really?" heidi climbed on a chair and lifted down the book, bringing a cloud of dust with it, for it had lain untouched on the shelf for a long time. she wiped it off and sat herself down on a stool beside the old woman, and asked her which hymn she should read. "what you like, child, what you like," and the grandmother pushed her spinning-wheel aside and sat in eager expectation waiting for heidi to begin. "here is one about the sun, grandmother, i will read you that." and heidi began, reading with more and more warmth of expression as she went on,-- the morning breaks, and warm and bright the earth lies still in the golden light-- for dawn has scattered the clouds of night. god's handiwork is seen around, things great and small to his praise abound-- where are the signs of his love not found? joy shall be ours in that garden blest where after storm we find our rest-- i wait in peace--god's time is best. the grandmother sat with folded hands and a look of indescribable joy on her face, such as heidi had never seen there before, although at the same time the tears were running down her cheeks. "ah, heidi, that brings light to the heart! what comfort you have brought me!" and the old woman kept on repeating the glad words, while heidi beamed with happiness. some one now knocked at the window and heidi looked up and saw her grandfather beckoning her to come home with him. she promised the grandmother before leaving her that she would be with her the next day, and even if she went out with peter she would only spend half the day with him, for the thought that she might make it light and happy again for the grandmother gave her the greatest pleasure, greater even than being out on the sunny mountain with the flowers and goats. heidi was so full of her morning's doings that she began at once to tell her grandfather all about them: how the white bread could be brought every day from doerfli if there was money for it, and how the grandmother had all at once grown stronger and happier, and light had come to her. "if the grandmother won't take the money, grandfather, will you give it all to me, and i can then give peter enough every day to buy a roll and two on sunday?" "but how about the bed?" said her grandfather. "it would be nice for you to have a proper bed, and there would then be plenty for the bread." but heidi gave her grandfather no peace till he consented to do what she wanted; she slept a great deal better, she said, on her bed of hay than on her fine pillowed bed in frankfurt. so at last he said, "the money is yours, do what you like with it; you can buy bread for grandmother for years to come with it." heidi shouted for joy at the thought that grandmother would never need to eat hard black bread any more, and "oh, grandfather!" she said, "everything is happier now than it has ever been in our lives before!" and she sang and skipped along, holding her grandfather's hand as light-hearted as a bird. but all at once she grew quiet and said, "if god had let me come at once, as i prayed, then everything would have been different, i should only have had a little bread to bring to grandmother, and i should not have been able to read, which is such a comfort to her. so we will pray every day, won't we, grandfather, and never forgot him again, or else he may forget us." "and supposing one does forget him?" said the grandfather in a low voice. "then everything goes wrong, for god lets us then go where we like, and when we get poor and miserable and begin to cry about it no one pities us, but they say, you ran away from god, and so god, who could have helped you, left you to yourself." "that is true, heidi; where did you learn that?" "from grandmamma sesemann; she explained it all to me." the grandfather walked on for a little while without speaking, then he said, as if following his own train of thought: "and if it once is so, it is so always; no one can go back, and he whom god has forgotten, is forgotten for ever." "oh, no grandfather, we can go back, for grandmamma told me so, and so it was in the beautiful tale in my book--but you have not heard that yet; but we shall be home directly now and then i will read it you, and you will see how beautiful it is." and in her eagerness heidi struggled faster and faster up the steep ascent, and they were no sooner at the top than she let go her grandfather's hand and ran into the hut. the grandfather slung the basket off his shoulders in which he had brought up a part of the contents of the trunk, which was too heavy to carry up as it was. then he sat down on his seat and began thinking. heidi soon came running out with her book under her arm and in a sympathetic voice began to read the story of the prodigal son. "isn't that a beautiful tale, grandfather," said heidi, as the latter continued to sit without speaking, for she had expected him to express pleasure and astonishment. "you are right, heidi; it is a beautiful tale," he replied, but he looked so grave as he said it that heidi grew silent herself and sat looking quietly at her pictures. a few hours later, as she lay fast asleep in her bed, the grandfather went up the ladder and put his lamp down near her bed so that the light fell on the sleeping child. her hands were still folded as if she had fallen asleep saying her prayers, an expression of peace and trust lay on the little face, and something in it seemed to appeal to the grandfather, for he stood a long time gazing down at her without speaking. at last he too folded his hands, and with bowed head said in a low voice, "father, i have sinned against heaven and before thee and am not worthy to be called thy son." and two large tears rolled down the old man's cheeks. next morning while the sound of a few early bells was ringing up from the valley the grandfather called to heidi to put on her best frock for they were going to church together. she was not long getting ready for it was an unusual summons from her grandfather. she put on her smart frankfurt dress and soon went down, but when she saw her grandfather she stood still, gazing at him in astonishment. "why, grandfather!" she exclaimed, "i never saw you look like that before! and the coat, with the silver buttons! oh, you do look nice in your sunday coat!" the old man smiled and replied, "and you too; now come along!" he took heidi's hand and together they walked down the mountain side. the bells were ringing in every direction now, sounding louder and fuller as they neared the valley, and heidi listened to them with delight. "hark, grandfather! it's like a great festival!" the congregation had already assembled and the singing had begun when heidi and her grandfather entered the church at doerfli and sat down at the back. but before the hymn was over every one was nudging his neighbor and whispering, "do you see? alm-uncle is in church!" soon everybody in the church knew of alm-uncle's presence, and the women kept on turning round to look and quite lost their place in the singing. at the close of the service alm-uncle took heidi by the hand, and on leaving the church made his way towards the pastor's house; the rest of the congregation looked curiously after him, some even following to see whether he went inside the pastor's house, which he did. then they collected in groups and talked over this strange event, keeping their eyes on the pastor's door, watching to see whether alm-uncle came out looking angry and quarrelsome, or as if the interview had been a peaceful one, for they could not imagine what had brought the old man down, and what it all meant. some, however, adopted a new tone and expressed their opinion that alm-uncle was not so bad after all as they thought, "for see how carefully he took the little one by the hand." and others responded and said they had always thought people had exaggerated about him, that if he was so downright bad he would be afraid to go inside the pastor's house. meanwhile alm-uncle had gone into the pastor's house and knocked at the study door. the pastor came out and shook hands warmly with him, and alm-uncle was unable at first to speak, for he had not expected such a friendly reception. at last he collected himself and said, "i have come to ask you, pastor, to forget the words i spoke to you when you called on me, and to beg you not to owe me ill-will for having been so obstinately set against your well-meant advice. you were right, and i was wrong, but i have now made up my mind to follow your advice and to find a place for myself at doerfli for the winter, for the child is not strong enough to stand the bitter cold up on the mountain. and if the people down here look askance at me, as at a person not to be trusted, i know it is my own fault." the pastor's kindly eyes shone with pleasure. he pressed the old man's hand in his, and said with emotion, "neighbor, i am greatly rejoiced. you will not repent coming to live with us again; as for myself you will always be welcome as a dear friend and neighbor, and i look forward to our spending many a pleasant winter evening together and we will find some nice friends too for the little one." and the pastor laid his hand kindly on the child's curly head and took her by the hand as he walked to the door with the old man. he did not say good-bye to him till they were standing outside, so that all the people loitering about saw him shake hands as if parting reluctantly from his best friend. the door had hardly shut behind him before the whole congregation now came forward to greet alm-uncle, every one striving to be the first to shake hands with him. most of his friends accompanied him and heidi some way up the mountain, and each as they bid him good-bye made him promise that when he next came down he would without fail come and call. as the old man at last stood alone with the child, watching their retreating figures, there was a light upon his face as if reflected from some inner sunshine of heart. heidi looking up at him with her clear, steady eyes, said, "grandfather, you look nicer and nicer today, i never saw you quite like that before." "do you think so," he answered with a smile. "well, yes, heidi, i am happier today than i deserve, happier than i had thought possible; it is good to be at peace with god and man! god was good to me when he sent you to my hut." when they reached peter's home the grandfather opened the door and walked straight in. "good-morning, grandmother," he said, "i think we shall have to do some more patching up before the autumn winds come." "well, if it is not uncle!" cried the grandmother in pleased surprise. "that i should live to see such a thing! and now i can thank you for all that you have done for me. may god reward you! may god reward you!" she stretched out a trembling hand to him, and the grandfather shook it warmly. at this moment peter rushed in, evidently in a great hurry, knocking his head violently against the door in his haste, so that everything in the room rattled. gasping and breathless he stood still after this and held out a letter. this was another great event, for such a thing had never happened before; the letter was addressed to heidi and had been delivered at the post-office in doerfli. they all sat down round the table to hear what was in it, for heidi opened it at once and read it without hesitation. the letter was from clara, who wrote that the house had been so dull since heidi left that she did not know what to do, and she had at last persuaded her father to take her to the baths at ragatz in the coming autumn; grandmamma had arranged to join them there, and they both were looking forward to paying her and her grandfather a visit. and grandmamma sent a further message to heidi which was that the latter had done quite right to take the rolls to the grandmother, and so that she might not have to eat them dry, she was sending some coffee, which was already on its way, and grandmamma hoped when she came to the alm in the autumn that heidi would take her to see her old friend. there were exclamations of pleasure and astonishment on hearing this news and the afternoon soon passed in discussing plans for the coming visit. then the old man and heidi started back up the mountain, promising the grandmother that they would come again next day. as they had been greeted with the bells when they made their journey down in the morning, so now they were accompanied by the peaceful evening chimes as they climbed to the hut, which had quite a sunday-like appearance as it stood bathed in the light of the low evening sun. chapter xv a great disappointment when autumn came clara was not so well and the doctor advised mr. sesemann to postpone the visit to heidi till the following spring. "i know how you hate to deny your child anything and especially this trip that she has so set her heart upon," said the kind-hearted old doctor, "but you must make up your mind to it, sesemann. clara has not had such a bad summer as this last one, for years. only the worst results would follow from the fatigue of such a journey, and it is out of the question for her. if we want to give the child a chance of recovery we must use the utmost care and watchfulness." mr. sesemann, who had listened to the doctor in sad and submissive silence, now suddenly jumped up. "doctor," he said, "tell me truly: have you really any hope for her final recovery?" the doctor shrugged his shoulders. "very little," he replied quietly. "but, friend, think of my trouble. you still have a beloved child to look for you and greet you on your return home. you do not come back to an empty house and sit down to a solitary meal." the once bright and cheery doctor was now a broken-hearted man. he could not get over the loss of his daughter who had died some months before, and who had been his sole and constant companion for many years. mr. sesemann, who had been striding up and down the room, suddenly paused beside his friend and laying his hand on his shoulder said: "doctor, i have an idea. how would it be for you to go, and pay heidi a visit in our name? you need a change of scene. i cannot bear to see you so sad; you are no longer the same man." the doctor was taken aback at this sudden proposal and wanted to make objections, but his friend gave him no time to say anything. he was so delighted with his idea, that he seized the doctor by the arm and drew him into clara's room. she held out her hand to him as he came up to her; he took a seat beside her, and her father also drew up his chair, and taking clara's hand in his began to talk to her of the swiss journey and how he himself had looked forward to it. he passed as quickly as he could over the main point that it was now impossible for her to undertake it, for he dreaded the tears that would follow; but he went on without pause to tell her of his new plan, and dwelt on the great benefit it would be to his friend if he could be persuaded to take this holiday. the tears were indeed swimming in the blue eyes, although clara struggled to keep them down for her father's sake, but it was a bitter disappointment to give up the journey, the thought of which had been her only joy and solace during the lonely hours of her long illness. she knew, however, that her father would never refuse her a thing unless he was certain that it would be harmful for her. so she swallowed her tears as well as she could and turned her thoughts to the one hope still left her. taking the doctor's hand and stroking it, she said pleadingly,-- "dear doctor, you will go and see heidi, won't you? and then you can come and tell me all about it, what it is like up there, and what heidi and the grandfather, and peter and the goats do all day. i know them all so well! and then you can take what i want to send to heidi; i have thought about it all, and also something for the grandmother. do pray go, dear doctor, and i will take as much cod liver oil as you like." whether this promise finally decided the doctor it is impossible to say, but it is certain that he smiled and said,-- "then i must certainly go, clara, for you will then get as plump and strong as your father and i wish to see you. and have you decided when i am to start?" "tomorrow morning--early if possible," replied clara. "yes, she is right," put in mr. sesemann, "the sun is shining and the sky is blue, and there is no time to be lost; it is a pity to miss a single one of these days on the mountain." the doctor could not help laughing. "you will be reproaching me next for not being there already; well i must go and make arrangements for getting off." but clara would not let him go until she had given him endless messages for heidi, and had explained all he was to look at so as to give her an exact description on his return. she would pack the presents she had already bought, and send them to his house later. the doctor promised to obey clara's directions in every particular; he would start some time during the following day if not the first thing in the morning, and would bring back a faithful account of his experiences and of all he saw and heard. he was hastening off when he met miss rottermeyer just returning from a walk. he informed her of his intended journey, begging her in his most conciliatory voice to pack up the parcels for heidi as she alone knew how to pack. and then he took his leave. clara quite expected to have a long tussle with miss rottermeyer before she would get the latter to consent to sending all the things that she had collected as presents for heidi. but this time she was mistaken, for miss rottermeyer was in a more than usually good temper. she cleared the large table so that all the things for heidi could be spread out upon it and packed under clara's own eyes. it was no light job, for the presents were of all shapes and sizes. first there was the little warm cloak with a hood, which had been designed by clara herself, in order that heidi during the coming winter might be able to go and see grandmother when she liked, and not have to wait till her grandfather could take her wrapped up in a sack to keep her from freezing. then came a thick warm shawl for the grandmother, in which she could wrap herself well up and not feel the cold when the wind came sweeping in such terrible gusts round the house. the next object was the large box full of cakes; these were also for the grandmother, that she might have something to eat with her coffee besides bread. an immense sausage was the next article; this had been originally intended for peter, who never had anything but bread and cheese, but clara had altered her mind, fearing that in his delight he might eat it all up at once and make himself ill. so she arranged to send it to brigitta, who could take some for herself and the grandmother and give peter his portion out by degrees. a packet of tobacco was a present for grandfather, who was so fond of his pipe as he sat resting in the evening. finally there was a whole lot of mysterious little bags, and parcels, and boxes, which clara had had especial pleasure in collecting, as each was to be a joyful surprise for heidi as she opened it. the work came to an end at last, and clara eyed the big box with pleasure, picturing heidi's exclamations and jumps of joy and surprise when the huge parcel arrived at the hut. [illustration] sebastian came in, and lifting the package on to his shoulder, carried it off to be forwarded at once to the doctor's house. chapter xvi the doctor comes with presents the early light of morning lay rosy red upon the mountains, and a fresh breeze rustled through the fir trees and set their ancient branches waving to and fro. the sound awoke heidi and she jumped out of bed and dressed herself as quickly as she could. when she went down her ladder she found her grandfather had already left the hut. he was standing outside looking at the sky and examining the landscape as he did every morning, to see what sort of weather it was going to be. little pink clouds were floating over the sky, that was growing brighter and bluer with every minute, while the heights and the meadow lands were turning gold under the rising sun, which was just appearing above the topmost peaks. "o, how beautiful! how beautiful! good-morning, grandfather!" cried heidi, running out. "what, you are awake already, are you?" he answered, giving her a morning greeting. then heidi ran round to the fir trees to enjoy the sound she loved so well, and with every fresh gust of wind which came roaring through their branches she gave a fresh jump and cry of delight. meanwhile the grandfather had gone to milk the goats; this done he brushed and washed them, ready for their mountain excursion, and brought them out of their shed. as soon as heidi caught sight of them she ran and embraced them, and they bleated in return, while they vied with each other in showing their affection by poking their heads against her and trying which could get nearest her. when the lively little bear gave rather too violent a thrust, she only said, "no, little bear, you are pushing like the great turk," and little bear immediately drew back his head and left off his rough attentions, while little swan lifted her head and put on an expression as much as to say, "no one shall ever accuse me of behaving like the great turk." peter's whistle was heard and all the goats came along, leaping and springing, and heidi soon found herself surrounded by the whole flock, pushed this way and that by their obstreperous greetings, but at last she managed to get through them to where snowflake was standing, for the young goat had in vain striven to reach her. peter now gave a last tremendous whistle, in order to startle the goats and drive them off, for he wanted to get near himself to say something to heidi. the goats sprang aside and he came up to her. "can you come out with me today?" he asked, evidently unwilling to hear her refuse. "i am afraid i cannot, peter," she answered. "i am expecting them every minute from frankfurt, and i must be at home when they come." "you have said the same thing for days now," grumbled peter. "i must continue to say it till they come," replied heidi. "how can you think, peter, that i would be away when they came? as if i could do such a thing?" "they would find uncle at home," he answered with a snarling voice. but at this moment the grandfather's stentorian voice was heard. "why is the army not marching forward? is it the field-marshal who is missing or some of the troops?" whereupon peter turned and went off, swinging his stick round so that it whistled through the air, and the goats, who understood the signal, started at full trot for their mountain pasture, peter following in their wake. since heidi had come back to her grandfather she had learned to do many things about the house. she put her bed in order every morning, patting and stroking it till she had got it perfectly smooth and flat. then she went about the room downstairs, put each chair back in its place, and if she found anything lying about she put it in the cupboard. after that she fetched a duster, climbed on a chair, and rubbed the table till it shone again. when the grandfather came in later he would look round well pleased and say to himself, "we look like sunday every day now; heidi did not go abroad for nothing." after peter had departed and she and her grandfather had breakfasted, heidi began her daily work as usual, but she did not get on with it very fast. it was so lovely out of doors today, and every minute something happened to interrupt her in her work. now it was a bright beam of sun shining cheerfully through the open window, and seeming to say, "come out, heidi, come out!" heidi felt she could not stay indoors, and she ran out in answer to the call. the sunlight lay sparkling on everything around the hut and on all the mountains and far away along the valley, and the grass slope looked so golden and inviting that she was obliged to sit down for a few minutes and look about her. then she suddenly remembered that her stool was left standing in the middle of the floor and that the table had not been rubbed, and she jumped up and ran inside again. but it was not long before the fir trees began their old song; heidi felt it in all her limbs, and again the desire to run outside was irresistible, and she was off to play and leap to the tune of the waving branches. the grandfather, who was busy in his work-shed, stepped out from time to time smiling to watch her at her gambols. he had just gone back to his work on one of these occasions when heidi called out, "grandfather! grandfather! come, come!" he stepped quickly out, almost afraid something had happened to the child, but he saw her running towards where the mountain path descended, crying, "they are coming! they are coming! and the doctor is in front of them!" heidi rushed forward to welcome her old friend, who held out his hands in greeting to her. when she came up to him she clung to his outstretched arm, and exclaimed in the joy of her heart, "good-morning, doctor, and thank you ever so many times." "god bless you, child! what have you got to thank me for?" asked the doctor, smiling. "for being at home again with grandfather," the child explained. the doctor's face brightened as if a sudden ray of sunshine had passed across it; he had not expected such a reception as this. he had quite thought that heidi would have forgotten him; she had seen so little of him, and he had felt rather like one bearing a message of disappointment. but instead, here was heidi, her eyes dancing for joy, and full of gratitude and affection, clinging to the arm of her kind friend. he took her by the hand with fatherly tenderness. "take me now to your grandfather, heidi, and show me where you live." but heidi still remained standing looking down the path with a questioning gaze. "where are clara and grandmother?" she asked. "ah, now i have to tell you something which you will be as sorry about as i am," answered the doctor. "you see, heidi, i have come alone. clara was very ill and could not travel, and so the grandmother stayed behind too. but next spring, when the days grow warm and long again, they are coming here for certain." heidi stood motionless for a second or two, overcome by the unexpected disappointment. she suddenly remembered that the doctor had really come anyway. she lifted her eyes and saw the sad expression in his as he looked down at her; she had never seen him with that look on his face when she was in frankfurt. it went to heidi's heart; she could not bear to see anybody unhappy, especially her dear doctor. no doubt it was because clara and grandmother could not come, and so she began to think how best she might console him. "oh, it won't be very long to wait for spring, and then they will be sure to come," she said in a reassuring voice. "time passes very quickly with us, and then they will be able to stay longer when they are here, and clara will be pleased at that. now let us go and find grandfather." hand in hand with her friend she climbed up to the hut. she was so anxious to make the doctor happy again that she began once more assuring him that the winter passed quickly on the mountain and that summer would be back again before they knew it, and she became so convinced of the truth of her own words that she called out quite cheerfully to her grandfather as they approached, "they have not come today, but they will be here in a very short time." [illustration: it was not long before the fir trees began their old song] the doctor was no stranger to the grandfather, for the child had talked to him so much about her friend. the old man held out his hand to his guest in friendly greeting. then the two men sat down in front of the hut. the doctor whispered to heidi that there was something being brought up the mountain which had traveled with him from frankfurt, and which would give her even more pleasure than seeing him. heidi got into a great state of excitement on hearing this, wondering what it could be. the old man urged the doctor to spend as many of the beautiful autumn days on the mountain as he could, and at least to come up whenever it was fine; he could not offer him a lodging, as he had no place to put him; he advised the doctor, however, not to go back to ragatz, but to stay at doerfli, where there was a clean, tidy little inn. then the doctor could come up every morning, which would do him no end of good, and if he liked, he, the grandfather, would act as his guide to any part of the mountains he would like to see. the doctor was delighted with this proposal, and it was settled that it should be as the grandfather suggested. alm-uncle now rose and went indoors, returning in a few minutes with a table which he placed in front of the seat. "there, heidi, now run in and bring us what we want for the table," he said. "the doctor must take us as he finds us; if the food is plain, he will acknowledge that the dining-room is pleasant." "i should think so indeed," replied the doctor as he looked down over the sun-lit valley, "and i accept the kind invitation; everything must taste good up here." heidi ran backwards and forwards as busy as a bee and brought out everything she could find in the cupboard. the grandfather meanwhile had been preparing the meal, and now appeared with a steaming jug of milk and golden-brown toasted cheese. then he cut some thin slices from the meat he had cured himself in the pure air, and the doctor enjoyed his dinner better than he had for a whole year past. "our clara must certainly come up here," he said, "it would make her quite a different person, and if she could eat for any length of time as i have today, she would grow plumper than any one has ever known her before." as he spoke a man was seen coming up the path carrying a large package on his back. when he reached the hut he threw it on the ground and drew in two or three good breaths of the mountain air. "ah, here's what travelled with me from frankfurt," said the doctor, rising, and he went up to the package and began undoing it, heidi looking on in great expectation. after he had released it from its heavy outer covering, "there, child," he said, "now you can go on unpacking your treasures yourself." heidi undid her presents one by one until they were all displayed; she could not speak for wonder and delight. not till the doctor opened the large box to show heidi the cakes that were for the grandmother to eat with her coffee, did she at last give a cry of joy, exclaiming, "now grandmother will have nice things to eat," and she wanted to pack everything up again and start at once to give them to her. but the grandfather said he should walk down with the doctor that evening and she could go with them and take the things. heidi next found the packet of tobacco which she ran and gave to her grandfather; he was so pleased with it that he immediately filled his pipe with some, and the two men then sat down together again, the smoke curling up from their pipes as they talked of all kinds of things, while heidi continued to examine first one and then another of her presents. suddenly she ran up to them, and standing in front of the doctor waited till there was a pause in the conversation, and then said, "no, the presents have not given me more pleasure than seeing you, doctor." the two men could not help laughing, and the doctor answered that he should never have thought it. as the sun began to sink behind the mountains the doctor rose, thinking it time to return to doerfli and seek for quarters. the grandfather carried the cakes and the shawl and the large sausage, and the doctor took heidi's hand, as they all three started down the mountain. arrived at peter's home heidi bid the others good-bye; she was to wait at grandmother's till her grandfather, who was going on to doerfli with his guest, returned for her. as the doctor shook hands with her she asked, "would you like to come out with the goats tomorrow morning?" for she could think of no greater treat to offer him. "agreed!" answered the doctor, "we will go together." heidi now ran in to the grandmother: she first, with some effort, managed to carry in the box of cakes; then she ran out again and brought in the sausage--for her grandfather had put the presents down by the door--and then a third time for the shawl. she placed them as close as she could to the grandmother, so that the latter might be able to feel them and understand what was there. the shawl she laid over the old woman's knees. "they are all from frankfurt, from clara and grandmamma," she explained to the astonished grandmother and brigitta, the latter having watched her dragging in all the heavy things unable to imagine what was happening. "and you are very pleased with the cakes, aren't you, grandmother? taste how soft they are!" said heidi over and over again, to which the grandmother continued to answer, "yes, yes, heidi, i should think so! what kind people they must be!" and then she would pass her hand over the warm, thick shawl and add, "this will be beautiful for the cold winter! i never thought i should ever have such a splendid thing as this to put on." heidi could not help feeling some surprise at the grandmother seeming to take more pleasure in the shawl than the cakes. meanwhile brigitta stood gazing at the sausage with almost an expression of awe. she had hardly in her life seen such a monster sausage, much less owned one, and she could scarcely believe her eyes. peter came tumbling in at this minute. "uncle is just behind me, he is coming--" he began, and then stopped short, for his eye had caught sight of the sausage, and he was too much taken aback to say more. but heidi understood that her grandfather was near and so said good-bye to grandmother. the old man now never passed the door without going in to wish the old woman good-day, and she liked to hear his footstep approaching, for he always had a cheery word for her. but today it was growing late for heidi, who was always up with the lark, and the grandfather would never let her go to bed after hours; so this evening he only called good-night through the open door and started home at once with the child, and the two climbed under the starlit sky back to their peaceful dwelling. chapter xvii excursions over the mountains the next morning the doctor climbed up from doerfli with peter and the goats. at the hut, they found heidi awaiting them with her two goats, all three as fresh and lively as the morning sun among the mountains. "are you coming today?" said peter, repeating the words with which he daily greeted her. "of course i am, if the doctor is coming too," replied heidi. peter cast a sidelong glance at the doctor. the grandfather now came out with the dinner bag, and after bidding good-day to the doctor he went up to peter and slung it over his neck. it was heavier than usual, for alm-uncle had added some meat today, as he thought the doctor might like to have his lunch out of doors with the children. peter gave a grin, for he felt sure there was something extra good in it. and so the ascent began. the goats as usual came thronging round heidi, each trying to be nearest her, until at last she stood still and said, "now you must go on in front and behave properly, and not keep on turning back and pushing and poking me, for i want to talk to the doctor." by degrees she managed to make her way out from among them and joined the doctor, who took her by the hand. heidi had a great deal to say about the goats and their peculiarities, and about the flowers and the rocks and the birds, and so they clambered on and reached their resting-place before they were aware. peter had sent a good many unfriendly glances towards the doctor on the way up, which might have quite alarmed the latter if he had happened to notice them, which, fortunately, he did not. heidi led her friend to her favorite spot where she was accustomed to sit and enjoy the beauty around her; the doctor followed her example and took his seat beside her on the warm grass. the great snowfield sparkled in the bright sunlight, on the rocky peaks. a soft, light morning breeze blew deliciously across the mountain, gently stirring the bluebells that still remained of the summer's wealth of flowers, their slender heads nodding cheerfully in the sunshine. overhead the great bird was flying round and round in wide circles. heidi looked about her first at one thing and then at another. her eyes were alight with joy. she turned to her friend to see if he too were enjoying the beauty. the doctor had been sitting thoughtfully gazing around him. as he met her glad bright eyes, "yes, heidi," he responded, "i see how lovely it all is, but tell me--if one brings a sad heart up here, how may it be healed so that it can rejoice in all this beauty?" "but no one is sad up here, only in frankfurt," exclaimed heidi. the doctor smiled, and then growing serious again he continued, "but supposing one is not able to leave all the sadness behind at frankfurt; can you tell me anything that will help then?" "when you do not know what more to do you must go and tell everything to god," answered heidi with decision. "ah, that is a good thought of yours, heidi," said the doctor. "but if it is god himself who has sent the trouble, what can we say to him then?" heidi sat pondering for a while; she was sure in her heart that god could help out of every trouble. she thought over her own experiences and then found her answer. "then you must wait," she said, "and keep on saying to yourself: god certainly knows of some happiness for us which he is going to bring out of the trouble, only we must have patience and not run away." "that is a beautiful faith, child, and be sure you hold it fast," replied the doctor. "but can you understand, heidi, that a man may sit here with such a shadow over his eyes that he cannot feel and enjoy the beauty around him, while the heart grows doubly sad knowing how beautiful it could be. can you understand that?" a pain shot through the child's young, happy heart. the shadow over the eyes brought to her remembrance the grandmother, who would never again be able to see the sunlight and the beauty up here. this was heidi's great sorrow, which reawoke each time she thought about the darkness. "yes, i can understand it. and i know this, that then one must say one of grandmother's hymns, which bring the light back a little, and often make it so bright for her that she is quite happy again. grandmother herself told me this." "which hymns are they, heidi?" asked the doctor. "i only know the one about the sun and the beautiful garden, and some of the verses of the long one, which are favorites with her, and she always likes me to read them to her two or three times over," replied heidi. "well, say the verses to me then, i should like to hear them too," said the doctor. heidi collected her thoughts for a second or two and began,-- let not your heart be troubled nor fear your soul dismay, there is a wise defender and he will be your stay. where you have failed, he conquers, see, how the foeman flies! and all your tribulation is turned to glad surprise. if for a while it seemeth his mercy is withdrawn, that he no longer careth for his wandering child forlorn, doubt not his great compassion, his love can never tire, to those who wait in patience he gives their heart's desire. suddenly she paused; she was not sure if the doctor was still listening. he was sitting motionless with his hand before his eyes. his thoughts had carried him back to a long past time: he saw himself as a little boy standing by his dear mother's chair; she had her arm round his neck and was saying the very verses to him that heidi had just recited--words which he had not heard now for years. he could hear his mother's voice and see her loving eyes resting upon him, and as heidi ceased the old dear voice seemed to be saying other things to him; and the words he heard again must have carried him far, far away, for it was a long time before he stirred or took his hand from his eyes. when at last he roused himself he met heidi's eyes looking wonderingly at him. "heidi," he said, taking the child's hand in his, "that was a beautiful hymn of yours," and there was a happier ring in his voice as he spoke. "we will come out here together another day, and you will let me hear it again." peter meanwhile had been giving vent to his anger. it was now some days since heidi had been out with him, and when at last she did come there she sat the whole time beside the old gentleman, and peter could not get a word with her. he got into a terrible temper, and at last went and stood some way back behind the doctor, where the latter could not see him, and doubling his fist made imaginary hits at the enemy. presently he doubled both fists, and the longer heidi stayed beside the gentleman, the more fiercely did he threaten with them. meanwhile the sun had risen to the height which peter knew pointed to the dinner hour. all of a sudden he called at the top of his voice, "it's dinner time." heidi started for the dinner bag so that the doctor might eat his where he sat. but he stopped her, telling her he was not hungry at all, and only cared for a glass of milk, as he wanted to climb up a little higher. then heidi found that she also was not hungry and only wanted milk, and she should like, she said, to take the doctor up to the large moss-covered rock where greenfinch had nearly jumped down and killed herself. so she ran and explained matters to peter, telling him to go and get milk for the two. peter seemed hardly to understand. "who is going to eat what is in the bag, then?" he asked. "you can have it," she answered, "only first make haste and get the milk." peter had seldom performed any task more promptly, for he thought of the bag and its contents, which now belonged to him. as soon as the other two were sitting quietly drinking their milk, he opened it, and quite trembled for joy at the sight of the meat, and he was just putting his hand in to draw it out when something seemed to hold him back. his conscience smote him at the remembrance of how he had stood with his doubled fists behind the doctor, who was giving up to him his whole good dinner. he felt as if he could not now enjoy it. but all at once he jumped up and ran back to the spot where he had stood before, and there held up his open hands as a sign that he had no longer any wish to use them as fists, and kept them up until he felt he had made amends for his past conduct. then he rushed back and sat down to the double enjoyment of a clear conscience and unusually satisfying meal. heidi and the doctor climbed and talked for a long while, until the latter said it was time for him to be going back, and no doubt heidi would like to go and be with her goats. but heidi would not hear of this, as then the doctor would have to go the whole way down the mountain alone. she insisted on accompanying him as far as the grandfather's hut, or even a little further. she kept hold of her friend's hand all the time, and the whole way she entertained him with accounts of this thing and that. but at last the doctor insisted on her going back; so they bid each other good-night and the doctor continued his descent, turning now and again to look back, and each time he saw heidi standing on the same spot and waving her hand to him. even so in the old days had his own dear little daughter watched him when he went from home. [illustration] it was a bright, sunny autumn month. the doctor came up to the hut every morning, and thence made excursions over the mountain. alm-uncle accompanied him on some of his higher ascents. the doctor found great pleasure in his companion's conversation, and was astonished at his knowledge of the plants that grew on the mountain. he was well versed also in the ways of the animals, great and small, and had many amusing anecdotes to tell of these dwellers in caves and holes and in the tops of the fir trees. and so the time passed pleasantly and quickly for the doctor, who seldom said good-bye to the old man at the end of the day without adding, "i never leave you, friend, without having learnt something new from you." on some of the very finest days, however, the doctor would wander out again with heidi, and then the two would sit together as on the first day, and the child would repeat her hymns and tell the doctor things which she alone knew. peter sat at a little distance from them, but he was now quite reconciled in spirit and gave vent to no angry pantomime. september had drawn to its close, and one morning the doctor appeared looking less cheerful than usual. it was his last day, he said, as he must return to frankfurt, but he was grieved at having to say good-bye to the mountain, which had begun to feel quite like home to him. alm-uncle, on his side, greatly regretted the departure of his guest, and heidi had been accustomed for so long to see her good friend every day that she could hardly believe the time had suddenly come to separate. she walked part way down the mountain with him, still unable to grasp the idea that he was going for good. after some distance the doctor stood still, and passing his hand over the child's curly head said, "now, heidi, you must go back, and i must say good-bye! if only i could take you with me to frankfurt and keep you there!" the picture of frankfurt rose before the child's eyes, its endless rows of houses, its hard streets, and even the vision of miss rottermeyer and tinette, and she answered hesitatingly, "i would rather that you came back to us." "yes, you are right, that would be better. but now good-bye, heidi." the child put her hand in his and looked up at him; the kind eyes looking down on her had tears in them. then the doctor tore himself away and quickly continued his descent. heidi remained standing without moving. the friendly eyes with the tears in them had gone to her heart. all at once she burst into tears and started running as fast as she could after the departing figure, calling out in broken tones: "doctor! doctor!" he turned round and waited till the child reached him. the tears were streaming down her face and she sobbed out: "i will come to frankfurt with you, now at once, and i will stay with you as long as you like, only i must just run back and tell grandfather." the doctor laid his hand on her and tried to calm her excitement. "no, no, dear child," he said kindly, "not now; you must stay for the present under the fir trees, you might get sick again. but if i am ever ill and alone, will you come then and stay with me? may i know that there would then be some one to look after me and care for me?" "yes, yes, i will come the very day you send for me, and i love you nearly as much as grandfather," replied heidi, who had not yet got over her distress. and so the doctor again bid her good-bye and started on his way, while heidi remained looking after him and waving her hand as long as a speck of him could be seen. as the doctor turned for the last time and looked back at the waving heidi and the sunny mountain, he said to himself, "it is good to be up there, good for body and soul, and a man might learn how to be happy once more." [illustration] chapter xviii a new home for the winter alm-uncle had kept his word and was not spending the winter in his old home. as soon as the first snow began to fall, he had shut up the hut and the outside buildings and gone down to doerfli with heidi and the goats. near the church was a straggling half-ruined building, which had once been the home of a distinguished soldier. it was rented to poor people, who paid but a small sum, and when any part of the building fell it was allowed to remain. as soon as the grandfather had made up his mind to spend the winter in doerfli, he rented the old place and worked during the autumn to get it sound and tight. in the middle of october he and heidi took up their residence there. on approaching the house from the back one came first into an open space with a wall on either side, of which one was half in ruins. above this rose the arch of an old window thickly overgrown with ivy, which spread over the remains of a domed roof that had evidently been part of a chapel. a large hall came next, which lay open, without doors, to the square outside. here also walls and roof only partially remained, and indeed what was left of the roof looked as if it might fall at any minute had it not been for two stout pillars that supported it. alm-uncle had here put up a wooden partition and covered the floor with straw, for this was to be the goats' house. endless passages led from this, through the rents of which the sky as well as the fields and the road outside could be seen at intervals; but at last one came to a stout oak door that led into a room that still stood intact. here the walls and the dark wainscoting remained as good as ever, and in the corner was an immense stove reaching nearly to the ceiling, on the white tiles of which were painted large pictures in blue. these represented old castles surrounded with trees, and huntsmen riding out with their hounds; or else a quiet lake scene, with broad oak trees and a man fishing. a seat ran all round the stove so that one could sit at one's ease and study the pictures. these attracted heidi's attention at once, and she had no sooner arrived with her grandfather than she ran and seated herself and began to examine them. but when she had gradually worked herself round to the back, something else diverted her attention. in the large space between the stove and the wall four planks had been put together as if to make a large receptacle for apples; there were no apples, however, inside, but something heidi had no difficulty in recognizing, for it was her very own bed, with its hay mattress and sheets, and sack for a coverlid, just as she had it up at the hut. heidi clapped her hands for joy and exclaimed, "o grandfather, this is my room, how nice! but where are you going to sleep?" "your room must be near the stove or you will freeze," he replied, "but you can come and see mine too." heidi got down and skipped across the large room after her grandfather, who opened a door at the farther end leading into a smaller one which was to be his bed-room. then came another door. heidi pushed it open and stood amazed, for here was an immense room like a kitchen, larger than anything of the kind that heidi had seen before. there was still plenty of work for the grandfather before this room could be finished, for there were holes and cracks in the walls through which the wind whistled, and yet he had already nailed up so many new planks that it looked as if a lot of small cupboards had been set up round the room. he had, however, made the large, old door safe with many screws and nails, as a protection against the outside air, and this was very necessary, for just beyond was a mass of ruined building overgrown with tall weeds, which made a dwelling-place for innumerable beetles and lizards. heidi was very delighted with her new home, and by the morning after their arrival she knew every nook and corner so thoroughly that she could take peter over it and show him all that was to be seen; indeed she would not let him go till he had examined every single wonderful thing contained in it. heidi slept soundly in her corner by the stove; but every morning when she first awoke she still thought she was on the mountain, and that she must run outside at once to see if the fir trees were so quiet because their branches were weighed down with the thick snow. she had to look about her for some minutes before she felt quite sure where she was, and a certain sensation of trouble and oppression would come over her as she grew aware that she was not at home in the hut. but then she would hear her grandfather's voice outside, attending to the goats, and these would give one or two loud bleats, as if calling to her to make haste and go to them, and then heidi was happy again, for she knew she was still at home, and she would jump gladly out of bed and run out to the animals as quickly as she could. on the fourth morning, as soon as she saw her grandfather, she said, "i must go up to see grandmother today; she ought not to be alone so long." but the grandfather would not agree to this. "neither today nor tomorrow can you go," he said, "the mountain is covered fathom-deep in snow, and the snow is still falling; the sturdy peter can hardly get along. a little creature like you would soon be smothered by it, and we should not be able to find you again. wait a bit till it freezes, then you will be able to walk over the hard snow." heidi now went to school in doerfli and eagerly set to work to learn all that was taught her. she hardly ever saw peter there, for as a rule he was absent. the teacher was an easy-going man who merely remarked now and then, "peter is not turning up today again, it seems, but there is a lot of snow up on the mountain and i daresay he cannot get along." peter, however, always seemed able to make his way through the snow in the evening when school was over, and he then generally paid heidi a visit. at last, after some days, when peter climbed out of his window one morning--the door was quite blocked by the snow outside--he was taken by surprise, for instead of sinking into the snow he fell on the hard ground and went sliding some way down the mountain side like a sleigh, before he could stop himself. he picked himself up and tested the hardness of the ground by stamping on it and trying with all his might to dig his heels into it, but even then he could not break off a single little splinter of ice; the alm was frozen hard as iron. this was just what peter had been hoping for, as he knew now that heidi would be able to come up to see them. he quickly got back into the house, swallowed the milk which his mother had ready for him, thrust a piece of bread in his pocket, and said, "i must be off to school," and in another minute was shooting down the mountain on his sled. he went like lightning, and when he reached doerfli, which stood on the direct road to mayenfeld, he made up his mind to go on further. so down he still went till he reached the level ground, where the sled came to a pause of its own accord, some little way beyond mayenfeld. he knew it was too late to get to school now, as lessons would already have begun, and it would take him a good hour to walk back to doerfli. so he took his time about returning, and reached doerfli just as heidi had got home from school and was sitting at dinner with her grandfather. peter walked in, exclaiming as he stood still in the middle of the room, "she's got it now." "got it? what?" asked the uncle. "your words sound quite warlike, general." "the frost," explained peter. "oh! now i can go and see grandmother!" said heidi joyfully, for she had understood peter's words at once. "but why were you not at school then? you could have come down on the sled," she added reproachfully, for it did not agree with heidi's ideas of good behavior to stay away when it was possible to be there. "it carried me on too far and i was too late," peter replied. "i call that being a deserter," said the uncle, "and deserters get their ears pulled, as you know." peter gave a tug to his cap in alarm, for there was no one of whom he stood in so much awe as alm-uncle. "and an army leader like yourself ought to be doubly ashamed of running away," continued alm-uncle. "what would you think of your goats if one went off this way and another that, and refused to follow and do what was good for them? what would you do then?" "i should beat them," said peter promptly. "and if a boy behaved like these unruly goats, and he got a beating for it, what would you say then?" "serves him right," was the answer. "good, then understand this: next time you let your sled carry you past the school when you ought to be inside at your lessons, come on to me afterwards and receive what you deserve." peter understood the drift of the old man's questions and that he was the boy who behaved like the unruly goats, and he looked somewhat fearfully towards the corner to see if there happened to be a stick around. but now the grandfather suddenly said in a cheerful voice, "come and sit down and have something, and afterwards heidi shall go with you. bring her back this evening and you will find supper waiting for you here." this unexpected turn of conversation set peter grinning all over with delight. he obeyed without hesitation and took his seat beside heidi. but the child could not eat in her excitement at the thought of going to see grandmother. she ran to the cupboard and brought out the warm cloak clara had sent her; with this on and the hood drawn over her head, she was all ready for her journey. she stood waiting beside peter, and as soon as his last mouthful had disappeared she said, "come along now." as the two walked together heidi had much to tell peter of her two goats that had been so unhappy the first day in their new stall that they would not eat anything, but stood hanging their heads, not even rousing themselves to bleat. and when she asked her grandfather the reason of this, he told her it was the same with the goats as with her in frankfurt, for it was the first time in their lives they had come down from the mountain. "and you don't know what that is, peter, unless you have felt it yourself," added heidi. when they reached their destination they found brigitta sitting alone knitting, for the grandmother was not very well and had to stay in bed on account of the cold. heidi had never before missed the old figure in her place in the corner, and she ran quickly into the next room. there lay grandmother on her little, poorly covered bed, wrapped up in her warm grey shawl. "thank god," she exclaimed as heidi came running in; the poor old woman had had a secret fear at heart all through the autumn, especially if heidi was absent for any length of time, for peter had told her of a strange gentleman who had come from frankfurt, and who had gone out with them and always talked to heidi, and she had felt sure he had come to take her away again. even when she heard he had gone off alone, she still had an idea that a messenger would be sent over from frankfurt to take the child. heidi went up to the side of the bed and said, "are you very ill, grandmother?" "no, no, child," answered the old woman reassuringly, passing her hand lovingly over the child's head, "it's only the frost that has got into my bones a bit." "shall you be quite well then directly it turns warm again?" "yes, god willing, or even before that, for i want to get back to my spinning; i thought perhaps i should do a little today, but tomorrow i am sure to be all right again." heidi noticed that the grandmother was wrapped up in her nice shawl and exclaimed: "in frankfurt everybody puts on a shawl to go out walking; did you think it was to be worn in bed, grandmother?" "i put it on, dear child, to keep myself from freezing, and i am so pleased with it, for my bedclothes are not very thick," she answered. "but, grandmother," continued heidi, "your bed is not right, because it goes downhill at your head instead of uphill." "i know it, child, i can feel it," and the grandmother put up her hand to the thin, flat pillow, which was little more than a board under her head, to make herself more comfortable; "the pillow was never very thick, and i have lain on it now for so many years that it has grown quite flat." "oh, if only i had asked clara to let me take away my frankfurt bed," said heidi. "i had three large pillows, one above the other, so that i could hardly sleep, and i used to slip down to try and find a flat place, and then i had to pull myself up again, because it was proper to sleep there like that. could you sleep like that, grandmother?" "oh, yes! the pillows keep one warm, and it is easier to breathe when the head is high," answered the grandmother. "but we will not talk about that, for i have so much that other old sick people are without for which i thank god; there is the nice bread i get every day, and this warm wrap, and your visits, heidi. will you read me something today?" heidi ran into the next room to get the hymn book. then she picked out the favorite hymns one after another, for she knew them all by heart now, and was as pleased as the grandmother to hear them again after so many days. the grandmother lay with folded hands, while a smile of peace stole over the worn, troubled face, like one to whom good news has been brought. suddenly heidi paused. "grandmother, are you feeling quite well again already?" "yes, child, i have grown better while listening to you; read it to the end." the child read on, and when she came to the last words: "as the eyes grow dim, and darkness closes round, the soul grows clearer, sees the goal to which it travels, gladly feels its home is nearer." the grandmother repeated them once or twice to herself, with a look of happy expectation on her face. and heidi took equal pleasure in them, for the picture of the beautiful, sunny day of her return home rose before her eyes, and she exclaimed joyfully, "grandmother, i know exactly what it is like to go home." a little later heidi said, "it is growing dark and i must go; i am so glad to think that you are quite well again." she ran into the next room, and bid peter come quickly, for it had now grown quite dark. but when they got outside they found the moon shining down on the white snow and everything as clear as in the daylight. peter got his sled, put heidi at the back, he himself sitting in front to guide, and down the mountain they shot like two birds darting through the air. [illustration] when heidi was lying that night on her high bed of hay she thought of the grandmother on her low pillow, and of all she had said about the light and comfort that awoke in her when she heard the hymns, and she thought: if i could read to her every day, then i should go on making her better. but she knew that it would be a week, if not two, before she would be able to go up the mountain again. this was a thought of great trouble to heidi, and she tried hard to think of some way which would enable the grandmother to hear the words she loved every day. suddenly an idea struck her, and she was so delighted with it that she could hardly bear to wait for morning, so eager was she to begin carrying out her plan. all at once she sat upright in her bed, for she had been so busy with her thoughts that she had forgotten to say her prayers, and she never now finished her day without saying them. when she had prayed with all her heart for herself, her grandfather and grandmother, she lay back again on the warm, soft hay and slept soundly and peacefully till the morning broke. chapter xix heidi teaches obstinate peter peter arrived punctually at school the following day. he had brought his dinner with him, for all the children who lived at a distance regularly seated themselves at mid-day on the tables, and resting their feet firmly on the benches, spread out their meal on their knees and so ate their dinner, while those living in doerfli went home for theirs. till one o'clock they might all do as they liked, and then school began again. as soon as peter finished his lessons he went over to uncle's to see heidi. when he walked into the large room at uncle's today, heidi immediately rushed forward and took hold of him and said: "i've thought of something, peter." "what is it?" he asked. "you must learn to read," she informed him. "i have learnt," was the answer. "yes, yes, but i mean so that you can really make use of it," continued heidi eagerly. "i never shall," was the prompt reply. "nobody believes that you cannot learn, nor i either now," said heidi in a very decided tone of voice. "grandmamma in frankfurt said long ago that it was not true, and she told me not to believe you." peter looked rather taken aback at this piece of intelligence. "i will soon teach you to read, for i know how," continued heidi. "you must learn at once, and then you can read one or two hymns every day to grandmother." "oh, i don't care about that," he grumbled in reply. this hard-hearted way of refusing to agree to what was right and kind, and to what heidi had so much at heart, aroused her anger. with flashing eyes she stood facing the boy and said threateningly, "if you won't learn as i want you to, i will tell you what will happen; you know your mother has often spoken of sending you to frankfurt, that you may learn a lot of things, and i know where the boys there have to go to school; clara pointed out the great house to me when we were driving together. and they don't only go when they are boys, but have more lessons still when they are grown men. i have seen them myself, and you mustn't think they have only one kind teacher like we have. there are ever so many of them, all in the school at the same time, and they are all dressed in black, as if they were going to church, and have black hats on their heads as high as that--" and heidi held out her hand to show their height from the floor. peter felt a cold shudder run down his back. "and you will have to go in among all those gentlemen," continued heidi with increasing animation, "and when it comes to your turn you won't be able to read and will make mistakes in your spelling. then you'll see how they'll make fun of you; even worse than tinette, and you ought to have seen what she was like when she was scornful." "well, i'll learn then," said peter, half sorrowfully and half angrily. heidi was instantly mollified. "that's right, then we'll begin at once," she said cheerfully. among other presents clara had sent heidi a book which the latter had decided would be just the thing for teaching peter, as it was an a b c book with rhyming lines. so the two sat together at the table with their heads bent over the book, and began the lesson. peter was made to spell out the first sentence two or three times over, for heidi wished him to get it correct and fluent. at last she said, "you don't seem able to get it right, but i will read it aloud to you once; when you know what it ought to be you will find it easier." and she read out:-- a b c must be learnt today or the judge will call you up to pay. "i shan't go," said peter obstinately. "go where?" asked heidi. "before the judge," he answered. "well then make haste and learn these three letters, then you won't have to go." peter went at his task again and repeated the three letters so many times and with such determination that she said at last,-- "you must know those three now." seeing what an effect the first two lines of verse had had upon him, she thought she would prepare the ground a little for the following lessons. "wait, and i will read you some of the next sentences," she continued, "then you will see what else there is to expect." and she began in a clear slow voice:-- d e f g must run with ease or something will follow that does not please. should h i j k be now forgot disgrace is yours upon the spot. and then l m must follow at once or punished you'll be for a sorry dunce. if you knew what next awaited you you'd haste to learn n o p q. now r s t be quick about or worse will follow there's little doubt. heidi paused, for peter was so quiet that she looked to see what he was doing. these many secret threats and hints of dreadful punishments had so affected him that he sat as if petrified and stared at heidi with horror-stricken eyes. her kind heart was moved at once, and she said, wishing to reassure him, "you need not be afraid, peter; come here to me every evening, and if you learn as you have today you will at least know all your letters, and the other things won't come. but you must come regularly, not only now and then as you do to school; even if it snows it won't hurt you." he promised, and the lessons being finished for this day he now went home. peter obeyed heidi's instructions punctually, and every evening went diligently to work to learn the letters, taking the sentences thoroughly to heart. the grandfather was frequently in the room smoking his pipe comfortably while the lesson was going on, and his face twitched occasionally as if he was overtaken with a sudden fit of merriment. peter was often invited to stay to supper after the great exertion he had gone through, which richly compensated him for the anguish of mind he had suffered with the sentence for the day. so the winter went by, and peter really made progress with his letters; but he went through a terrible fight each day with the sentences. he had got at last to u. heidi read out:-- and if you put the u for v, you'll go where you would not like to be. peter growled, "yes, but i shan't go!" but he was very diligent that day, as if under the impression that some one would seize him suddenly by the collar and drag him where he would rather not go. the next evening heidi read:-- if you falter at w, worst of all, look at the stick against the wall. peter looked at the wall and said scornfully, "there isn't one." "yes, but do you know what grandfather has in his box?" asked heidi. "a stick as thick almost as your arm, and if he took that out, you might well say, look at the stick on the wall." peter knew that thick hazel stick, and immediately bent his head over the w and struggled to master it. another day the lines ran:-- then comes the x for you to say or be sure you'll get no food today. peter looked towards the cupboard where the bread and cheese were kept, and said crossly, "i never said that i should forget the x." "that's all right; if you don't forget it we can go on to learn the next, and then you will only have one more," replied heidi, anxious to encourage him. peter did not quite understand, but when heidi went on and read:-- and should you make a stop at y they'll point at you and cry, fie, fie. all the gentlemen in frankfurt with tall black hats on their heads, and scorn and mockery in their faces rose up before his mind's eye, and he threw himself with energy on the y, not letting it go till at last he knew it so thoroughly that he could see what it was like even when he shut his eyes. he arrived on the following day in a somewhat lofty frame of mind, for there was now only one letter to struggle over, and when heidi began the lesson with reading aloud:-- make haste with z, if you're too slow off to the hottentots you'll go. peter remarked scornfully, "i dare say, when no one knows even where such people live." "i assure you, peter," replied heidi, "grandfather knows all about them. wait a second and i will run and ask him, for he is only over the way with the pastor." and she rose and ran to the door to put her words into action, but peter cried out in a voice of agony,-- "stop!" for he already saw himself being carried off by alm-uncle and the pastor and sent straight away to the hottentots, since as yet he did not know his last letter. his cry of fear brought heidi back. "what is the matter?" she asked in astonishment. "nothing! come back! i am going to learn my letter," he said, stammering with fear. heidi, however, herself wished to know where the hottentots lived and persisted that she should ask her grandfather, but she gave in at last to peter's despairing entreaties. she insisted on his doing something in return, and so not only had he to repeat his z until it was so fixed in his memory that he could never forget it again, but she began teaching him to spell, and peter really made a good start that evening. so it went on from day to day. the frost had gone and the snow was soft again, and moreover fresh snow continually fell, so that it was quite three weeks before heidi could go to the grandmother again. so much the more eagerly did she pursue her teaching so that peter might compensate for her absence by reading hymns to the old woman. one evening he walked in home after leaving heidi, and as he entered he said, "i can do it now." "do what, peter?" asked his mother. "read," he answered. "do you really mean it? did you hear that, grandmother?" she called out. the grandmother had heard, and was already wondering how such a thing could have come to pass. "i must read one of the hymns now; heidi told me to," he went on to inform them. his mother hastily brought the book, and the grandmother lay in joyful expectation, for it was so long since she had heard the good words. peter sat down to the table and began to read. his mother sat beside him listening with surprise and exclaiming at the close of each verse, "who would have thought it possible!" the grandmother did not speak though she followed the words he read with strained attention. it happened on the day following this that there was a reading lesson in peter's class. when it came to his turn, the teacher said,-- "we must pass over peter as usual, or will you try again once more--i will not say to read, but to stammer through a sentence." peter took the book and read off three lines without the slightest hesitation. the teacher put down his book and stared at peter as at some out-of-the-way and marvelous thing unseen before. at last he spoke,-- "peter, some miracle has been performed upon you! here have i been striving with unheard-of patience to teach you and you have not hitherto been able to say your letters even. and now, just as i had made up my mind not to waste any more trouble upon you, you suddenly are able to read a whole sentence properly and distinctly. how has such a miracle come to pass in our days?" "it was heidi," answered peter. the teacher looked in astonishment towards heidi, who was sitting innocently on her bench with no appearance of anything supernatural about her. he continued, "i have noticed a change in you altogether, peter. whereas formerly you often missed coming to school for a week, or even weeks at a time, you have lately not stayed away a single day. who has wrought this change for good in you?" [illustration] "it was uncle," answered peter. with increasing surprise the teacher looked from peter to heidi and back again at peter. "we will try once more," he said cautiously, and peter had again to show off his accomplishment by reading another three lines. there was no mistake about it--peter could read. as soon as school was over the teacher went over to the pastor to tell him this piece of news, and to inform him of the happy result of heidi's and the grandfather's combined efforts. every evening peter read one hymn aloud; so far he obeyed heidi. nothing would induce him to read a second, and indeed the grandmother never asked for it. his mother brigitta could not get over her surprise at her son's attainment, and when the reader was in bed would often express her pleasure at it. "now he has learnt to read there is no knowing what may be made of him yet." on one of these occasions the grandmother answered, "yes, it is good for him to have learnt something, but i shall indeed be thankful when spring is here again and heidi can come; they are not like the same hymns when peter reads them. so many words seem missing, and i try to think what they ought to be and then i lose the sense, and so the hymns do not come home to my heart as when heidi reads them." the truth was that peter arranged to make his reading as little troublesome for himself as possible. when he came upon a word that he thought was too long or difficult in any other way, he left it out, for he decided that a word or two less in a verse, where there were so many of them, could make no difference to his grandmother. and so it came about that most of the principal words were missing in the hymns that peter read aloud. chapter xx a strange looking procession it was the month of may. the clear, warm sunshine lay upon the mountain, which had turned green again. the last snows had disappeared and the sun had already coaxed many of the flowers to show their bright heads above the grass. heidi was at home again on the mountain, running backwards and forwards in her accustomed way, not knowing which spot was most delightful. from the shed at the back came the sound of sawing and chopping, and heidi listened to it with pleasure, for it was the old familiar sound she had known from the beginning of her life up here. suddenly she jumped up and ran round, for she must know what her grandfather was doing. in front of the shed door already stood a finished new chair, and a second was in course of construction under the grandfather's skilful hand. "oh, i know what these are for," exclaimed heidi in great glee. "we shall want them when they all come from frankfurt. this one is for grandmamma, and the one you are now making is for clara, and then--then there will, i suppose, have to be another," continued heidi with more hesitation in her voice, "or do you think, grandfather, that perhaps miss rottermeyer will not come with them?" "well, i cannot say just yet," replied her grandfather, "but it will be safer to make one so that we can offer her a seat if she does." while talking with the grandfather there was heard from above a whistling and calling which heidi immediately recognized. she ran out and found herself surrounded by her four-footed friends. they were apparently as pleased as she was to be among the heights again, for they leaped about and bleated for joy. when peter at last got up to her he handed her a letter. "there!" he exclaimed. "did some one give you this while you were out with the goats," she asked, in her surprise. "no," was the answer. "where did you get it from then?" "i found it in the dinner bag." which was true to a certain extent. the letter to heidi had been given him the evening before by the postman at doerfli, and peter had put it into his empty bag. that morning he had stuffed his bread and cheese on the top of it, and had forgotten it when he called for alm-uncle's two goats; only when he had finished his bread and cheese at mid-day and was searching in the bag for any last crumbs did he remember the letter which lay at the bottom. heidi read the address carefully; then she ran back to the shed holding out her letter to her grandfather in high glee. "from frankfurt! from clara! would you like to hear it?" the grandfather was ready and pleased to do so, as was peter, who had followed heidi into the shed. "dearest heidi,--everything is packed and we shall start now in two or three days, as soon as papa himself is ready to leave; he is not coming with us as he has first to go to paris. the doctor comes every day, and as soon as he is inside the door, he cries, 'off now as quickly as you can, off to the mountain.' he is most impatient about our going. you cannot think how much he enjoyed himself when he was with you! he has called nearly every day this winter, and each time he describes over again all he did with you and the grandfather, and talks of the mountains and the flowers and of the great silence up there far above all towns and villages, and of the fresh, delicious air, and often adds, 'no one can help getting well up there.' he himself is quite a different man since his visit, and looks happy again. oh, how i am looking forward to seeing everything and to being with you on the mountain, and to making the acquaintance of peter and the goats. [illustration] "i shall have first to go through a six weeks' cure at ragatz; this the doctor has ordered, and then we shall move up to doerfli, and every fine day i shall be carried up the mountain in my chair and spend the day with you. grandmamma is traveling with me and will remain with me; she also is delighted at the thought of paying you a visit. but just imagine, miss rottermeyer refuses to come with us. almost every day grandmamma says to her, 'well, how about this swiss journey, my worthy rottermeyer? pray say if you really would like to come with us.' but she always thanks grandmamma very politely and says she has quite made up her mind. i think i know what has done it: sebastian gave such a frightful description of the mountain, of how the rocks were so overhanging and dangerous that at any minute you might fall into a crevasse, and how it was such steep climbing that you feared at every step to go slipping to the bottom, and that goats alone could make their way up without fear of being killed. she shuddered when she heard him tell of all this, and since then she has not been so enthusiastic about switzerland as she was before. fear has also taken possession of tinette, and she also refuses to come. so grandmamma and i will be alone; sebastian will go with us as far as ragatz and then return here. "i can hardly bear waiting till i see you again. good-bye, dearest heidi; grandmamma sends you her best love and all good wishes.--your affectionate friend, clara." as soon as the letter had been read, peter rushed out, twirling his stick in the air in such a reckless fashion that the frightened goats fled down the mountain before him with higher and wider leaps than usual. he followed at full speed, his stick still raised in air in a menacing manner as if he was longing to vent his fury on some invisible foe. this foe was indeed the prospect of the arrival of the frankfurt visitors, the thought of whom filled him with exasperation. heidi was so full of joyful anticipation that she determined to seize the first possible moment next day to go down and tell grandmother who was coming, and also particularly who was not coming. the old lady was no longer confined to her bed. she was back in her corner at her spinning-wheel, but there was an expression on her face of mournful anxiety. peter had come in the evening before, brimful of anger and had told about the large party who were coming up from frankfurt, and he did not know what other things might happen after that; and the old woman had not slept all night, pursued by the old thought of heidi being taken from her. heidi ran in, and taking her little stool immediately sat down by grandmother and began eagerly pouring out all her news, growing more excited with her pleasure as she went on. but all of a sudden she stopped short and said anxiously, "what is the matter, grandmother, aren't you a bit pleased with what i am telling you?" "yes, yes, of course, child, since it gives you so much pleasure," she answered, trying to look more cheerful. "but i can see all the same that something troubles you. is it because you think after all that miss rottermeyer may come?" asked heidi, beginning to feel anxious herself. "no, no! it is nothing, child," said the grandmother, wishing to reassure her. "just give me your hand that i may feel sure you are there. no doubt it would be the best thing for you, although i feel i could scarcely survive it." "i do not want anything of the best if you could scarcely survive it," said heidi, in such a determined tone of voice that the grandmother's fears increased as she felt sure the people from frankfurt were coming to take heidi back with them, since now she was well again they naturally wished to have her with them once more. but she was anxious to hide her trouble from heidi if possible, as the latter was so sympathetic that she might refuse perhaps to go away, and that would not be right. "heidi," she said, "there is something that would comfort me and calm my thoughts; read me the hymn beginning: 'all things will work for good.'" heidi found the place at once and read out in her clear, young voice:-- all things will work for good to those who trust in me; i come with healing on my wings, to save and set thee free. "yes, yes, that is just what i wanted to hear," said the grandmother, and the deep expression of trouble passed from her face. heidi looked at her thoughtfully for a minute or two and then said, "healing means that which cures everything and makes everybody well, doesn't it, grandmother?" "yes, that is it," replied the old woman with a nod of assent, "and we may be sure everything will come to pass according to god's good purpose." when the evening came, heidi returned home up the mountain. the stars came out overhead one by one, so bright and sparkling that each seemed to send a fresh ray of joy into her heart. not only were the nights of this month of may so clear and bright, but the days as well; the sun rose every morning into the cloudless sky, as undimmed in its splendor as when it sank the evening before, and the grandfather would look out early and exclaim with astonishment, "this is indeed a wonderful year of sun; it will make all the shrubs and plants grow apace; you will have to see, general, that your army does not get out of hand from overfeeding." and peter would swing his stick with an air of assurance and an expression on his face as much as to say, "i'll see to that." so may passed, everything growing greener and greener, and then came the month of june, with a hotter sun and long, light days, that brought the flowers out all over the mountain, so that every spot was bright with them and the air full of their sweet scents. this month too was drawing to its close when one day heidi, having finished her household duties, ran out with the intention of paying first a visit to the fir trees, and then going up higher to see if the bush of rock roses was yet in bloom, for its flowers were so lovely when standing open in the sun. but just as she was turning the corner of the hut, she gave such a loud cry that her grandfather came running out of the shed to see what had happened. "grandfather, grandfather!" she cried, beside herself with excitement. "come here! look! look!" the old man was by her side by this time and looked in the direction of her outstretched hand. a strange-looking procession was making its way up the mountain; in front were two men carrying a sedan chair, in which sat a girl well wrapped up in shawls; then followed a horse, mounted by a stately-looking lady who was looking about her with great interest and talking to the guide who walked beside her; then a reclining chair, which was being pushed up by another man, it having evidently been thought safer to send the invalid to whom it belonged up the steep path in a sedan chair. the procession wound up with a porter, with such a bundle of cloaks, shawls, and furs on his back that it rose well above his head. "here they come! here they come!" shouted heidi, jumping with joy. and sure enough it was the party from frankfurt; the figures came nearer and nearer, and at last they had actually arrived. the men in front put down their burden, heidi rushed forward and the two children embraced each other with mutual delight. grandmamma having also reached the top, dismounted, and gave heidi an affectionate greeting, before turning to the grandfather, who had meanwhile come up to welcome his guests. there was no constraint about the meeting, for they both knew each other perfectly well from hearsay and felt like old acquaintances. after the first words of greeting had been exchanged grandmamma broke out into lively expressions of admiration. "what a magnificent residence you have, uncle! i could hardly have believed it was so beautiful! a king might well envy you! and how well my little heidi looks--like a wild rose!" she continued, drawing the child towards her and stroking her fresh pink cheeks. "i don't know which way to look first, it is all so lovely! what do you say to it, clara, what do you say?" clara was gazing round entranced; she had never imagined, much less seen, anything so beautiful. she gave vent to her delight in cries of joy. "o grandmamma," she said, "i should like to remain here for ever." the grandfather had meanwhile drawn up the invalid chair and spread some of the wraps over it; he now went up to clara. "supposing we carry the little daughter now to her accustomed chair; i think she will be more comfortable, the travelling sedan is rather hard," he said, and without waiting for any one to help him he lifted the child in his strong arms and laid her gently down on her own couch. he then covered her over carefully and arranged her feet on the soft cushion, as if he had never done anything all his life but wait on cripples. the grandmamma looked on with surprise. "my dear uncle," she exclaimed, "if i knew where you had learned to nurse i would at once send all the nurses i know to the same place that they might handle their patients in like manner. how do you come to know so much?" uncle smiled. "i know more from experience than training," he answered, but as he spoke the smile died away and a look of sadness passed over his face. the vision rose before him of a face of suffering that he had known long years before, the face of a man lying crippled on his couch of pain, and unable to move a limb. the man had been his captain during the fierce fighting in sicily; he had found him lying wounded and had carried him away, and after that the captain would suffer no one else near him, and uncle had stayed and nursed him till his sufferings ended in death. it all came back to uncle now, and it seemed natural to him to attend the sick clara and to show her all those kindly attentions with which he had once been so familiar. "o heidi, if only i could walk about with you," said clara longingly, "if i could but go and look at the fir trees and at everything i know so well from your description, although i have never been here before." heidi in response put out all her strength, and after a slight effort, managed to wheel clara's chair quite easily round the hut to the fir trees. there they paused. clara had never seen such trees before, with their tall, straight stems, and long, thick branches growing thicker and thicker till they touched the ground. even the grandmamma, who had followed the children, was astonished at the sight of them. heidi had now wheeled clara toward the goat shed, and had flung open the door, so that clara might have a full view of the inside. clara lamented to her grandmother that they would have to leave early before the goats came home. "i should so like to have seen peter and his whole flock." "oh, the flowers!" exclaimed clara. "look at the bushes of red flowers, and all the nodding blue bells! oh, if i could but get out and pick some!" heidi ran off at once and picked her a large nosegay of them. "but these are nothing, clara," she said, laying the flowers on her lap. "if you could come up higher to where the goats are feeding, then you would indeed see something! bushes on bushes of the red centaury, and ever so many more of the blue-bell flowers; and then the bright yellow rock roses, that gleam like pure gold, and all crowding together in the one spot. and then there are others with the large leaves that grandfather calls bright eyes, and the brown ones with little round heads that smell so delicious. oh, it is beautiful up there, and if you sit down among them you never want to get up again, everything looks and smells so lovely!" heidi's eyes sparkled with the remembrance of what she was describing; she was longing herself to see it all again, and clara caught her enthusiasm and looked back at her with equal longing in her soft blue eyes. "grandmamma, do you think i could get up there? is it possible for me to go?" she asked eagerly. "if only i could walk, climb about everywhere with you, heidi!" "i am sure i could push you up, the chair goes so easily," said heidi, and in proof of her words, she sent the chair at such a pace round the corner that it nearly went flying down the mountain-side. grandmamma being at hand, however, stopped it in time. the grandfather, meantime, had not been idle. he had by this time put the table and extra chairs in front of the seat, so that they might all sit out here and eat the dinner that was preparing inside. the milk and the cheese were soon ready, and then the company sat down in high spirits to their mid-day meal. grandmamma was enchanted, as the doctor had been, with their dining-room, whence one could see far along the valley, and far over the mountains to the farthest stretch of blue sky. a light wind blew refreshingly over them as they sat at table, and the rustling of the fir trees made a festive accompaniment to the repast. "i never enjoyed anything as much as this. it is really superb!" cried grandmamma two or three times over; and then suddenly in a tone of surprise, "do i really see you taking a second piece of toasted cheese, clara!" there, sure enough, was a second golden-colored slice of cheese on clara's plate. "oh, it does taste so nice, grandmamma--better than all the dishes we have at ragatz," replied clara, as she continued eating with appetite. "that's right, eat what you can!" exclaimed uncle. "it's the mountain air, which makes up for the deficiencies of the kitchen." and so the meal went on. grandmamma and alm-uncle got on very well together, and their conversation became more and more lively. they were so thoroughly agreed in their opinions of men and things and the world in general that they might have been taken for old cronies. the time passed merrily, and then grandmamma looked towards the west and said,-- "we must soon get ready to go, clara, the sun is a good way down; the men will be here directly with the horse and sedan." clara's face fell, and she said beseechingly, "oh, just another hour, grandmamma, or two hours. we haven't seen inside the hut yet, or heidi's bed, or any of the other things. if only the day was ten hours long!" "well, that is not possible," said grandmamma, but she herself was anxious to see inside the hut, so they all rose from the table and uncle wheeled clara's chair to the door. but there they came to a standstill, for the chair was much too broad to pass through the door. uncle, however, soon settled the difficulty by lifting clara in his strong arms and carrying her inside. grandmamma went all round and examined the household arrangements, and was very much amused and pleased at their orderliness and the cozy appearance of everything. "and this is your bedroom up here, heidi, is it not?" she asked, as without fear she mounted the ladder to the hay loft. "oh, it does smell sweet, what a healthy place to sleep in." she went up to the round window and looked out, and grandfather followed up with clara in his arms, heidi springing up after them. then they all stood and examined heidi's wonderful hay-bed, and grandmamma looked thoughtfully at it and drew in from time to time fragrant draughts of the hay-perfumed air, while clara was charmed beyond words with the sleeping apartment. "it is delightful for you up here, heidi! you can look from your bed straight into the sky, and then such a delicious smell all round you! and outside the fir trees waving and rustling! i have never seen such a pleasant, cheerful bedroom before." uncle looked across at the grandmamma. "i have been thinking," he said to her, "that if you were willing to agree to it, your little granddaughter might remain up here, and i am sure she would grow stronger. you have brought up all kinds of shawls and covers with you, and we could make up a soft bed out of them, and as to looking after the child, you need have no fear, for i will see to that." clara and heidi were as overjoyed at these words as if they were two birds let out of their cages, and grandmamma's face beamed with satisfaction. "you are indeed kind, my dear uncle," she exclaimed. "i was just thinking myself that a stay up here might be the very thing she wanted. but then the trouble, the inconvenience to yourself! and you speak of nursing and looking after her as if it were a mere nothing! i thank you sincerely, i thank you from my whole heart, uncle." and she took his hand and gave it a long and grateful shake, which he returned with a pleased expression of countenance. uncle immediately set to work to get things ready. he carried clara back to her chair outside, heidi following, not knowing how to jump high enough into the air to express her contentment. then he gathered up a whole pile of shawls and furs and said, smiling, "it is a good thing that grandmamma came up well provided for a winter's campaign; we shall be able to make good use of these." the two had meanwhile ascended to the hay-loft and begun to prepare a bed; there were so many articles piled one over the other that when finished it looked like a regular little fortress. grandmamma passed her hand carefully over it to make sure that there were no bits of hay sticking out. "if there's a bit that can come through it will," she said. the soft mattress, however, was so smooth and thick that nothing could penetrate it. then they went down again well satisfied, and found the children laughing and talking together and arranging all they were going to do from morning till evening as long as clara stayed. the next question was how long she was to remain, and first grandmamma was asked, but she referred them to the grandfather, who gave it as his opinion that she ought to make trial of the mountain air for at least a month. the children clapped their hands for joy, for they had not expected to be together for so long a time. the bearers and the horse and guide were now seen approaching; the former were sent back at once, and grandmamma prepared to mount for her return journey. "it's not saying good-bye, grandmamma," clara called out, "for you will come up now and then and see how we are getting on, and we shall so look forward to your visits." grandmamma mounted her sturdy animal, and uncle took the bridle to lead her down the steep mountain path; she begged him not to come far with her, but he insisted on seeing her safely as far as doerfli, for the way was precipitous and not without danger for the rider, he said. grandmamma did not care to stay alone in doerfli, and therefore decided to return to ragatz, and thence to make excursions up the mountain from time to time. [illustration] peter came down with his goats before uncle had returned. as soon as the animals caught sight of heidi they all came flocking towards her, and she, as well as clara on her couch, were soon surrounded by the goats, pushing and poking their heads one over the other, while heidi introduced each in turn by its name to her friend clara. it was not long before the latter had made the long-wished-for acquaintance of little snowflake, the lively greenfinch, and the well-behaved goats belonging to grandfather, as well as of the many others, including the grand turk. peter meanwhile stood apart looking on, and casting somewhat unfriendly glances towards clara. when the two children called out, "good-evening, peter," he made no answer, but swung his stick angrily, as if wanting to cut the air in two, and then ran off with his goats after him. the climax to all the beautiful things that clara had already seen upon the mountain came at the close of the day. as she lay on the large, soft bed in the hay loft, with heidi near her, she looked out through the round, open window right into the middle of the shining clusters of stars, and she exclaimed in delight,-- "heidi, it's just as if we were in a high carriage and were going to drive straight into heaven." "yes, and do you know why the stars are so happy and look down and nod to us like that?" asked heidi. "no, why is it?" clara asked in return. "because they live up in heaven, and know how well god arranges everything for us, so that we need have no more fear or trouble and may be quite sure that all things will come right in the end. but then we must never forget to pray, and to ask god to remember us when he is arranging things, so that we too may feel safe and have no anxiety about what is going to happen." the two children now sat up and said their prayers, and then heidi put her head down on her little round arm and fell off to sleep at once, but clara lay awake some time, for she could not get over the wonder of this new experience of being in bed up here among the stars. she had indeed seldom seen a star, for she never went outside the house at night, and the curtains at home were always drawn before the stars came out. each time she closed her eyes she felt she must open them again to see if the two very large stars were still looking in, and nodding to her as heidi said they did. there they were, always in the same place. at last her eyes closed of their own accord, and it was only in her dreams that she still saw the two large, friendly stars shining down upon her. chapter xxi happy days for the little visitor next morning at sunrise alm-uncle went softly up the ladder to see if the children were awake yet. clara had just opened her eyes and was looking with wonder at the bright sunlight that shone through the round window and danced and sparkled about her bed. she could not at first think where she was, until she caught sight of heidi sleeping beside her, and heard the grandfather's cheery voice asking her if she had slept well. she assured him that when she had once fallen asleep she had not opened her eyes again all night. the grandfather was satisfied at this and immediately began to help her dress with so much gentleness and understanding that it seemed as if his chief calling had been to look after sick children. when heidi awoke she was surprised to see clara dressed, and already in the grandfather's arms ready to be carried down. she hurried up too and soon ran down the ladder and out of the hut, and there further astonishment awaited her, for grandfather had been busy the night before after they were in bed. seeing that it was impossible to get clara's chair through the hut-door, he had taken down two of the boards at the side of the shed and made an opening large enough to admit the chair; these he left loose so that they could be taken away and put up at pleasure. he was at this moment wheeling clara out into the sun; he left her in front of the hut while he went to look after the goats and heidi ran up to her friend. "o heidi, if only i could stay up here for ever with you," exclaimed clara happily, turning in her chair from side to side that she might drink in the air and sun from all quarters. "now you see that it is just what i told you," replied heidi delighted; "that it is the most beautiful thing in the world to be up here with grandfather." the latter at that moment appeared coming from the goat shed and bringing two small foaming bowls of snow-white milk--one for clara and one for heidi. "that will do the little daughter good," he said, nodding to clara; "it is from little swan and will make her strong. to your health, child! drink it up." clara had never tasted goat's milk before; she hesitated and smelt it before putting it to her lips, but seeing how heidi drank hers up without hesitating, and how much she seemed to like it, clara did the same, and drank till there was not a drop left, for she too found it delicious, tasting just as if sugar and cinnamon had been mixed with it. "tomorrow we will drink two," said the grandfather, who had looked on with satisfaction at seeing her follow heidi's example. when peter arrived with the goats, uncle drew him aside and said, "from today be sure you let little swan go where she likes. she knows where to find the best food for herself, and so if she wants to climb higher, you follow her, and it will do the others no harm if they go too. a little more climbing won't hurt you, and in this matter she probably knows better than you what is good for her; i want her to give as fine milk as possible. so now be off and remember what i say, and don't look so cross about it." peter was accustomed to give immediate obedience to uncle, and he marched off with his goats, but with a turn of the head and roll of the eye that showed he had some thought in reserve. the goats carried heidi along with them a little way, which was what peter wanted. "you will have to come with them," he called to her, "for i shall be obliged to follow little swan." [illustration: a strange-looking procession was making its way up the mountain] "i cannot," heidi called back from the midst of her friends, "and i shall not be able to come for a long, long time--not as long as clara is with me. grandfather, however, has promised to go up the mountain with both of us some day." as heidi ran back to clara, peter doubled his fists and made threatening gestures towards the invalid on her couch, and then climbed up some distance without pause until he was out of sight, for he was afraid uncle might have seen him. clara and heidi had made so many plans for themselves that they hardly knew where to begin. heidi suggested that they should first write to grandmamma, to whom they had promised to send word every day, for grandmamma had not felt sure whether it would in the long run suit clara's health to remain up the mountain. with daily news of her granddaughter she could stay on without anxiety at ragatz, and yet be ready to go to clara at a moment's notice. "must we go indoors to write?" asked clara. it is so much nicer out here. so heidi ran in and brought out her school-book and writing things and her own little stool. she put her reading book and copy book on clara's knees, to make a desk for her to write upon, and she herself took her seat on the stool by the bench, and then they both began writing to grandmamma. but clara paused after every sentence to look about her; it was too beautiful for much letter writing. the breeze had sunk a little, and now only gently fanned her face and whispered lightly through the fir trees. now and again the call of some shepherd-boy rang out through the air, and the echo answered softly from the rocks. thus the morning passed, the children hardly knew how, and soon grandfather came with the mid-day bowls of steaming milk. then heidi pushed clara's chair under the fir trees, where they spent the afternoon in the shade, telling each other all that had happened since last they met. so the hours flew by and all at once, as it seemed, the evening had come with the returning peter, who still scowled and looked angry. [illustration] "good-night, peter," called out heidi, as she saw he had no intention of stopping to speak. "good-night, peter," called out clara in a friendly voice. peter took no notice and went surlily on with his goats. as clara saw the grandfather leading away little swan to milk her, she was suddenly taken with a longing for another bowlful of the fragrant milk, and waited impatiently for it. "isn't it curious, heidi," she said, astonished at herself, "as long as i can remember i have only eaten because i was obliged to, and everything used to seem to taste of cod liver oil, and i was always wishing there was no need to eat or drink; and now i am longing for grandfather to bring me the milk." "yes, i know what it feels like," replied heidi, who remembered the many days in frankfurt when all her food used to seem to stick in her throat. when grandfather at last brought the evening milk, clara drank it up so quickly that she had emptied her bowl before heidi, and then she asked for a little more. the grandfather went inside with both the children's bowls, and when he brought them out again full he had something else to add to their supper. he had walked over that afternoon to a herdsman's house where the sweetly-tasting butter was made, and had brought home a large pat, some of which he had now spread thickly on two good slices of bread. that night, when clara lay down in her bed and prepared to watch the stars, her eyes would not keep open, and she fell asleep as soon as heidi and slept soundly all night--a thing she never remembered having done before. the following day and the day after passed in the same pleasant fashion, and the third day there came a surprise for the children. two stout porters came up the mountain, each carrying a bed on his shoulders with bedding of all kinds and two beautiful new white coverlids. the men also had a letter with them from grandmamma, in which she said that these were for clara and heidi, and that heidi in future was always to sleep in a proper bed, and when she went down to doerfli in the winter she was to take one with her and leave the other at the hut, so that clara might always know there was a bed ready for her when she paid a visit to the mountain. she went on to thank the children for their long letters and encouraged them to continue writing daily, so that she might be able to picture all they were doing. grandfather went up the ladder and threw back the hay from heidi's bed on to the great heap, and soon the beds were put up close to one another so that the children might still be able to see out of the window, for he knew what pleasure they had in the light from the sun and stars. meanwhile grandmamma down at ragatz was rejoicing at the excellent news of the invalid which reached her daily from the mountain. clara found the life more charming each day and could not say enough of the kindness and care which the grandfather lavished upon her, nor of heidi's lively and amusing companionship. having such fresh assurances each day that all was going well with clara, grandmamma thought she might put off her visit to the children a little longer, for the steep ride up and down was somewhat of a fatigue to her. the grandfather seemed to feel an especial sympathy for his little invalid charge, for he tried to think of something fresh every day to help forward her recovery. he climbed up the mountain every afternoon, higher and higher each day, and came home in the evening with large bunches of leaves which scented the air with a mingled fragrance as of carnations and thyme. he hung them up in the goat shed for little swan to eat so that she might give extra fine milk. clara had now been on the mountain for three weeks. for some days past the grandfather, each morning after carrying her down, had said, "won't the little daughter try if she can stand for a minute or two?" and clara had made the effort in order to please him, but had clung to him as soon as her feet touched the ground, exclaiming that it hurt her so. he let her try a little longer, however, each day. it was many years since they had had such a splendid summer among the mountains. day after day there were the same cloudless sky and brilliant sun; the flowers opened wide their fragrant blossoms, and everywhere the eye was greeted with a glow of color; and when the evening came the crimson light fell on mountain peaks and on the great snow-field, till at last the sun sank in a sea of golden flame. heidi never tired of telling clara of the beauty of the spot on the higher slope of the mountain, where the bright golden rock-roses grew in masses, and the blue flowers were in such numbers that the very grass seemed to have turned blue. an irrepressible longing came over her to see it all once more. she ran to her grandfather, who was in the shed, calling out almost before she was inside,-- "grandfather, will you take us out with the goats tomorrow? oh, it is so lovely up there now!" "very well," he answered, "but if i do, little clara must do something to please me: she must try her best again this evening to stand on her feet." heidi ran back with the good news to clara, and the latter promised to try her very best as the grandfather wished, for she looked forward immensely to the next day's excursion. heidi was so pleased and excited that she called out to peter as soon as she caught sight of him that evening,-- "peter, peter, we are all coming out with you tomorrow and are going to stay up there the whole day." peter, cross as a bear, grumbled some reply, and lifted his stick to give greenfinch a blow for no reason in particular, but greenfinch saw the movement, and with a leap over snowflake's back she got out of the way, and the stick only hit the air. clara and heidi got into their two fine beds that night full of delightful anticipation of the morrow; they were so full of their plans that they agreed to keep awake all night and talk over them. but their heads had no sooner touched their soft pillows than the conversation suddenly ceased, and clara fell into a dream of an immense field, which looked the color of the sky, so thickly inlaid was it with blue, bell-shaped flowers; and heidi heard the great bird of prey calling to her from the heights above, "come! come! come!" chapter xxii wicked peter and the unlucky chair uncle went out early the next morning to see what kind of a day it was going to be. there was a reddish gold light over the higher peaks; a light breeze was springing up and the branches of the fir trees moved gently to and fro--the sun was on its way. he wheeled the chair out of the shed ready for the coming journey, and then went in to call the children and tell them what a lovely sunrise it was. peter came up the mountain at this moment. the goats did not gather round him so trustfully as usual, but seemed to avoid him timidly, for he had reached a high pitch of anger and bitterness, and was using his stick very unnecessarily, and where it fell the blow was no light one. for weeks now he had not had heidi all to himself as formerly. when he came up in the morning the invalid child was always already in her chair and heidi fully occupied with her. and it was the same thing over again when he came down in the evening. she had not come out with the goats once this summer, and today she was only coming in company with her friend and the chair, and would stick by the latter's side the whole time. it was the thought of this which was making him particularly cross this morning. there stood the chair on its high wheels. peter glared at it as at an enemy that had done him harm and was likely to do him still more today. he glanced round--there was no sound anywhere, no one to see him. he sprang forward like a wild creature, caught hold of the chair, and gave it a violent and angry push in the direction of the slope. it rolled swiftly forward and in another minute had disappeared. [illustration] peter now sped up the mountain as if on wings, not pausing till he was well hidden behind a large blackberry bush, for he had no wish to be seen by uncle. but he was anxious to see what had become of the chair, so he looked, and there he saw his enemy running faster and faster down hill, then it turned head over heels several times, and finally, after one great bound, rolled over and over to its complete destruction. the pieces flew in every direction--feet, arms, and torn fragments of the padded seat and bolster--and peter experienced a feeling of such unbounded delight at the sight that he leapt in the air, laughing aloud and stamping for joy. he could see only good results for himself in the disaster to his enemy. now heidi's friend would be obliged to go away, for she would have no means of going about, and when heidi was alone again she would come out with him as in the old days, and everything would go on in the proper way. but peter did not consider, or did not know, that when we do a wrong thing trouble is sure to follow. heidi now came running out of the hut and round the shed. grandfather was behind with clara in his arms. the shed stood wide open, the two loose planks having been taken down, and it was quite light inside. heidi looked into every corner and ran from one end to the other, and then stood still wondering what could have happened to the chair. grandfather now came up. "how is this, have you wheeled the chair away, heidi?" "i have been looking everywhere for it, grandfather; you said it was standing ready outside," and she again searched each corner of the shed with her eyes. at that moment the wind, which had risen suddenly, blew open the shed door and sent it banging back against the wall. "it must have been the wind, grandfather," exclaimed heidi, and her eyes grew anxious at this sudden discovery. "oh! if it has blown the chair all the way down to doerfli we shall not get it back in time, and shall not be able to go." "if it has rolled as far as that it will never come back, for it is in a hundred pieces by now," said the grandfather, going round the corner and looking down. "but it's a curious thing to have happened!" he added as he thought over the matter, for the chair would have had to turn a corner before starting down hill. "oh, i am sorry," lamented clara, "for we shall not be able to go today, or perhaps any other day. i shall have to go home, i suppose, if i have no chair. oh, i am so sorry, i am so sorry!" but heidi looked towards her grandfather with her usual expression of confidence. "grandfather, you will be able to do something, won't you, so that it need not be as clara says, and so that she is not obliged to go home." "well, for the present we will go up the mountain as we had arranged, and then later on we will see what can be done," he answered, much to the children's delight. he went indoors, carried out a pile of shawls, and laying them on the sunniest spot he could find set clara down upon them. then he brought the children's morning milk and led out his two goats. "why is peter not here yet," thought uncle to himself, for peter's whistle had not been sounded that morning. the grandfather then took clara up on one arm, and the shawls on the other. "now then we will start," he said, "the goats can come with us." heidi was pleased at this and walked on after her grandfather with an arm over either of the goats' necks, and the animals were so overjoyed to have her again that they nearly squeezed her flat between them out of sheer affection. when they reached the spot where the goats usually pastured they were surprised to find them already feeding there, climbing about the rocks, and peter with them, lying his full length on the ground. "i'll teach you another time to go by like that, you lazy rascal! what do you mean by it?" uncle called to him. peter, recognizing the voice, jumped up like a shot. "no one was up," he answered. "have you seen anything of the chair?" asked the grandfather. "of what chair?" called peter back in answer in a morose tone of voice. uncle said no more. he spread the shawls on the sunny slope, and setting clara upon them asked if she was comfortable. "as comfortable as in my chair," she said, thanking him, "and this seems the most beautiful spot. o heidi, it is lovely, it is lovely!" she cried, looking round her with delight. the grandfather prepared to leave them. they would now be safe and happy together he said, and when it was time for dinner heidi was to go and bring the bag from the shady hollow where he had put it; peter was to get them as much milk as they wanted, but heidi was to see that it was little swan's milk. he would come for them towards evening; he must now be off to see after the chair and find out what had become of it. the sky was dark blue, and not a single cloud was to be seen from one horizon to the other. the great snowfield overhead sparkled as if set with thousands and thousands of gold and silver stars. now and again a young goat came and lay down beside them; snowflake came oftenest, putting her little head down near heidi, and only moving because another goat came and drove her away. and the goats had also grown familiar with clara and would rub their heads against her shoulder, which was always a sign of acquaintanceship and goodwill. some hours went by, and heidi began to think that she might just go over to the spot where all the flowers grew to see if they were fully blown and looking as lovely as the year before. clara could not go until grandfather came back that evening, when the flowers probably would be already closed. the longing to go became stronger and stronger, till heidi felt she could not resist it. "would you think me unkind, clara," she said rather hesitatingly, "if i left you for a few minutes? i could run there and back very quickly. i want so to see how the flowers are looking--but wait--" for an idea had come into heidi's head. she ran and picked a bunch or two of green leaves, and then took hold of snowflake and led her up to clara. [illustration] "there, now you will not be alone," said heidi, giving the goat a little push to show her she was to lie down near clara, which the animal quite understood. heidi threw the leaves into clara's lap, and the latter told her friend to go at once to look at the flowers as she was quite happy to be left with the goat; she liked this new experience. heidi ran off, and clara began to hold out the leaves one by one to snowflake, who snuggled up to her new friend in a confiding manner and slowly ate the leaves from her hand. she found a strange new pleasure in sitting all alone like this on the mountain side, her only companion a little goat that looked to her for protection. she suddenly felt a great desire to be her own mistress and to be able to help others, instead of herself being always dependent as she was now. many thoughts, unknown to her before, came crowding into her mind, and a longing to go on living in the sunshine, and to be doing something that would bring happiness to another, as now she was helping to make the goat happy. an unaccustomed feeling of joy took possession of her, as if everything she had ever known or felt became all at once more beautiful, and she seemed to see all things in a new light, and so strong was the sense of this new beauty and happiness that she threw her arms round the little goat's neck, and exclaimed, "o snowflake, how delightful it is up here! if only i could stay on for ever with you beside me!" heidi had meanwhile reached her field of flowers, and as she caught sight of it she uttered a cry of joy. the whole ground in front of her was a mass of shimmering gold, where the cistus flowers spread their yellow blossoms. above them waved whole bushes of the deep blue-bell flowers. heidi stood and gazed and drew in the delicious air. suddenly she turned round and reached clara's side out of breath with running and excitement. "oh, you must come," she called out as soon as she came in sight, "it is more beautiful than you can imagine, and perhaps this evening it may not be so lovely. i believe i could carry you, don't you think i could?" clara looked at her and shook her head. "why, heidi, what can you be thinking of! you are smaller than i am. oh, if only i could walk!" heidi looked round as if in search of something, some new idea had evidently come into her head. peter was sitting up above looking down on the two children. he had been sitting and staring before him in the same way for hours, as if he could not make out what he saw. he had destroyed the chair so that the friend might not be able to move anywhere and that her visit might come to an end, and then a little while after she had appeared right up here under his very nose with heidi beside her. he thought his eyes must deceive him, and yet there she was and no mistake about it. heidi looked up to where he was sitting and called out in a commanding voice, "peter, come down here!" "i don't wish to come," he called in reply. "but you must; i cannot do it alone, and you must come here and help me; make haste and come down," she called again in an urgent voice. "i shall do nothing of the kind," was the answer. heidi ran some way up the slope towards him, and then pausing called again, her eyes ablaze with anger, "if you don't come at once, peter, i will do something to you that you won't like; i mean what i say." peter felt an inward throe at these words, and a great fear seized him. he had done something wicked which he wanted no one to know about, and so far he had thought himself safe. but now heidi spoke exactly as if she knew everything, and whatever she did know she would tell her grandfather, and there was no one he feared so much as this latter person. supposing he were to suspect what had happened about the chair! peter's anguish of mind grew more acute. he stood up and went down to where heidi was awaiting him. "i am coming, and you won't do what you said." peter appeared now so submissive with fear that heidi felt quite sorry for him and answered assuringly, "no, no, of course not; come along with me, there is nothing to be afraid of in what i want you to do." as soon as they got to clara, heidi gave her orders: peter was to take hold of her under the arms on one side and she on the other, and together they were to lift her up. this first movement was successfully carried through, but then came the difficulty. as clara could not even stand, how were they to support her and get her along? heidi was too small for her arm to serve clara to lean upon. "you must put one arm well round my neck--so, and put the other through peter's and lean firmly upon it, then we shall be able to carry you." peter, however, had never given his arm to any one in his life. clara put hers in his, but he kept his own hanging down straight beside him like a stick. "that's not the way, peter," said heidi in an authoritative voice. "you must put your arm out in the shape of a ring, and clara must put hers through it and lean her weight upon you, and whatever you do, don't let your arm give way; like that i am sure we shall be able to manage." peter did as he was told, but still they did not get on very well. clara was not such a light weight, and the team did not match very well in size; it was up one side and down the other, so that the supports were rather wabbly. clara tried to use her own feet a little, but each time drew them quickly back. "put your foot down firmly once," suggested heidi, "i am sure it will hurt you less after that." "do you think so," said clara hesitatingly, but she followed heidi's advice and ventured one firm step on the ground and then another; she called out a little as she did it; then she lifted her foot again and went on, "oh, that was less painful already," she exclaimed joyfully. [illustration: the little invalid finds that she is able to walk] "try again," said heidi encouragingly. and clara went on putting one foot out after another until all at once she called out, "i can do it, heidi! look! look! i can make proper steps!" and heidi cried out with even greater delight, "can you really make steps, can you really walk? really walk by yourself? oh, if only grandfather were here!" and she continued gleefully to exclaim, "you can walk now, clara, you can walk!" clara still held on firmly to her supports, but with every step she felt safer on her feet, as all three became aware, and heidi was beside herself with joy. "now we shall be able to come up here together every day, and just go where we like; and you will be able to walk about as i do, and not have to be pushed in a chair, and will get quite strong and well. it is the greatest happiness we could have had!" and clara heartily agreed, for she could think of no greater joy in the world than to be strong and able to go about like other people, and no longer to have to lie from day to day in her invalid chair. they had not far to go to reach the field of flowers, and could already catch sight of the cistus flowers' glowing gold in the sun. as they came to the bushes of the blue-bell flowers, with sunny, inviting patches of warm ground between them, clara said, "can't we sit down here for a while?" this was just what heidi enjoyed, and so the children sat down in the midst of the flowers, clara for the first time on the dry, warm mountain grass, and she found it indescribably delightful. everything was so lovely! so lovely! and heidi, who was beside her, thought she had never seen it so perfectly beautiful up here before. then she suddenly remembered that clara was cured; that was the crowning delight of all that made life so delightful in the midst of all this surrounding beauty. clara sat silent, overcome with the enchantment of all that her eye rested upon, and with the anticipation of all the happiness that was now before her. there seemed hardly room in her heart for all her joyful emotions. peter also lay among the flowers without moving or speaking, for he was fast asleep. the breeze came blowing softly and caressingly from behind the sheltering rocks, and passed whisperingly through the bushes overhead. heidi got up now and then to run about, for the flowers waving in the warm wind seemed to smell sweeter and to grow more thickly whichever way she went. so the hours went by. it was long past noon when a small troop of goats advanced solemnly towards the plain of flowers. it was not a feeding place of theirs, for they did not care to graze on flowers. they looked like an embassy arriving, with greenfinch as their leader. they had evidently come in search of their companions who had left them in the lurch, and who had remained away so long, for the goats could tell the time without mistake. as soon as greenfinch caught sight of the three missing friends amid the flowers she set up an extra loud bleat, whereupon all the others joined in a chorus of bleats, and the whole company came trotting towards the children. peter woke up, rubbing his eyes, for he had been dreaming that he saw the chair again with its beautiful red padding standing whole and uninjured before the grandfather's door. he experienced again the dreadful fear of mind that he had lost in this dream of the uninjured chair. even though heidi had promised not to do anything, there still remained the lively dread that his deed might be found out in some other way. he allowed heidi to do what she liked with him, for he was reduced to such a state of low spirits and meekness that he was ready to give his help to clara without murmur or resistance. when all three had got back to their old quarters heidi ran and brought forward the bag, and proceeded to fulfill her promise, for her threat of the morning had been concerned with peter's dinner. she had seen her grandfather putting in all sorts of good things, and had been pleased to think of peter having a large share of them, and she had meant him to understand when he refused at first to help her that he would get nothing for his dinner, but peter's conscience had put another interpretation upon her words. heidi took the food out of the bag and divided it into three portions, and each was of such a goodly size that she thought to herself, "there will be plenty of ours left for him to have more still." she gave the other two their dinners and sat down with her own beside clara, and they all three ate with a good appetite after their great exertions. peter ate up every bit of food to the last crumb, but there was something wanting to his usual enjoyment of a good dinner, for every mouthful he swallowed seemed to choke him, and he felt something gnawing inside him. they were so late at their dinner that they had not long to wait after they had finished before grandfather came up to get them. heidi rushed forward to meet him as soon as he appeared, as she wanted to be the first to tell him the good news. she was so excited that she could hardly get her words out when she did get up to him, but he soon understood, and a look of extreme pleasure came into his face. he hastened up to where clara was sitting and said with a cheerful smile, "so, we've made the effort, have we, and won the day!" [illustration: "we must not overdo it," he said, taking clara in his arms] then he lifted her up, and putting his left arm behind her and giving her his right to lean upon, made her walk a little way, which she did with less trembling and hesitation than before, now that she had such a strong arm round her. heidi skipped along beside her in glee, and the grandfather looked too as if some happiness had befallen him. "we must not overdo it," he said taking clara up in his arms. "it is high time we went home," and he started off down the mountain path, for he was anxious to get her indoors that she might rest after her unusual fatigue. when peter got to doerfli that evening he found a large group of people collected round a certain spot, pushing one another and looking over each other's shoulders in their eagerness to catch sight of something lying on the ground. peter thought he should like to see too, and poked and elbowed till he made his way through. there it lay, the thing he had wanted to see. scattered about the grass were the remains of clara's chair; part of the back and the middle bit, and enough of the red padding and the bright nails to show how magnificent the chair had been when it was entire. "i was here when the men passed carrying it up," said the baker, who was standing near peter. "i'll bet any one that it was worth dollars at least. i cannot think how such an accident could have happened." "uncle said the wind might perhaps have done it," remarked one of the women. "it's a good job that no one but the wind did it," said the baker again, "or he might smart for it! no doubt the gentleman in frankfurt when he hears what has happened will make inquiries about it. i am glad for myself that i have not been seen up the mountain for a good two years, as suspicion is likely to fall on any one who was up there at the time." many more opinions were passed on the matter, but peter had heard enough. he crept quietly away out of the crowd and then took to his heels and ran up home as fast as he could, as if he thought some one was after him. the baker's words had filled him with fear and trembling. he was sure now that any day a constable might come over from frankfurt and inquire about the destruction of the chair, and then everything would come out, and he would be seized and carried off to frankfurt and there put in prison. he reached home in this disturbed state of mind. he would not open his mouth in reply to anything that was said to him; he would not eat his potatoes; all he did was to creep off to bed as quickly as possible and hide under the bedclothes and groan. "peter has been eating sorrel again, and is evidently in pain by the way he is groaning," said his mother. "you must give him a little more bread to take with him; give him a bit of mine tomorrow," said the grandmother sympathizingly. as the children lay that night in bed looking out at the stars heidi said, "i have been thinking all day what a happy thing it is that god does not give us what we ask for, even when we pray and pray and pray, if he knows there is something better for us; have you felt like that?" "why do you ask me that tonight all of a sudden?" asked clara. "because i prayed so hard when i was in frankfurt that i might go home at once, and because i was not allowed to i thought god had forgotten me. and now you see, if i had come away at first when i wanted to, you would never have come here, and would never have got well." clara had in her turn become thoughtful. "but, heidi," she began again, "in that case we ought never to pray for anything, as god always intends something better for us than we know or wish for." "you must not think it is like that, clara," replied heidi eagerly. "we must go on praying for everything, so that god may know we do not forget that it all comes from him. if we forget god, then he lets us go our own way and we get into trouble." "how did you learn all that?" asked clara. "grandmamma explained it to me first of all, and then when it all happened just as she said, i knew it myself, and i think, clara," she went on, as she sat up in bed, "we ought certainly to thank god tonight that you can walk now, and that he has made us so happy." "yes, heidi, i am sure you are right, and i am glad you reminded me; i almost forgot my prayers for very joy." both children said their prayers, and each thanked god in her own way for the blessing he had bestowed on clara, who had for so long lain weak and ill. the next morning the grandfather suggested that they should now write to the grandmamma and ask her if she would not come and pay them a visit, as they had something new to show her. but the children had another plan in their heads, for they wanted to prepare a great surprise for grandmamma. clara was first to have more practice in walking so that she might be able to go a little way by herself; above all things grandmamma was not to have a hint of it. they asked the grandfather how long he thought this would take, and when he told them about a week or less, they immediately sat down and wrote a pressing invitation to grandmamma, asking her to come soon, but no word was said about there being anything new to see. the following days were some of the most joyous that clara had spent on the mountain. she awoke each morning with a happy voice within her crying, "i am well now! i am well now! i shan't have to go about in a chair, i can walk by myself like other people." then came the walking, and every day she found it easier and was able to go a longer distance. the movement gave her such an appetite that the grandfather cut his bread and butter a little thicker each day, and was well pleased to see it disappear. he brought out the foaming milk in a larger jug so he could fill the little bowls over and over again. and so another week went by and the day came which was to bring grandmamma up the mountain for her second visit. chapter xxiii good-bye to the beautiful mountain grandmamma wrote the day before her arrival to let the children know that they might expect her without fail. peter brought up the letter early the following morning. as he neared the group his steps slackened, and the instant he had handed the letter to uncle he turned quickly away as if frightened and ran off up the mountain. "grandfather," said heidi, who had been watching him with astonished eyes, "why does peter always behave now like the great turk when he thinks somebody is after him with a stick; he turns and shakes his head and goes off with a bound just like that?" "perhaps peter fancies he sees the stick which he so well deserves coming after him," answered grandfather. heidi set about tidying the hut, as grandmamma must find everything clean and in good order when she arrived. clara looked on amused and interested to watch the busy heidi at her work. then the children dressed up and went and sat together outside on the seat ready to receive her. at last they saw the procession winding up the mountain just in the order they had expected. first there was the guide, then the white horse with grandmamma mounted upon it, and last of all the porter with a heavy bundle on his back, for grandmamma would not think of going up the mountain without a full supply of wraps and rugs. nearer and nearer wound the procession; at last it reached the top and grandmamma was there looking down on the children from her horse. she no sooner saw them, however, sitting side by side, than she began quickly dismounting, as she cried out in a shocked tone of voice, "why is this? why are you not lying in your chair, clara? what are you all thinking about?" but even before she had got close to them she threw up her hands in astonishment, exclaiming further, "is it really you, dear child? why, your cheeks have grown quite round and rosy! i should hardly have known you again!" and she was hastening forward to embrace her, when heidi slipped down from the seat, and with clara leaning on her shoulder, began walking along quite coolly and naturally. then indeed grandmamma was surprised, or rather alarmed, for she thought at first that it must be some unheard-of proceeding of heidi's. but no--clara was actually walking steadily and uprightly beside heidi. laughing and crying she ran to them and embraced first clara and then heidi, and then clara again, unable to speak for joy. all at once she caught sight of uncle standing by the seat and looking on smiling at the meeting. she went up to the old man and seized his hands. "my dear uncle! my dear uncle! how much we have to thank you for! it is all your doing! it is your care and nursing--" "and god's good sun and mountain air," he interrupted her smiling. "yes, and don't forget the beautiful milk i have," put in clara. "grandmamma, you can't think what a quantity of goat's milk i drink, and how nice it is!" "i can see that by your cheeks, child," answered grandmamma. "i really should not have known you; you have grown quite strong and plump, and taller too; i never hoped or expected to see you look like that. i cannot take my eyes off you, for i can hardly yet believe it. but now i must telegraph without delay to my son in paris, and tell him he must come here at once. i shall not say why; it will be the greatest happiness he has ever known. my dear uncle, how can i send a telegram; have you dismissed the men yet?" "they have gone," he answered, "but if you are in a hurry i will get peter, and he can take it for you." grandmamma thanked him, for she was anxious that the good news should not be kept from her son a day longer than was possible. so uncle went aside a little way and blew such a resounding whistle through his fingers that he awoke a responsive echo among the rocks far overhead. he did not have to wait many minutes before peter came running down in answer, for he knew the sound of uncle's whistle. peter looked as white as a ghost, for he thought uncle was sending for him to give him up. but instead he only gave him a written paper with instructions to take it down at once to the post-office at doerfli; uncle would settle for the payment later, as it was not safe to give peter too much to look after. peter went off with the paper in his hand, feeling some relief of mind for the present, for as uncle had not whistled for him in order to give him up it was evident that no policeman had yet arrived. so now they all sat down in peace to their dinner round the table in front of the hut, and grandmamma was given a detailed account of all that had taken place. how grandfather had made clara try first to stand and then to move her feet a little every day, and how they had settled for the day's excursion up the mountain and the chair had been blown away. how clara's desire to see the flowers had induced her to take the first walk, and so by degrees one thing had led to another. the recital took some time, for grandmamma continually interrupted it with fresh exclamations of surprise and thankfulness: "it hardly seems possible! i can scarcely believe it is not all a dream! are we really awake, and are we all sitting here by the mountain hut, and is that round-faced, healthy-looking child my poor little, white, sickly clara?" and clara and heidi could not get over their delight at the success of the surprise they had so carefully arranged for grandmamma and at the latter's continued astonishment. meanwhile mr. sesemann, who had finished his business in paris, had also been preparing a surprise. without saying a word to his mother he got into the train one sunny morning and travelled that day to basle; the next morning he continued his journey, for a great longing had seized him to see his little daughter from whom he had been separated the whole summer. he arrived at ragatz a few hours after his mother had left. when he heard that she had that very day started for the mountain, he immediately hired a carriage and drove as far as doerfli, and then started to climb the mountain. he went on and on, but still no hut came in sight, and yet he knew there was one where peter lived half way up, for the path had been described to him over and over again. he began to wonder if he was on the right path, and whether the hut lay perhaps on the other side of the mountain. he looked round to see if any one was in sight of whom he could ask the way; but far and wide there was not a soul to be seen nor a sound to be heard. only at moments the mountain wind whistled through the air, and the insects hummed in the sunshine, or a happy bird sang out from the branches of a solitary larch tree. mr. sesemann stood still for a while to let the cool alpine wind blow on his hot face. but now some one came running down the mountainside--it was peter with the telegram in his hand. he ran straight down the steep slope, not following the path on which mr. sesemann was standing. as soon as the latter caught sight of him he beckoned to him to come. peter advanced towards him slowly and timidly, with a sort of sidelong movement, as if he could only move one leg properly and had to drag the other after him. "hurry up, lad," he called, and when peter was near enough, "tell me," he said, "is this the way to the hut where the old man and the child heidi live, and where the visitors from frankfurt are staying?" a low sound of fear was the only answer he received, as peter turned to run away in such precipitous haste that he fell head over heels several times, and went rolling and bumping down the slope in involuntary bounds, just in the same way as the chair, only that peter fortunately did not fall to pieces as that had done. only the telegram came to grief, and that was torn into fragments and flew away. "how extraordinarily timid these mountain dwellers are!" thought mr. sesemann to himself, for he quite believed that it was the sight of a stranger that had made such an impression on this unsophisticated child of the mountains. after watching peter's violent descent towards the valley for a few minutes he continued his journey. peter, meanwhile, with all his efforts, could not stop himself, but went rolling on, and still tumbling head over heels at intervals in a most remarkable manner. [illustration: peter went rolling and bumping down the slope] but this was not the most terrible part of his sufferings at the moment, for far worse was the fear and horror that possessed him, feeling sure, as he did now, that the policeman had really come over for him from frankfurt. he had no doubt at all that the stranger who had asked him the way was the very man himself. just as he had rolled to the edge of the last high slope above doerfli he was caught in a bush, and at last able to keep himself from falling any farther. he lay still for a second or two to recover himself, and to think over matters. "well done! another of you come bumping along like this!" said a voice close to peter, "and which of you tomorrow is the wind going to send rolling down like a badly-sewn sack of potatoes?" it was the baker, who stood there laughing. he had been strolling out to refresh himself after his hot day's work, and had watched with amusement as he saw peter come rolling over and over in much the same way as the chair. peter was on his feet in a moment. he had received a fresh shock. without once looking behind him he began hurrying up the slope again. he would have liked best to go home and creep into bed, so as to hide himself, for he felt safest when there. but he had left the goats up above, and uncle had given him strict injunctions to make haste back so that they might not be left too long alone. and he stood more in awe of uncle than any one, and would not have dared to disobey him on any account. there was no help for it, he had to go back, and peter went on groaning and limping. he could run no more, for the anguish of mind he had been through, and the bumping and shaking he had received, were beginning to tell upon him. and so with lagging steps and groans he slowly made his way up the mountain. shortly after meeting peter, mr. sesemann passed the first hut, and so was satisfied that he was on the right path. he continued his climb with renewed courage, and at last, after a long and exhausting walk, he came in sight of his goal. there, only a little distance farther up, stood the grandfather's home, with the dark tops of the fir trees waving above its roof. mr. sesemann was delighted to have come to the last steep bit of his journey, in another minute or two he would be with his little daughter, and he pleased himself with the thought of her surprise. but the company above had seen his approaching figure and recognized who it was, and they were preparing something he little expected as a surprise on their part. as he stepped on to the space in front of the hut two figures came towards him. one a tall girl with fair hair and pink cheeks, leaning on heidi, whose dark eyes were dancing with joy. mr. sesemann suddenly stopped, staring at the two children, and all at once the tears started to his eyes. what memories arose in his heart! just so had clara's mother looked, the fair-haired girl with the delicate pink-and-white complexion. he did not know if he was awake or dreaming. "don't you know me, papa?" called clara to him, her face beaming with happiness. "am i so altered since you saw me?" then the father ran to his child and clasped her in his arms. "yes, you are indeed altered! how is it possible? is it true what i see?" and the delighted man stepped back to look full at her again, and to make sure that the picture would not vanish before his eyes. "are you my little clara, really my little clara?" he kept on saying, then he clasped her in his arms again, and again put her away from him that he might look and make sure it was she who stood before him. then grandmamma came up, anxious for a sight of her son's happy face. "well, what do you say now, dear son?" she exclaimed. "you have given us a pleasant surprise, but it is nothing in comparison to what we have prepared for you, you must confess," and she gave her son an affectionate kiss as she spoke. "but now," she went on, "you must come and pay your respects to uncle, who is our chief benefactor." "yes, indeed, and our little heidi, too," said mr. sesemann, shaking heidi by the hand. "well? are you quite well and happy in your mountain home? but i need not ask, no alpine rose could look more blooming. i am glad, child, it is a pleasure to me to see you so." and heidi looked up with equal pleasure into his kind face. how good he had always been to her! and that he should find such happiness awaiting him up here on the mountain made her heart beat with gladness. grandmamma introduced him to uncle, and while the two men were shaking hands and mr. sesemann was expressing his heartfelt thanks and boundless astonishment to the old man, grandmamma wandered round to the back to see the old fir trees again. here another unexpected sight met her gaze, for there, under the trees stood a great bush of the most wonderful dark blue gentians, as fresh and shining as if they were growing on the spot. "how exquisite! what a lovely sight!" she exclaimed. "heidi, dearest child, come here! is it you who have prepared this pleasure for me? it is perfectly wonderful!" the children ran up. "no, no, i did not put them there," said heidi, "but i know who did." "they grow just like that on the mountain, grandmamma, only if anything they look more beautiful still," clara put in; "but guess who brought those down today," and as she spoke she gave such a pleased smile that the grandmother thought for a moment the child herself must have gathered them. but that was hardly possible. at this moment a slight rustling was heard behind the fir trees. it was peter, who had just arrived. he had made a long round, trying to slip by unobserved. but grandmamma had seen and recognized him, and suddenly the thought struck her that it might be peter who had brought the flowers and that he was now trying to get away unseen, feeling shy about it; but she could not let him go off like that, he must have some little reward. "come along, boy; come here, do not be afraid," she called to him. peter stood still, petrified with fear. after all he had gone through that day he felt he had no longer any power of resistance left. all he could think was, "it's all up with me now." every hair of his head stood on end, and he stepped forth from behind the fir trees, his face pale. "courage, boy," said grandmamma in her effort to dispel his shyness, "tell me now straight out without hesitation, was it you who did it?" peter did not lift his eyes and therefore did not see at what grandmamma was pointing. but he knew that uncle was standing at the corner of the hut, fixing him with his grey eyes, while beside him stood the most terrible person that peter could conceive--the police-constable from frankfurt. quaking in every limb, and with trembling lips he muttered a low "yes." "well, and what is there dreadful about that?" said grandmamma. "because--because--it is all broken to pieces and no one can put it together again." peter brought out his words with difficulty, and his knees knocked together so that he could hardly stand. grandmamma went up to uncle. "is that poor boy a little out of his mind?" she asked sympathizingly. "not in the least," uncle assured her, "it is only that he was the wind that sent the chair rolling down the slope, and he is expecting his well-deserved punishment." grandmamma found this hard to believe, for in her opinion peter did not look an entirely bad boy, nor could he have had any reason for destroying such a necessary thing as the chair. but uncle had only given expression to the suspicion that he had had from the moment the accident happened. the angry looks which peter had from the beginning cast at clara, and the other signs of his dislike to what had been taking place on the mountain, had not escaped uncle's eye. putting two and two together he had come to the right conclusion as to the cause of the disaster, and he therefore spoke without hesitation when he accused peter. the lady broke out into lively expostulations on hearing this. "no, no, dear uncle, we will not punish the poor boy any further. one must be fair to him. here are all these strangers from frankfurt who come and carry away heidi, his one sole possession, and a possession well worth having too, and he is left to sit alone day after day for weeks, with nothing to do but brood over his wrongs. no, no, let us be fair to him; his anger got the upper hand and drove him to an act of revenge--a foolish one, i own, but then we all behave foolishly when we are angry." and saying this she went back to peter, who still stood frightened and trembling. she sat down on the seat under the fir trees and called him to her kindly,-- "come here, boy, and stand in front of me, for i have something to say to you. leave off shaking and trembling, for i want you to listen to me. you sent the chair rolling down the mountain so that it was broken to pieces. that was a very wrong thing to do, as you yourself knew very well at the time, and you also knew that you deserved to be punished for it. but be sure of this, peter: that those who do wrong make a mistake when they think no one knows anything about it. for god sees and hears everything, and when the wicked doer tries to hide what he has done, then god wakes up the little watchman that he places inside us all when we are born and who sleeps on quietly till we do something wrong. and the little watchman has a small goad in his hand, and when he wakes up he keeps on pricking us with it, so that we have not a moment's peace. and the watchman torments us still further, for he keeps on calling out, 'now you will be found out! now they will drag you off to punishment!' and so we pass our life in fear and trouble, and never know a moment's happiness or peace. have you not felt something like that lately, peter?" peter gave a contrite nod of the head, as one who knew all about it, for grandmamma had described his own feelings exactly. "and you calculated wrongly also in another way," continued grandmamma, "for you see the harm you intended has turned out for the best for those you wished to hurt. as clara had no chair to go in and yet wanted so much to see the flowers, she made the effort to walk, and every day since she has been walking better and better. do not forget my words, and whenever you feel inclined to do anything wrong, think of the little watchman inside you with his goad and his disagreeable voice. will you remember all this?" "yes, i will," answered peter, still very subdued, for he did not yet know how the matter was going to end, as the police-constable was still standing with the uncle. "that's right, and now the thing is over and done for," said grandmamma. "but i should like you to have something for a pleasant reminder of the visitors from frankfurt. can you tell me anything that you have wished very much to have? what would you like best as a present?" peter lifted his head at this, and stared open-eyed at grandmamma. up to the last minute he had been expecting something dreadful to happen, and now he might have anything that he wanted. his mind seemed all of a whirl. "i mean what i say," went on grandmamma. "you shall choose what you would like to have as a remembrance from the frankfurt visitors, and as a token that they will not think any more of the wrong thing you did. now do you understand me, boy?" the fact began at last to dawn upon peter's mind that he had no further punishment to fear, and that the kind lady sitting in front of him had delivered him from the police-constable. he suddenly felt as if the weight of a mountain had fallen off him. he had also by this time awakened to the further conviction that it was better to make a full confession at once of anything he had done wrong or had left undone, and so he said, "and i lost the paper, too." grandmamma had to consider a moment what he meant, but soon recalled his connection with her telegram, and answered kindly,-- "you are a good boy to tell me! never conceal anything you have done wrong, and then all will come right again. and now what would you like me to give you?" peter grew almost giddy with the thought that he could have anything in the world that he wished for. he had a vision of the yearly fair at mayenfeld with the glittering booths and all the lovely things that he had stood gazing at for hours, without a hope of ever possessing one of them, for peter's purse never held more than five cents, and all these fascinating objects cost double that amount. there were the pretty little red whistles that he could use to call his goats, and the splendid knives with rounded handles, known as toad-strikers, with which one could do such fine whittling. peter remained pondering; he was trying to think which of these two desirable objects he should best like to have, and he found it difficult to decide. then a bright thought occurred to him; he would then be able to think over the matter between now and next year's fair. "a dime," answered peter, who was no longer in doubt. grandmamma could not help laughing. "that is not an extravagant request. come here then!" and she pulled out her purse and put four bright silver dollars in his hand and then laid some dimes on the top of them. "we will settle our accounts at once," she continued, "and i will explain them to you. i have given you as many dimes as there are weeks in the year, and so every sunday throughout the year you can take out a dime to spend." "as long as i live?" said peter quite innocently. grandmamma laughed more still at this, and the men hearing her, paused in their talk to listen to what was going on. "yes, boy, you shall have it all your life--i will put it down in my will. do you hear, my son? and you are to put it down in yours as well: a dime a week to peter as long as he lives." mr. sesemann nodded his assent and joined in the laughter. peter looked again at the present in his hand to make sure he was not dreaming, and then said, "thank god!" and he went off running and leaping with more even than his usual agility, and this time managed to keep his feet, for it was not fear, but joy such as he had never known before in his life, that now sent him flying up the mountain. all trouble and trembling had disappeared, and he was to have a dime every week for life. later, after dinner, when the party were sitting together chatting, clara drew her father a little aside, and said with an eagerness that had been unknown to the little, tired invalid,-- "o papa, if you only knew all that grandfather has done for me from day to day! i cannot reckon his kindnesses, but i shall never forget them as long as i live! and i keep on thinking what i could do for him, or what present i could make him that would give him half as much pleasure as he has given me." "that is just what i wish most myself, clara," replied her father, whose face grew happier each time he looked at his little daughter. "i have been also thinking how we can best show our gratitude to our good benefactor." mr. sesemann went over to uncle and taking him by the hand said,-- "dear friend, you will believe me when i tell you that i have known no real happiness for years past. what good were money and property to me when they were unable to make my poor child well and happy? with the help of god you have made her whole and strong, and you have given new life not only to her but to me. tell me now, in what way can i show my gratitude to you? i can never repay all you have done, but whatever is in my power to do is at your service. speak, friend, and tell me what i can do?" uncle had listened to him quietly, with a smile of pleasure on his face as he looked at the happy father. "mr. sesemann," he replied in his dignified way, "i too have my share in the joy of your daughter's recovery, and my trouble is well repaid by it. i thank you heartily for all you have said, but i have need of nothing; i have enough for myself and the child as long as i live. of course, i am growing old, and shall not be here much longer. i have nothing to leave the child when i die. if you could promise me that heidi will never have to earn her living among strangers, then you would richly reward me for all i have done for your child." "there could never be any question of such a thing as that, my dear friend," said mr. sesemann quickly. "i look upon the child as my own. ask my mother, my daughter; you may be sure that they will never allow the child to be left in any one else's care! but if it will make you happier i give you here my hand upon it. i promise you: heidi shall never have to go and earn her living among strangers; i will make provision against this both during my life and after. but now i have something else to say. independent of her circumstances, the child is totally unfitted to live a life away from home; we found that out when she was with us. but she has made friends, and among them i know one who is at this moment in frankfurt; he is winding up his affairs there, that he may be free to go where he likes and take his rest. i am speaking of my friend, the doctor, who came over here in the autumn and who, having well considered your advice, intends to settle in this neighborhood, for he has never felt so well and happy anywhere as in the company of you and heidi. so you see the child will henceforth have two protectors near her--and may they both live long to share the task!" [illustration: "are you really my little clara?"] "god grant indeed it may be so!" added grandmamma, shaking uncle's hand warmly as she spoke, to show how sincerely she echoed her son's wish. then putting her arm round heidi, who was standing near, she drew the child to her. "and i have a question to ask you too, dear heidi. tell me if there is anything you particularly wish for?" "yes, there is," answered heidi promptly, looking up delightedly at grandmamma. "then tell me at once, dear, what it is." "i want to have the bed i slept in at frankfurt with the high pillows and thick coverlid, and then grandmother will not have to lie with her head down hill and hardly able to breathe, and she will be warm enough under the coverlid not to have to wear her shawl in bed to prevent her freezing to death." in her eagerness to obtain what she had set her heart upon heidi hardly gave herself time to get out all she had to say, and did not pause for breath till she reached the end of her sentence. "dearest child," answered grandmamma, moved by heidi's speech, "what is this you tell me of grandmother! you are right to remind me. in the midst of our own happiness we forget too often that which we ought to remember before all things. when god has shown us some special mercy we should think at once of those who are denied so many things. i will telegraph to frankfurt at once! miss rottermeyer shall pack up the bed this very day, and it will be here in two days' time. god willing, grandmother shall soon be sleeping comfortably upon it." heidi skipped round grandmamma in her glee, and then stopping all of a sudden, said quickly, "i must make haste down and tell her." "no, no, heidi, what can you be thinking of," said her grandfather reprovingly. "you can't be running backwards and forwards like that when you have visitors." but grandmamma interfered on heidi's behalf. "the child is not so far wrong, uncle," she said, "and poor grandmother has too long been deprived of heidi for our sakes. let us all go down to her together. i believe my horse is waiting for me and i can ride down from there, and as soon as i get to doerfli the message shall be sent off. what do you think of my plan, son?" mr. sesemann had not yet had time to speak of his travelling plans, so he begged his mother to wait a few moments that he might tell her what he proposed doing. mr. sesemann had been arranging that he and his mother should make a little tour in switzerland, first ascertaining if clara was in a fit state to go some part of the way with them. but now he would have the full enjoyment of his daughter's company, and that being so he did not want to miss any of these beautiful days of later summer, but to start at once on the journey that he now looked forward to with such additional pleasure. and so he proposed that they should spend the night in doerfli and that next day he should come and get clara, then they would all three go down to ragatz and make that their starting point. clara was rather upset at first at the thought of saying good-bye like this to the mountain; she could not help being pleased, however, at the prospect of another journey, and no time was allowed her to give way to lamentation. grandmamma had already taken heidi by the hand, preparatory to leading the way, when she suddenly turned. "but what is to become of clara?" she asked, remembering all at once that the child could not yet take so long a walk. she gave a nod of satisfaction as she saw that uncle had already taken clara up in his arms and was following her with sturdy strides. mr. sesemann brought up the rear, and so they all started down the mountain. heidi kept jumping for joy as she and mrs. sesemann walked along side by side, and grandmamma asked all about peter's grandmother, how she lived, and what she did, especially in the winter when it was so cold. and heidi gave her a minute account of everything, for she knew all that went on at grandmother's, and told her how the old woman sat crouching in her corner and trembling with cold. she was able also to give her exact particulars of what grandmother had and had not to eat. grandmamma listened with interest and sympathy until they came to grandmother's. brigitta was just hanging out peter's second shirt in the sun, so that he might have it ready to put on when he had worn the other long enough. as soon as she saw the company approaching she rushed indoors. "the whole party of them are just going past, mother, evidently all returning home again," she informed the old woman. "uncle is with them, carrying the sick child." "alas, it is really to be so then?" sighed the grandmother. "and you saw heidi with them? then they are taking her away. if only she could come and put her hand in mine again! if i could but hear her voice once more!" at this moment the door flew open and heidi sprang across to the corner and threw her arms round grandmother. "grandmother! grandmother! my bed is to be sent from frankfurt with all the three pillows and the thick coverlid; grandmamma says it will be here in two days." heidi could not get out her words quickly enough, for she was impatient to see grandmother's great joy at the news. the latter smiled, but said a little sadly,-- "she must indeed be a good, kind lady, and i ought to be glad to think she is taking you with her, but i shall not outlive it long." "what is this i hear? who has been telling my good grandmother such tales?" exclaimed a kindly voice, and grandmother felt her hand taken and warmly pressed, for grandmamma had followed heidi in and heard all that was said. "no, no, there is no thought of such a thing! heidi is going to stay with you and make you happy. we want to see her again, but we shall come to her. we hope to pay a visit to the alm every year, for we have good cause to offer up especial thanks to god upon this spot where so great a miracle has been wrought upon our child." then grandmother's face was lighted up with genuine happiness, and she pressed mrs. sesemann's hand over and over again, unable to speak her thanks, while two large tears of joy rolled down her aged cheeks. and heidi saw the glad change come over grandmother's face, and she too now was entirely happy. she clung to the old woman saying, "hasn't it all come about, grandmother, just like the hymn i read to you last time? isn't the bed from frankfurt sent to make you well?" "yes, heidi, and many, many other good things too, which god has sent me," said the grandmother, deeply moved. "i did not think it possible that there were so many kind people, ready to trouble themselves about a poor old woman and to do so much for her. nothing strengthens our belief in a kind heavenly father who never forgets even the least of his creatures so much as to know that there are such people, full of goodness and pity for a poor, useless creature such as i am." "my good grandmother," said mrs. sesemann, interrupting her, "we are all equally poor and helpless in the eyes of god, and all have equal need that he should not forget us. but now we must say good-bye, but only till we meet again, for when we pay our next year's visit to the alm you will be the first person we shall come and see; meanwhile we shall not forget you." and mrs. sesemann took grandmother's hand again and shook it in farewell. but grandmother would not let her off even then without more words of gratitude, and without calling down on her benefactress and all belonging to her every blessing that god had to bestow. at last mr. sesemann and his mother were able to continue their journey downwards, while uncle carried clara back home, with heidi beside him, so full of joy of what was coming for grandmother that every step was a jump. but there were many tears shed the following morning by the departing clara, who wept to say good-bye to the beautiful mountain home where she had been happier than ever before in her life. heidi did her best to comfort her. "summer will be here again in no time," she said, "and then you will come again, and it will be nicer still, for you will be able to walk about from the beginning. we can then go out every day with the goats up to where the flowers grow, and enjoy ourselves from the moment you arrive." mr. sesemann had come as arranged to take his little daughter away, and was just now standing and talking with uncle, for they had much to say to one another. clara felt somewhat consoled by heidi's words, and wiped away her tears. "be sure you say good-bye for me to peter and the goats, and especially to little swan. i wish i could give little swan a present, for she has helped so much to make me strong." "well, you can if you like," replied heidi, "send her a little salt; you know how she likes to lick some out of grandfather's hand when she comes home at night." clara was delighted at this idea. "oh, then i shall send a hundred pounds of salt from frankfurt, for i want her to have something as a remembrance of me." mr. sesemann now beckoned to the children as it was time to be off. grandmamma's white horse had been brought up for clara, as she was no longer obliged to be carried in a chair. heidi ran to the far edge of the slope and continued to wave her hand to clara until the last glimpse of horse and rider had disappeared. * * * * * and now the bed has arrived, and grandmother is sleeping so soundly all night that she is sure to grow stronger. grandmamma sesemann, moreover, has not forgotten how cold the winter is on the mountain. she has sent a large parcel of warm clothing of every description, so that the blind grandmother can wrap herself round and round, and will certainly not tremble with cold now as she sits in her corner. there is a great deal of building going on at doerfli. the doctor has arrived, and, for the present, is occupying his old quarters. his friends have advised him to buy the old house that uncle and heidi live in during the winter. the doctor is having this part of the old house rebuilt for himself, the other part being repaired for uncle and heidi, for the doctor is aware that uncle is a man of independent spirit, who likes to have a house to himself. quite at the back a warm and well-walled stall is being put up for the two goats, and there they will pass their winter in comfort. the two men are becoming better friends every day, and as they walk about the new buildings to see how they are getting on, their thoughts continually turn to heidi, for the chief pleasure to each in connection with the house is that they will have the light-hearted little child with them there. "dear friend," said the doctor on one of these occasions as they were standing together, "you will see this matter in the same light as i do, i am sure. i share your happiness in the child as if, next to you, i was the one to whom she most closely belonged, but i wish also to share all responsibilities concerning her and to do my best for the child. i shall then feel i have my rights in her, and shall look forward to her being with me and caring for me in my old age, which is the one great wish of my heart. she will have the same claims upon me as if she were my own child, and i shall provide for her as such, and so we shall be able to leave her without anxiety when the day comes that you and i must go." uncle did not speak, but he clasped the doctor's hand in his, and his good friend could read in the old man's eyes how greatly moved he was and how glad and grateful he felt. heidi and peter were at this moment sitting with grandmother, and the one had so much to relate, and the others to listen to, that they all three got closer and closer to one another, hardly able to breathe in their eagerness not to miss a word. and how much there was to tell of all the events that had taken place that last summer, for they had not had many opportunities of meeting since then. and it was difficult to say which of the three looked the happiest at being together again, and at the recollection of all the wonderful things that had happened. mother brigitta's face was perhaps the happiest of all, as now, with the help of heidi's explanation, she was able to understand for the first time the history of peter's weekly dime for life. then at last the grandmother spoke, "heidi read me one of the hymns! i feel i can do nothing for the remainder of my life but thank the father in heaven for all the mercies he has shown us!" [illustration] transcriber's note: obvious printer errors have been corrected. otherwise, the author's original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact. franzÖsische und englische schulbibliothek herausgegeben von otto e. a. dickmann reihe a: prosa band lxxvii englisch leipzig rengersche buchhandlung gebhardt & wilisch. little lord fauntleroy von frances hodgson burnett fÜr den schulgebrauch bearbeitet von g. wolpert siebente auflage leipzig rengersche buchhandlung gebhardt & wilisch. mit gütiger erlaubnis der verlagshandlung _bernhard tauchnitz_ in leipzig. druck von hugo wilisch in chemnitz. vorwort zur ersten auflage. bei der bearbeitung des vorliegenden auszugs aus _burnetts_[ ] fesselndem romane für die schule, lag mir nach den grundsätzen der französischen und englischen schulbibliothek zunächst die aufgabe ob, denselben so zu kürzen, daß der inhalt des bändchens in einem semester bewältigt werden kann. es wurden deshalb alle für die entwicklung der erzählung nicht unbedingt nötigen teile ausgeschieden, der übrige text aber noch soweit gekürzt, als es die rücksicht auf die klarheit der schilderung und die korrektheit des ausdrucks zuließ. dadurch ist es mir gelungen, das ganze auf etwa ein dritteil des ursprünglichen umfanges zu beschränken, ohne jedoch den zusammenhang zu stören und die feine zeichnung der charaktere der hauptpersonen zu verwischen. nur an einer stelle war eine etwas gewaltsame verschmelzung mehrerer seiten in wenige zeilen (s. , z. - ) nicht zu umgehen; aber auch da erwies sich gewissenhafte wahrung der von burnett selbst gebrauchten ausdrucksweise als möglich. sachliche anmerkungen brauchten nur in beschränktem maße gegeben zu werden, dagegen hielt ich es für angezeigt, mit den fußnoten nicht allzu sparsam zu sein, einmal weil verschiedene amerikanismen (store, boss, ranch u. a.), sowie eine große anzahl vulgärer oder familiärer ausdrücke eine erklärung erheischten, sodann weil gar manche stelle des textes für die Übersetzung in gutes deutsch nicht ohne schwierigkeit ist. häufiger in der umgangssprache erscheinende kürzungen, wie: i'd, he'd, i'll, he'll u. a., die in den meisten grammatiken angeführt sind, wurden als bekannt vorausgesetzt. bei dem s. vollständig abgedruckten briefe cedrics unterblieb der raumersparnis halber die wiedergabe in korrektes englisch, soweit nicht die rücksicht auf das verständnis es verlangte. möge dieses bändchen, das für die mittleren klassen aller anstalten eine anregende lektüre bieten wird, die freundliche aufnahme finden, die dem kleinen helden der erzählung in der alten wie in der neuen welt zu teil geworden ist. mÜnchen, im januar . [fußnote : _frances hodgson burnett_ wurde am . november zu manchester geboren und kam schon sehr jung nach amerika. aus der reihe der von ihr veröffentlichten romane und erzählungen verdienen neben »little lord fauntleroy«, zuerst erschienen in st. nicholas magazine ( ), besonders erwähnung: »that lass o' lowries«, »a fair barbarian«, »through one administration«, »sara crewe«, »editha's burglar«, »the pretty sister of josé« und die novellensammlung »vagabondia«. verschiedene derselben, auch »little lord«, wurden dramatisiert und mit großem erfolge in deutschland, amerika und england aufgeführt.] vorwort zur zweiten auflage. die günstige aufnahme, welche diese ausgabe des _little lord_ bei den herren fachgenossen und bei der kritik gefunden, hat schon nach verlauf von nicht ganz zwei jahren eine neue auflage nötig gemacht. in dieser ist der text mit ausnahme einer einzigen stelle (s. , z. ), wo ich sinnrichtiger _a_ statt _any_ setzte, unverändert geblieben; die früheren fußnoten sind nach der vorschrift der redaktion mit den sachlichen anmerkungen verbunden, letztere einer genauen durchsicht unterzogen und um einige vermehrt worden. mÜnchen, im januar . * * * * * für die in die vierte auflage aufgenommenen sprachlichen erläuterungen zu s. . z. und s. , z. bin ich herrn prof. dr. thiergen zu dank verpflichtet. mÜnchen, im dezember . * * * * * die vorliegende siebente auflage ist, wie die beiden vorhergehenden, ein unveränderter abdruck der vierten. mÜnchen, im februar . georg wolpert, k. professor. little lord fauntleroy. chapter i. a great surprise. cedric himself knew nothing whatever about it. it had never been even mentioned to him. he knew that his papa had been an englishman, because his mamma had told him so; but then his papa had died when he was so little a boy that he could not remember very much about him, except that he was big, and had blue eyes and a long moustache, and that it was a splendid thing to be carried around the room on his shoulder. since his papa's death, cedric had found out that it was best not to talk to his mamma about him. when his father was ill, cedric had been sent away, and when he had returned, everything was over; and his mother, who had been very ill, too, was only just beginning to sit in her chair by the window. she was pale and thin, and all the dimples had gone from her pretty face, and her eyes looked large and mournful, and she was dressed in black. he and his mamma knew very few people, and lived what might have been thought very lonely lives, although cedric did not know it was lonely until he grew older and heard why it was they had no visitors. then he was told that his mamma was an orphan, and quite alone in the world when his papa had married her. their marriage brought them the ill-will of several persons. the one who was most angry of all, however, was the captain's father, who lived in england, and was a very rich and important old nobleman, with a very bad temper, and a very violent dislike to america and americans. he had two sons older than captain cedric; and it was the law that the elder of these sons should inherit the family title and estates, which were very rich and splendid; if the eldest son died the next one would be heir; so though he was a member of such a great family, there was little chance that captain cedric would be very rich himself. but it so happened that nature had given to the younger son gifts which she had not bestowed upon his elder brothers. he had a beautiful face and a fine, strong, graceful figure; he had a bright smile and a sweet, gay voice; he was brave and generous, and had the kindest heart in the world, and seemed to have the power to make every one love him. but it was not so with his elder brothers; neither of them was handsome, or kind, or clever; they cared nothing for study, and wasted both time and money, and made few real friends. the old earl, their father, was constantly disappointed and humiliated by them; his heir was no honour to his noble name. it was very bitter, the old earl thought, that the son who was only third, should be the one who had all the gifts, and all the charms. sometimes he almost hated the handsome young man because he seemed to have the good things which should have gone with the stately title and the magnificent estates. it was in one of his fits of petulance that he sent him off to travel in america. but after about six months, he began to feel lonely, and longed in secret to see his son again, so he wrote to captain cedric and ordered him home. the letter he wrote crossed on its way a letter the captain had just written to his father telling of his love for the pretty american girl, and of his intended marriage; and when the earl received that letter, he was furiously angry. bad as his temper was, he had never given way to it in his life as he gave way to it when he read the captain's letter. for an hour he raged like a tiger, and then he sat down and wrote to his son, and ordered him never to come near his old home, nor to write to his father or brothers again. the captain was very sad when he read the letter; he was very fond of england, and he dearly loved the beautiful home where he had been born; he had even loved his ill-tempered old father; but he knew he need expect no kindness from him in the future. at first he scarcely knew what to do; he had not been brought up to work, and had no business experience, but he had courage and plenty of determination. so he sold his commission in the english army, and after some trouble found a situation in new york, and married. the change from his old life in england was very great, but he was young and happy and he hoped that hard work would do great things for him in the future. he had a small house in a quiet street, and his little boy was born there. though he was born in so quiet and cheap a little home, it seemed as if there never had been a more fortunate baby. in the first place, he was always well, and so he never gave any one trouble; in the second place he had so sweet a temper and ways so charming that he was a pleasure to every one; and in the third place he was so beautiful to look at that he was quite a picture. when he was old enough to walk out with his nurse, he was so handsome and strong and rosy that he attracted every one's attention, and his nurse would come home and tell his mamma stories of the ladies who had stopped their carriages to look at and speak to him, and of how pleased they were when he talked to them in his cheerful little way, as if he had known them always. his greatest charm was this cheerful, fearless, quaint little way of making friends with people. as he grew older, he had a great many quaint little ways which amused and interested people greatly. he was so much of a companion for his mother that she scarcely cared for any other. they used to walk together and talk together and play together. when he was quite a little fellow he learned to read; and after that he used to lie on the hearth-rug, in the evening, and read aloud--sometimes stories, and sometimes big books such as older people read, and sometimes even the newspaper; and often at such times mary, in the kitchen, would hear mrs. errol laughing with delight at the quaint things he said. mary was very fond of him, and very proud of him, too. she had been with his mother ever since he was born; and, after his father's death, had been cook and housemaid and nurse and everything else. "ristycratic, is it?" she would say. "it's like a young lord he looks." cedric did not know that he looked like a young lord; he did not know what a lord was. his greatest friend was the groceryman at the corner. his name was mr. hobbs, and cedric admired and respected him very much. he thought him a very rich and powerful person, he had so many things in his store--prunes and figs and oranges and biscuits,--and he had a horse and waggon. cedric was fond of the milkman and the baker and the apple-woman, but he liked mr. hobbs best of all, and was on terms of such intimacy with him that he went to see him every day, and often sat with him quite a long time discussing the topics of the hour. it was quite surprising how many things they found to talk about--the fourth of july, for instance. when they began to talk about the fourth of july there really seemed no end to it. mr. hobbs had a very bad opinion of "the british," and he told the whole story of the revolution, relating very wonderful and patriotic stories about the villainy of the enemy and the bravery of the revolutionary heroes, and he even generously repeated part of the declaration of independence. cedric was so excited that his eyes shone and he could hardly wait to eat his dinner after he went home, he was so anxious to tell his mamma. it was, perhaps, mr. hobbs who gave him his first interest in politics. mr. hobbs was fond of reading the newspapers, and so cedric heard a great deal about what was going on in washington; and mr. hobbs would tell him whether the president was doing his duty or not. when cedric was between seven and eight years old, the very strange thing happened which made so wonderful a change in his life. it was quite curious, too, that the day it happened he had been talking to mr. hobbs about england and the queen, and mr. hobbs had said some very severe things about the aristocracy, being specially indignant against earls and marquises. they were in the midst of their conversation, when mary appeared. cedric thought she had come to buy some sugar, perhaps, but she had not. she looked almost pale and as if she were excited about something. "come home, darlint," she said; "the mistress is wantin' yez." cedric slipped down from his stool. "does she want me to go out with her, mary?" he asked. "good morning, mr. hobbs. i'll see you again." when he reached his own house there was a coupé standing before the door, and some one was in the little parlour talking to his mamma. mary hurried him up stairs and put on his best summer suit of cream-coloured flannel with the red scarf around the waist, and combed out his curly locks. when he was dressed, he ran down stairs and went into the parlour. a tall, thin old gentleman with a sharp face was sitting in an arm-chair. his mother was standing near by with a pale face, and he saw that there were tears in her eyes. "oh, ceddie!" she cried out, and ran to her little boy and caught him in her arms and kissed him in a little frightened, troubled way. "oh, ceddie, darling!" the tall old gentleman rose from his chair and looked at cedric with his sharp eyes. he rubbed his thin chin with his bony hand as he looked. he seemed not at all displeased. "and so," he said at last, slowly,--"and so this is little lord fauntleroy." chapter ii. cedric's friends. there was never a more amazed little boy than cedric during the week that followed; there was never so strange or so unreal a week. in the first place, the story his mamma told him was a very curious one. he was obliged to hear it two or three times before he could understand it. he could not imagine what mr. hobbs would think of it. it began with earls; his grandpapa, whom he had never seen, was an earl; and his eldest uncle, if he had not been killed by a fall from his horse, would have been an earl, too, in time; and after his death, his other uncle would have been an earl, if he had not died suddenly, in rome, of a fever. after that, his own papa, if he had lived, would have been an earl; but since they all had died and only cedric was left, it appeared that _he_ was to be an earl after his grandpapa's death--and for the present he was lord fauntleroy. he turned quite pale when he was first told of it. "oh! dearest!" he said, "i should rather not be an earl. none of the boys are earls. can't i _not_ be one?" but it seemed to be unavoidable. and when, that evening, they sat together by the open window looking out into the shabby street, he and his mother had a long talk about it. cedric sat on his footstool, clasping one knee in his favourite attitude and wearing a bewildered little face rather red from the exertion of thinking. his grandfather had sent for him to come to england, and his mamma thought he must go. "because," she said, looking out of the window with sorrowful eyes, "i know your papa would wish it to be so, ceddie. i should be a selfish little mother if i did not send you. when you are a man you will see why." ceddie shook his head mournfully. "i shall be very sorry to leave mr. hobbs," he said. when mr. havisham--who was the family lawyer of the earl of dorincourt, and who had been sent by him to bring lord fauntleroy to england--came the next day, cedric heard many things. but, somehow, it did not console him to hear that he was to be a very rich man when he grew up, and that he would have castles here and castles there, and great parks and deep mines and grand estates and tenantry. he was troubled about his friend, mr. hobbs, and he went to see him at the store soon after breakfast, in great anxiety of mind. he found him reading the morning paper, and he approached him with a grave demeanour. he really felt it would be a great shock to mr. hobbs to hear what had befallen him, and on his way to the store he had been thinking how it would be best to break the news. "hello!" said mr. hobbs. "mornin'!" "good-morning," said cedric. he did not climb up on the high stool as usual, but sat down on a biscuit-box and clasped his knee, and was so silent for a few moments that mr. hobbs finally looked up inquiringly over the top of his newspaper. "hello!" he said again. cedric gathered all his strength of mind together. "mr. hobbs," he said, "do you remember what we were talking about yesterday morning?" "well," replied mr. hobbs,--"seems to me it was england." "yes," said cedric; "but just when mary came for me, you know?" mr. hobbs rubbed the back of his head. "we _was_ mentioning queen victoria and the aristocracy." "yes," said cedric, rather hesitatingly, "and--and earls; don't you know?" "why, yes," returned mr. hobbs; "that's so!" "you said," proceeded cedric, "that you wouldn't have them sitting 'round on your biscuit barrels." "so i did!" returned mr. hobbs, stoutly. "mr. hobbs," said cedric, "one is sitting on this box now!" mr. hobbs almost jumped out of his chair. "what!" he exclaimed. "yes," cedric announced, with due modesty; "_i_ am one--or i am going to be. i shan't deceive you." mr. hobbs looked agitated. he rose up suddenly and went to look at the thermometer. "the mercury's got into your head!" he exclaimed, turning back to examine his young friend's countenance. "it _is_ a hot day! how do you feel?" he put his big hand on the little boy's hair. "thank you," said ceddie; "i'm all right. there is nothing the matter with my head. i'm sorry to say it's true, mr. hobbs. that was what mary came to take me home for. mr. havisham was telling my mamma, and he is a lawyer." mr. hobbs sank into his chair and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. "_one_ of us has got a sunstroke!" he exclaimed. "no," returned cedric, "we have not. mr. havisham came all the way from england to tell us about it. my grandpapa sent him." mr. hobbs stared wildly at the innocent, serious little face before him. "who is your grandfather?" he asked. cedric put his hand in his pocket and carefully drew out a piece of paper, on which something was written in his own round, irregular hand. "i couldn't easily remember it, so i wrote it down on this," he said. and he read aloud slowly: "'john arthur molyneux errol, earl of dorincourt.' that is his name, and he lives in a castle--in two or three castles, i think. and my papa, who died, was his youngest son; and i shouldn't have been a lord or an earl if my papa hadn't died; and my papa wouldn't have been an earl if his two brothers hadn't died, and my grandpapa has sent for me to come to england." mr. hobbs seemed to grow hotter and hotter. he mopped his forehead and breathed hard. he began to see that something very remarkable had happened. "wha--what did you say your name was?" mr. hobbs inquired. "it's cedric errol, lord fauntleroy," answered cedric. "that was what mr. havisham called me." "well," said mr. hobbs, "i'll be--jiggered!" this was an exclamation he always used when he was very much astonished or excited. he could think of nothing else to say just at that puzzling moment. cedric looked at mr. hobbs wistfully. "england is a long way off, isn't it?" he asked. "it's across the atlantic ocean," mr. hobbs answered. "that's the worst of it," said cedric. "perhaps i shall not see you again for a long time. i don't like to think of that, mr. hobbs." "the best of friends must part," said mr. hobbs. "well," said cedric, "we have been friends for a great many years, haven't we?" "ever since you was born," mr. hobbs answered. "ah," remarked cedric, with a sigh, "i never thought i should have to be an earl then!" "you think," said mr. hobbs, "there's no getting out of it?" "i'm afraid not," answered cedric. "my mamma says that my papa would wish me to do it. but if i have to be an earl, i can try to be a good one. i'm not going to be a tyrant." his conversation with mr. hobbs was a long and serious one. once having got over the first shock, mr. hobbs endeavoured to resign himself to the situation, and before the interview was at an end he had asked a great many questions. as cedric could answer but few of them, he endeavoured to answer them himself, and explained many things in a way which would probably have astonished mr. havisham, could that gentleman have heard it. but then there were many things which astonished mr. havisham. he had known all about the old earl's disappointment in his elder sons and all about his fierce rage at captain cedric's american marriage, and he knew how he still hated the gentle little widow and would not speak of her except with bitter and cruel words. he insisted that she was only a common american girl, who had entrapped his son into marrying her because she knew he was an earl's son. the old lawyer himself had more than half believed this was all true. when he had been driven into the cheap street, and his coupé had stopped before the cheap small house, he had felt actually shocked. when mary handed him into the small parlour he looked around it critically. it was plainly furnished but it had a home-like look; the few adornments on the walls were in good taste, and about the room were many pretty things which a woman's hand might have made. the lawyer's experience taught him to read people's characters very shrewdly, and as soon as he saw cedric's mother he knew that the old earl had made a great mistake in thinking her a vulgar, mercenary woman. when he first told mrs. errol what he had come for, she turned very pale. "oh!" she said; "will he have to be taken away from me? we love each other so much! he is such a happiness to me! he is all i have." and her sweet young voice trembled, and the tears rushed into her eyes. "you do not know what he has been to me!" she said. the lawyer cleared his throat. "i am obliged to tell you," he said, "that the earl of dorincourt is not--is not very friendly toward you. he is an old man, and his prejudices are very strong. he has always especially disliked america and americans, and was very much enraged by his son's marriage. i am sorry to be the bearer of so unpleasant a communication, but he is very fixed in his determination not to see you. his plan is that lord fauntleroy shall be educated under his own supervision; that he shall live with him. the earl is attached to dorincourt castle, and spends a great deal of time there. lord fauntleroy will, therefore, be likely to live chiefly at dorincourt. the earl offers to you as a home, court lodge, which is situated pleasantly, and is not very far from the castle. he also offers you a suitable income. lord fauntleroy will be permitted to visit you; the only stipulation is, that you shall not visit him. you see you will not be really separated from your son." he felt a little uneasy lest she should begin to cry or make a scene. but she did not. she went to the window and stood with her face turned away for a few moments. "captain errol was very fond of dorincourt," she said at last. "he loved england, and everything english. it was always a grief to him that he was parted from his home. i know he would wish, that his son should know the beautiful old places, and be brought up in such a way as would be suitable to his future position." then she came back to the table and stood looking up at mr. havisham very gently. "my husband would wish it," she said. "it will be best for my little boy. i know--i am sure the earl would not be so unkind as to try to teach him not to love me; and i know--even if he tried--that my little boy is too much like his father to be harmed. i hope, that his grandfather will love ceddie. the little boy has a very affectionate nature; and he has always been loved." mr. havisham cleared his throat again. he could not quite imagine the gouty, fiery-tempered old earl loving any one very much; but he knew that if ceddie were at all a credit to his name, his grandfather would be proud of him. "lord fauntleroy will be comfortable, i am sure," he replied. "it was with a view to his happiness that the earl desired that you should be near enough to him to see him frequently." when the door opened and the child came into the room, he recognised in an instant that here was one of the finest and handsomest little fellows he had ever seen. his beauty was something unusual. he had a strong, lithe, graceful little body and a manly little face; he was so like his father that it was really startling; he had his father's golden hair and his mother's brown eyes. they were innocently fearless eyes; he looked as if he had never feared or doubted anything in his life. "he is the best-bred-looking and handsomest little fellow i ever saw," was what mr. havisham thought. what he said aloud was simply, "and so this is little lord fauntleroy." cedric did not know he was being observed, and he only behaved himself in his ordinary manner. he shook hands with mr. havisham in his friendly way when they were introduced to each other, and he answered all his questions with the unhesitating readiness with which he answered mr. hobbs. the next time mr. havisham met him, he had quite a long conversation with him--a conversation which made him smile, and rub his chin with his bony hand several times. mrs. errol had been called out of the parlour, and the lawyer and cedric were left together. mr. havisham sat in an arm-chair on one side of the open window; on the other side was another still larger chair, and cedric sat in that and looked at mr. havisham. there was a short silence after mrs. errol went out, and cedric seemed to be studying mr. havisham, and mr. havisham was certainly studying cedric. he could not make up his mind as to what an elderly gentleman should say to a little boy. but cedric relieved him by suddenly beginning the conversation himself. "do you know," he said, "i don't know what an earl is?" "don't you?" said mr. havisham. "no," replied ceddie. "and i think when a boy is going to be one, he ought to know. don't you?" "well--yes," answered mr. havisham, "an earl is--is a very important person." "so is a president!" put in ceddie. "an earl," mr. havisham went on, "is frequently of very ancient lineage----" "what's that?" asked ceddie. "of very old family--extremely old." "ah!" said cedric, thrusting his hands deeper into his pockets. "i suppose that is the way with the apple-woman near the park. i dare say she is of ancient lin-lenage. she is so old it would surprise you how she can stand up." mr. havisham felt rather at a loss as he looked at his companion's innocent, serious little face. "i am afraid you did not quite understand me," he explained. "when i said 'ancient lineage' i did not mean old age; i meant that the name of such a family has been known in the world a long time; perhaps for hundreds of years persons bearing that name have been known and spoken of in the history of their country." "like george washington," said ceddie. "i've heard of him ever since i was born, and he was known about long before that. mr. hobbs says he will never be forgotten. that's because of the declaration of independence, you know, and the fourth of july. you see, he was a very brave man." "the first earl of dorincourt," said mr. havisham solemnly, "was created an earl four hundred years ago." "well, well!" said ceddie. "that was a long time ago! did you tell dearest that? it would int'rust her very much. she always likes to hear cur'us things. what else does an earl do besides being created?" "a great many of them have helped to govern england. some of them have been brave men and have fought in great battles in the old days." "i should like to do that myself," said cedric. "my papa was a soldier, and he was a very brave man--as brave as george washington. perhaps that was because he would have been an earl if he hadn't died. i am glad earls are brave. that's a great 'vantage--to be a brave man." "there is another advantage in being an earl, sometimes," said mr. havisham slowly. "some earls have a great deal of money." he was curious because he wondered if his young friend knew what the power of money was. "that's a good thing to have," said ceddie innocently. "i wish i had a great deal of money." "do you?" said mr. havisham. "and why?" "well," explained cedric, "there are so many things a person can do with money. you see there's the apple-woman. if i were very rich i should buy her a little tent to put her stall in, and a little stove, and then i should give her a dollar every morning it rained, so that she could afford to stay at home." "ahem!" said mr. havisham. "and what else would you do if you were rich?" "oh! i'd do a great many things. of course i should buy dearest all sorts of beautiful things, needle-books and fans and gold thimbles and rings, and an encyclopedia, and a carriage, so that she needn't have to wait for the street-cars. and then dick----" "who is dick?" asked mr. havisham. "dick is a boot-black," said his young lordship, quite warming up in his interest in plans so exciting. "he is one of the nicest boot-blacks you ever knew. he stands at the corner of a street down town. i've known him for years. once when i was very little, i was walking out with dearest and she bought me a beautiful ball that bounced, and i was carrying it, and it bounced into the middle of the street where the carriages and horses were, and i was so disappointed, i began to cry--i was very little. dick ran in between the horses and caught the ball for me and wiped it off with his coat and gave it to me and said; 'it's all right, young un.' so dearest admired him very much, and so did i, and ever since then, when we go down town, we talk to him." "and what would you like to do for him?" inquired the lawyer, rubbing his chin and smiling a queer smile. "well," said lord fauntleroy, settling himself in his chair with a business air; "i'd buy jake out." "and who is jake?" mr. havisham asked. "he's dick's partner, and he is the worst partner a fellow could have! dick says so. he isn't a credit to the business, and he isn't square. he cheats, and that makes dick mad. so if i were rich, i'd buy jake out and i'd get dick some new clothes and new brushes, and start him out fair." "what would you get for yourself, if you were rich?" asked mr. havisham. "lots of things!" answered lord fauntleroy briskly: "but first i'd give mary some money for bridget--that's her sister, with twelve children, and a husband out of work. and i think mr. hobbs would like a gold watch and chain to remember me by, and a meerschaum pipe." the door opened and mrs. errol came in. "i am sorry to have been obliged to leave you so long," she said to mr. havisham; "but a poor woman, who is in great trouble, came to see me." "this young gentleman," said mr. havisham, "has been telling me about some of his friends, and what he would do for them if he were rich." "bridget is one of his friends," said mrs. errol; "and it is bridget to whom i have been talking in the kitchen. she is in great trouble now because her husband has rheumatic fever." cedric slipped down out of his big chair. "i think i'll go and see her," he said, "and ask her how he is. he's a nice man when he is well, he once made me a sword out of wood." he ran out of the room, and mr. havisham rose from his chair. he seemed to have something in his mind which he wished to speak of. he hesitated a moment, and then said, looking down at mrs. errol: "before i left dorincourt castle i had an interview with the earl, in which he gave me some instructions. he said that i must let his lordship know that the change in his life would bring him money and the pleasures children enjoy; if he expressed any wishes i was to gratify them, and to tell him that his grandfather had given him what he wished. i am aware that the earl did not expect anything quite like this; but if it would give lord fauntleroy pleasure to assist this poor woman, i should feel that the earl would be displeased if he were not gratified." "oh!" mrs. errol said, "that was very kind of the earl; cedric will be so glad! he has always been fond of bridget and michael. they are quite deserving." mr. havisham put his thin hand in his breast pocket and drew forth a large pocket-book. there was a queer look in his keen face. the truth was, he was wondering what the earl of dorincourt would say when he was told what was the first wish of his grandson that had been granted. "i do not know that you have realised," he said, "that the earl of dorincourt is an exceedingly rich man. i think it would please him to know that lord fauntleroy had been indulged in any fancy. if you will call him back and allow me, i shall give him five pounds for these people." "that would be twenty-five dollars!" exclaimed mrs. errol. "it will seem like wealth to them. i can scarcely believe that it is true." "it is quite true," said mr. havisham, with his dry smile. "a great change has taken place in your son's life, a great deal of power will lie in his hands." "oh!" cried his mother. "and he is such a little boy--a very little boy. how can i teach him to use it well? it makes me half afraid. my pretty little ceddie!" the lawyer slightly cleared his throat. it touched his worldly, hard old heart to see the tender, timid look in her brown eyes. "i think, madam," he said, "that if i may judge from my interview with lord fauntleroy this morning, the next earl of dorincourt will think for others as well as for his noble self. he is only a child yet, but i think he may be trusted." then his mother went for cedric and brought him back into the parlour. his little face looked quite anxious when he came in. he was very sorry for bridget. "dearest said you wanted me," he said to mr. havisham. "i've been talking to bridget." mr. havisham looked down at him a moment. he felt a little awkward and undecided. as cedric's mother had said, he was a very little boy. "the earl of dorincourt----" he began, and then he glanced involuntarily at mrs. errol. little lord fauntleroy's mother suddenly kneeled down by him and put both her tender arms around his childish body. "ceddie," she said, "the earl is your grandpapa, your own papa's father. he is very, very kind, and he loves you and wishes you to love him, because the sons who were his little boys are dead. he wishes you to be happy and to make other people happy. he is very rich, and he wishes you to have everything you would like to have. he told mr. havisham so, and gave him a great deal of money for you. you can give some to bridget now, enough to pay her rent and buy michael everything. isn't that fine, ceddie? isn't he good?" and she kissed the child on his round cheek, where the bright colour suddenly flashed up in his excited amazement. he looked from his mother to mr. havisham. "can i have it now?" he cried. "can i give it to her this minute? she's just going." mr. havisham handed him the money. it was in fresh clean greenbacks and made a neat roll. ceddie flew out of the room. "bridget!" they heard him shout, as he tore into the kitchen. "bridget, wait a minute! here's some money. it's for you, and you can pay the rent. my grandpapa gave it to me. it's for you and michael!" "oh, master ceddie!" cried bridget, in an awestricken voice. "it's twinty-foive dollars is here. where's the mistress?" "i think i shall have to go and explain it to her," mrs. errol said. so she, too, went out of the room, and mr. havisham was left alone for a while. he went to the window and stood looking out into the street reflectively. he was thinking of the old earl of dorincourt, sitting in his great, splendid, gloomy library at the castle, gouty and lonely, surrounded by grandeur and luxury, but not really loved by any one, because in all his long life he had never really loved any one but himself. he could fill his castle with guests if he chose, but he knew that in secret the people who would accept his invitations were afraid of his frowning old face and sarcastic, biting speeches. mr. havisham knew his hard, fierce ways by heart, and he was thinking of him as he looked out of the window into the quiet, narrow street. and there rose in his mind, in sharp contrast, the picture of the cheery, handsome little fellow sitting in the big chair and telling his story of his friends, dick and the apple-woman, in his generous, innocent, honest way. and he thought of the immense income, the beautiful, majestic estates, the wealth, and power for good or evil, which in the course of time would lie in the small, chubby hands little lord fauntleroy thrust so deep into his pockets. "it will make a great difference," he said to himself. "it will make a great difference." cedric and his mother came back soon after. cedric was in high spirits. he was glowing with enjoyment of bridget's relief and rapture. "she cried!" he said. "she said she was crying for joy. i never saw any one cry for joy before. my grandpapa must be a very good man. i didn't know he was so good a man. it's more--more agreeable to be an earl than i thought it was. i'm almost glad--i'm almost _quite_ glad i'm going to be one." chapter iii. leaving home. cedric's good opinion of the advantages of being an earl increased greatly during the next week. it seemed almost impossible for him to realise that there was scarcely anything he might wish to do which he could not do easily; in fact i think it may be said that he did not fully realise it at all. but at least he understood, after a few conversations with mr. havisham, that he could gratify all his nearest wishes, and he proceeded to gratify them with a simplicity and delight which caused mr. havisham much diversion. in the week before they sailed for england, he did many curious things. the lawyer long after remembered the morning they went down together to pay a visit to dick, and the afternoon they so amazed the apple-woman of ancient lineage by stopping before her stall and telling her she was to have a tent, and a stove, and a shawl, and a sum of money which seemed to her quite wonderful. "for i have to go to england and be a lord," explained cedric, sweet-temperedly. "she's a very good apple-woman," he said to mr. havisham as they walked away, leaving the proprietress of the stall almost gasping for breath, and not at all believing in her great fortune. "once, when i fell down and cut my knee, she gave me an apple for nothing. i've always remembered her for it. you know you always remember people who are kind to you." it had never occurred to his honest, simple, little mind that there were people who could forget kindnesses. the interview with dick was quite exciting. dick had just been having a great deal of trouble with jake, and was in low spirits when they saw him. his amazement when cedric calmly announced that they had come to give him what seemed a very great thing to him, and would set all his troubles right, almost struck him dumb. lord fauntleroy's manner of announcing the object of his visit was very simple and unceremonious and the end of the matter was that dick bought jake out, and found himself the possessor of the business, and some new brushes and a most astonishing sign and outfit. he could not believe in his good luck any more easily than the apple-woman of ancient lineage could believe in hers. he scarcely seemed to realise anything until cedric put out his hand to shake hands with him before going away. "well, good-bye," he said; and though he tried to speak steadily, there was a little tremble in his voice and he winked his big brown eyes. "and i hope trade'll be good. i'm sorry i'm going away to leave you, but i wish you'd write to me, because we were always good friends. and here's where you must send your letter." and he gave him a slip of paper. "and my name isn't cedric errol any more; it's lord fauntleroy and--and good-bye, dick." dick winked his eyes also, and yet they looked rather moist about the lashes. "i wish ye wasn't goin' away," he said in a husky voice. then he winked his eyes again. then he looked at mr. havisham and touched his cap. "thanky, sir, for bringin' him down here an' fur wot ye've done." until the day of his departure, his lordship spent as much time as possible with mr. hobbs in the store. gloom had settled upon mr. hobbs; he was much depressed in spirits. when his young friend brought to him in triumph the parting gift of a gold watch and chain, mr. hobbs found it difficult to acknowledge it properly. he laid the case on his stout knee, and blew his nose violently several times. "there's something written on it," said cedric,--"inside the case. i told the man myself what to say. 'from his oldest friend, lord fauntleroy, to mr. hobbs. when this you see, remember me.' i don't want you to forget me." mr. hobbs blew his nose very loudly again. "i shan't forget you," he said, speaking a trifle huskily, as dick had spoken; "nor don't you go and forget me when you get among the british aristocracy." "i shouldn't forget you, whoever i was among," answered his lordship. "i've spent my happiest hours with you; at least, some of my happiest hours. i hope you'll come to see me some time." at last all the preparations were complete; the day came when the trunks were taken to the steamer, and the hour arrived when the carriage stood at the door. then a curious feeling of loneliness came upon the little boy. his mamma had been shut up in her room for some time; when she came down the stairs, her eyes looked large and wet, and her sweet mouth was trembling. cedric went to her, and she bent down to him, and he put his arms around her and they kissed each other. he knew something made them both sorry, though he scarcely knew what it was; but one tender little thought rose to his lips. "we liked this little house, dearest, didn't we?" he said. "we always will like it, won't we?" "yes--yes," she answered in a low, sweet voice. "yes, darling." and then they went into the carriage and cedric sat very close to her, and as she looked back out of the window, he looked at her and stroked her hand and held it close. and then, it seemed almost directly, they were on the steamer in the midst of the wildest bustle and confusion; carriages were driving down and leaving passengers; passengers were getting into a state of excitement about baggage which had not arrived and threatened to be too late; big trunks and cases were being bumped down and dragged about; sailors were uncoiling ropes and hurrying to and fro; officers were giving orders; ladies and gentlemen and children and nurses were coming on board--some were laughing and looked gay, some were silent and sad, here and there two or three were crying and touching their eyes with their handkerchiefs. cedric found something to interest him on every side; he looked at the piles of rope, at the furled sails, at the tall, tall masts which seemed almost to touch the hot blue sky; he began to make plans for conversing with the sailors and gaining some information on the subject of pirates. it was just at the very last, when he was leaning on the railing of the upper deck and watching the final preparations, that his attention was called to a slight bustle in one of the groups not far from him. some one was hurriedly forcing his way through this group and coming toward him. it was a boy, with something red in his hand. it was dick. he came up to cedric quite breathless. "i've run all the way," he said. "i've come down to see ye off. trade's been prime! i bought this for ye out o' what i made yesterday. ye kin wear it when ye get among the swells. it's a hankercher." he poured it all forth as if in one sentence. a bell rang and he made a leap away before cedric had time to speak. "good-bye!" he panted. "wear it when ye get among the swells." and he darted off and was gone. cedric held the handkerchief in his hand. it was of bright red silk, ornamented with purple horse-shoes and horses' heads, he leaned forward and waved it. "good-bye, dick!" he shouted, lustily. "thank you! good-bye, dick!" and the big steamer moved away, and the people cheered again, and cedric's mother drew the veil over her eyes, and on the shore there was left great confusion; but dick saw nothing save that bright, childish face and the bright hair that the sun shone on and the breeze lifted, and he heard nothing but the hearty childish voice calling "good-bye, dick!" as little lord fauntleroy steamed slowly away from the home of his birth to the unknown land of his ancestors. chapter iv. in england. it was during the voyage that cedric's mother told him that his home was not to be hers; and when he first understood it, his grief was so great that mr. havisham saw that the earl had been wise in making the arrangements that his mother should be quite near him, and see him often; for it was very plain he could not have borne the separation otherwise. but his mother managed the little fellow so sweetly and lovingly, and made him feel that she would be so near him, that, after a while, he ceased to be oppressed by the fear of any real parting. "my house is not far from the castle, ceddie," she repeated each time the subject was referred to--"a very little way from yours, and you can always run in and see me every day, and you will have so many things to tell me! and we shall be so happy together! it is a beautiful place. your papa has often told me about it. he loved it very much; and you will love it too." "i should love it better if you were there," his small lordship said, with a heavy little sigh. he could not but feel puzzled by so strange a state of affairs, which could put his "dearest" in one house and himself in another. the fact was that mrs. errol had thought it better not to tell him why this plan had been made. "i should prefer he should not be told," she said to mr. havisham. "he would not really understand; he would only be shocked and hurt; and i feel sure that his feeling for the earl will be a more natural and affectionate one if he does not know that his grandfather dislikes me so bitterly. it would make a barrier between them, even though ceddie is such a child." so cedric only knew that there was some mysterious reason for the arrangement, some reason which he was not old enough to understand, but which would be explained when he was older. he was puzzled; but after many talks with his mother, in which she placed before him the bright side of the picture, the dark side of it gradually began to fade out, though now and then mr. havisham saw him sitting in some queer little old-fashioned attitude, watching the sea, with a very grave face, and more than once he heard an unchildish sigh rise to his lips. the people who had been sea-sick had no sooner recovered from their sea-sickness, and come on deck to recline in their steamer-chairs and enjoy themselves, than every one seemed to know the romantic story of little lord fauntleroy, and every one took an interest in the little fellow, who ran about the ship or walked with his mother or the tall, thin old lawyer, or talked to the sailors. every one liked him, he made friends everywhere. he was ever ready to make friends. when the gentlemen walked up and down the deck, and let him walk with them, he stepped out with a manly, sturdy little tramp, and answered all their jokes with much gay enjoyment; when the ladies talked to him, there was always laughter in the group of which he was the centre; when he played with the children, there was always magnificent fun on hand. among the sailors he had the heartiest friends; he heard miraculous stories about pirates and shipwrecks and desert islands; he learned to splice ropes and rig toy ships, and gained an amount of information concerning "tops'les" and "mains'les," quite surprising. his conversation had, indeed, quite a nautical flavour at times. it was eleven days after he had said good-bye to his friend dick before he reached liverpool; and it was on the night of the twelfth day that the carriage, in which he and his mother and mr. havisham had driven from the station, stopped before the gates of court lodge. mary had come with them to attend her mistress, and she had reached the house before them. when cedric jumped out of the carriage mary stood in the doorway. lord fauntleroy sprang at her with a gay little shout. "did you get here, mary?" he said. "here's mary, dearest." "i am glad you are here, mary," mrs. errol said to her in a low voice. "it is such a comfort to me to see you. it takes the strangeness away." and she held out her little hand, which mary squeezed encouragingly. the english servants looked with curiosity at both the boy and his mother. they had heard all sorts of rumours about them both; they knew why mrs. errol was to live at the lodge and her little boy at the castle; but they did not know what sort of a little lord had come among them; they did not quite understand the character of the next earl of dorincourt. he pulled off his overcoat quite as if he were used to doing things for himself, and began to look about him. he looked about the broad hall, at the pictures and stags' antlers and curious things that ornamented it. they seemed curious to him because he had never seen such things before in a private house. "dearest," he said, "this is a very pretty house, isn't it? i am glad you are going to live here. it's quite a large house." it was quite a large house compared to the one in the shabby new york street, and it was very pretty and cheerful. mary led them into a big bright room; its ceiling was low, and the furniture was heavy and beautifully carved. there was a great tiger-skin before the fire, and an arm-chair on each side of it. a stately white cat had responded to lord fauntleroy's stroking and followed him down stairs, and when he threw himself down upon the rug, she curled herself up grandly beside him as if she intended to make friends. cedric was so pleased that he put his head down by hers, and lay stroking her, not noticing what his mother and mr. havisham were saying. they were, indeed, speaking in a rather low tone. mrs. errol looked a little pale and agitated. "he need not go to-night?" she said. "he will stay with me to-night?" "yes," answered mr. havisham in the same low tone; "it will not be necessary for him to go to-night. i myself will go to the castle as soon as we have dined, and inform the earl of our arrival." mrs. errol smiled faintly. "his lordship does not know all that he is taking from me," she said rather sadly. then she looked at the lawyer. "will you tell him, if you please," she said, "that i should rather not have the income he proposed to settle upon me. i am obliged to accept the house, and i thank him for it, because it makes it possible for me to be near my child; but i have a little money of my own and i should rather not take the other. as he dislikes me so much, i should feel a little as if i were selling cedric to him. i am giving him up only because i love him enough to forget myself for his good, and because his father would wish it to be so." mr. havisham rubbed his chin. "this is very strange," he said. "he will be very angry. he won't understand it, but i will deliver your message." and then the dinner was brought in and they sat down together, the big cat taking a seat on a chair near cedric's and purring majestically throughout the meal. when, later in the evening, mr. havisham presented himself at the castle, he was taken at once to the earl. he found him sitting by the fire in a luxurious easy-chair, his foot on a gout-stool. he looked at the lawyer sharply from under his shaggy eyebrows. "well," he said; "well, havisham, come back, have you? what's the news?" "lord fauntleroy and his mother are at court lodge," replied mr. havisham. "they bore the voyage very well and are in excellent health." the earl made a half-impatient sound and moved his hand restlessly. "glad to hear it," he said brusquely. "so far, so good. make yourself comfortable. have a glass of wine and settle down. what else?" "his lordship remains with his mother to-night. to-morrow i will bring him to the castle." the earl's elbow was resting on the arm of his chair; he put his hand up and shielded his eyes with it. "well?" he said; "go on. what kind of a lad is he? i don't care about the mother; what sort of a lad is he? healthy and well grown?" "apparently very healthy, and quite well grown," replied the lawyer. "straight-limbed and well enough to look at?" demanded the earl. a very slight smile touched mr. havisham's thin lips. "rather a handsome boy, i think, my lord, as boys go," he said, "though i am scarcely a judge, perhaps." there was a silence of a few moments. it was mr. havisham who broke it. "i have a message to deliver from mrs. errol," he remarked. "i don't want any of her messages!" growled his lordship; "the less i hear of her the better." "this is a rather important one," explained the lawyer. "she prefers not to accept the income you proposed to settle on her." the earl started visibly. "what's that?" he cried out. "what's that?" mr. havisham repeated his words. "she says it is not necessary, and that as the relations between you are not friendly----" "not friendly!" ejaculated my lord savagely; "i should say they were not friendly! i hate to think of her! a mercenary american! i don't wish to see her!" "my lord," said mr. havisham, "you can scarcely call her mercenary. she has asked for nothing. she does not accept the money you offer her." "all done for effect!" snapped his noble lordship. "she thinks i shall admire her spirit. i don't admire it! it's only american independence! i won't have her living like a beggar at my park gates. she shall have the money, whether she likes it or not!" "she won't spend it," said mr. havisham. "i don't care whether she spends it or not!" blustered my lord. "she shall have it sent to her. she wants to give the boy a bad opinion of me! i suppose she has poisoned his mind against me already!" "no," said mr. havisham. "i have another message, which will prove to you that she has not done that." "i don't want to hear it!" panted the earl, out of breath with anger and excitement and gout. but mr. havisham delivered it. "she asks you not to let lord fauntleroy hear anything which would lead him to understand that you separate him from her because of your prejudice against her. he is very fond of her, and she is convinced that it would cause a barrier to exist between you. she has told him that he is too young to understand the reason, but shall hear it when he is older. she wishes that there should be no shadow on your first meeting." the earl sank back into his chair. his deep-set fierce old eyes gleamed under his beetling brows. "come, now!" he said, still breathlessly. "come, now! you don't mean the mother hasn't told him?" "not one word, my lord," replied the lawyer coolly. "that i can assure you. the child is prepared to believe you the most amiable and affectionate of grandparents. and as i carried out your commands in every detail, while in new york, he certainly regards you as a wonder of generosity." "he does, eh?" said the earl. "i give you my word of honour," said mr. havisham, "that lord fauntleroy's impressions of you will depend entirely upon yourself. and if you will pardon the liberty i take in making the suggestion, i think you will succeed better with him if you take the precaution not to speak slightingly of his mother." "pooh, pooh!" said the earl. "the youngster's only seven years old!" "he has spent those seven years at his mother's side," returned mr. havisham; "and she has all his affection." chapter v. at the castle. it was late in the afternoon when the carriage containing little lord fauntleroy and mr. havisham drove up the long avenue which led to the castle. the earl had given orders that his grandson should arrive in time to dine with him, and for some reason best known to himself, he had also ordered that the child should be sent alone into the room in which he intended to receive him. as the carriage rolled up the avenue, lord fauntleroy sat leaning comfortably against the luxurious cushions, and regarded the prospect with great interest. he was, in fact, interested in everything he saw. he had been interested in the carriage, with its large, splendid horses and their glittering harness; he had been interested in the tall coachman and footman, with their resplendent livery; and he had been especially interested in the coronet on the panels, and had struck up an acquaintance with the footman for the purpose of inquiring what it meant. the carriage rolled on and on between the great, beautiful trees which grew on each side of the avenue and stretched their broad swaying branches in an arch across it. cedric had never seen such trees, they were so grand and stately, and their branches grew so low down on their huge trunks. he did not then know that dorincourt castle was one of the most beautiful in all england; that its park was one of the broadest and finest, and its trees and avenue almost without rivals. but he did know that it was all very beautiful. now and then they passed places where tall ferns grew in masses, and again and again the ground was azure with the bluebells swaying in the soft breeze. several times he started up with a laugh of delight as a rabbit leaped up from under the greenery and scudded away with a twinkle of short white tail behind it. once a covey of partridges rose with a sudden whir and flew away, and then he shouted and clapped his hands. "it's a beautiful place, isn't it?" he said to mr. havisham. "i never saw such a beautiful place. it's prettier even than central park." he was rather puzzled by the length of time they were on their way. "how far is it?" he said, at length, "from the gate to the front door?" "it is between three and four miles," answered the lawyer. it was not long after this that they saw the castle. it rose up before them stately and beautiful and grey, the last rays of the sun casting dazzling lights on its many windows. it had turrets and battlements and towers; a great deal of ivy grew upon its walls; all the broad open space about it was laid out in terraces and lawns and beds of brilliant flowers. "it's the most beautiful place i ever saw!" said cedric, his round face flushing with pleasure. "it reminds any one of a king's palace. i saw a picture of one once in a fairy-book." he saw the great entrance-door thrown open and many servants standing in two lines looking at him. he wondered why they were standing there, and admired their liveries very much. he did not know that they were there to do honour to the little boy to whom all this splendour would one day belong. at the head of the line of servants there stood an elderly woman in a rich plain black silk gown; she had grey hair and wore a cap. as he entered the hall she stood nearer than the rest, and the child thought from the look in her eyes that she was going to speak to him. mr. havisham, who held his hand, paused a moment. "this is lord fauntleroy, mrs. mellon," he said. "lord fauntleroy, this is mrs. mellon, who is the housekeeper." cedric gave her his hand, his eyes lighting up. "was it you who sent the cat?" he said. "i'm much obliged to you, ma'am." mrs. mellon's handsome old face looked very much pleased. "the cat left two beautiful kittens here," she said; "they shall be sent up to your lordship's nursery." mr. havisham said a few words to her in a low voice. "in the library, sir," mrs. mellon replied. "his lordship is to be taken there alone." * * * * * a few minutes later, the very tall footman in livery, who had escorted cedric to the library door, opened it and announced: "lord fauntleroy, my lord," in quite a majestic tone. cedric crossed the threshold into the room. it was a very large and splendid room, with massive carven furniture in it, and shelves upon shelves of books; the furniture was so dark, and the draperies so heavy, the diamond-paned windows were so deep, and it seemed such a distance from one end of it to the other, that, since the sun had gone down, the effect of it all was rather gloomy. for a moment cedric thought there was nobody in the room, but soon he saw that by the fire burning on the wide hearth there was a large easy-chair, and that in that chair some one was sitting--some one who did not at first turn to look at him. but he had attracted attention in one quarter at least. on the floor, by the arm-chair, lay a dog, a huge tawny mastiff, with body and limbs almost as big as a lion's; and this great creature rose majestically and slowly, and marched toward the little fellow with a heavy step. then the person in the chair spoke. "dougal," he called, "come back, sir." but there was no fear in little lord fauntleroy's heart. he put his hand on the big dog's collar and they strayed forward together, dougal sniffing as he went. and then the earl looked up. what cedric saw was a large old man with shaggy white hair and eyebrows, and a nose like an eagle's beak between his deep fierce eyes. what the earl saw was a graceful childish figure in a black velvet suit, with a lace collar, and with love-locks waving about the handsome, manly little face, whose eyes met his with a look of innocent good-fellowship. there was a sudden glow of triumph and exultation in the fiery old earl's heart as he saw what a strong beautiful boy this grandson was, and how unhesitatingly he looked up as he stood with his hand on the big dog's neck. cedric came quite close to him. "are you the earl?" he said. "i'm your grandson, you know, that mr. havisham brought. i'm lord fauntleroy." he held out his hand because he thought it must be the polite and proper thing to do even with earls. "i hope you are very well," he continued, with the utmost friendliness. "i'm very glad to see you." the earl shook hands with him, with a curious gleam in his eyes. "glad to see me, are you?" he said. "yes," answered lord fauntleroy, "very." there was a chair near him, and he sat down on it; it was a high-backed, rather tall chair, and his feet did not touch the floor when he had settled himself in it, but he seemed to be quite comfortable as he sat there and regarded his august relative intently and modestly. "any boy would love his grandfather," continued he, "especially one that had been as kind to him as you have been." another queer gleam came into the old nobleman's eyes. "oh!" he said, "i have been kind to you, have i?" "yes," answered lord fauntleroy brightly; "i'm ever so much obliged to you about bridget, and the apple-woman, and dick!" "bridget!" exclaimed the earl. "dick! the apple-woman!" "yes," explained cedric; "the ones you gave me all that money for--the money you told mr. havisham to give me if i wanted it." "ha!" ejaculated his lordship. "that's it, is it? the money you were to spend as you liked. what did you buy with it? i should like to hear something about that." he drew his shaggy eyebrows together and looked at the child sharply. he was secretly curious to know in what way the lad had indulged himself. "oh!" said lord fauntleroy, "perhaps you didn't know about dick, and the apple-woman and bridget. i forgot you lived such a long way off from them. they were particular friends of mine. and you see michael had the fever----" "who's michael?" asked the earl. "michael is bridget's husband, and they were in great trouble. and bridget used to come to our house and cry. and the evening mr. havisham was there, she was in the kitchen crying because they had almost nothing to eat and couldn't pay the rent; and i went in to see her, and mr. havisham sent for me and he said you had given him some money for me. and i ran as fast as i could into the kitchen and gave it to bridget; and that made it all right; and bridget could scarcely believe her eyes. that's why i'm so obliged to you." "oh!" said the earl in his deep voice, "that was one of the things you did for yourself, was it? what else?" "well, there was dick," cedric answered. "you'd like dick, he's so square." this was an americanism the earl was not prepared for. "what does that mean?" he inquired. lord fauntleroy paused a moment to reflect. he was not very sure himself what it meant. "i think it means that he wouldn't cheat any one," he exclaimed; "or hit a boy who was under his size, and that he blacks people's boots very well and makes them shine as much as he can. he's a professional boot-black." "and he's one of your acquaintances, is he?" said the earl. "he's an old friend of mine," replied his grandson. "not quite as old as mr. hobbs, but quite old. he gave me a present just before the ship sailed." he put his hand into his pocket and drew forth a neatly folded red object and opened it with an air of affectionate pride. it was the red silk handkerchief with the large purple horse-shoes and heads on it. "he gave me this," said his young lordship. "i shall keep it always. you can wear it round your neck or keep it in your pocket. it's a keepsake. i put some poetry in mr. hobbs' watch. it was, 'when this you see, remember me.' when this i see, i shall always remember dick." the sensation of the right honourable the earl of dorincourt could scarcely be described. he could not help seeing that the little boy took him for a friend and treated him as one, without having any doubt of him at all. it was quite plain as the little fellow sat there in his tall chair and talked in his friendly way that it had never occurred to him that this large, fierce-looking old man could be anything but kind to him, and rather pleased to see him there. and it was plain, too, that, in his childish way, he wished to please and interest his grandfather. cross, and hard-hearted, and worldly as the old earl was, he could not help feeling a secret and novel pleasure in this very confidence. so the old man leaned back in his chair, and led his young companion on to telling him still more of himself, and with that odd gleam in his eyes watched the little fellow as he talked. lord fauntleroy was quite willing to answer all his questions and chatted on in his genial little way quite composedly. he told him all about dick, and the apple-woman, and mr. hobbs. in the course of the conversation, he reached the fourth of july and the revolution, and was just becoming enthusiastic, when dinner was announced. cedric left his chair and went to his noble kinsman. he looked down at his gouty foot. "would you like me to help you?" he said politely. "you could lean on me, you know. once when mr. hobbs hurt his foot with a potato-barrel rolling on it, he used to lean on me." the earl looked his valiant young relative over from head to foot. "do you think you could do it?" he asked gruffly. "i _think_ i could," said cedric. "i'm strong. i'm seven, you know. you could lean on your stick on one side, and on me on the other." "well," said the earl, "you may try." cedric gave him his stick, and began to assist him to rise. usually the footman did this, and was violently sworn at when his lordship had an extra twinge of gout. but this evening he did not swear, though his gouty foot gave him more twinges than one. he chose to try an experiment. he got up slowly and put his hand on the small shoulder presented to him with so much courage. little lord fauntleroy made a careful step forward, looking down at the gouty foot. "just lean on me," he said, with encouraging good cheer. "i'll walk very slowly." if the earl had been supported by the footman he would have rested less on his stick and more on his assistant's arm. and yet it was part of his experiment to let his grandson feel his burden as no light weight. it was quite a heavy weight indeed, and after a few steps his young lordship's face grew quite hot, and his heart beat rather fast, but he braced himself sturdily. "don't be afraid of leaning on me," he panted. "i'm all right--if--if it isn't a very long way." it was not really very far to the dining-room, but it seemed rather a long way to cedric, before they reached the chair at the head of the table. when the hand was removed from his shoulder, and the earl was fairly seated, cedric took out dick's handkerchief and wiped his forehead. "it's a warm night, isn't it?" he said. "you have been doing some rather hard work," said the earl. "oh, no!" said lord fauntleroy, "it wasn't exactly hard, but i got a little warm. a person will get warm in summer time." and he rubbed his damp curls rather vigorously with the gorgeous handkerchief. his own chair was placed at the other end of the table, opposite his grandfather's. it was a chair with arms, and intended for a much larger individual than himself; indeed, everything he had seen so far--the great rooms, with their high ceilings, the massive furniture, the big footman, the big dog, the earl himself--were all of proportions calculated to make this little lad feel that he was very small indeed. but that did not trouble him. notwithstanding his solitary existence the earl chose to live in considerable state. he was fond of his dinner, and he dined in a formal style. cedric looked at him across a glitter of splendid glass and plate, which to his unaccustomed eyes seemed quite dazzling. a stranger looking on might well have smiled at the picture--the great stately room, the big liveried servants, the bright lights, the glittering silver and glass, the fierce-looking old nobleman at the head of the table and the very small boy at the foot. dinner was usually a very serious matter with the earl--and it was a very serious matter with the cook, if his lordship was not pleased or had an indifferent appetite. to-day, however, his appetite seemed a trifle better than usual, perhaps because his grandson gave him something to think of. he kept looking at him across the table. he did not say very much himself, but he managed to make the boy talk. he had never imagined that he could be entertained by hearing a child talk, but lord fauntleroy at once puzzled and amused him. cedric finished his dinner first, and then he leaned back in his chair and took a survey of the room. "you must be very proud of your house," he said, "it's such a beautiful house. i never saw anything so beautiful; but, of course, as i'm only seven, i haven't seen much." "and you think i must be proud of it, do you?" said the earl. "i should think any one would be proud of it," replied lord fauntleroy. "i should be proud of it, if it were my house. everything about it is beautiful." then he paused an instant and looked across the table rather wistfully. "it's a very big house for just two people to live in, isn't it?" he said. "it is quite large enough for two," answered the earl. "do you find it too large?" his little lordship hesitated a moment. "i was only thinking," he said, "that if two people lived in it who were not very good companions, they might feel lonely sometimes." "do you think i shall make a good companion?" inquired the earl. "yes," replied cedric, "i think you will. mr. hobbs and i were great friends. he was the best friend i had except dearest." the earl made a quick movement of his bushy eyebrows. "who is dearest?" "she is my mother," said lord fauntleroy, in a rather low, quiet little voice. perhaps he was a trifle tired, as his bed-time was nearing, and perhaps the feeling of weariness brought to him a vague sense of loneliness in the remembrance that to-night he was not to sleep at home, watched over by the loving eyes of that "best friend" of his. they had always been "best friends," this boy and his young mother. he could not help thinking of her, and the more he thought of her the less was he inclined to talk, and by the time the dinner was at an end the earl saw that there was a faint shadow on his face. but cedric bore himself with excellent courage, and when they went back to the library, though the tall footman walked on one side of his master, the earl's hand rested on his grandson's shoulder, though not so heavily as before. when the footman left them alone, cedric sat down upon the hearth-rug near dougal. for a few minutes he stroked the dog's ears in silence and looked at the fire. the earl watched him. the boy's eyes looked wistful and thoughtful, and once or twice he gave a little sigh. the earl sat still, and kept his eyes fixed on his grandson. "fauntleroy," he said at last, "what are you thinking of?" fauntleroy looked up with a manful effort at a smile. "i was thinking about dearest," he said; "and--and i think i'd better get up and walk up and down the room." he rose up, and put his hands in his small pockets, and began to walk to and fro. his eyes were very bright, and his lips were pressed together, but he kept his head up and walked firmly. dougal moved lazily and looked at him and then stood up. he walked over to the child, and began to follow him uneasily. fauntleroy drew one hand from his pocket and laid it on the dog's head. "he's a very nice dog," he said. "he's my friend. he knows how i feel." "how do you feel?" asked the earl. "i never was away from my own house before," said the boy, with a troubled look in his brown eyes. "it makes a person feel a strange feeling when he has to stay all night in another person's castle instead of in his own house. but dearest is not very far away from me. she told me to remember that--and--and i'm seven--and i can look at the picture she gave me." he put his hand in his pocket, and brought out a small violet velvet-covered case. "this is it," he said. "you see, you press this spring and it opens, and she is in there!" he had come close to the earl's chair, and, as he drew forth the little case, he leaned against the old man's arm. "there she is," he said, as the case opened; and he looked up with a smile. the earl knitted his brows; he did not wish to see the picture, but he looked at it in spite of himself; and there looked up at him from it such a pretty young face--a face so like the child's at his side--that it quite startled him. "i suppose you think you are very fond of her?" he said. "yes," answered lord fauntleroy, in a gentle tone, and with simple directness; "i do think so, and i think it's true. you see mr. hobbs was my friend, and dick and bridget and michael they were my friends too; but dearest--well she is my _close_ friend, and we always tell each other everything." his young lordship slipped down upon the hearth-rug, and sat there with the picture still in his hand. the earl did not speak again. he leaned back in his chair and watched him. a great many strange new thoughts passed through the old nobleman's mind. dougal had stretched himself out and gone to sleep with his head on his huge paws. there was a long silence. * * * * * in about half an hour's time mr. havisham was ushered in. the great room was very still when he entered. the earl was still leaning back in his chair. he moved as mr. havisham approached, and held up his hand in a gesture of warning--it seemed as if he had scarcely intended to make the gesture--as if it were almost involuntary. dougal was still asleep, and close beside the great dog, sleeping also, with his curly head upon his arm, lay little lord fauntleroy. chapter vi. the earl and his grandson. when lord fauntleroy wakened in the morning--he had not wakened at all when he had been carried to bed the night before,--the first sound he was conscious of were the crackling of a wood fire and the murmur of voices. he moved on his pillow, and turned over, opening his eyes. there were two women in the room. everything was bright and cheerful with gay-flowered chintz. there was a fire on the hearth, and the sunshine was streaming in through the ivy-entwined windows. both women came toward him, and he saw that one of them was mrs. mellon, the housekeeper, and the other a comfortable, middle-aged woman, with a face as kind and good-humoured as a face could be. "good-morning, my lord," said mrs. mellon. "did you sleep well?" his lordship rubbed his eyes and smiled. "good-morning," he said. "i didn't know i was here." "you were carried up-stairs when you were asleep," said the housekeeper. "this is your bedroom, and this is dawson, who is to take care of you." fauntleroy sat up in bed and held out his hand to dawson, as he had held it out to the earl. "how do you do, ma'am?" he said. "i'm much obliged to you for coming to take care of me." "you can call her dawson, my lord," said the housekeeper with a smile. "she is used to being called dawson.--she will do anything you ask her to." "that i will, bless him," said dawson, in her comforting, good-humoured voice. "he shall dress himself, and i'll stand by, ready to help him if he wants me." "thank you," responded lord fauntleroy; "it's a little hard sometimes about the buttons, you know, and then i have to ask somebody." when he went into the adjoining room to take his breakfast and saw what a great room it was, and found there was another adjoining it, which dawson told him was his also, the feeling that he was very small indeed came over him again so strongly that he confided it to dawson, as he sat down to the table on which the pretty breakfast service was arranged. "i am a very little boy," he said rather wistfully, "to live in such a large castle, and have so many big rooms--don't you think so?" "oh, come!" said dawson, "you feel just a little strange at first, that's all; but you'll get over that very soon, and then you'll like it here. it's such a beautiful place, you know." "it's a very beautiful place, of course," said fauntleroy, with a little sigh; "but i should like it better if i didn't miss dearest so. i always had my breakfast with her in the morning, and put the sugar and cream in her tea for her, and handed her the toast. that made it very sociable, of course." "oh, well!" answered dawson, comfortably, "you know you can see her every day, and there's no knowing how much you'll have to tell her. bless you! wait till you've walked about a bit and seen things--the dogs and the stables with all the horses in them. and, dear me, you haven't looked even into the very next room yet!" "what is there?" asked fauntleroy, "wait until you've had your breakfast, and then you shall see," said dawson. at this he naturally began to grow curious, and he applied himself assiduously to his breakfast. "now then," he said, slipping off his seat a few minutes later; "i've had enough. can i go and look at it?" dawson nodded and led the way. when she opened the door of the room, he stood upon the threshold and looked about him in amazement. he did not speak; he only put his hands in his pockets and stood there looking in. the room was a large one too, as all the rooms seemed to be, and it appeared to him more beautiful than the rest, only in a different way. the furniture was not so massive and antique as was that in the rooms he had seen down stairs; the draperies and rugs and walls were brighter; there were shelves full of books, and on the tables were numbers of toys--beautiful, ingenious things--such as he had looked at with wonder and delight through the shop windows in new york. "it looks like a boy's room," he said at last, catching his breath a little. "who do they belong to?" "go and look at them," said dawson. "they belong to you!" "to me!" he cried "to me! why do they belong to me? who gave them to me?" and he sprang forward with a gay little shout. it seemed almost too much to be believed. "it was grandpapa!" he said, with his eyes as bright as stars. "i know it was grandpapa!" "yes, it was his lordship," said dawson. it was a tremendously exciting morning. there were so many things to be examined, so many experiments to be tried; each novelty was so absorbing that he could scarcely turn from it to look at the next. the earl had passed a bad night and had spent the morning in his room; but at noon, after he had lunched, he sent for his grandson. fauntleroy answered the summons at once. he came down the broad staircase with a bounding step; the earl heard him run across the hall, and then the door opened and he came in with red cheeks and sparkling eyes. "i was waiting for you to send for me," he said. "i was ready a long time ago. i'm _ever_ so much obliged to you for all those things! i'm _ever_ so much obliged to you! i have been playing with them all the morning." "oh!" said the earl, "you like them, do you?" "i like them so much--well, i couldn't tell you how much!" said fauntleroy, his face glowing with delight. "there's one that's like base-ball. i tried to teach dawson, but she couldn't quite understand it just at first. but you know all about it, don't you?" "i'm afraid i don't," replied the earl. "it's an american game, isn't it? is it something like cricket?" "i never saw cricket," said fauntleroy; "but mr. hobbs took me several times to see base-ball. it's a splendid game. you get so excited! would you like me to go and get my game and show it to you? perhaps it would amuse you and make you forget about your foot. does your foot hurt you very much this morning?" "more than i enjoy," was the answer. "then perhaps you couldn't forget it," said the little fellow, anxiously. "perhaps it would bother you to be told about the game. do you think it would amuse you, or do you think it would bother you?" "go and get it," said the earl. it certainly was a novel entertainment this--making a companion of a child who offered to teach him to play games, but the very novelty of it amused him. there was a smile lurking about the earl's mouth when cedric came back with the box containing the game in his arms, and an expression of the most eager interest on his face. "may i pull that little table over here to your chair?" he asked. "ring for thomas," said the earl. "he will place it for you." "oh, i can do it myself," answered fauntleroy. "it's not very heavy." "very well," replied his grandfather. the lurking smile deepened on the old man's face as he watched the little fellow's preparations; there was such an absorbed interest in them. the small table was dragged forward and placed by his chair, and the game taken from its box and arranged upon it. "it's very interesting when you once begin," said fauntleroy. "you see, the black pegs can be your side and the white ones mine. they're men, you know, and once round the field is a home run and counts one--and these are the outs--and here is the first base and that's the second and that's the third and that's the home-base." he entered into the details of explanation with the greatest animation. he showed all the attitudes of pitcher and catcher and batter in the real game. when at last the explanations and illustrations were at an end and the game began in good earnest, the earl still found himself entertained. his young companion was wholly absorbed; he played with all his childish heart; his gay little laughs when he made a good throw, his enthusiasm over a "home run," his impartial delight over his own good luck or his opponent's would have given a flavour to any game. if, a week before, any one had told the earl of dorincourt that on that particular morning he would be forgetting his gout and his bad temper in a child's game, with a curly-headed small boy for a companion, he would without doubt have made himself very unpleasant; and yet he certainly had forgotten himself when the door opened and thomas announced a visitor. the visitor in question, who was an elderly gentleman in black, and no less a person than the clergyman of the parish, was so startled by the amazing scene which met his eye, that he almost fell back a pace, and ran some risk of colliding with thomas. there, was, in fact, no part of his duty that the reverend mr. mordaunt found so decidedly unpleasant as that part which compelled him to call upon his noble patron at the castle. his noble patron, indeed, usually made these visits as disagreeable as it lay in his lordly power to make them. he abhorred churches and charities, and flew into violent rages when any of his tenantry took the liberty of being poor and ill and needing assistance. during all the years in which mr. mordaunt had been in charge of dorincourt parish, the rector certainly did not remember having seen his lordship, of his own free will, do any one a kindness, or, under any circumstances whatever, show that he thought of any one but himself. judge then of his amazement when, as thomas opened the library door, his ears were greeted by a delighted ring of childish laughter. the earl glanced around, and when he saw who it was, mr. mordaunt was still more surprised to see that he looked almost as if he had forgotten for the moment how unpleasant he really could make himself when he tried. "ah!" he said in his harsh voice, but giving his hand rather graciously. "good morning, mordaunt. i've found a new employment, you see." he put his other hand on cedric's shoulder--perhaps deep down in his heart there was a stir of gratified pride that it was such an heir he had to present; there was a spark of something like pleasure in his eyes as he moved the boy slightly forward. "this is the new lord fauntleroy," he said. "fauntleroy, this is mr. mordaunt, the rector of the parish." fauntleroy looked up at the gentleman in the clerical garments, and gave him his hand. "i am very glad to make your acquaintance, sir," he said. mr. mordaunt held the small hand in his a moment as he looked down at the child's face, smiling involuntarily, he liked the little fellow from that instant--as in fact people always did like him. "i am delighted to make your acquaintance, lord fauntleroy," said the rector. "you made a long journey to come to us. a great many people will be glad to know you made it safely." "it _was_ a long way," answered fauntleroy; "but dearest, my mother, was with me and i wasn't lonely. of course you are never lonely if your mother is with you; and the ship was beautiful." "take a chair, mordaunt," said the earl. mr. mordaunt sat down. he glanced from fauntleroy to the earl. "your lordship is greatly to be congratulated," he said warmly. but the earl plainly had no intention of showing his feelings on the subject. "he is like his father," he said rather gruffly. "let us hope he'll conduct himself more creditably." and then he added: "well, what is it this morning, mordaunt? who is in trouble now?" this was not as bad as mr. mordaunt had expected, but he hesitated a second before he began. "it is higgins," he said; "higgins of edge farm. he has been very unfortunate. he was ill himself last autumn, and his children had scarlet fever. he is in trouble about his rent now. newick tells him if he doesn't pay it he must leave the place; and of course that would be a very serious matter. his wife is ill, and he came to me yesterday to beg me to see you about it, and ask you for time. he thinks if you would give him time he could catch up again." "they all think that," said the earl, looking rather black. fauntleroy made a movement forward. he had been standing between his grandfather and the visitor, listening with all his might. he had begun to be interested in higgins at once. he wondered how many children there were, and if the scarlet fever had hurt them very much. his eyes were wide open and were fixed upon mr. mordaunt with intense interest as that gentleman went on with the conversation. "higgins is a well-meaning man," said the rector, making an effort to strengthen his plea. "he is a bad enough tenant," replied his lordship. "and he is always behindhand, newick tells me." "he is in great trouble now," said the rector, "he is very fond of his wife and children, and if the farm is taken from him they may literally starve. he cannot give them the nourishing things they need. two of the children were left very low after the fever, and the doctor orders for them wine and luxuries that higgins cannot afford." at this fauntleroy moved a step nearer. "that was the way with michael," he said. the earl slightly started. "i forgot _you_!" he said. "i forgot we had a philanthropist in the room. who was michael?" and the gleam of queer amusement came back into the old man's deep-set eyes. "he was bridget's husband, who had the fever," answered fauntleroy; "and he couldn't pay the rent or buy wine and things. and you gave me that money to help him." the earl drew his brows together into a curious frown, which somehow was scarcely grim at all. he glanced across at mr. mordaunt. "i don't know what sort of a landed proprietor he will make," he said. "i told havisham the boy was to have what he wanted--and what he wanted, it seems, was money to give to beggars." "oh! but they weren't beggars," said fauntleroy eagerly. "michael was a splendid bricklayer! they all worked." "oh!" said the earl, "they were not beggars." he bent his gaze on the boy for a few seconds in silence. "come here," he said, at last. "what would _you_ do in this case?" it must be confessed that mr. mordaunt experienced for the moment a curious sensation. being a man of great thoughtfulness, and having spent so many years on the estate of dorincourt, he realised very strongly what power for good or evil would be given in the future to this one small boy standing there, his brown eyes wide open, his hands deep in his pockets; and the thought came to him also that a great deal of power might, perhaps, through the caprice of a proud, self-indulgent old man be given to him now, and that if his young nature were not a simple and generous one, it might be the worst thing that could happen, not only for others, but for himself. "and what would _you_ do in such a case?" demanded the earl. fauntleroy drew a little nearer, and laid one hand on his knee, with the most confiding air of good comradeship. "if i were very rich," he said "and not only just a little boy, i should let him stay, and give him the things for his children; but then, i am only a boy." then, after a second's pause, in which his face brightened visibly, "_you_ can do anything, can't you?" he said. "humph!" said my lord, staring at him. "that's your opinion, is it?" and he was not displeased either. "i mean you can give any one anything," said fauntleroy. "who's newick?" "he is my agent," answered the earl, "and some of my tenants are not over-fond of him." "are you going to write him a letter now?" inquired fauntleroy. "shall i bring you the pen and ink? i can take the game off this table." it plainly had not for an instant occurred to him that newick would be allowed to do his worst. the earl paused a moment, still looking at him. "can you write?" he asked. "yes," answered cedric, "but not very well." "move the things from the table," commanded my lord, "and bring the pen and ink, and a sheet of paper from my desk." mr. mordaunt's interest began to increase. fauntleroy did as he was told very deftly. in a few moments, the sheet of paper, the big inkstand, and the pen were ready. "there!" he said gaily, "now you can write it." "you are to write it," said the earl. "i!" exclaimed fauntleroy, and a flush overspread bis forehead. "will it do if i write it? i don't always spell quite right when i haven't a dictionary and nobody tells me." "it will do," answered the earl. "higgins will not complain of the spelling. i'm not the philanthropist; you are. dip your pen in the ink." fauntleroy took up the pen and dipped it in the ink-bottle, then he arranged himself in position, leaning on the table. "now," he inquired, "what must i say?" "you may say, 'higgins is not to be interfered with, for the present,' and sign it 'fauntleroy,'" said the earl. fauntleroy dipped his pen in the ink again, and resting his arm, began to write. it was rather a slow and serious process, but he gave his whole soul to it. after a while, however, the manuscript was complete, and he handed it to his grandfather with a smile slightly tinged with anxiety. "do you think it will do?" he asked. the earl looked at it, and the corners of his mouth twitched a little. "yes," he answered; "higgins will find it entirely satisfactory." and he handed it to mr. mordaunt. what mr. mordaunt found written was this:-- "dear mr. newik if you pleas mr. higins is not to be inturfeared with for the present and oblige "yours rispecferly "fauntleroy." "mr. hobbs always signed his letters that way," said fauntleroy; "and i thought i'd better say 'please.' is that exactly the right way to spell 'interfered'?" "it's not exactly the way it is spelled in the dictionary," answered the earl. "i was afraid of that," said fauntleroy. "i ought to have asked. you see, that's the way with words of more than one syllable; you have to look in the dictionary. it's always safest. i'll write it over again." and write it over again he did, making quite an imposing copy, and taking precautions in the matter of spelling by consulting the earl himself. "spelling is a curious thing," he said. "it's so often different from what you expect it to be. i used to think 'please' was spelled p-l-e-e-s, but it isn't, you know; and you'd think 'dear' was spelled d-e-r-e, if you didn't inquire. sometimes it almost discourages you." when mr. mordaunt went away, he took the letter with him, and he took something else with him also--namely, a pleasanter feeling and a more hopeful one than he had ever carried home with him down that avenue on any previous visit he had made at dorincourt castle. when he was gone, fauntleroy, who had accompanied him to the door, went back to his grandfather. "may i go to dearest now?" he said. "i think she will be waiting for me." the earl was silent a moment. "there is something in the stable for you to see first," he said. "ring the bell." "if you please," said fauntleroy, with his quick little flush, "i'm very much obliged; but i think i'd better see it to-morrow. she will be expecting me all the time." "very well," answered the earl. "we will order the carriage." then he added dryly, "it's a pony." fauntleroy drew a long breath. "a pony!" he exclaimed. "whose pony is it?" "yours," replied the earl. "mine?" cried the little fellow. "mine--like the things up stairs?" "yes," said his grandfather. "would you like to see it? shall i order it to be brought round?" fauntleroy's cheeks grew redder and redder. "i never thought i should have a pony!" he said. "i never thought that! how glad dearest will be. you give me _everything_, don't you?" "do you wish to see it?" inquired the earl. fauntleroy drew a long breath. "i _want_ to see it," he said. "i want to see it so much i can hardly wait. but i'm afraid there isn't time." "you _must_ go and see your mother this afternoon?" asked the earl. "you think you can't put it off?" "why," said fauntleroy, "she has been thinking about me all the morning, and i have been thinking about her!" "oh!" said the earl. "you have, have you? ring the bell." as they drove down the avenue, under the arching trees, he was rather silent. but fauntleroy was not. he talked about the pony. what colour was it? how big was it? what was its name? what did it like to eat best? how old was it? how early in the morning might he get up and see it? "dearest will be so glad!" he kept saying. "she will be so much obliged to you for being so kind to me! she knows i always liked ponies so much, but we never thought i should have one." he leaned back against the cushions and regarded the earl with rapt interest for a few minutes and in entire silence. "i think you must be the best person in the world," he burst forth at last. "you are always doing good, aren't you?--and thinking about other people. dearest says that is the best kind of goodness; not to think about yourself, but to think about other people. that is just the way you are, isn't it?" his lordship was so dumfounded to find himself presented in such agreeable colours, that he did not know exactly what to say. fauntleroy went on, still regarding him with admiring eyes--those great, clear, innocent eyes! "you make so many people happy," he said. "there's michael and bridget and their ten children, and the apple-woman, and dick, and mr. hobbs, and mr. higgins and mrs. higgins and their children, and mr. mordaunt--because of course he was glad--and dearest and me, about the pony and all the other things. do you know, i've counted it up on my fingers and in my mind, and it's twenty-seven people you've been kind to. that's a good many--twenty-seven!" "and i was the person who was kind to them--was i?" said the earl. "why, yes, you know," answered fauntleroy. "you made them all happy. do you know," with some delicate hesitation, "that people are sometimes mistaken about earls when they don't know them? mr. hobbs was. i am going to write to him, and tell him about it." "what was mr. hobbs's opinion of earls?" asked his lordship. "well, you see, the difficulty was," replied his young companion, "that he didn't know any, and he'd only read about them in books. he thought--you mustn't mind it--that they were gory tyrants; and he said he wouldn't have them hanging around his store. but if he'd known _you_, i'm sure he would have felt quite different. i shall tell him about you." "what shall you tell him?" "i shall tell him," said fauntleroy, glowing with enthusiasm, "that you are the kindest man i ever heard of. and--and i hope when i grow up, i shall be just like you." "just like me!" repeated his lordship, looking at the little kindling face. "_just_ like you," said fauntleroy, adding modestly, "if i can. perhaps i'm not good enough but i'm going to try." the carriage rolled on down the stately avenue under the beautiful, broad-branched trees, through the spaces of green shade and lanes of golden sunlight. fauntleroy saw again the lovely places where the ferns grew high and the bluebells swayed in the breeze; he saw the deer, standing or lying in the deep grass, turn their large startled eyes as the carriage passed, and caught glimpses of the brown rabbits as they scurried away. he heard the whirr of the partridges and the calls and songs of the birds, and it all seemed even more beautiful to him than before. all his heart was filled with pleasure and happiness in the beauty that was on every side. but the old earl saw and heard very different things, though he was apparently looking out too. he saw a long life, in which there had been neither generous deeds nor kind thoughts; he saw years in which a man who had been young and strong and rich and powerful had used his youth and strength and wealth and power only to please himself and kill time as the days and years succeeded each other; he saw this man, when the time had been killed and old age had come, solitary and without real friends in the midst of all his splendid wealth; he saw people who disliked or feared him, and people who would flatter and cringe to him, but no one who really cared whether he lived or died, unless they had something to gain or lose by it. and the fact was, indeed, that he had never before condescended to reflect upon it at all, and he only did so now because a child had believed him better than he was. fauntleroy thought the earl's foot must be hurting him, his brows knitted themselves together so, as he looked out at the park; and thinking this, the considerate little fellow tried not to disturb him, and enjoyed the trees and the ferns and the deer in silence. but at last, the carriage, having passed the gates and bowled through the green lanes for a short distance, stopped. they had reached court lodge; and fauntleroy was out upon the ground almost before the big footman had time to open the carriage door. the earl wakened from his reverie with a start. "what!" he said. "are we here?" "yes," said fauntleroy. "let me give you your stick. just lean on me when you get out." "i am not going to get out," replied his lordship brusquely. "not--not to see dearest?" exclaimed fauntleroy with astonished face. "'dearest' will excuse me," said the earl dryly. "go to her and tell her that not even a new pony would keep you away." "she will be disappointed," said fauntleroy. "she will want to see you very much." "i am afraid not," was the answer. "the carriage will call for you as we come back.--tell jeffries to drive on, thomas." thomas closed the carriage door: and, after a puzzled look, fauntleroy ran up the drive. the earl had the opportunity--of seeing a pair of handsome, strong little legs flash over the ground with astonishing rapidity. evidently their owner had no intention of losing any time. the carriage rolled slowly away, but his lordship did not at once lean back; he still looked out. through a space in the trees he could see the house door; it was wide open. the little figure dashed up the steps; another figure--a little figure too, slender and young, in its black gown--ran to meet it. it seemed as if they flew together, as fauntleroy leaped into his mother's arms, hanging about her neck and covering her sweet young face with kisses. chapter vii. at church. on the following sunday morning, mr. mordaunt had a large congregation. indeed, he could scarcely remember any sunday on which the church had been so crowded. people appeared upon the scene who seldom did him the honour of coming to hear his sermons. there were even people from hazelton, which was the next parish. there were hearty, sunburned farmers, stout, comfortable, apple-cheeked wives in their best bonnets and most gorgeous shawls, and half a dozen children or so to each family. the doctor's wife was there, with her four daughters. mrs. kimsey and mr. kimsey, who kept the druggist's shop, and made pills, and did up powders for everybody within ten miles, sat in their pew; mrs. dibble in hers, miss smiff, the village dressmaker, and her friend miss perkins, the milliner, sat in theirs; the doctor's young man was present, and the druggist's apprentice; in fact, almost every family on the country side was represented, in one way or another. in the course of the preceding week, many wonderful stories had been told of little lord fauntleroy. the reverend mr. mordaunt had told the story of higgins at his own dinner table, and the servant who had heard it had told it in the kitchen, and from there it had spread like wildfire. and on market-day, when higgins had appeared in town, he had been questioned on every side, and newick had been questioned too, and in response had shown to two or three people the note signed "fauntleroy." and so the farmers' wives had found plenty to talk of over their tea and their shopping, and they had done the subject full justice and made the most of it. and on sunday they had either walked to church or had been driven in their gigs by their husbands, who were perhaps a trifle curious themselves about the new little lord who was to be in time the owner of the soil. it was by no means the earl's habit to attend church, but he chose to appear on this first sunday--it was his whim to present himself in the huge family pew, with fauntleroy at his side. there were many loiterers in the churchyard that morning. there were groups at the gates and in the porch, and there had been much discussion as to whether my lord would really appear or not. when this discussion was at its height, one good woman suddenly uttered an exclamation. "eh!" she said; "that must be the mother, pretty young thing." all who heard turned and looked at the slender figure in black coming up the path. the veil was thrown back from her face and they could see how fair and sweet it was, and how the bright hair curled as softly as a child's under the little widow's cap. she was not thinking of the people about; she was thinking of cedric, and of his visits to her, and his joy over his new pony, on which he had actually ridden to her door the day before, sitting very straight and looking very proud and happy. but soon she could not help being attracted by the fact that she was being looked at and that her arrival had created some sort of sensation. she first noticed it because an old woman in a red cloak made a bobbing curtsy to her, and then another did the same thing and said, "god bless you, my lady!" and one man after another took off his hat as she passed. for a moment she did not understand, and then she realised that it was because she was little lord fauntleroy's mother that they did so, and she flushed rather shyly, and smiled and bowed too and said, "thank you" in a gentle voice to the old woman, who had blessed her. she had scarcely passed through the stone porch into the church before the great event of the day happened. the carriage from the castle, with its handsome horses and tall liveried servants, bowled round the corner and down the green lane. "here they come!" went from one looker-on to another. and then the carriage drew up, and thomas stepped down and opened the door, and a little boy, dressed in black velvet, and with a splendid mop of bright waving hair, jumped out. every man, woman, and child looked curiously upon him. "he's the captain over again!" said those of the on-lookers who remembered his father. "he's the captain's self, to the life!" he stood there in the sunlight looking up at the earl, as thomas helped that nobleman out, with the most affectionate interest that could be imagined. the instant he could help, he put out his hand and offered his shoulder as if he had been seven feet high. it was plain enough to every one that however it might be with other people, the earl of dorincourt struck no terror into the breast of his grandson. "just lean on me," they heard him say. "how glad the people are to see you, and how well they all seem to know you!" "take off your cap, fauntleroy," said the earl. "they are bowing to you." "to me!" cried fauntleroy, whipping off his cap in a moment, baring his bright head to the crowd, and turning shining, puzzled eyes on them as he tried to bow to every one at once. "god bless your lordship!" said the curtsying, red-cloaked old woman who had spoken to his mother; "long life to you!" "thank you, ma'am," said fauntleroy. and then they went into the church, and were looked at there, on their way up the aisle to the square red-cushioned and curtained pew. when fauntleroy was fairly seated he made two discoveries which pleased him: the first was that, across the church where he could look at her, his mother sat and smiled at him; the second, that at one end of the pew against the wall knelt two quaint figures carven in stone, facing each other as they kneeled on either side of a pillar supporting two stone missals, their hands folded as if in prayer, their dress very antique and strange. on the tablet by them was written something of which he could only read the curious words: "here lyethe ye bodye of gregorye arthure fyrst earle of dorincourt allsoe of alisone hildegarde hys wyfe." "may i whisper?" inquired his lordship, devoured by curiosity. "what is it?" said his grandfather. "who are they?" "some of your ancestors," answered the earl, "who lived a few hundred years ago." "perhaps," said lord fauntleroy, regarding them with respect, "perhaps i got my spelling from them." and then he proceeded to find his place in the church service. when the music began, he stood up and looked across at his mother, smiling. he was very fond of music, and his mother and he often sang together, so he joined in with the rest, his pure, sweet, high voice rising as clear as the song of a bird. he quite forgot himself in his pleasure in it. the earl forgot himself a little too, as he sat in his curtain-shielded corner of the pew and watched the boy. his mother, as she looked at him across the church, felt a thrill pass through her heart, and a prayer rose in it too; a prayer that the pure, simple happiness of his childish soul might last, and that the strange, great fortune which had fallen to him might bring no wrong or evil with it. there were many soft anxious thoughts in her tender heart in those new days. "oh, ceddie!" she had said to him the evening before, as she hung over him in saying good-night, before he went away; "oh, ceddie, dear, i wish for your sake i was very clever and could say a great many wise things! but only be good, dear, only be brave, only be kind and true always, and then you will never hurt any one so long as you live, and you may help many, and the big world may be better because my little child was born." and on his return to the castle, fauntleroy had repeated her words to his grandfather. "and i thought about you when she said that," he ended; "and i told her that was the way the world was because you had lived, and i was going to try if i could be like you." "and what did she say to that?" asked his lordship, a trifle uneasily. "she said that was right, and we must always look for good in people and try to be like it." perhaps it was this the old man remembered as he glanced through the divided folds of the red curtain of his pew to where his son's wife sat. as they came out of the church, many of those who had attended the service stood waiting to see them pass. as they neared the gate, a man who stood with his hat in his hand made a step forward and then hesitated. he was a middle-aged farmer, with a careworn face. "well, higgins," said the earl. fauntleroy turned quickly to look at him. "oh!" he exclaimed; "is it mr. higgins?" "yes," answered the earl dryly; "and i suppose he came to take a look at his new landlord." "yes, my lord," said the man, his sunburned face reddening. "mr. newick told me his young lordship was kind enough to speak for me, and i thought i'd like to say a word of thanks, if i might be allowed." perhaps he felt some wonder when he saw what a little fellow it was who had innocently done so much for him, and who stood there looking up just as one of his own less fortunate children might have done--apparently not realising his own importance in the least. "i've a great deal to thank your lordship for," he said; "a great deal. i----" "oh," said fauntleroy; "i only wrote the letter. it was my grandfather who did it. but you know how he is about always being good to everybody. is mrs. higgins well now?" higgins looked a trifle taken aback. he also was somewhat startled at hearing his noble landlord presented in the character of a benevolent being, full of engaging qualities. "i--well, yes, your lordship," he stammered. "i'm glad of that," said fauntleroy. "my grandfather was very sorry about your children having the scarlet fever, and so was i." "you see, higgins," broke in the earl with a fine grim smile; "you people have been mistaken in me. lord fauntleroy understands me. get into the carriage, fauntleroy." and fauntleroy jumped in, and the carriage rolled away down the green lane, and even when it turned the corner into the high road, the earl was still grimly smiling. chapter viii. learning to ride. lord dorincourt had occasion to wear his grim smile many a time as the days passed by. indeed, as his acquaintance with his grandson progressed, he wore the smile so often that there were moments when it almost lost its grimness. there is no denying that before lord fauntleroy had appeared on the scene, the old man had been growing very tired of his loneliness and his gout and his seventy years, but when he saw the lad, fortunately for the little fellow, the secret pride of the grandfather was gratified at the outset. and then when he heard the lad talk, and saw what a well-bred little fellow he was, notwithstanding his boyish ignorance of all that his new position meant, the old earl liked his grandson more, and actually began to find himself rather entertained. it had amused him to give into those childish hands the power to bestow a benefit on poor higgins. then it had gratified him to drive to church with cedric and to see the excitement and interest caused by the arrival. my lord of dorincourt was an arrogant old man, proud of his name, proud of his rank, and therefore proud to show the world that at last the house of dorincourt had an heir who was worthy of the position he was to fill. the morning the new pony had been tried the earl had been so pleased that he had almost forgotten his gout. when the groom had brought out the pretty creature, which arched its brown glossy neck and tossed its fine head in the sun, the earl had sat at the open window of the library and had looked on while fauntleroy took his first riding lesson. he wondered if the boy would show signs of timidity. fauntleroy mounted in great delight. he had never been on a pony before, and he was in the highest spirits. wilkins, the groom, led the animal by the bridle up and down before the library window. after a few minutes fauntleroy spoke to his grandfather--watching him from the window. "can't i go myself?" he asked; "and can't i go faster?" his lordship made a sign to wilkins, who at the signal brought up his own horse and mounted it and took fauntleroy's pony by the leading-rein. "now," said the earl, "let him trot." the next few minutes were rather exciting to the small equestrian. he found that trotting was not so easy as walking, and the faster the pony trotted, the less easy it was. "it j-jolts a g-goo-good deal--do-doesn't it?" he said to wilkins. "d-does it j-jolt y-you?" "no, my lord," answered wilkins. "you'll get used to it in time. rise in your stirrups." "i'm ri-rising all the t-time," said fauntleroy. he was both rising and falling rather uncomfortably and with many shakes and bounces. he was out of breath, but he held on with all his might, and sat as straight as he could. the earl could see that from his window. when the riders came back within speaking distance, after they had been hidden by the trees a few minutes, fauntleroy's hat was off, his cheeks were like poppies, and his lips were set, but he was still trotting manfully. "stop a minute!" said his grandfather. "where's your hat?" wilkins touched his. "it fell off, your lordship," he said, with evident enjoyment. "wouldn't let me stop to pick it up, my lord." "tired?" said the earl to fauntleroy. "want to get off?" "it jolts you more than you think it will," admitted his young lordship frankly. "and it tires you a little too; but i don't want to get off. i want to learn how. as soon as i've got my breath i want to go back for the hat." the cleverest person in the world, if he had undertaken to teach fauntleroy how to please the old man who watched him, could not have taught him anything which would have succeeded better. as the pony trotted off again toward the avenue, a faint colour crept up in the fierce old face, and the eyes, under the shaggy brows, gleamed with a pleasure such as his lordship had scarcely expected to know again. and he sat and watched quite eagerly until the sound of the horses' hoofs returned. when they did come, which was after some time, they came at a faster pace. fauntleroy's hat was still off, wilkins was carrying it for him; his cheeks were redder than before, and his hair was flying about his ears, but he came at quite a brisk canter. "there!" he panted, as they drew up, "i c-cantered." he and wilkins and the pony were close friends after that. scarcely a day passed on which the country people did not see them out together, cantering gaily on the highroad or through the green lanes. the children in the cottages would run to the door to look at the proud little brown pony with the gallant little figure sitting so straight in the saddle, and the young lord would snatch off his cap and swing it at them, and shout, "hallo! good morning!" in a very unlordly manner, though with great heartiness. sometimes he would stop and talk with the children, and once wilkins came back to the castle with a story of how fauntleroy had insisted on dismounting near the village school, so that a boy who was lame and tired might ride home on his pony. "an' i'm blessed," said wilkins, in telling the story at the stables,--"i'm blessed if he'd hear of anything else! he wouldn't let me get down, because he said the boy mightn't feel comfortable on a big horse. an' ses he, 'wilkins,' ses he, 'that boy's lame and i'm not, and i want to talk to him too.' and up the lad has to get, and my lord trudges alongside of him with his hands in his pockets. and when we come to the cottage, an' the boy's mother comes out to see what's up, he whips off his cap an' ses he, 'i've brought your son home, ma'am,' ses he, 'because his leg hurt him, and i don't think that stick is enough for him to lean on; and i'm going to ask my grandfather to have a pair of crutches made for him.'" when the earl heard the story, he was not angry, as wilkins had been half afraid that he would be; on the contrary, he laughed outright, and called fauntleroy up to him, and made him tell all about the matter from beginning to end, and then he laughed again. and actually, a few days later, the dorincourt carriage stopped in the green lane before the cottage where the lame boy lived, and fauntleroy jumped out and walked up to the door, carrying a pair of strong, light, new crutches, and presented them to mrs. hartle (the lame boy's name was hartle) with these words: "my grandfather's compliments, and if you please, these are for your boy, and we hope he will get better." "i said your compliments," he explained to the earl when he returned to the carriage. "you didn't tell me to, but i thought perhaps you forgot. that was right, wasn't it?" and the earl laughed again, and did not say it was not. in fact, the two were becoming more intimate every day, and every day fauntleroy's faith in his lordship's benevolence and virtue increased. he had no doubt whatever that his grandfather was the most amiable and generous of elderly gentlemen. certainly, he himself found his wishes gratified almost before they were uttered; and such gifts and pleasures were lavished upon him, that he was sometimes almost bewildered by his own possessions. perhaps, notwithstanding his sweet nature, he might have been somewhat spoiled by it, if it had not been for the hours he spent with his mother at court lodge. that "best friend" of his watched over him very closely and tenderly. the two had many long talks together, and he never went back to the castle with her kisses on his cheeks without carrying in his heart some simple, pure words worth remembering. there was one thing, it is true, which puzzled the little fellow very much. he thought over the mystery of it much oftener than any one supposed; even his mother did not know how often he pondered on it; the earl for a long time never suspected that he did so at all. but being quick to observe, the little boy could not help wondering why it was that his mother and grandfather never seemed to meet. he had noticed that they never did meet. and yet, every day, fruit and flowers were sent to court lodge from the hot-houses at the castle. but the one virtuous action of the earl's which had set him upon the pinnacle of perfection in cedric's eyes, was what he had done soon after that first sunday when mrs. errol had walked home from church unattended. about a week later, when cedric was going one day to visit his mother, he found at the door, instead of the large carriage and prancing pair, a pretty little brougham and a handsome bay horse. "that is a present from you to your mother," the earl said abruptly. "she cannot go walking about the country. she needs a carriage. the man who drives will take charge of it. it is a present from _you_." fauntleroy's delight could but feebly express itself. he could scarcely contain himself until he reached the lodge. his mother was gathering roses in the garden. he flung himself out of the little brougham and flew to her. "dearest!" he cried, "could you believe it? this is yours! he says it is a present from me. it is your own carriage to drive everywhere in!" he was so happy that she did not know what to say. she could not have borne to spoil his pleasure by refusing to accept the gift, even though it came from the man who chose to consider himself her enemy. she was obliged to step into the carriage, roses and all, and let herself be taken for a drive, while fauntleroy told her stories of his grandfather's goodness and amiability. they were such innocent stories that sometimes she could not help laughing a little, and then she would draw her little boy closer to her side and kiss him, feeling glad that he could see only good in the old man who had so few friends. the very next day after that, fauntleroy wrote to mr. hobbs. he wrote quite a long letter, and after the first copy was written, he brought it to his grandfather to be inspected. "because," he said, "it's so uncertain about the spelling." these were the last lines: "i should like to see you and i wish dearest could live at the castle but i am very happy when i dont miss her too much and i love my granfarther every one does plees write soon "your afechshnet old friend "cedric errol. "do you miss your mother very much?" asked the earl when he had finished reading this. "yes," said fauntleroy, "i miss her all the time. and when i miss her very much, i go and look out of my window to where i see her light shine for me every night through an open place in the trees. it is a long way off, but she puts it in her window as soon as it is dark and i can see it twinkle far away, and i know what it says." "what does it say?" asked my lord. "it says, 'good-night, god keep you all the night!'--just what she used to say when we were together. every night she used to say that to me, and every morning she said, 'god bless you all the day!' so you see i am quite safe all the time----" "quite, i have no doubt," said his lordship dryly. and he drew down his beetling eyebrows and looked at the little boy so fixedly and so long that fauntleroy wondered what he could be thinking of. chapter ix. the poor cottages. the fact was, his lordship the earl of dorincourt thought in those days of many things of which he had never thought before, and all his thoughts were in one way or another connected with his grandson. his pride was the strongest part of his nature, and the boy gratified it at every point. through this pride he began to find a new interest in life. he began to take pleasure in showing his heir to the world. the world had known of his disappointment in his sons; so there was an agreeable touch of triumph in exhibiting this new lord fauntleroy, who could disappoint no one. he made plans for his future. sometimes in this new interest he forgot his gout, and after a while his doctor was surprised to find this noble patient's health growing better than he had expected it ever would be again. perhaps the earl grew better because the time did not pass so slowly for him, and he had something to think of besides his pains and infirmities. one fine morning, people were amazed to see little lord fauntleroy riding his pony with another companion than wilkins. this new companion rode a tall, powerful gray horse, and was no other than the earl himself. and in their rides together through the green lanes and pretty country roads, the two riders became more intimate than ever. and gradually the old man heard a great deal about "dearest" and her life. as fauntleroy trotted by the big horse he chatted gaily. there could not well have been a brighter little comrade, his nature was so happy. the earl often was silent, listening and watching the joyous, glowing face. sometimes he would tell his young companion to set the pony off at a gallop, and when the little fellow dashed off, sitting so straight and fearless, he would watch the boy with a gleam of pride and pleasure in his eyes; and fauntleroy, when, after such a dash, he came back waving his cap with a laughing shout, always felt that he and his grandfather were very good friends indeed. one thing that the earl discovered was that his son's wife did not lead an idle life. it was not long before he learned that the poor people knew her very well indeed. when there was sickness or sorrow or poverty in any house, the little brougham often stood before the door. it had not displeased the earl to find that the mother of his heir had a beautiful young face and looked as much like a lady as if she had been a duchess, and in one way it did not displease him to know that she was popular and beloved by the poor. and yet he was often conscious of a hard, jealous pang when he saw how she filled her child's heart and how the boy clung to her as his best beloved. the old man would have desired to stand first himself and have no rival. he felt it to be almost incredible that he, who had never really loved any one in his life, should find himself growing so fond of this little fellow,--as without doubt he was. at first he had only been pleased and proud of cedric's beauty and bravery, but there was something more than pride in his feeling now. he laughed a grim, dry laugh all to himself sometimes, when he thought how he liked to have the boy near him, how he liked to hear his voice, and how in secret he really wished to be liked and thought well of by his small grandson. it was only about a week after that ride when, after a visit to his mother, fauntleroy came into the library with a troubled, thoughtful face. he sat down in that high-backed chair in which he had sat on the evening of his arrival, and for a while he looked at the embers on the hearth. the earl watched him in silence, wondering what was coming. it was evident that cedric had something on his mind. at last he looked up "does newick know all about the people?" he asked. "it is his business to know about them," said his lordship. "been neglecting it--has he?" contradictory as it may seem, there was nothing which entertained and edified him more than the little fellow's interest in his tenantry. "there is a place," said fauntleroy, looking up at him with wide-open, horror-stricken eyes--"dearest has seen it; it is at the other end of the village. the houses are close together, and almost falling down; you can scarcely breathe: and the people are so poor, and everything is dreadful! the rain comes in at the roof! dearest went to see a poor woman who lived there. the tears ran down her cheeks when she told me about it!" the tears had come into his own eyes, but he smiled through them. "i told her you didn't know, and i would tell you," he said. he jumped down and came and leaned against the earl's chair. "you can make it all right," he said, "just as you made it all right for higgins. you always make it all right for everybody. i told her you would, and that newick must have forgotten to tell you." the earl looked down at the hand on his knee. newick had not forgotten to tell him; in fact, newick had spoken to him more than once of the desperate condition of the end of the village known as earl's court. mr. mordaunt had painted it all to him in the strongest words he could use, and his lordship had used violent language in response; and, when his gout had been at the worst, he had said that the sooner the people of earl's court died and were buried by the parish the better it would be--and there was an end of the matter. and yet, as he looked at the small hand on his knee, and from the small hand to the honest, earnest, frank-eyed face, he was actually ashamed both of earl's court and of himself. "what!" he said; "you want to make a builder of model cottages of me, do you?" and he positively put his own hand upon the childish one and stroked it. "those must be pulled down," said fauntleroy, with great eagerness. "dearest says so. let us--let us go and have them pulled down to-morrow. the people will be so glad when they see you! they'll know you have come to help them!" and his eyes shone like stars in his glowing face. the earl rose from his chair and put his hand on the child's shoulder. "let us go out and take our walk on the terrace," he said, with a short laugh; "and we can talk it over." and though he laughed two or three times again, as they walked to and fro on the broad stone terrace, where they walked together almost every fine evening, he seemed to be thinking of something which did not displease him, and still he kept his hand on his small companion's shoulder. chapter x. the earl alarmed. the truth was that mrs. errol had found a great many sad things in the course of her work among the poor of the little village that appeared so picturesque when it was seen from the moor-sides. everything was not as picturesque when seen near by, as it looked from a distance. she had found idleness and poverty and ignorance where there should have been comfort and industry. and she had discovered, after a while, that erlesboro was considered to be the worst village in that part of the country. as to earl's court, it was a disgrace, with its dilapidated houses and miserable, careless, sickly people. when first mrs. errol went to the place, it made her shudder. and a bold thought came into her wise little mother-heart. gradually she had begun to see, as had others, that it had been her boy's good fortune to please the earl very much, and that he would scarcely be likely to be denied anything for which he expressed a desire. "the earl would give him anything," she said to mr. mordaunt. "he would indulge his every whim. why should not that indulgence be used for the good of others? it is for me to see that this shall come to pass." she knew she could trust the kind, childish heart; so she told the little fellow the story of earl's court, feeling sure that he would speak of it to his grandfather, and hoping that some good results would follow. and strange as it appeared to every one, good results did follow. the fact was that the strongest power to influence the earl was his grandson's perfect confidence in him--the fact that cedric always believed that his grandfather was going to do what was right and generous. he could not quite make up his mind to let him discover that he had no inclination to be generous at all, and so after some reflection, he sent for newick, and had quite a long interview with him on the subject of the court, and it was decided that the wretched hovels should be pulled down and new houses should be built. "it is lord fauntleroy who insists on it," he said dryly; "he thinks it will improve the property. you can tell the tenants that it's his idea." of course, both the country people and the town people heard of the proposed improvement. at first, many of them would not believe it; but when a small army of workmen arrived and commenced pulling down the crazy, squalid cottages, people began to understand that little lord fauntleroy had done them a good turn again, and that through his innocent interference the scandal of earl's court had at last been removed. when the cottages were being built, the lad and his grandfather used to ride over to earl's court together to look at them, and fauntleroy was full of interest. he would dismount from his pony and go and make acquaintance with the workmen, asking them questions about building and bricklaying and telling them things about america. when he left them, the workmen used to talk him over among themselves, and laugh at his odd, innocent speeches; but they liked him, and liked to see him stand among them, talking away, with his hands in his pockets, his hat pushed back on his curls, and his small face full of eagerness. and they would go home and tell their wives about him, and the women would tell each other, and so it came about that almost every one talked of, or knew some story of, little lord fauntleroy; and gradually almost every one knew that the "wicked earl" had found something he cared for at last--something which had touched and even warmed his hard, bitter old heart. but no one knew quite how much it had been warmed, and how day by day the old man found himself caring more and more for the child, who was the only creature that had ever trusted him. he never spoke to any one else of his feeling for cedric; when he spoke of him to others it was always with the same grim smile. but fauntleroy soon knew that his grandfather loved him and always liked him to be near--near to his chair if they were in the library, opposite to him at table, or by his side when he rode or drove or took his evening walk on the broad terrace. "do you remember," cedric said once looking up from his book as he lay on the rug, "do you remember what i said to you that first night about our being good companions? i don't think any people could be better friends than we are, do you?" "we are pretty good companions, i should say," replied his lordship. "come here." fauntleroy scrambled up and went to him. "is there anything you want," the earl asked; "anything you have not?" the little fellow's brown eyes fixed themselves on his grandfather with a rather wistful look. "only one thing," he answered. "what is that?" inquired the earl. fauntleroy was silent a second. he had not thought matters over to himself so long for nothing. "what is it?" my lord repeated. fauntleroy answered. "it is dearest," he said. the old earl winced a little. "but you see her almost every day," he said. "is not that enough?" "i used to see her all the time," said fauntleroy. "she used to kiss me when i went to sleep at night, and in the morning she was always there, and we could tell each other things without waiting." the old eyes and the young ones looked into each other through a moment of silence. then the earl knitted his brows. "do you _never_ forget about your mother?" he said. "no," answered fauntleroy, "never; and she never forgets about me. i shouldn't forget about _you_, you know, if i didn't live with you. i should think about you all the more." "upon my word," said the earl, after looking at him a moment longer, "i believe you would!" the jealous pang that came when the boy spoke so of his mother seemed even stronger than it had been before--it was stronger because of this old man's increasing affection for the boy. but it was not long before he had other pangs, so much harder to face that he almost forgot, for the time, he had ever hated his son's wife at all. and in a strange and startling way it happened. one evening, just before the earl's court cottages were completed, there was a grand dinner party at dorincourt. there had not been such a party at the castle for a long time. a few days before it took place, sir harry lorridaile and lady lorridaile, who was the earl's only sister, actually came for a visit--a thing which caused the greatest excitement in the village and set mrs. dibble's shop-bell tinkling madly again, because it was well known that lady lorridaile had only been to dorincourt once since her marriage, thirty-five years before. she was a handsome old lady with white curls and dimpled, peachy cheeks, and she was as good as gold, but she had never approved of her brother any more than did the rest of the world, and having a strong will of her own and not being at all afraid to speak her mind frankly, she had, after several lively quarrels with his lordship, seen very little of him since her young days. not only the poor people and farmers heard about little lord fauntleroy; others knew of him. he was talked about so much and there were so many stories of him--of his beauty, his sweet temper, his popularity, and his growing influence over the earl his grandfather--that rumours of him reached the gentry at their country places and he was heard of in more than one county of england. and so by degrees lady lorridaile, too, heard of the child; she heard about higgins, and the lame boy, and the cottages at earl's court, and a score of other things,--and she began to wish to see the little fellow. and just as she was wondering how it might be brought about, to her utter astonishment, she received a letter from her brother inviting her to come with her husband to dorincourt. "it seems incredible!" she exclaimed. "i have heard it said that the child has worked miracles, and i begin to believe it. they say my brother adores the boy and can scarcely endure to have him out of sight. and he is so proud of him! actually, i believe he wants to show him to us." and she accepted the invitation at once. when she reached dorincourt castle with sir harry, it was late in the afternoon, and she went to her room at once before seeing her brother. having dressed for dinner she entered the drawing-room. the earl was there standing near the fire and looking very tall and imposing; and at his side stood a little boy in black velvet, and a large vandyke collar of rich lace--a little fellow whose round bright face was so handsome, and who turned upon her such beautiful, candid brown eyes, that she almost uttered an exclamation of pleasure and surprise at the sight. as she shook hands with the earl, she called him by the name she had not used since her girl-hood. "what, molyneux," she said, "is this the child?" "yes, constantia," answered the earl, "this is the boy. fauntleroy, this is your grand-aunt, lady lorridaile." "how do you do, grand-aunt?" said fauntleroy. lady lorridaile put her hand on his shoulder, and after looking down into his upraised face a few seconds, kissed him warmly. "i am your aunt constantia," she said, "and i loved your poor papa, and you are very like him." "it makes me glad when i am told i am like him," answered fauntleroy, "because it seems as if every one liked him,--just like dearest, eszackly,--aunt constantia," (adding the two words after a second's pause). lady lorridaile was delighted. she bent and kissed him again, and from that moment they were warm friends. "well, molyneux," she said aside to the earl afterwards, "it could not possibly be better than this!" "i think not," answered his lordship dryly. "he is a fine little fellow. we are great friends. he believes me to be the most charming and sweet-tempered of philanthropists. i will confess to you, constantia,--as you would find it out if i did not,--that i am in some slight danger of becoming rather an old fool about him." "what does his mother think of you?" asked lady lorridaile, with her usual straightforwardness. "i have not asked her," answered the earl, slightly scowling. "well," said lady lorridaile, "i will be frank with you at the outset, molyneux, and tell you i don't approve of your course, and that it is my intention to call on mrs. errol as soon as possible; so if you wish to quarrel with me, you had better mention it at once. what i hear of the young creature makes me quite sure that her child owes her everything. we were told even at lorridaile park that your poorer tenants adore her already." "they adore _him_," said the earl, nodding towards fauntleroy. "as to mrs. errol, you'll find her a pretty little woman. i'm rather in debt to her for giving some of her beauty to the boy, and you can go to see her if you like. all i ask is that she will remain at court lodge and that you will not ask me to go and see her," and he scowled a little again. "but he doesn't hate her as much as he used to, that is plain enough to me," her ladyship said to sir harry afterwards. "and he is a changed man in a measure, and, incredible as it may seem, harry, it is my opinion that he is being made into a human being, through nothing more or less than his affection for that innocent, affectionate little fellow." the very next day she went to call upon mrs. errol. when she returned, she said to her brother: "molyneux, she is the loveliest little woman i ever saw! she has a voice like a silver bell, and you may thank her for making the boy what he is. she has given him more than her beauty, and you make a great mistake in not persuading her to come and take charge of you. i shall invite her to lorridaile." "she'll not leave the boy," replied the earl. "i must have the boy too," said lady lorridaile, laughing. but she knew fauntleroy would not be given up to her, and each day she saw more clearly how closely those two had grown to each other, and how all the proud, grim old man's ambition and hope and love centred themselves in the child, and how the warm, innocent nature returned his affection with most perfect trust and good faith. she knew, too, that the prime reason for the great dinner party was the earl's secret desire to show the world his grandson and heir. perhaps there was not one person who accepted the invitation without feeling some curiosity about little lord fauntleroy, and wondering if he would be on view. and when the time came he was on view. "the lad has good manners," said the earl. "he will be in no one's way. he can actually answer when he's spoken to, and be silent when he is not." but he was not allowed to be silent very long. every one had something to say to him. the fact was they wished to make him talk. the ladies petted him and asked him questions, and the men asked him questions too, and joked with him, as the men on the steamer had done when he crossed the atlantic. but though he was talked to so much, as the earl had said, he was in no one's way. he could be quiet and listen when others talked, and so no one found him tiresome. mr. havisham had been expected to arrive in the afternoon, but, strange to say, he was late. such a thing had really never been known to happen before during all the years in which he had been a visitor at dorincourt castle. he was so late that the guests were on the point of rising to go in to dinner when he arrived. when he approached his host, the earl regarded him with amazement. he looked as if he had been hurried or agitated; his dry, keen old face was actually pale. "i was detained," he said, in a low voice to the earl, "by--an extraordinary event." it was as unlike the methodic old lawyer to be agitated by anything as it was to be late, but it was evident that he had been disturbed. at dinner he ate scarcely anything, and two or three times, when he was spoken to, he started as if his thoughts were far away. at dessert, when fauntleroy came in, he looked at him more than once, nervously and uneasily. fauntleroy noted the look and wondered at it. he and mr. havisham were on friendly terms, and they usually exchanged smiles. the lawyer seemed to have forgotten to smile that evening. he did not exactly know how the long, superb dinner ended. he sat through it as if he were in a dream, and several times he saw the earl glance at him in surprise. but it was over at last, and the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing-room. they found fauntleroy sitting on a sofa with miss vivian herbert,--the great beauty of the last london season; they had been looking at some pictures, and he was thanking his companion, as the door opened. "i'm ever so much obliged to you for being so kind to me!" he was saying; "i never was at a party before, and i've enjoyed myself so much!" he had enjoyed himself so much that his eyelids began to droop. he was quite sure he was not going to sleep, but there was a large, yellow satin cushion behind him and his head sank against it, and after a while his eyelids drooped for the last time. * * * * * no sooner had the last guest left the room, than mr. havisham turned from his place by the fire, and stepped nearer the sofa, where he stood looking down at the sleeping occupant. "well, havisham," said the earl's harsh voice behind him. "what is it? it is evident something has happened. what was the extraordinary event, if i may ask?" mr. havisham turned from the sofa, still rubbing his chin. "it was bad news," he answered, "distressing news, my lord--the worst of news. i am sorry to be the bearer of it." the earl had been uneasy for some time during the evening, as he glanced at mr. havisham, and when he was uneasy he was always ill-tempered. "why do you look so at the boy!" he exclaimed irritably. "you have been looking at him all the evening as if--. what has your news to do with lord fauntleroy?" "my lord," said mr. havisham, "i will waste no words. my news has everything to do with lord fauntleroy. and if we are to believe it--it is not lord fauntleroy who lies sleeping before us, but only the son of captain errol. and the present lord fauntleroy is the son of your son bevis, and is at this moment in a lodging-house in london." the earl clutched the arms of his chair with both his hands until the veins stood out upon them; the veins stood out on his forehead too; his fierce old face was almost livid. "what do you mean!" he cried out. "you are mad! whose lie is this?" "if it is a lie," answered mr. havisham, "it is painfully like the truth. a woman came to my chambers this morning. she said your son bevis married her six years ago in london. she showed me her marriage certificate. they quarrelled a year after the marriage, and he paid her to keep away from him. she has a son five years old. she is an american of the lower classes,--an ignorant person,--and until lately she did not fully understand what her son could claim. she consulted a lawyer, and found out that the boy was really lord fauntleroy and the heir to the earldom of dorincourt; and she, of course, insists on his claims being acknowledged." the handsome, grim old face was ghastly. a bitter smile fixed itself upon it. "i should refuse to believe a word of it," he said, "if it were not such a low, scoundrelly piece of business that it becomes quite possible in connection with the name of my son bevis. it is quite like bevis. he was always a disgrace to us. the woman is an ignorant, vulgar person, you say?" "i am obliged to admit that she can scarcely spell her own name," answered the lawyer. "she cares for nothing but the money. she is very handsome in a coarse way, but----" the fastidious old lawyer ceased speaking and gave a sort of shudder. the veins on the old earl's forehead stood out like purple cords. something else stood out upon it too--cold drops of moisture. he took out his handkerchief and swept them away. his smile grew even more bitter. "and i," he said, "i objected to--to the other woman, the mother of this child" (pointing to the sleeping form on the sofa); "i refused to recognize her. and yet she could spell her own name. i suppose this is retribution." suddenly he sprang up from his chair and began to walk up and down the room. fierce and terrible words poured forth from his lips. his rage and hatred and cruel disappointment shook him as a storm shakes a tree. "i might have known it," he said. "they were a disgrace to me from their first hour! i hated them both; and they hated me! bevis was the worse of the two. i will not believe this yet though! i will contend against it to the last. but it is like bevis--it is like him!" and then he raged again and asked questions about the woman, about her proofs, and pacing the room, turned first white and then purple in his repressed fury. when at last he had learned all that was to be told, and knew the worst, mr. havisham looked at him with a feeling of anxiety. he looked broken and haggard and changed. his rages had always been bad for him, but this one had been worse than the rest because there had been something more than rage in it. he came slowly back to the sofa, at last, and stood near it. "if any one had told me i could be fond of a child," he said, his harsh voice low and unsteady, "i should not have believed them. i always detested children--my own more than the rest. i am fond of this one; he is fond of me" (with a bitter smile). "i am not popular; i never was. but he is fond of me. he never was afraid of me--he always trusted me. he would have filled my place better than i have filled it. i know that. he would have been an honour to the name." he bent down and stood a minute or so looking at the happy, sleeping face. he put up his hand, pushed the bright hair back from the forehead, and then turned away and rang the bell. when the footman appeared, he pointed to the sofa. "take"--he said, and then his voice changed a little--"take lord fauntleroy to his room." chapter xi. anxiety in america. when mr. hobbs's young friend left him to go to dorincourt castle and become lord fauntleroy, and the grocery-man had time to realise that the atlantic ocean lay between himself and the small companion who had spent so many agreeable hours in his society, he began to feel very lonely indeed. at first it seemed to mr. hobbs that cedric was not really far away, and would come back again; that some day he would look up from his paper and see the lad standing in the doorway, in his white suit and red stockings, and with his straw hat on the back of his head, and would hear him say in his cheerful little voice: "hello, mr. hobbs! this is a hot day--isn't it?" but as the days passed on and this did not happen, mr. hobbs felt very dull and uneasy. he did not even enjoy his newspaper as much as he used to. he would take out his gold watch and open it and stare at the inscription; "from his oldest friend, lord fauntleroy, to mr. hobbs. when this you see, remember me." at night, when the store was closed, he would light his pipe and walk slowly along until he reached the house where cedric had lived, on which there was a sign that read, "this house to let"; and he would stop near it and look up and shake his head, and puff at his pipe very hard, and after a while walk mournfully back again. this went on for two or three weeks before a new idea came to him. he would go to see dick. he smoked a great many pipes before he arrived at the conclusion, but finally he did arrive at it. he would go to see dick. he knew all about dick. cedric had told him, and his idea was that perhaps dick might be some comfort to him in the way of talking things over. so one day when dick was very hard at work blacking a customer's boots, a short, stout man with a heavy face and a bald head, stared for two or three minutes at the bootblack's sign, which read: "professor dick tipton can't be beat." he stared at it so long that dick began to take a lively interest in him, and when he had put the finishing touch to his customer's boots, he said: "want a shine, sir?" the stout man came forward deliberately and put his foot on the rest. "yes," he said. then when dick fell to work, the stout man looked from dick to the sign and from the sign to dick. "where did you get that?" he asked. "from a friend o' mine," said dick,--"a little feller. he was the best little feller ye ever saw. he's in england now. gone to be one o' those lords." "lord--lord--" asked mr. hobbs, with ponderous slowness, "lord fauntleroy--goin' to be earl of dorincourt!" dick almost dropped his brush. "why, boss!" he exclaimed, "d'ye know him yerself?" "i've known him," answered mr. hobbs, wiping his warm forehead, "ever since he was born. we were lifetime acquaintances--that's what _we_ were." it really made him feel quite agitated to speak of it. he pulled the splendid gold watch out of his pocket and opened it, and showed the inside of the case to dick. "'when this you see, remember me,'" he read. "that was his parting keepsake to me. i'd ha' remembered him," he went on, shaking his head, "if he hadn't given me a thing. he was a companion as _any_ man would remember." it proved that they had so much to say to each other that it was not possible to say it all at one time, and so it was agreed that the next night dick should make a visit to the store and keep mr. hobbs company. this was the beginning of quite a substantial friendship. when dick went up to the store, mr. hobbs received him with great hospitality. he gave him a chair tilted against the door, near a barrel of apples, and after his young visitor was seated, he made a jerk at them with the hand in which he held his pipe, saying: "help yerself." then they read, and discussed the british aristocracy; and mr. hobbs smoked his pipe very hard and shook his head a great deal. he seemed to derive a great deal of comfort from dick's visit. before dick went home, they had a supper in the small back room; they had biscuits and cheese and sardines, and other things out of the store, and mr. hobbs solemnly opened two bottles of ginger ale, and pouring out two glasses, proposed a toast. "here's to _him_!" he said, lifting his glass, "an' may he teach 'em a lesson--earls an' markises an' dooks an' all!" after that night, the two saw each other often, and mr. hobbs was much more comfortable and less desolate. they read the _penny story gazette_, and many other interesting things, and gained a knowledge of the habits of the nobility and gentry which would have surprised those despised classes if they had realised it. one day mr. hobbs made a pilgrimage to a book-store down town, for the express purpose of adding to their library. he went to a clerk and leaned over the counter to speak to him. "i want," he said, "a book about earls." "what!" exclaimed the clerk. "a book," repeated the grocery-man, "about earls." "i'm afraid," said the clerk, looking rather queer, "that we haven't what you want." "haven't?" said mr. hobbs, anxiously. "well, say markises then--or dooks." "i know of no such book," answered the clerk. mr. hobbs was much disturbed. he looked down on the floor,--then he looked up. "none about female earls?" he inquired. "i'm afraid not," said the clerk, with a smile. "well," exclaimed mr. hobbs, "i'll be jiggered!" he was just going out of the store, when the clerk called him back and asked him if a story in which the nobility were chief characters would do. mr. hobbs said it would--if he could not get an entire volume devoted to earls. so the clerk sold him a book called _the tower of london_, written by mr. harrison ainsworth, and he carried it home. when dick came they began to read it. it was a very wonderful and exciting book, and the scene was laid in the reign of the famous english queen who is called by some people bloody mary. and as mr. hobbs heard of queen mary's deeds and the habit she had of chopping people's heads off, putting them to the torture, and burning them alive, he became very much excited. he took his pipe out of his mouth and stared at dick. "why, he ain't safe!" he said. "he ain't safe! if the women folks can sit up on their thrones an' give the word for things like that to be done, who's to know what's happening to him this very minute?" "well," said dick, though he looked rather anxious himself; "ye see this 'ere un isn't the one that's bossin' things now. i know her name's victory, an' this un here in the book,--her name's mary." "so it is," said mr. hobbs, still mopping his forehead; "so it is,--but still it doesn't seem as if 'twas safe for him over there with those queer folks. why, they tell me they don't keep the fourth o' july!" he was privately uneasy for several days; and it was not until he received fauntleroy's letter and had read it several times, both to himself and to dick, and had also read the letter dick got about the same time, that he became composed again. but they both found great pleasure in their letters. they read and re-read them, and talked them over and enjoyed every word of them. and they spent days over the answers they sent, and read them over almost as often as the letters they had received. one day they were sitting in the store doorway together, and mr. hobbs was filling his pipe, whilst dick told him all about his life and his elder brother, who had been very good to him after their parents had died. the brother's name was ben, and he had managed to get quite a decent place in a store. "and then," said dick, "blest if he didn't go an' marry a gal, a regular tiger-cat. she'd tear things to pieces, when she got mad. had a baby just like her; 'n' at last ben went out west with a man to set up a cattle ranch." "he oughtn't to 've married," mr. hobbs said solemnly, as he rose to get a match. as he took the match from its box, he stopped and looked down on the counter. "why!" he said, "if here isn't a letter! i didn't see it afore. the postman must have laid it down when i wasn't noticin', or the newspaper slipped over it." he picked it up and looked at it carefully. "it's from _him_!" he exclaimed. "that's the very one it's from!" he forgot his pipe altogether. he went back to his chair quite excited, and took his pocket-knife and opened the envelope. "i wonder what news there is this time," he said. and then he unfolded the letter and read as follows: "dorincourt castle. "my dear mr. hobbs. "i write this in a great hury becaus i have something curous to tell you i know you will be very mutch suprised my dear frend when i tel you. it is all a mistake and i am not a lord and i shall not have to be an earl there is a lady whitch was marid to my uncle bevis who is dead and she has a little boy and he is lord fauntleroy becaus that is the way it is in england and my name is cedric errol like it was when i was in new york and all the things will belong to the other boy i thought at first i should have to give him my pony and cart but my grandfarther says i need not my grandfarther is very sorry i am not rich now becaus when your papa is only the youngest son he is not very rich i am going to learn to work so that i can take care of dearest i have been asking wilkins about grooming horses preaps i might be a groom or a coachman. i thort i would tell you and dick right away becaus you would be intrusted so no more at present with love from "your old frend "cedric errol (not lord fauntleroy)." mr. hobbs fell back in his chair, the letter dropped on his knee, his penknife slipped to the floor, and so did the envelope. "well!" he ejaculated, "i am jiggered!" he was so dumfounded that he actually changed his exclamation. it had always been his habit to say, "i _will_ be jiggered," but this time he said, "i _am_ jiggered." perhaps he really _was_ jiggered. there is no knowing. "well," said mr. hobbs. "it's my opinion it's all a put-up job o' the british 'ristycrats to rob him of his rights because he's an american. they're trying to rob him! that's what they're doing, and folks that have money ought to look after him." and he kept dick with him until quite a late hour to talk it over, and when that young man left he went with him to the corner of the street; and on his way back he stopped opposite the empty house for some time, staring at the "to let," and smoking his pipe in much disturbance of mind. chapter xii. the rival claimants. a very few days after the dinner-party at the castle, almost everybody in england who read the newspaper at all knew the romantic story of what had happened at dorincourt. it made a very interesting story when it was told with all the details. there was the little american boy who had been brought to england to be lord fauntleroy, and who was said to be so fine and handsome a little fellow, and to have already made people fond of him; there was the old earl, his grandfather, who was so proud of his heir; there was the pretty young mother who had never been forgiven for marrying captain errol; and there was the strange marriage of bevis the dead lord fauntleroy, and the strange wife, of whom no one knew anything, suddenly appearing with her son, and saying that he was the real lord fauntleroy and must have his rights. all these things were talked about and written about, and caused a tremendous sensation. and then there came the rumour that the earl of dorincourt was not satisfied with the turn affairs had taken, and would perhaps contest the claim by law, and the matter might end with a wonderful trial. there never had been such excitement before in the county in which erlesboro was situated. on market-days, people stood in groups and talked and wondered what would be done; the farmers' wives invited one another to tea that they might tell one another all they had heard and all they thought and all they thought other people thought. in fact there was excitement everywhere; at the castle, in the library, where the earl and mr. havisham sat and talked; in the servants' hall, where mr. thomas and the butler and the other men and women servants gossiped and exclaimed at all times of the day; and in the stables, where wilkins went about his work in a quite depressed state of mind. but in the midst of all the disturbance there was one person who was quite calm and untroubled. that person was the little lord fauntleroy who was said not to be lord fauntleroy at all. when first the earl told him what had happened, he had sat on a stool holding on to his knee, as he so often did when he was listening to anything interesting; and by the time the story was finished, he looked quite sober. "it makes me feel very queer," he said; "it makes me--queer!" the earl looked at the boy in silence. it made him feel queer too--queerer than he had ever felt in his whole life. and he felt more queer still when he saw that there was a troubled expression on the small face which was usually so happy. "will they take dearest's house away from her--and her carriage?" cedric asked in a rather unsteady, anxious little voice. "_no!_" said the earl decidedly--in quite a loud voice in fact. "they can take nothing from her." "ah!" said cedric with evident relief. "can't they?" then he looked up at his grandfather, and there was a wistful shade in his eyes, and they looked very big and soft. "that other boy," he said rather tremulously--"he will have to--to be your boy now--as i was--won't he?" "_no!_" answered the earl--and he said it so fiercely and loudly that cedric quite jumped. "no?" he exclaimed, in wonderment. "won't he? i thought----" he stood up from his stool quite suddenly. "shall i be your boy, even if i'm not going to be an earl?" he said. "shall i be your boy, just as i was before?" and his flushed little face was all alight with eagerness. how the old earl did look at him from head to foot, to be sure! how his great shaggy brows did draw themselves together, and how queerly his deep eyes shone under them--how very queerly! "my boy!" he said "yes, you'll be my boy as long as i live; and, by george, sometimes i feel as if you were the only boy i had ever had." cedric's face turned red to the roots of his hair; it turned red with relief and pleasure. he put both his hands deep into his pockets and looked squarely into his noble relative's eyes. "do you?" he said. "well, then, i don't care about the earl part at all. i don't care whether i'm an earl or not. i thought--you see, i thought the one that was going to be the earl would have to be your boy too, and--and i couldn't be. that was what made me feel so queer." the earl put his hand on his shoulder and drew him nearer. "they shall take nothing from you that i can hold for you," he said, drawing his breath hard. "i won't believe yet that they can take anything from you. you were made for the place, and--well, you may fill it still. but whatever comes, you shall have all that i can give you--all!" it scarcely seemed as if he were speaking to a child, there was such determination in his face and voice; it was more as if he were making a promise to himself--and perhaps he was. he had never before known how deep a hold upon him his fondness for the boy and his pride in him had taken. he had never seen his strength and good qualities and beauty as he seemed to see them now. to his obstinate nature it seemed impossible--to give up what he had so set his heart upon. and he had determined that he would not give it up without a fierce struggle. within a few days after she had seen mr. havisham, the woman who claimed to be lady fauntleroy presented herself at the castle, and brought her child with her. she was sent away. the earl would not see her, she was told by the footman at the door; his lawyer would attend to her cause. mr. havisham had noticed, during his interviews with her, that she was neither so clever nor so bold as she meant to be. it was as if she had not expected to meet with such opposition. "she is evidently," the lawyer said to mrs. errol, "a person from the lower walks of life. she is uneducated and quite unused to meeting people like ourselves on any terms of equality. she does not know what to do. her visit to the castle quite cowed her. she was infuriated, but she was cowed. the earl would not receive her, but i advised him to go with me to the dorincourt arms, where she is staying. when she saw him enter the room, she turned white, though she flew into a rage at once, and threatened and demanded in one breath." the fact was that the earl had stalked into the room and stood, looking like a venerable aristocratic giant, staring at the woman and not condescending a word. he let her talk and demand until she was tired, without himself uttering a word, and then he said: "you say you are my eldest son's wife. if that is true, and if the proof you offer is too much for us, the law is on your side. in that case, your boy is lord fauntleroy. if your claims are proved, you will be provided for. i want to see nothing either of you or the child so long as i live." and then he turned his back upon her and stalked out of the room as he had stalked into it. not many days after that, a visitor was announced to mrs. errol, who was writing in her little morning room. the maid who brought the message looked rather excited. "it's the earl hisself, ma'am!" she said in tremulous awe. when mrs. errol entered the drawing-room, a very tall, majestic-looking old man was standing on the tiger-skin rug. he had a handsome, grim old face, with an aquiline profile, a long white moustache, and an obstinate look. "mrs. errol, i believe?" he said. "mrs. errol," she answered. "i am the earl of dorincourt," he said. he paused a moment, almost unconsciously, to look into her uplifted eyes. they were so like the big, affectionate, childish eyes he had seen uplifted to his own so often every day during the last few months, that they gave him a quite curious sensation. "the boy is very like you," he said abruptly. "it has been often said so, my lord," she replied, "but i have been glad to think him like his father also." as lady lorridaile had told him, her voice was very sweet, and her manner was very simple and dignified. she did not seem in the least troubled by his sudden coming. "yes," said the earl, "he is like--my son--too." he put his hand up to his big white moustache and pulled it fiercely. "do you know," he said, "why i have come here?" "i have seen mr. havisham," mrs. errol began, "and he has told me of the claims which have been made----" "i have come to tell you," said the earl, "that they will be investigated and contested, if a contest can be made. i have come to tell you that the boy shall be defended with all the power of the law. his rights----" the soft voice interrupted him. "he must have nothing that is _not_ his by right, even if the law can give it to him," she said. "unfortunately the law cannot," said the earl. "if it could, it should. this outrageous woman and her child----" "perhaps she cares for him as much as i care for cedric, my lord," said little mrs. errol. "and if she was your eldest son's wife, her son is lord fauntleroy, and mine is not." "i suppose," said the earl, "that you would much prefer that he should not be the earl of dorincourt?" her fair young face flushed. "it is a very magnificent thing to be the earl of dorincourt, my lord," she said. "i know that, but i care most that he should be what his father was--brave and just and true always." "in striking contrast to what his grandfather was, eh?" said his lordship sardonically. "i have not had the pleasure of knowing his grandfather," replied mrs. errol, "but i know my little boy believes----" she stopped short a moment, looking quietly into his face, and then she added, "i know that cedric loves you." "would he have loved me," said the earl dryly, "if you had told him why i did not receive you at the castle?" "no," answered mrs. errol; "i think not. that was why i did not wish him to know." "well," said my lord, brusquely, "there are few women who would not have told him." he suddenly began to walk up and down the room, pulling his great moustache more violently than ever. "yes, he is fond of me," he said, "and i am fond of him. i can't say i ever was fond of anything before. i am fond of him. he pleased me from the first. i am an old man, and was tired of my life. he has given me something to live for. i am proud of him. i was satisfied to think of his taking his place some day as the head of the family." he came back and stood before mrs. errol. "i am miserable," he said. "miserable!" he looked as if he was. even his pride could not keep his voice steady or his hands from shaking. for a moment it almost seemed as if his deep, fierce eyes had tears in them. "perhaps it is because i am miserable that i have come to you," he said, quite glaring down at her. "i used to hate you; i have been jealous of you. this wretched, disgraceful business has changed that. i have been an obstinate old fool, and i suppose i have treated you badly. you are like the boy and the boy is the first object in my life. i am miserable, and i came to you merely because you are like the boy, and he cares for you, and i care for him. treat me as well as you can, for the boy's sake." he said it all in his harsh voice, and almost roughly, but somehow he seemed so broken down for the time that mrs. errol was touched to the heart. she got up and moved an arm-chair a little forward. "i wish you would sit down," she said in a soft, pretty, sympathetic way. "you have been so much troubled that you are very tired, and you need all your strength." it was just as new to him to be spoken to and cared for in that gentle, simple way as it was to be contradicted. he was reminded of "the boy" again, and he actually did as she asked him. perhaps his disappointment and wretchedness were good discipline for him; if he had not been wretched he might have continued to hate her, but just at present he found her a little soothing. she had so sweet a face and voice, and a pretty dignity when she spoke or moved. very soon, by the quiet magic of these influences, he began to feel less gloomy, and then he talked still more. "whatever happens," he said, "the boy shall be provided for. he shall be taken care of, now and in the future." before he went away, he glanced around the room. "do you like the house?" he demanded. "very much," she answered. "this is a cheerful room," he said. "may i come here again and talk this matter over?" "as often as you wish, my lord," she replied. and then he went out to his carriage and drove away, thomas and henry almost stricken dumb upon the box at the turn affairs had taken. chapter xiii. dick to the rescue. of course, as soon as the story of lord fauntleroy and the difficulties of the earl of dorincourt were discussed in the english newspapers, they were discussed in the american newspapers. the story was too interesting to be passed over lightly, and it was talked of a great deal. there were so many versions of it that it would have been an edifying thing to buy all the papers and compare them. mr. hobbs used to read the papers until his head was in a whirl, and in the evening he and dick would talk it all over. they found out what an important personage an earl of dorincourt was, and what a magnificent income he possessed, and how many estates he owned, and how stately and beautiful was the castle in which he lived; and the more they learned the more excited they became. "seem's like somethin' orter be done," said mr. hobbs. but there really was nothing they could do but each write a letter to cedric, containing assurances of their friendship and sympathy. they wrote those letters as soon as they could after receiving the news. the very next morning, one of dick's customers was rather surprised. he was a young lawyer just beginning practice; as poor as a very young lawyer can possibly be, but a bright, energetic young fellow, with sharp wit and a good temper. he had a shabby office near dick's stand, and every morning dick blacked his boots for him. that particular morning, when he put his foot on the rest, he had an illustrated paper in his hand--an enterprising paper, with pictures in it of conspicuous people and things. he had just finished looking it over, and when the last boot was polished, he handed it to the boy. "here's a paper for you, dick," he said. "picture of an english castle in it and an english earl's daughter-in-law. you ought to become familiar with the nobility and gentry, dick. begin on the right honourable the earl of dorincourt and lady fauntleroy. hello! i say, what's the matter?" the pictures he spoke of were on the front page, and dick was staring at one of them with his eyes and mouth open, and his sharp face almost pale with excitement. he pointed to the picture, under which was written: "mother of claimant (lord fauntleroy)." it was the picture of a handsome woman, with large eyes and heavy braids of black hair wound around her head. "her!" said dick. "i know her better'n i know you! an' i've struck work for this mornin'." and in less than five minutes from that time he was tearing through the streets on his way to mr. hobbs and the corner store. mr. hobbs could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses when he looked across the counter and saw dick rush in with the paper in his hand. the boy was out of breath with running; so much out of breath, in fact, that he could scarcely speak as he threw the paper down on the counter. "look at it!" panted dick. "look at that woman in the picture! that's what you look at! _she_ aint no 'ristocrat, _she_ aint!" with withering scorn. "she's no lord's wife. you may eat me, if it aint minna--_minna!_ i'd know her anywheres, an' so'd ben. jest ax him." mr. hobbs dropped into his seat. "i knowed it was a put-up job," he said. "i knowed it; and they done it on account o' him bein' a 'merican!" "done it!" cried dick, with disgust. "_she_ done it, that's who done it. i'll tell yer wot come to me, the minnit i saw her pictur. there was one o' them papers we saw had a letter in it that said somethin' 'bout her boy, an' it said he had a scar on his chin. put them together--her 'n' that scar! why that boy o' hers aint no more a lord than i am! it's _ben's_ boy." professor dick tipton had always been a sharp boy, and earning his living in the streets of a big city had made him still sharper. he had learned to keep his eyes open and his wits about him, and it mast be confessed he enjoyed immensely the excitement and impatience of that moment. mr. hobbs was almost overwhelmed by his sense of responsibility, and dick was all alive and full of energy. he began to write a letter to ben, and he cut out the picture and inclosed it to him, and mr. hobbs wrote a letter to cedric and one to the earl. they were in the midst of this letter-writing when a new idea came to dick. "say," he said, "the feller that give me the paper, he's a lawyer. let's ax him what we'd better do. lawyers knows it all." mr. hobbs was immensely impressed by this suggestion and dick's business capacity. "that's so!" he replied. "this here calls for lawyers." and leaving the store in care of a substitute, he struggled into his coat and marched down town with dick, and the two presented themselves with their romantic story in mr. harrison's office, much to that young man's astonishment. if he had not been a very young lawyer, with a very enterprising mind and a great deal of spare time on his hands, he might not have been so readily interested in what they had to say, for it all certainly sounded very wild and queer; but he chanced to want something to do very much. "and," said mr. hobbs, "say what your time's worth an hour and look into this thing thorough, and _i'll_ pay the damage--silas hobbs, corner of blank street, vegetables and groceries." "well," said mr. harrison, "it will be a big thing if it turns out all right, and it will be almost as big a thing for me as for lord fauntleroy; and at any rate, no harm can be done by investigating. it appears there has been some dubiousness about the child. the woman contradicted herself in some of her statements about his age, and aroused suspicion. the first persons to be written to are dick's brother and the earl of dorincourt's family lawyer." and actually before the sun went down, two letters had been written and sent in two different directions--one speeding out of new york harbour on a mail steamer on its way to england, and the other on a train carrying letters and passengers bound for california. and the first was addressed to t. havisham, esq., and the second to benjamin tipton. and after the store was closed that evening, mr. hobbs and dick sat in the back room and talked together until midnight. chapter xiv. the exposure. it is astonishing how short a time it takes for very wonderful things to happen. it had taken only a few minutes, apparently, to change all the fortunes of the little boy dangling his red legs from the high stool in mr. hobbs's store, and to transform him from a small boy, living the simplest life in a quiet street, into an english nobleman, the heir to an earldom and magnificent wealth. it had taken only a few minutes, apparently, to change him from an english nobleman into a penniless little impostor, with no right to any of the splendours he had been enjoying. and, surprising as it may appear, it did not take nearly so long a time as one might have expected to alter the face of everything again and to give back to him all that he had been in danger of losing. it took the less time because, after all, the woman who had called herself lady fauntleroy was not nearly so clever as she was wicked; and when she had been closely pressed by mr. havisham's questions about her marriage and her boy, she had made one or two blunders which had caused suspicion to be awakened; and then she had lost her presence of mind and her temper, and in her excitement and anger had betrayed herself still further. there seemed no doubt that she had been married to bevis, lord fauntleroy, but mr. havisham found out that her story of the boy's being born in a certain part of london was false; and just when they all were in the midst of the commotion caused by this discovery, there came the letter from the young lawyer in new york, and mr. hobbs's letters also. what an evening it was when those letters arrived, and when mr. havisham and the earl sat and talked their plans over in the library! "after my first three meetings with her," said mr. havisham, "i began to suspect her strongly. our best plan will be to cable at once for these two tiptons, say nothing about them to her, and suddenly confront her with them when she is not expecting it. my opinion is that she will betray herself on the spot." and that was what actually happened. she was told nothing, but one fine morning, as she sat in her sitting-room at the inn called "the dorincourt arms," making some very fine plans for herself, mr. havisham was announced; and when he entered, he was followed by no leas than three persons--one was a sharp-faced boy and one was a big young man, and the third was the earl of dorincourt. she sprang to her feet and actually uttered a cry of terror. she had thought of these new-comers as being thousands of miles away, when she had ever thought of them at all, which she had scarcely done for years. she had never expected to see them again. it must be confessed that dick grinned a little when he saw her. "hello, minna!" he said, the big young man--who was ben--stood still a minute and looked at her. "do you know her?" mr. havisham asked, glancing from one to the other. "yes," said ben. "i know her and she knows me. i can swear to her in any court, and i can bring a dozen others who will. her father is a respectable sort of man, and he's honest enough to be ashamed of her. he'll tell you who she is, and whether she married me or not." then he clenched his hand suddenly and turned on her. "where's the child?" he demanded. "he's going with me! he is done with you, and so am i!" and just as he finished saying the words, the door leading into the bedroom opened a little, and the boy, probably attracted by the sound of the loud voices, looked in. he was not a handsome boy, but he had rather a nice face, and he was quite like ben, his father, as any one could see, and there was the three-cornered scar on his chin. ben walked up to him and took his hand, and his own was trembling. "tom," he said to the little fellow. "i'm your father; i've come to take you away. where's your hat?" the boy pointed to where it lay on a chair. it evidently rather pleased him to hear that he was going away. ben took up the hat and marched to the door. "if you want me again," he said to mr. havisham, "you know where to find me." he walked out of the room, holding the child's hand and not looking at the woman once. she was fairly raving with fury, and the earl was calmly gazing at her through his eyeglasses, which he had quietly placed upon his aristocratic eagle nose. "come, come, my young woman," said mr. havisham. "this won't do at all. if you don't want to be locked up, you really must behave yourself." and there was something so very business-like in his tones that, probably feeling that the safest thing she could do would be to get out of the way, she gave him one savage look and dashed past him into the next room and slammed the door. "we shall have no more trouble with her," said mr. havisham. and he was right; for that very night she left the dorincourt arms and took the train to london, and was seen no more. * * * * * when the earl left the room after the interview, he went at once to his carriage. "to court lodge," he said to thomas. "to court lodge," said thomas to the coachman as he mounted the box; "an' you may depend on it, things is taking a uniggspected turn." when the carriage stopped at court lodge, cedric was in the drawing-room with his mother. the earl came in without being announced. he looked an inch or so taller, and a great many years younger. his deep eyes flashed. "where," he said, "is lord fauntleroy?" mrs. errol came forward, a flush rising to her cheek. "is it lord fauntleroy?" she asked. "is it, indeed?" the earl put out his hand and grasped hers. "yes," he answered, "it is." then he put his other hand on cedric's shoulder. "fauntleroy," he said in his unceremonious, authoritative way, "ask your mother when she will come to us at the castle." fauntleroy flung his arms around his mother's neck. "to live with us!" he cried. "to live with us always!" the earl looked at mrs. errol, and mrs. errol looked at the earl. his lordship was entirely in earnest. he had made up his mind to waste no time in arranging this matter. he had begun to think it would suit him to make friends with his heir's mother. "are you quite sure you want me?" said mrs. errol, with her soft, pretty smile. "quite sure," he said bluntly. "we have always wanted you, but we were not exactly aware of it. we hope you will come." chapter xv. his eighth birthday. ben took his boy and went back to his cattle ranch in california, and he returned under very comfortable circumstances. just before his going, mr. havisham had an interview with him in which the lawyer told him that the earl of dorincourt wished to do something for the boy who might have turned out to be lord fauntleroy. and so when ben went away, he went as the prospective master of a ranch which would be almost as good as his own, and might easily become his own in time, as indeed it did in the course of a few years; and tom, the boy, grew up on it into a fine young man and was devotedly fond of his father; and they were so successful and happy that ben used to say that tom made up to him for all the troubles he had ever had. but dick and mr. hobbs--who had actually come over with the others to see that things were properly looked after--did not return for some time. it had been decided at the outset that the earl would provide for dick, and would see that he received a solid education; and mr. hobbs had decided that as he himself had left a reliable substitute in charge of his store, he could afford to wait to see the festivities which were to celebrate lord fauntleroy's eighth birthday. all the tenantry were invited, and there were to be feasting and dancing and games in the park, and bonfires and fireworks in the evening. "just like the fourth of july!" said lord fauntleroy. "it seems a pity my birthday wasn't on the fourth, doesn't it? for then we could keep them both together." what a grand day it was when little lord fauntleroy's birthday arrived, and how his young lordship enjoyed it! how beautiful the park looked, filled with the thronging people dressed in their gayest and best, and with the flags flying from the tents and the top of the castle! nobody had stayed away who could possibly come, because everybody was really glad that little lord fauntleroy was to be little lord fauntleroy still, and some day was to be the master of everything. every one wanted to have a look at him, and at his pretty, kind mother, who had made so many friends. what scores and scores of people there were under the trees, and in the tents, and on the lawns! farmers and farmers' wives in their sunday suits and bonnets and shawls; children frolicking and chasing about; and old dames in red cloaks gossiping together. at the castle, there were ladies and gentlemen who had come to see the fun, and to congratulate the earl, and to meet mrs. errol. lady lorridaile and sir harry were there, and mr. havisham, of course. everybody looked after little lord fauntleroy. and the sun shone and the flags fluttered and the games were played and the dances danced, and as the gaieties went on and the joyous afternoon passed, his little lordship was simply radiantly happy. the whole world seemed beautiful to him. there was some one else who was happy too,--an old man, who, though he had been rich and noble all his life, had not often been very honestly happy. perhaps, indeed, i shall tell you that i think it was because he was rather better than he had been that he was rather happier. he had not, indeed, suddenly become as good as fauntleroy thought him; but, at least, he had begun to love something, and he had several times found a sort of pleasure in doing the kind things which the innocent, kind little heart of a child had suggested,--and that was a beginning. and every day he had been more pleased with his son's wife. he liked to hear her sweet voice and to see her sweet face; and as she sat in his arm-chair, he used to watch her and listen as he talked to her boy; and he heard loving, gentle words which were new to him, and he began to see why the little fellow who had lived in a new york side street and known grocery-men and made friends with boot-blacks, was still so well-bred and manly a little fellow that he made no one ashamed of him, even when fortune changed him into the heir to an english earldom, living in an english castle. as the old earl of dorincourt looked at him that day, moving about the park among the people, talking to those he knew and making his ready little bow when any one greeted him, entertaining his friends dick and mr. hobbs, or standing near his mother listening to their conversation, the old nobleman was very well satisfied with him. and he had never been better satisfied than he was when they went down to the biggest tent, where the more important tenants of the dorincourt estate were sitting down to the grand collation of the day. they were drinking toasts; and, after they had drunk the health of the earl with much more enthusiasm than his name had ever been greeted with before, they proposed the health of "little lord fauntleroy." and if there had ever been any doubt at all as to whether his lordship was popular or not, it would have been settled that instant. such a clamour of voices and such a rattle of glasses and applause! little lord fauntleroy was delighted. he stood and smiled, and made bows, and flushed rosy red with pleasure up to the roots of his bright hair. "is it because they like me, dearest?" he said to his mother. "is it dearest? i'm so glad!" and then the earl put his hand on the child's shoulder and said to him: "fauntleroy, say to them that you thank them for their kindness." fauntleroy gave a glance up at him and then at his mother. "must i?" he asked just a trifle shyly, and she smiled, and nodded. and so he made a little step forward, and everybody looked at him--such a beautiful, innocent little fellow he was, too, with his brave, trustful face!--and he spoke as loudly as he could, his childish voice ringing out quite clear and strong. "i'm ever so much obliged to you!" he said, "and--i hope you'll enjoy my birthday--because i've enjoyed it so much--and--i'm very glad i'm going to be an earl--i didn't think at first i should like it, but now i do--and i love this place so, and i think it is beautiful--and--and--and when i am an earl, i am going to try to be as good as my grandfather." and amid the shouts and clamour of applause, he stepped back with a little sigh of relief, and put his hand into the earl's and stood close to him, smiling and leaning against his side. * * * * * and that would be the very end of my story; but i must add one curious piece of information, which is that mr. hobbs became so fascinated with high life and was so reluctant to leave his young friend that he actually sold his corner store in new york, and settled in the english village of erlesboro, where he opened a shop which was patronized by the castle and consequently was a great success. and about ten years after, when dick, who had finished his education and was going to visit his brother in california, asked the good grocer if he did not wish to return to america, he shook his head seriously. "not to live there," he said. "not to live there; i want to be near _him_. it's a good enough country for them that's young an stirrin'--but there's faults in it. there's not an auntsister among 'em--nor an earl!" anmerkungen. (vor den anmerkungen bezeichnen _fette_ zahlen die _seiten_, _magere_ die _zeilen_.) ¶ ¶, / . _fits of petulance_, zornesausbrüche. ¶ ¶, . _he sold his commission._ die commissions (patente) für offiziersstellen bis zum oberstleutnant waren bis zum jahre käuflich, konnten also auch verkauft werden. -- . _cheap_, schlicht, einfach. -- / . _this ... quaint little way_, diese drollige art und weise. -- / . _quaint little ways_, wunderliche einfälle. ¶ ¶, . _hearth-rug_, teppich vor dem kamin. der englische kamin ist eine offene in einer wandvertiefung befindliche feuerstelle; in besseren häusern ist er mit schönen fayenceplatten oder marmorwandungen bekleidet, deren oberen abschluß ein vorstehendes kamingesims bildet. auf diesem werden allerhand schmuckgegenstände (vasen, leuchter, uhren usw.) aufgestellt, darüber befindet sich häufig ein großer spiegel. -- . _ristycratic_ = aristocratic. -- . _store_ = shop, ist ein amerikanismus. -- . _the topics of the hour_, die tagesereignisse. -- / . _the fourth of july._ am . juli erfolgte die unabhängigkeitserklärung (declaration of independence [z. ]) der dreizehn englischen kolonien virginia, massachusetts, new-hampshire, conne(c)ticut, rhode island, new york, new jersey, pennsylvania, delaware, maryland, south carolina, north carolina, georgia vom mutterlande. schon im jahre vorher hatte der nordamerikanische freiheitskampf (the revolution [z. ]) mit der schlacht bei bunkershill ( . juni ), wo die engländer nur mit den größten verlusten siegten, begonnen. ¶ ¶, . _washington_, im distrikt columbia, ist die bundeshauptstadt der vereinigten staaten und seit sitz der regierung und des kongresses. die stadt erhielt ihren namen zur erinnerung an den ersten präsidenten und bundesfeldherrn george washington ( - ); vgl. ¶ ¶, . -- . _darlint_ = darling. -- . _wantin'_ = wanting; _yez_ = you. -- . _coupé_, zweisitziger wagen; das wort ist französisch zu sprechen. ¶ ¶, . _unreal_, unwahrscheinlich. ¶ ¶, / . _to break the news_, die nachricht mitzuteilen. -- . _hello_ = halloo! -- _mornin'_ = morning. -- . _we was_ ist vulgär für we were. ¶ ¶, . _mercury_ = heat. ¶ ¶, . _i'll be--jiggered_, etwa: mich soll der kuckuck holen. jigger ist die englische form für chigoe, chico der eingeborenen westindiens, und bedeutet einen sandfloh, der sich unter dem nagel des fußes eingräbt, dort eier legt und böse geschwüre hervorruft. -- . _you was_; vgl. ¶ ¶, . ¶ ¶, . _home like_, traulich, wohnlich. -- . _cleared his throat_, räusperte sich. ¶ ¶, . _fiery-tempered_, hitzig, aufbrausend. ¶ ¶, . _george washington_, geb. in virginien, ist der begründer der unabhängigkeit der vereinigten staaten. am . januar schlug er als obergeneral der kolonialtruppen den englischen general cornwallis bei princeton in new jersey und zwang die besatzung von new york zur Übergabe. er war der erste bundespräsident ( ), legte sein amt nieder und starb . -- . _int'rust_ = interest. -- . _cur'us_ = curious. -- . _'vantage_ = advantage. ¶ ¶, . _street-cars_, trambahnwagen. -- . _un_ = one. -- . _square_ = of an open, fair character, ehrlich. ¶ ¶, . _start ... out fair_, schön ausstatten. -- . _meerschaum_, spr. mèer-shoum. ¶ ¶, . _michael_, spr. mi-kl. -- . _that you have realised_, ob sie sich vergegenwärtigt haben. ¶ ¶, . _greenbacks_ werden die banknoten der vereinigten staaten nach der grünen farbe ihrer rückseite genannt. -- . _he tore_, er eilte. -- . _twinty-foive_ = twenty-five. -- _where's_ = where is. ¶ ¶, . _chubby_, rund. -- . _realise_; vgl. ¶ ¶, . -- . _his nearest wishes_, seine herzenswünsche. ¶ ¶, . _he proceeded to gratify them_, er ging an ihre befriedigung. -- . _cut_ = hurt. -- . _struck him dumb_, machte ihn sprachlos. ¶ ¶, . _ye wasn't goin'_; vgl. ¶ ¶, ; _ye_, vulgäre form für you. -- . _thanky_ = thank you; _fur_ = for; _wot_ = what. ¶ ¶, . _i made_ = i gained, ich verdiente. -- _kin_ = can. -- . _hankercher_ = handkerchief. -- . _he panted_, sagte er keuchend. ¶ ¶, . _tops'les_ = topsails, marssegel. -- _mains'les_ = mainsails, hauptsegel. -- . _a nautical flavour_, einen seemännischen anstrich. ¶ ¶, . _stags' antlers_, hirschgeweihe. -- . _shabby_, ärmlich. ¶ ¶, . _shaggy_, buschig. -- . _straight-limbed_, hat er seine geraden glieder? ¶ ¶, . _to settle on her_, ihr auszusetzen. -- . _ejaculated_, rief aus. -- . _snapped_, stieß heraus. -- . _blustered my lord_, polterte seine lordschaft heraus. ¶ ¶, . _deep-set_, tief liegend. -- . _beetling_, hier: buschig. ¶ ¶, . _had struck up an acquaintance_, hatte sich bekannt gemacht. -- . _greenery_, blätterwerk. -- . _central park_ ist der größte park new yorks und einer der großartigsten der welt. er wurde in angriff genommen und enthält auf einer fläche von ha herrliche gärtnerische anlagen mit großen künstlichen teichen, einem zoologischen garten, einem großen museum und der vom millionär vanderbilt der stadt geschenkten nadel der kleopatra, dem berühmten obelisken aus alexandria. ¶ ¶, . _fairy-book_, märchenbuch. -- . _rich_, schwer. -- _plain_, glatt. ¶ ¶, . _diamond-paned windows_, fenster mit butzenscheiben. -- . _sir_ wird häufig dem hunde gegenüber als drohender zuruf gebraucht, wenn er etwas unrechtes getan hat. -- . _love-locks_, lange locke. ¶ ¶, . _ever so much_, gar so sehr. ¶ ¶, . _square_; vgl. ¶ ¶, . -- . _professional_, von beruf. ¶ ¶, . _plain_, offenbar. -- . _worldly_, selbstsüchtig. -- . _genial_, munter, heiter. -- / . _was violently sworn at_, bekam einen derben fluch zu hören. -- / . _when his lordship had an extra twinge of gout_, wenn die gicht seiner herrlichkeit einen außergewöhnlichen schmerz bereitete. ¶ ¶, . _he panted_; vgl. ¶ ¶, . -- . _i'm all right_, ich kann es ganz gut. ¶ ¶, . _he kept looking at him_, er blickte ihn fortgesetzt an. -- . _wistfully_, nachdenklich. ¶ ¶, . _close_, innigste, vertrauteste. ¶ ¶, . _ivy-entwined_, efeuumrankt. ¶ ¶, . _there's no knowing_ = one can (does) not know. ¶ ¶, . _rugs_; vgl. ¶ ¶, . -- . _catching his breath a little_, schnell aufatmend. ¶ ¶, . _ever so much_; vgl. ¶ ¶, . -- . _base-ball_ ist ein amerikanisches ballspiel für personen, auf jeder seite. [illustration: o ii l . r /:\ / : \ / : \ s / : \ / : \ / : \ / : \ iii < :p. > i \ : / \ : / \ : / y \ : / x \ : / \ : / \:/ . h c ] es wird ein quadrat abgesteckt, welches _diamond_ (raute oder carreau) heißt und dessen seiten je fuß lang sind. an den ecken sind die _bases_ (male), welche _home_ (ziel) oder _home base_ _[h]_, _first base_ _[i]_, _second base_ _[ii]_ und _third base_ _[iii]_ heißen. die spieler stellen sich um das quadrat herum auf. hinter _h_ steht der _catcher_ (fänger) _[c]_; der _pitcher_ (werfer) _[p]_ steht auf der linie _h ii_ fuß von _h_ entfernt; die drei _basemen_ (malmänner) stehen neben _i_, _ii_, _iii_. der _shortstop_ _[s]_ (aufhalter) steht zwischen _ii_ und _iii_. ferner stehen noch _fielders_ d. h. mitglieder der nicht an der reihe befindlichen partei _r_ (right fielder), o (centre fielder), _l_ (left fielder) in einiger entfernung hinter und auf beiden seiten von _ii_. der _pitcher_ wirft den ball über das _home_ dem _catcher_ zu, während ein mann der partei, welche in (= am spiel) oder _at the bat_ (= am schlagholz) ist, neben dem _home_ steht und den vom _pitcher_ geworfenen ball, ehe er zum _catcher_ gelangt, mit seinem schlagholz zu treffen sucht. schlägt er denselben in die luft und fängt ihn einer der gegenpartei auf, bevor er zu boden fällt, so ist der schlagende _out_ oder _caught out_ (d. h. er muß den schlägel einem andern spieler seiner partei abtreten). fällt der geschlagene ball außerhalb der linien _h i_ oder _h iii_ oder ihrer verlängerung, z. b. nach _x_ oder _y_, so ist der schlag _foul_ (ungültig) und wird nicht gezählt, außer wenn der ball vor dem niederfallen aufgefangen wird, worauf der _striker_ oder _batter_ ebenfalls _out_ wird. wird aber der ball innerhalb der genannten linien d. h. in den _diamond_ geschlagen, so muß der schläger zunächst nach _i_, dann der reihe nach über _ii_ und _iii_ nach _h_ zurücklaufen. gelingt ihm dies, so wird ihm ein _run_ (lauf) angerechnet. wird aber der ball von einem bei _i_ stehenden spieler aufgefangen, bevor der schläger dahin gelangt, oder wird dieser während seines laufes von einem gegner mit dem ball berührt, so ist der schläger _out_. sind drei schläger derselben partei _out_ gemacht, so ist ein _inning_ (reihe) vorüber und die gegenpartei kommt an die reihe. das spiel besteht aus _innings_ für jede partei, und jene partei hat gewonnen, welche innerhalb ihrer _innings_ die meisten _runs_ gemacht hat. -- . _i'm afraid i don't_, ich fürchte, nein. -- . _there was a smile lurking_, es spielte ein lächeln. ¶ ¶, . _flavour_, einen besonderen reiz. -- . _on that particular morning_, gerade an jenem morgen. -- . _curly-headed_, lockenköpfig. -- / . _he almost fell back a pace_, er prallte fast einen schritt zurück. ¶ ¶, . _tenantry_, pachtleute. -- / . _there was a stir of gratified pride_, es regte sich ein gefühl befriedigten stolzes. ¶ ¶, . _plainly_, offenbar. -- . _rent_, pachtzins. -- . _catch up_, sich empor arbeiten. -- . _black_, finster. -- . _to strengthen his plea_, seine bitte zu unterstützen. ¶ ¶, . _low_, schwach, entkräftet. -- . _deep-set_; vgl. ¶ ¶, . -- . _he realised_; vgl. ¶ ¶, . ¶ ¶, . _higgins is not to be interfered with_, gegen higgins soll nicht eingeschritten werden. -- / . _the corners of his ... a little_, es zuckte ein wenig um seine mundwinkel. -- . _rispecferly_ = respectfully. -- . _that's the way with_, so geht es mit. ¶ ¶, . _pleasanter_ = more pleasant (umgangssprache). . _to be brought round_ = to be brought. ¶ ¶, . _he kept saying_, sagte er immer wieder. -- . _dumfounded_, verblüfft (familiär). ¶ ¶, . _startled_, erschrocken. -- . _they scurried away_, sie eilten davon. -- _the whirr_, das aufstreichen. ¶ ¶, . _bowled_, dahingerollt. -- . _brusquely_, kurz, barsch. ¶ ¶, . _flash over the ground_, über den boden hin eilen. -- . _dashed up_, sprang hinauf. -- . _apple-cheeked_, rotwangig. ¶ ¶, . _over their ... shopping_, bei ihrem tee und ihren einkäufen. ¶ ¶, . _curtsy_ = courtesy; _a bobbing curtsy_, ein schneller knix. . _mop_, büschel, fülle. -- . _over again_, vom scheitel bis zur sohle, von oben bis unten. ¶ ¶, . _aisle_ (spr. il), chor. -- _red-cushioned and curtained_, mit roten kissen und vorhängen versehen. -- . _across the church_, gegenüber in der kirche. -- . _lyethe_ = lies; _ye_ = the; _bodye_ = body. -- . _allsoe_ = also. -- . _devoured_, verzehrt, gequält. -- . _church service_, ergänze: book. seit dem jahre ist für die englische staatskirche (church of england) ein gemeinsames gebetbuch (the book of common prayer, common prayer book) eingeführt. -- . _curtain-shielded_, durch vorhänge geschützt, verborgen. ¶ ¶, . _careworn_, von kummer durchfurcht. ¶ ¶, . _a trifle taken aback_, ein wenig verblüfft. -- . _broke in_, unterbrach, fiel ein. ¶ ¶, . _arched_, bog. -- . _leading-rein_, leitzügel. ¶ ¶, . _set_, festgeschlossen. -- . _want_ = do you want? ¶ ¶, . _he panted_; vgl. ¶ ¶, . -- . _snatch off_, schnell abnehmen. -- . _an'_ = and. -- _i'm blessed_, hol' mich der kuckuck. -- . _ses_ = says. -- . _trudges_, schlendert. -- . _what's up_, was los ist, was es gibt. -- _he whips off_, er zieht schnell ab. ¶ ¶, . _closely_, treu, sorgsam. -- / . _which had set ... perfection_, welche ihn den gipfel der vollkommenheit hatte erreichen lassen. ¶ ¶, . _brougham_ (sprich: broù-am oder bròom), leichter, geschlossener, zwei- oder vierrädriger wagen, benannt nach lord brougham, einem berühmten staatsmann und redner. -- . _abruptly_, kurz. -- . _dont_ = don't. -- . _granfarther_ = grandfather. -- _plees_ = please. -- . _afechshnet_ = affectionate. ¶ ¶, . _dashed off_, dahinjagte. -- . _such a dash_, solch' ein schneller ritt. ¶ ¶, . _on his mind_, auf dem herzen. -- . _been ... he_ = has he been neglecting it? -- . _horror-stricken_, von schrecken erfüllt. ¶ ¶, . _crazy_, baufällig, elend. -- / . _to talk him over_, über ihn zu reden. ¶ ¶, . _scrambled up_, krabbelte in die höhe, erhob sich langsam. ¶ ¶, . _sir_ ist ein titel, welchen die baronets und knights (squires) vor ihrem vornamen führen; vgl. ¶ ¶, . . _and set mrs. dibble's ... madly again_, und der frau dibble ladenglocke immer wie toll klingeln ließ. -- . _dimpled peachy cheeks_, grübchen in den frischen roten wangen. ¶ ¶, . _vandyke collar_ wird ein ausgezackter spitzenhalskragen genannt, wie man sie auf den gemälden des niederländischen malers van dyck, welcher starb, sieht. -- . _eszackly_ = exactly. ¶ ¶, . _course_, vorgehen, handlungsweise. -- . _in a measure_ = in some measure, gewissermaßen. ¶ ¶, / . _how closely those ... to each other_, wie innige zuneigung die beiden zueinander gefaßt hatten. ¶ ¶, . _methodic_, steif, ruhig. -- . _ever so much_; vgl. ¶ ¶, . ¶ ¶, . _clutched_, faßte krampfhaft. -- . _chambers_, schreibstube, kanzlei. ¶ ¶, / . _a low, scoundrelly piece of business_, eine gemeine, schurkige geschichte. -- . _fastidious_, stolz, vornehm. -- . _drops of moisture_, schweißtropfen. ¶ ¶, . _that read_, auf dem zu lesen war. -- . _want a shine?_ stiefel wichsen? -- . _rest_, wichsbank. -- . _fell to work_, machte sich an die arbeit. -- . _feller_ = fellow. ¶ ¶, . _boss_ (o = a in all), herr, meister, ist ein amerikanismus. -- _yerself_ = yourself (vulgär). -- . _lifetime acquaintances_, freunde von jeher. -- . _ha'_ = have (vulgär). -- . _tilted_, gelehnt. -- . _he made a jerk at them with the hand_, deutete er mit der hand auf sie. -- . _ginger ale_ ist ein moussierendes getränk wie gingerbeer (ingwerbier), welches aus gärendem ingwer, cream-of-tartar (schaum einer kochenden weinsteinlösung) und zucker mit hefe und wasser bereitet wird. ¶ ¶, . _here's to him!_ dies auf sein wohl! -- . _markises_ = marquesses. -- _dooks_ = dukes. -- . _the nobility and gentry_. nobility ist der geburtsadel (duke, marquess, earl, viscount (spr. is = i), baron). die träger dieser adelstitel sind lords, ihre frauen ladies (anrede mylord oder your lordship, mylady). der nobility steht gegenüber die _gentry_ (niederer adel, auch landadel vgl. ¶ ¶, ) mit den klassen der baronets und knights (squires). man rechnet jedoch zur gentry im weiteren sinne alle gentlemen, d. h. alle gebildeten und in vornehmer lebensstellung befindlichen. -- . _realised_ = known. -- . _the tower of london_, nach welchem die erzählung von ainsworth betitelt ist, ist eine gruppe von gebäuden am nördlichen ufer der themse. im innern desselben erhebt sich der von wilhelm dem eroberer erbaute white tower, welcher in früheren zeiten als staatsgefängnis benutzt wurde. bis ins . jahrhundert war die burg zuweilen auch der sitz des königlichen hofes. -- . _ainsworth_, william harrison. geb. in manchester, gestorben , ist der erste vertreter der räuber- und schauerromane in der englischen literatur. seine zahlreichen romane (u. a. crichton, jack sheppard, old st. paul's) wurden viel gelesen. -- . _bloody mary_ wurde die königin maria i. von england ( - ) wegen ihrer blutigen und grausamen verfolgung der protestanten genannt. ¶ ¶, . _ain't_ = is not (vulgär). -- . _this 'ere un_ = this one (vulgär). -- _that's bossin'_, welche leitet, ist ein amerikanismus; vgl. ¶ ¶, . -- . _gal_ = girl (vulgär). -- . _'n'_ = and. -- / . _to set up a cattle ranch_, um einen viehhandel zu beginnen; vgl. ¶ ¶, . -- . _'ve_ = have. ¶ ¶, . _afore_ = before. -- / . _that's ... from_, von ihm und keinem andern kommt er (der brief). -- . _curous_ = curious. -- . _preaps_ = perhaps. -- . _thort_ = thought. -- . _right away_, sofort. -- _intrusted_ = interested. -- / . _there is no knowing_, das kann man nicht wissen. -- . _a put-up job_, eine abgekartete geschichte (familiär). -- _'ristycrats_; vgl. ¶ ¶, . ¶ ¶, . _exclaimed_, äußerten sich laut. -- . _holding on to his knee_, die hände um die kniee geschlungen. -- . _sober_, besonnen, ruhig. -- . _jumped_, aufsprang. ¶ ¶, / . _was all alight with eagerness_, leuchtete ganz vor spannung. -- . _by george_ ist eine in der englischen aristokratischen gesellschaft deshalb gebrauchte beteuerungsformel, weil der heilige ritter georg der patron des höchsten englischen ordens, des von eduard iii. gestifteten hosenbandordens (order of the garter), ist. -- . _drawing his breath hard_, mühsam atmend. -- . _how deep a hold upon him ... had taken_, wie tief ... wurzel gefaßt hatten. ¶ ¶, . _walks_, kreise, klassen. -- . _morning room_, boudoir. -- . _hisself_ = himself. -- _ma'am_ = madam. ¶ ¶, . _uplifted eyes_, auf ihn gerichteten augen. ¶ ¶, . _sardonically_, spöttisch. -- . _glaring down at her_, sie mit einem durchbohrenden blick ansehend. ¶ ¶, . _as it was to be_ = as it was new to him to be etc. -- / . _he found her a little soothing_, er fand in ihr einigen trost. -- . _almost stricken dumb_, fast sprachlos vor erstaunen. ¶ ¶, . _until his head was in a whirl_, bis ihm ganz wirr im kopfe war. -- . _seem's like_ = it seems as if. -- _orter_ = ought to. ¶ ¶, . _the right honourable_, ist eine bezeichnung, die den earls, viscounts und barons, sowie ihren frauen zukommt; ferner den mitgliedern des privy council (des geheimen staatsrates) d. h. den ministern in und außer dienst, erzbischöfen u. a. -- . _better'n_ = better than. -- . _aint_; vgl. ¶ ¶, . -- . _you may eat me_, ich lasse mich hängen. -- . _anywheres_ = any where. -- _so'd_ = so would. -- _jest ax_ = just ask. -- . _knowed_ = knew. -- . _they done it_ = they have done it. -- . _'merican_ = american. -- . _she done_ = she has done. -- . _i'll tell yer wot come to me_, ich will ihnen sagen, was mir eingefallen ist. -- . _minnit_ = minute. -- _pictur_ = picture. -- _o' them papers_ = of those papers. ¶ ¶, . _feller_ = fellow. -- _give_ = gave. -- . _knows_ = know. -- . _in care of_, unter der obhut. -- . _he struggled into his coat_, er schlüpfte eilig in seinen rock. -- . _spare_, frei, übrig. -- . _a big thing_, eine wichtige sache. ¶ ¶, . _esq._ = esquire entspricht heutzutage in england dem deutschen hochwohlgeboren und wird regelmäßig auf adressen dem namen eines gentleman (vgl. ¶ ¶, ) nachgesetzt, wenn nicht bei demselben schon m(iste)r oder ein titel (doctor, rev. = reverend u. a.) steht. ¶ ¶, . _to cable_, (durch das unterseeische kabel) telegraphieren. -- . _sharp faced_, mit pfiffigem gesichte. -- . _i can swear to her_, ich kann beschwören, daß sie es ist. ¶ ¶, . _he is done with you_, er ist mit dir fertig. -- . _fairly_ = completely. -- . _dashed past him_, stürzte an ihm vorbei. ¶ ¶, . _is_ = are. -- _a uniggspected_ = an unexpected. ¶ ¶, . _ranch_ (span. rancho, gesellschaft, kameradschaft) ist in amerika gebraucht für: ) leicht gebaute hütte der viehhirten, ) viehwirtschaft, wie hier. -- . _prospective_, voraussichtlich, zukünftig. -- / . _was devotedly fond of_, hing mit ganzem herzen an. -- . _made up to him_, entschädigte ihn. ¶ ¶, . _was simply radiantly happy_, strahlte einfach vor glück. ¶ ¶, . _settled_, entschieden. -- . _flushed rosy red_, wurde dunkelrot. ¶ ¶, . _that's_ = that are. -- _stirrin'_, rührig. -- . _auntsister_ = ancestor. verzeichnis zu den sachlichen anmerkungen. (die zahlen bezeichnen die seiten und zeilen im texte, zu denen eine anmerkung im anhang gegeben ist.) ainsworth , base-ball , bloody-mary , brougham , central park , church-service , commission , esquire , fourth of july , gentry , george, by , ginger ale , greenbacks , hearth , jiggered , nobility , ranch , right honourable , sir, sir , ; , tower (the) of london , vandyke collar , washington (stadt) , washington, george , die französische und englische schulbibliothek erscheint seit dem . oktober ; sie ist eine sammlung der besten französischen und englischen schriftsteller vom . bezw. . jahrhundert an bis in die neueste zeit. bezüglich der äußeren ausstattung sei folgendes bemerkt: a) die _schrift_ entspricht _allen von medizinisch-pädagogischen vereinen gestellten anforderungen_; sie ist groß, scharf und deutlich lesbar wegen des richtigen verhältnisses zwischen höhe der großen und kleinen buchstaben unter sich und zwischen buchstabenhöhe und entfernung der einzelnen zeilen. _selbst schwache augen dürften lange zeit ohne ermüdung diese schrift lesen können._ b) das _papier_ ist ein eigens hierzu angefertigter, kräftiger, nicht durchscheinender, guter stoff von gelblicher färbung, _die sehr wohltuend auf das auge des schülers wirkt_. c) der _einband ist biegsam und dauerhaft_. prospekt. die »¶französische und englische schulbibliothek¶«, aufgebaut auf den thesen der direktoren-versammlung in der provinz hannover ( ), ist den anforderungen _der lehrpläne und lehraufgaben für die höheren schulen vom jahre genau angepaßt_. sie bringt nicht nur die wichtigeren schriftwerke der letzten drei bezw. vier jahrhunderte und führt somit in die literatur, kultur- und volkskunde der beiden großen kulturvölker ein (lehrpläne und lehraufgaben von , s. u. ), sondern sie berücksichtigt auch die _technisch-wissenschaftliche lektüre_ und wird so _den weitgehendsten forderungen der gymnasien und realanstalten_ gerecht. folgende grundsätze sind für die gestaltung derselben maßgebend. . _die schulbibliothek_ bringt _prosa_ und _poesie_. die _prosa_bände enthalten den lesestoff für je ein _halbjahr_. mit ausnahme _der lebensbeschreibungen_ berühmter männer, welche, _ohne beeinträchtigung des gesamtbildes_, zweckentsprechend gekürzt erscheinen, _werden nur teile eines ganzen veröffentlicht, die, in sich aber eine art ganzes bildend_, eine hinreichende bekanntschaft mit den geisteswerken und deren verfassern ermöglichen. . vor _jedem_ bande erscheint eine dem gesichtskreis des schülers entsprechende _lebensbeschreibung_ des schriftstellers sowie eine kurze zusammenstellung _alles dessen, was zu seinem vollen verständnis zu wissen nötig scheint_. den _poetischen_ bänden gehen außerdem eine _metrische_ und eine _sprachliche_ einleitung voran, die sich streng an das betreffende stück anlehnen. . der _text_ ist bei den _prosaikern_ der Übersichtlichkeit halber in kürzere kapitel geteilt. . der _rechtschreibung_ in den _französischen_ bänden liegt die ausgabe des _dictionnaire de l'académie_ von _ _ zugrunde. . die _anmerkungen_ sind _deutsch_; sie stehen von band _ _ an und in den neuen auflagen früher erschienener bände _hinter_ dem texte. bei bänden, von denen auch oder nur _einsprachige ausgaben_ (französisch bezw. englisch) erschienen sind, ist dies im verzeichnis besonders angegeben. . die sachliche _erklärung_ bringt das _notwendige_ ohne _gelehrtes_ beiwerk. _sprachliche anmerkungen_ finden sich da, wo eine eigenheit in der ausdrucksweise des schriftstellers vorliegt; die _grammatik_ wird nur ganz _ausnahmsweise_ behandelt, wenn sich die schwierigkeit einer stelle durch die nicht leicht bemerkbare unterordnung unter eine grammatische regel heben läßt. auf eine bestimmte grammatik ist nicht hingewiesen. die _synonymik_ ist _nicht_ berücksichtigt. _soll dieselbe ihren zweck als formales bildungsmittel nicht verfehlen, so muß da, wo das verständnis des textes und die wahl des richtigen ausdrucks selbst eine synonymische aufklärung erheischen, diese gemeinschaftlich von den schülern gesucht und unter der unmittelbaren einwirkung des lehrers gefunden werden._ aus _gleichen_ gründen ist der _etymologie kein platz_ eingeräumt. . _Übersetzungen_, die nur der _trägheit_ des schülers vorschub leisten, sind ausgeschlossen. -- die herausgabe von _sonderwörterbüchern_ zu einzelnen bänden hat sich als eine _zwingende notwendigkeit_ erwiesen; denn abgesehen davon, daß die konkurrenzunternehmungen derartige wörterbücher veröffentlichen, welche die schüler _auf jeden fall_ sich zu verschaffen wissen, sind auch an die schriftleitung seitens zahlreicher amtsgenossen zuschriften gelangt, denen zufolge die namentlich für die _mittleren_ klassen bestimmten ausgaben nur _mit einem wörterbuche_ in gebrauch genommen werden können, weil _erst in den oberen klassen_ auf die anschaffung eines schulwörterbuches _gedrungen_ wird. da _jedoch die wörterbücher den betreffenden bänden nicht beigegeben sind, sondern erst auf verlangen nachgeliefert werden, so bedarf es nur eines antrages seitens der schule, wenn das sonderwörterbuch nicht geliefert werden soll_. . _aussprachebezeichnungen_ werden hinzugefügt, wo die schulwörterbücher den schüler im stiche lassen; _sie fehlen_ bei den _seltener_ vorkommenden _ausländischen eigennamen_, weil die _gebildeten engländer und franzosen_ bemüht sind, _dieselben so auszusprechen, wie sie im lande selbst ausgesprochen werden_. . den _geschichtlichen_ stoffen sind _abbildungen_, _karten_ und _pläne_ beigegeben; _verzeichnisse_ zu den anmerkungen erleichtern das zurechtfinden in einzelnen bänden. -- verlag der rengerschen buchhandlung in leipzig. im verlage der rengerschen buchhandlung gebhardt & wilisch in leipzig sind erschienen oder im erscheinen begriffen: buurmans kurze repetitorien für das einjährig-freiwilligen-examen nebst muster-prüfungen. buurmans repetitorien behandeln in bändchen alle prüfungsgegenstände. . bändchen: deutsch (erschienen) . " lateinisch . " griechisch . " französisch (erschienen) . " englisch " . " geschichte " . " geographie " . " mathematik " . " physik (erscheint im mai ) anhang: prüfungsbestimmungen. preis jedes bändchens in leinw. geb. mk. . diese bändchen eignen sich nicht bloß für die stufe des einjährigen-examens, sondern sind auch für die höheren prüfungen zweckmäßig zu benutzen, um sich eine bedeutende präsenz des wissens anzueignen. jedes bändchen ist einzeln im buchhandel zu beziehen. zum gebrauch in höheren schulen ist erschienen: monumentalplan von berlin. herausgeg. v. r. gebhardt. entworfen u. gezeichnet v. j. aescher. größe der zeichnung x cm. preis des in farben gedruckten planes: a) roh -- blätter in mappe mk. b) auf leinwand aufgezogen mit Ösen in mappe mk. c) " ringen und stäben mk. monumentalplan von berlin. auf x cm bildfläche verkleinerte ausgabe des wandplanes von berlin, in farben gedruckt, mit alphabetischem namensverzeichnis. mk. . . illustrated map of london. entworfen und herausgegeben von ludwig e. rolfs. größe der zeichnung x cm. preis des in fünf farben kolorierten planes: a) roh -- blätter in mappe mk. b) auf leinwand aufgezogen mit Ösen in mappe mk. c) " ringen und stäben mk. gleichzeitig ist eine für die hand des schülers bestimmte, auf x cm verkleinerte ausgabe dieses planes in mehrfachem farbendruck ausgeführt erschienen, deren einzelpreis einschl. eines alphabet. namensverzeichnisses pf. beträgt. plan pittoresque de la ville de paris. entworfen und herausgegeben von ludwig e. rolfs. größe der zeichnung x cm. preis des in fünf farben kolorierten planes: a) roh -- blätter in mappe mk. b) auf leinwand aufgezogen mit Ösen in mappe mk. c) " ringen und stäben mk. hiervon ist ebenfalls eine auf x cm verkleinerte, für den gebrauch der schüler bestimmte und in mehreren farben gedruckte ausgabe erschienen unter dem titel: plan monumental de la ville de paris. in umschlag mit alphabet. namensverzeichnis. preis pf. kommentar hierzu preis brosch. mk. pf. in ganzleinwand gebunden mk. französische und englische schulbibliothek herausgegeben von dr. otto e. a. dickmann, direktor der oberrealschule der stadt köln. nach den autoren alphabetisch geordnetes verzeichnis der bisher erschienenen bände. reihe a: prosa -- reihe b: poesie -- reihe c: für mädchenschulen. t. a.: sammlung französischer und englischer text-ausgaben zum schulgebrauch. zu den mit * bezeichneten bänden ist ein sonderwörterbuch erschienen. einsprachige ausgaben (französisch bezw. englisch) siehe unter barrau -- conteurs -- corneille, le cid -- daudet, tartarin -- english school life -- goerlich -- monod -- shakespeare, coriolanus. reihe. band a . addison, sir roger de coverley. [aus: the . . spectator.] (professor dr. h. fehse.) mit karte. t.a. * . aladdin or the wonderful lamp. . . a . arago, histoire de ma jeunesse. (prof. dr. o. . . klein.) a * . ascensions -- voyages aériens -- Évasions. . . (prof. dr. wershoven.) b . augier et sandeau, le gendre de m. poirier. . . (prof. dr. j. sarrazin.) . aufl. a * . aymeric, dr. j., de leipsic à constantinople. . . journal de route. a . barante, jeanne darc. (dir. prof. dr. k. . . mühlefeld.) . aufl. mit kärtchen und plänen. a . barrau, scènes de la révolution française. . . (prof. dr. b. lengnick.) mit plänen und karte. . aufl. dasselbe. mit französischen anmerkungen . . c . bersier, mme, les myrtilles. stufe ii. (m. . . mühry.) a . boissonnas, une famille pendant la guerre . . / . (dr. banner.) a . the british isles. (dir. prof. j. leitritz.) .--. abbild. u. karte. a * . bruno, francinet. (prof. dr. j. sarrazin.) . .--. aufl. a * . bruno, le tour de la france. (dir. prof. . . rolfs.) mit karte. a * . burnett, little lord fauntleroy. (prof. g. . . wolpert.) . aufl. b . byron, childe harold's pilgrimage. [ausw.] . . (prof. dr. r. werner.) c * . candy, emily j., talk about engl. life or first . . days in england. stufe iv. c . carraud, mme j., contes. stufe ii. (dr. cl. . . klöpper.) a * . chambers's english history. mit karte. . . (oberl. a. v. roden.) b . chants d'Écoles. (dir. prof. ludw. e. rolfs u. .--. barthel müller.) a * . chaucer stories. (dr. cl. klöpper.) . . c . christie's old organ or home, sweet home by . . mrs. walton. -- daddy darwins dovecot by mrs. ewing. (a. bückmann). c . colomb, la fille de carilès. stufe iv. (m. . . mühry.) . aufl. a * . contes d'andersen, trad. par d. soldi. (dir. .--. prof. dr. e. penner.) c . contes, trois, pour les petites filles. stufe . . i. (dr. fr. lotsch.) a * . conteurs modernes. [jules simon, theuriet, .--. révillon, moret, richebourg.] (prof. dr. j. sarrazin.) . aufl. dasselbe. mit französischen anmerkungen .--. c . coolidge, what katy did at school. stufe iv. .--. (dir. a. seedorf.) c . coolidge, what katy did. stufe iv. (e. . . merhaut.) a * . coppée, ausgew. erzählungen. (prof. dr. a. .--. gundlach.) . aufl. c . corbet-seymour, only a shilling. stufe ii. (dr. . . cl. klöpper.) b . corneille, le cid. (prof. dr. w. mangold.) . . . aufl. dasselbe. mit französischen anmerkungen . . b . corneille, cinna. (professor dr. p. schmid.) .--. b . corneille, horace. (professor dr. p. schmid.) . . a . cornish, life of oliver cromwell. [ karte.] . . (prof. dr. deutschbein.) c . dalgleish, life of queen victoria. stufe iv. . . (dr. cl. klöpper.) a * . daudet, ausgew. erzählungen. (dir. prof. dr. e. . . gropp.) . aufl. a * . daudet, tartarin de tarascon. (dr. j. aymeric.) . . . aufl. dasselbe. mit französischen anmerkungen . . a * . daudet, le petit chose. (dr. j. aymeric.) . . . aufl. a . daudet, lettres de mon moulin. (oberl. dr. . . hertel.) a * . day, the history of little jack.--the history . . of sandford and merton. (direktor dr. hugo gruber.) a * . defoe, robinson crusoe. (oberlehrer dr. k. .--. foth.) b . delavigne, louis xi. (direktor ph. plattner.) . . a * . deschaumes, journal d'un lycéen de ans. (dr. . . r. kron.) mit skizzen, plan und karte. a * . desèze, défense de louis xvi. (oberl. dr. o. . . klein.) a * . dhombres et monod, biographies historiques. .--. (oberlehrer h. bretschneider.) . aufl. a . dickens, sketches. (dir. prof. dr. e. penner.) .--. mit plan. a . dickens, the cricket on the hearth. (oberl. b. . . röttgers.) a * . dickens, david copperfield's schooldays. (prof. . . dr. h. bahrs.) . aufl. a . dickens, a christmas carol. (oberl. b. . . röttgers.) a * . dickmann u. heuschen, französisches lesebuch. . . a . duruy, histoire de france de / . (dir. . . prof. dr. a. g. meyer.) . aufl. mit kartenskizzen u. spezialkarte. a * . duruy, biographies d'hommes célèbres des temps . . anciens et modernes. (oberlehrer karl penner.) mit abbildungen. . aufl. a * . duruy, règne de louis xiv de -- . . . . aufl. (professor dr. h. müller.) mit karte. a * . duruy, règne de louis xvi et la révolution .--. française. (prof. dr. h. müller.) mit karte und plan. c . edgeworth, lacy lawrence. (oberl. dr. fr. . . lotsch). t.a. * . edgeworth, miss, popular tales. . . c . eliot, tom and maggie. stufe iv. (e. merhaut.) a * . english history. (prof. dr. wershoven.) [ . . karten, pläne.] . aufl. a . english letters. (prof. dr. ernst regel.) . . a * . english school life. (prof. dr. f. j. . . wershoven.) dasselbe. mit englischen anmerkungen . . a * . erckmann-chatrian, histoire d'un conscrit de . . . [im auszuge]. (dir. prof. dr. g. strien.) . aufl. mit karte. a * . erckmann-chatrian, waterloo. [im auszuge]. (dr. . . jos. aymeric.) . aufl. mit karte. t.a. * . erzählungen, ausgewählte (courier, toepffer, . . dumas, mérimée, souvestre). c . erzählungen, ausgew. (mlle cornaz, mme colomb, . . paul de musset) . c . erzählungen, ausgew. aus: voyage en france par . . deux soeurs par c. juranville et p. berger. stufe i. (dr. cl. klöpper.). c . erzählungen aus dem französischen schulleben. . . stufe iii u. iv. (prof. dr. f. j. wershoven.) a . erzählungen, franz. [souvestre, .--. erckm.-chatrian, reybaud]. (prof. wolpert.) c . ev.-green, the secret of the old house. stufe . . iii. (e. taubenspeck.) t.a. * . fénelon, aventures de télémaque. . . a . figuier, scènes et tableaux de la nature. (dir. . . prof. l. e. rolfs.) c . fleuriot, plus tard ou le jeune chef de . . famille. stufe iii. (dr. meyer.) t.a. * . florian, guillaume tell. . . a . forbes, my experiences of the war between . . france and germany. (dr. wilh. heymann.) c . françaises illustres. stufe iii u. iv. (prof. . . dr. f. j. wershoven.) a * . la france, anthologie géographique. (dir. prof. . . j. leitritz.) . aufl. mit abbildungen u. karte von frankreich. a . franklin, the life of franklin. (dir. f. . . wüllenweber.) . aufl. mit karte. a . frédéric le gr., correspond. avec voltaire. . . (prof. dr. hoffmann.) a * . gardiner, historical biographies. (prof. g. . . wolpert.) . aufl. b . gedichte. auswahl englischer gedichte. (dir. . . prof. dr. e. gropp und dir. prof. dr. e. hausknecht.) . aufl. bogen o. dazu »kommentar« von e. gropp u. e. hausknecht. . . teile. geb. b . gedichte. auswahl französ. gedichte (dir. prof. .--. dr. e. gropp und dir. prof. dr. e. hausknecht.) bgn. o. .- . tausend. dazu »kommentar« v. e. gropp u. e. hausknecht. . . . aufl. geb. a . géographie de la france. (dir. prof. dr. ew. . . goerlich.) ausgabe mit nur französischen anmerkungen. a . geography of the british empire. (dir. prof. . . dr. ew. goerlich.) ausgabe mit nur englischen anmerkungen. a . gibbon, history of the . and . crusades. . . (dir. dr. f. hummel.) mit plänen. c . girardin, récits de la vie réelle. stufe iv. . . (rektor k. zwerg.) b . gobineau, alexandre. (prof. dr. völcker.) . . t.a. * . goldsmith, the vicar of wakefield. . . a * . grimm frères, contes choisis. [ausw.] (dir. .--. prof. l. e. rolfs.) a * . grimm's and hauff's fairy tales. (dir. prof. . . dr. e. penner.) a * . gros, récits d'aventures et expéditions au pôle . . nord. (oberlehrer dr. l. hasberg.) mit karte. a . guizot, histoire de la révolution d'angleterre . . de - . (prof. dr. a. althaus.) mit karte. a . guizot, histoire de la civilisation. [auswahl.] . . (prof. dr. a. kressner.) . aufl. a . guizot, washington. (dr. cl. klöpper.) mit . . karte. a * . halévy, l'invasion. (prof. dr. j. sarrazin.) m. . . plänen. . aufl. c . hanson, stories of king arthur. stufe iii. (dr. .--. cl. klöpper.) a * . henty, when london burned. (professor g. . . wolpert.) a * . henty, yarns on the beach, a bundle of tales. . . [do your duty -- surly joe -- a fish-wife's dream]. (oberl. dr. eule.) a . d'hérisson, journal d'un officier d'ordonnance. . . (dr. u. cosack.) mit plänen. . aufl. a . d'hérisson, journal d'un interprète en chine. . . (prof. dr. a. krause.) c . hope, asc. r., stories of engl. girlhood. . . (prof. dr. j. klapperich.) a * . hume, the reign of queen elizabeth. (dir. prof. . . dr. a. fritzsche.) . aufl. mit karte. a . hume, history of charles i. and of the . . commonwealth. (prof. dr. f. j. wershoven.) mit karte. a . hume, the foundation of english liberty. (prof. . . bohne.) [ karten.] a . irving, christmas. (oberl. dr. g. tanger.) . . a * . irving, tales of the alhambra. (hofr. dir. dr. . . wernekke.) . aufl. a . irving, bracebridge hall or the humorists. . . (prof. dr. wolpert). c . king lear. -- grace darling by eva hope. -- . . some eminent women of our times by fawcett. -- florence nightingale. -- elizabeth fry. stufe iv. (b. mühry.) a . lamartine, captivité, procès et mort de louis . . xvi etc. (prof. dr. b. lengnick.) . aufl. mit abbildung u. plänen. t.a. * . lamartine, nelson. . . t.a. * . lamartine, christophe colomb. . . t.a. * . lamartine, gutenberg et jacquard. . . a * . lamé-fleury, histoire de la découverte de . . l'amérique. (prof. dr. m. schmidt.) . aufl. a * . lamé-fleury, histoire de france de - . .--. (oberlehrer dr. j. hengesbach.) . aufl. a * . lamé-fleury, histoire de france de - . . . (oberlehrer dr. j. hengesbach.) mit karte. . aufl. a * . lanfrey, campagne de - . (professor dr. . . otto klein.) . aufl. mit karten und plänen. a * . lanfrey, campagne de . (prof. dr. otto . . klein.) . aufl. mit plänen. a * . lanfrey, campagne de . (prof. dr. otto . . klein.) . aufl. mit plänen. a * . lectures historiques. (prof. dr. f. j. . . wershoven.) . aufl. c . le petit paresseux. er voyage du petit louis . . d'après mme de witt née guizot. histoire d'une petite fille heureuse par mme bersier. stufe i. (m. mühry.) c . little susy's little servants by prentiss. -- . . story told etc. by bakewell. -- the true history etc. by brunefille. -- topo by brunefille stufe i. (b. mühry.) a . littré, comment j'ai fait mon dictionnaire. . . causerie. (prof. dr. imelmann.) c . livre de lecture pour les enfants de - ans. . . stufe!i. (oberlehrer dr. fr. lotsch.) a * . london and its environs. (direktor professor j. . . leitritz.) mit abbildungen und plänen. a . macaulay, state of england in . (professor . . dr. a. kressner.) . aufl. mit plan. a . macaulay, lord clive. (prof. dr. a. kressner.) . . . aufl. [karte.] a . macaulay, warren hastings. (prof. dr. . . kressner.) . aufl. [karte.] a . macaulay, the duke of monmouth. . . (kreisschulinsp. dr. o. werner.) . aufl. mit karte. a . macaulay, james ii. descent on ireland. (prof. . . dr. otto hallbauer.) c . macé, la france avant les francs. stufe iv. . . (rektor k. zwerg.) c . de maistre, la jeune sibérienne. stufe iv. .--. (prof. dr. j. sarrazin.) c . malot, h., romain kalbris. stufe iv. (m. . . mühry.) mit karte. a . marbot, retraite de la grande armée et bataille . . de leipzig. (prof. dr. stange.) a * . marryat, the children of the new forest. (prof. . . g. wolpert.) . aufl. a . marryat, masterman ready or the wreck of the . . pacific. (prof. adolf mager.) a . marryat, the three cutters. (dr. r. miller.) . . . aufl. mit karte. a * . marryat, the settlers in canada. (kgl. . . regierungs- u. schulrat jos. heuschen.) c . maxime du camp, deux petites nouvelles. aus: . . bons coeurs et braves gens u. mme léonie d'aunet, le spitzberg. aus: voyage d'une femme au spitzberg. stufe iv. (dr. cl. klöpper.) a . mérimée, colomba. (dir. prof. j. leitritz.) . . . aufl. a * . michaud, siège d'antioche et prise de . . jérusalem. (dir. dr. f. hummel.) . aufl. mit karten und abbild. a * . michaud, moeurs et coutumes des croisades. . . (dir. dr. f. hummel.) . aufl. a * . michaud, influence et résultats des croisades. . . (dir. dr. f. hummel.) . aufl. a * . michaud, histoire de la me croisade. (prof. . . dr. o. klein.) t.a. * . michaud, la troisième croisade. . . a * . mignet, histoire de la terreur. [aus: histoire . . de la révolution française]. (prof. a. ey.) . aufl. mit plan. a . mignet, essai sur la formation territoriale et . . politique de la france. (oberlehrer dr. a. korell.) mit karte. a . mignet, vie de franklin. (prof. h. voss.) mit .--. karte. a * . mirabeau, discours choisis. (prof. dr. o. .--. klein.) mit bild mirabeaus. b . molière, le misanthrope. (prof. dr. w. . . mangold.) . aufl. b . molière, l'avare. (prof. dr. w. mangold.) . . . aufl. b . molière, le bourgeois gentilhomme. (prof. dr. . . w. mangold.) . aufl. b . molière, les femmes savantes. (prof. dr. w. . . mangold.) . aufl. b . molière, les précieuses ridicules. (prof. dr. . . w. mangold.) a . molière et le théâtre en france. (prof. dr. f. . . j. wershoven.) a * . monod, allemands et français. (direktor dr. w. . . kirschten.) . aufl. mit kartenskizzen und karte. dasselbe. mit französischen anmerkungen . . a . montesquieu, considérations sur les causes de . . la grandeur des romains, etc. (prof. dr. b. lengnick.) a . nouvelles choisies [cladel, foley, normand]. . . (prof. dr. a. kressner.) c . oliphant mrs., agnes hopetoun's school and .--. holidays. -- the experiences of a little girl. (e. taubenspeck.) a * . paris et ses environs. (dir. prof. j. .--. leitritz.) . aufl. mit abbildungen, karte und stadtplan. dieser band ist von iib bis ia gleich nutzbringend zu verwenden. t.a. * . parley, the book of wonders. . . a . passy, le petit poucet du xixe siècle g. . . stephenson et la naissance des chemins de fer. (oberl. b. röttgers.) mit abbild. a * . perrault, contes de fées. (oberl. dr. a. .--. mohrbutter.) b . piron, la métromanie. (professor dr. a. . . kressner.) c . poor nelly. by the author of "mr. burke's . . nieces" etc. stufe ii. (b. mühry.) .- . tausend. a * . porchat, le berger et le proscrit. (kgl. .--. regierungs- und schulrat j. heuschen.) c . probable sons. stufe iii. (elisabeth dickmann.) . . t.a. * . prosa, ausgew., des . und . jahrhunderts . . (mme de sévigné, le sage, montesquieu, voltaire). t.a. * . prosa, ausgew., des . und . jahrhunderts. . . i. teil. t.a. * . prosa, ausgew., des . und . jahrhunderts. . . ii. teil. t.a. * . prosa, ausgew., des . und . jahrhunderts. . . iii. teil. t.a. * . prosa, ausgew., des . und . jahrhunderts. . . iv. teil. b . racine, britannicus. (prof. dr. b. lengnick.) .--. . aufl. b . racine, athalie. (direktor dr. f. hummel.) . . . aufl. b . racine, phèdre. (professor dr. a. kressner.) . . . aufl. a . recent travel and adventure. livingstone, .--. stanley, emin pasha, gordon, greely, nordenskjöld. (prof. dr. j. klapperich.) karten. a . reden, ausgewählte, englischer staatsmänner. i. . . [pitt d. Ä. u. d. j.] (prof. dr. j. c. a. winkelmann.) a . reden, ausgewählte, englischer staatsmänner. . . ii. [burke: ostind. bill des ch. j. fox.] (prof. dr. j. c. a. winkelmann.) a . reden, ausgewählte, französischer kanzelredner . . [bossuet, fléchier, massillon]. (professor dr. a. kressner.) b . regnard, le joueur. (oberlehrer dr. otto . . boerner.) a . robertson, charles v. and francis i. from . . - . (professor dr. h. bahrs.) a . saintine, picciola. (prof. dr. b. lengnick.) . . b . sandeau, mlle de la seiglière. (prof. dr. j. . . sarrazin.) . aufl. a * . sarcey, le siège de paris. (dr. u. cosack.) mit . . karte. . aufl. a . scott, history of france from - . (prof. . . dr. h. fehse.) mit karte und plänen. a * . scott, sir william wallace and robert the . . bruce. [aus: tales of a grandfather]. (professor dr. h. fehse.) . aufl. a . scott, ivanhoe. [auszug], (dir. prof. dr. e. . . penner.) . aufl. a . scott, scenes from old-scottish life. [aus: the . . fair maid of perth]. (professor dr. h. bahrs.) mit karte. a * . scott, mary stuart. (direktor prof. dr. a. . . fritzsche.) a * . scott, kenilworth. [auszug.] (oberl. dr. . . mohrbutter.) a * . scott, quentin durward. (dr. felix pabst.) . . b . scott, the lady of the lake. (prof. dr. . . werner.) mit karte. b . scribe, le verre d'eau. (dir. prof. l. e. . . rolfs.) t.a. * . scribe et delavigne. le diplomate etc. . . a . ségur, napoléon á moscou und passage de la . . bérézina. (dir. prof. dr. a. hemme.) . aufl. mit plänen. c . sewell, anna, black beauty. stufe iii. (b. . . mühry.) seymour, siehe chaucer. b . shakespeare, macbeth. (dir. prof. dr. e. . . penner.) . aufl. b . shakespeare, julius cæsar. (dir. prof. dr. e. . . penner.) . aufl. b . shakespeare, the merchant of venice. (direktor . . dr. otto e. a. dickmann.) . aufl. b . shakespeare, coriolanus. (dir. prof. dr. e. . . penner.) ausgabe mit nur englischen anmerkungen. a . shakespeare and the england of shakespeare. . . (prof. dr. wershoven.) a . southey, the life of nelson. (prof. dr. w. . . parow.) mit skizzen, kärtchen und schiffsbild. . aufl. a . souvestre, confessions d'un ouvrier. (prof. o. . . josupeit.) . aufl. a * . souvestre, au coin du feu. (oberlehrer dr. a. . . mohrbutter.) t.a. * . souvestre, un philosophe sous les toits. . . c . sprachstoff für den anschauungs- u. . . sprachunterricht von f. strübing. i.b. [bauernhof, wald, ernte, herbst.] stufe iv. (m. altgelt.) c . sprachstoff f. d. anschauungs- u. . . sprachunterricht v. f. strübing. ii.b. [winter, hafen, mühle, gebirgsgegend.] stufe iv. (m. altgelt.) c . spyri, reseli aux roses. bastien et franceline. . . stufe ii. (dr. cl. klöpper.) c . stahl, maroussia. stufe iv. (m. mühry.) . . a . swift, gulliver's travels. i. (dir. dr. f. . . hummel.) a . swift, gulliver's travels. ii. (dir. dr. f. . . hummel.) a * . taine, les origines de la france contemporaine. . . (prof. dr. otto hoffmann.) . aufl. a * . tales and stories from modern writers. i. . . bändchen. (prof. dr. j. klapperich.) . aufl. a . theuriet, la princesse verte. (dir. prof. l. e. .--. rolfs.) a * . theuriet, ausgew. erzählungen. (prof. dr. a. . . gundlach.) . aufl. a . theuriet, les enchantements de la forêt. . . [auswahl.] (dir. prof. ludwig e. rolfs.) a . thierry, histoire d'attila. (prof. dr. . . wershoven.) [ karte.] . aufl. a . thierry, guillaume le conquérant. (dir. prof. . . j. leitritz.) mit karte und schlachtenplan. a * . thiers, expédition de bonaparte en Égypte. . . (prof dr. otto klein.) . aufl. mit karten. a . thiers, campagne d'italie en . (prof. dr. . . a. althaus.) . aufl. mit karte und plänen. c . traill, mrs., in the forest or pictures of life . . and scenery in the woods of canada. stufe ii. (dr. cl. klöpper.) a * . verne, christophe colomb. (dr. o. mielck.) .--. a . de vigny, cinq-mars ou une conjuration sous . . louis xiii. (direktor prof. dr. g. strien.) . aufl. a * . de vigny, la canne de jonc et le cachet rouge. . . (prof. dr. kasten.) a . villemain, hist. du protect. de cromwell. . . (prof. dr. a. gundlach.) a . voltaire, guerre de la succession d'espagne. . . [aus: siècle de louis xiv]. (geh. regierungsrat prof. dr. r. foss.) a * . voltaire, histoire de charles xii. (dir. prof. . . dr. k. mühlefeld.) . aufl. mit karte und plänen. b . voltaire, mérope. (dr. r. mahrenholtz.) .--. b . voltaire, zaïre. (dr. r. mahrenholtz.) .--. b . voltaire, tancrède. (dr. r. mahrenholtz.) .--. t.a. * . voltaire, pierre le grand. . . a . yonge, the book of golden deeds. (prof. g. .--. wolpert.) t.a. * . yonge, the book of golden deeds. . . anmerkungen zur transkription die kapitelüberschriften, die der buchvorlage als seitenüberschriften beigegeben waren, wurden an die kapitelanfänge verschoben. verlagsanzeigen wurden am ende des buches vereinigt. hervorhebungen, die im original g e s p e r r t oder kursiv sind, wurden mit unterstrichen wie _hier_ gekennzeichnet. fette schrift wurde ¶so¶ markiert. offensichtliche druckfehler wurden berichtigt wie hier aufgeführt (vorher/nachher): ... frances hodgsons burnett ... ... frances hodgson burnett ... [s. vi]: ... erscheinende kürzungen, wie: i'd, he'd, i'll, h'ell u. a., ... ... erscheinende kürzungen, wie: i'd, he'd, i'll, he'll u. a., ... [s. ]: ... is'nt, you know; and you'd think 'dear' was spelled ... ... isn't, you know; and you'd think 'dear' was spelled ... [s. ]: ... "why, boss!" he exlaimed, "d'ye know him yerself?" ... ... "why, boss!" he exclaimed, "d'ye know him yerself?" ... [s. ]: ... erfolgte die unabhängigkeitserklärung (declaration of independance ... ... erfolgte die unabhängigkeitserklärung (declaration of independence ... [s. ]: ... massachusetts, new-hampshire, conne(c)ticut, rode island, new ... ... massachusetts, new-hampshire, conne(c)ticut, rhode island, new ... [s. ]: ... york, new jersey, pensylvania, delaware, maryland, south ... ... york, new jersey, pennsylvania, delaware, maryland, south ... ... den schülern im stiche lassen; sie fehlen bei den ... ... den schüler im stiche lassen; sie fehlen bei den ... [illustration: cover art] [frontispiece: playmates. page ] [illustration: title page] _alone in london_ _by the author of "jessica's first prayer," "little meg's children," etc._ london: the religious tract society, , paternoster row; , st. paul's churchyard: and , piccadilly. right of translation reserved. contents. chapter i. not alone ii. waifs and strays iii. a little peacemaker iv. old oliver's master v. forsaken again vi. the grasshopper a burden vii. the prince of life viii. no pipe for old oliver ix. a new broom and a crossing x. highly respectable xi. among thieves xii. tony's welcome xiii. new boots xiv. in hospital xv. tony's future prospects xvi. a bud fading xvii. a very dark shadow xviii. no room for dolly xix. the golden city xx. a fresh day dawns xxi. polly [illustration: chapter i headpiece] chapter i. not alone. it had been a close and sultry day--one of the hottest of the dog-days--even out in the open country, where the dusky green leaves had never stirred upon their stems since the sunrise, and where the birds had found themselves too languid for any songs beyond a faint chirp now and then. all day long the sun had shone down steadily upon the streets of london, with a fierce glare and glowing heat, until the barefooted children had felt the dusty pavement burn under their tread almost as painfully as the icy pavement had frozen their naked feet in the winter. in the parks, and in every open space, especially about the cool splash of the fountains at charing cross, the people, who had escaped from the crowded and unventilated back streets, basked in the sunshine, or sought every corner where a shadow could be found. but in the alleys and slums the air was heavy with heat and dust, and thick vapours floated up and down, charged with sickening smells from the refuse of fish and vegetables decaying in the gutters. overhead the small, straight strip of sky was almost white, and the light, as it fell, seemed to quiver with the burden of its own burning heat. out of one of the smaller thoroughfares lying between holborn and the strand, there opens a narrow alley, not more than six or seven feet across, with high buildings on each side. in the most part the ground floors consist of small shops; for the alley is not a blind one, but leads from the thoroughfare to another street, and forms, indeed, a short cut to it, pretty often used. these shops are not of any size or importance--a greengrocer's, with a somewhat scanty choice of vegetables and fruit, a broker's, displaying queer odds and ends of household goods, two or three others, and at the end farthest from the chief thoroughfare, but nearest to the quiet and respectable street beyond, a very modest-looking little shop-window, containing a few newspapers, some rather yellow packets of stationery, and two or three books of ballads. above the door was painted, in very small, dingy letters, the words, "james oliver, news agent." the shop was even smaller, in proportion, than its window. after two customers had entered--if such an event could ever come to pass--it would have been almost impossible to find room for a third. along the end ran a little counter, with a falling flap by which admission could be gained to the living-room lying behind the shop. this evening the flap was down--a certain sign that james oliver, the news agent, had some guest within, for otherwise there would have been no occasion to lessen the scanty size of the counter. the room beyond was dark, very dark indeed, for the time of day; for, though the evening was coming on, and the sun was hastening to go down at last, it had not yet ceased to shine brilliantly upon the great city. but inside james oliver's house the gas was already lighted in a little steady flame, which never flickered in the still, hot air, though both door and window were wide open. for there was a window, though it was easy to overlook it, opening into a passage four feet wide, which led darkly up into a still closer and hotter court, lying in the very core of the maze of streets. as the houses were four stories high, it is easy to understand that very little sunlight could penetrate to oliver's room behind his shop, and that even at noon-day it was twilight there. this room was of a better size altogether than a stranger might have supposed, having two or three queer little nooks and recesses borrowed from the space belonging to the adjoining house; for the buildings were old, and had probably been one large dwelling in former times. it was plainly the only apartment the owner had; and all its arrangements were those of a man living alone, for there was something almost desolate about the look of the scanty furniture, though it was clean and whole. there had been a fire, but it had died out, and the coals were black in the grate, while the kettle still sat upon the top bar with a melancholy expression of neglect about it. james oliver himself had placed his chair near to the open door, where he could keep his eye upon the shop--a needless precaution, as at this hour no customers ever turned into it. he was an old man, and seemed very old and infirm by the dim light. he was thin and spare, with that peculiar spareness which results from the habit of always eating less than one can. his teeth, which had never had too much to do, had gone some years ago, and his cheeks fell in rather deeply. a fine network of wrinkles puckered about the corners of his eyes and mouth. he stooped a good deal, and moved about with the slowness and deliberation of age. yet his face was very pleasant--a cheery, gentle, placid face, lighted up with a smile now and then, but with sufficient rareness to make it the more welcome and the more noticed when it came. old oliver had a visitor this hot evening, a neat, small, dapper woman, with a little likeness to himself, who had been putting his room to rights, and looking to the repairs needed by his linen. she was just replacing her needle, cotton, and buttons in an old-fashioned housewife, which she always carried in her pocket, and was then going to put on her black silk bonnet and coloured shawl, before bidding him good-bye. "eh, charlotte," said oliver, after drawing a long and toilsome breath, "what would i give to be a-top of the wrekin, seeing the sun set this evening! many and many's the summer afternoon we've spent there when we were young, and all of us alive. dost remember how many a mile of country we could see all round us, and how fresh the air blew across the thousands of green fields? why, i saw snowdon once, more than sixty miles off, when my eyes were young and it was a clear sunset. i always think of the top of the wrekin when i read of moses going up mount pisgah and seeing all the land about him, north and south, east and west. eh, lass! there's a change in us all now!" "ah! it's like another world!" said the old woman, shaking her head slowly. "all the folks i used to sew for at aston, and uppington, and overlehill, they'd mostly be gone or dead by now. it wouldn't seem like the same place at all. and now there's none but you and me left, brother james. well, well! it's lonesome, growing old." "yes, lonesome, yet not exactly lonesome," replied old oliver, in a dreamy voice. "i'm growing dark a little, and just a trifle deaf, and i don't feel quite myself like i used to do; but i've got something i didn't use to have. sometimes of an evening, before i've lit the gas, i've a sort of a feeling as if i could almost see the lord jesus, and hear him talking to me. he looks to me something like our eldest brother, him that died when we were little. charlotte, thee remembers him? a white, quiet, patient face, with a smile like the sun shining behind clouds. well, whether it's only a dream or no i cannot tell, but there's a face looks at me, or seems to look at me out of the dusk; and i think to myself, maybe the lord jesus says, 'old oliver's lonesome down there in the dark, and his eyes growing dim. i'll make myself half-plain to him.' then he comes and sits here with me for a little while." "oh, that's all fancy as comes with you living quite alone," said charlotte, sharply. "perhaps so! perhaps so!" answered the old man, with a meek sigh; "but i should be very lonesome without that." they did not speak again until charlotte had given a final shake to the bed in the corner, upon which her bonnet and shawl had been lying. she put them on neatly and primly; and when she was ready to go she spoke again in a constrained and mysterious manner. "heard nothing of susan, i suppose?" she said. "not a word," answered old oliver, sadly. "it's the only trouble i've got. that were the last passion i ever went into, and i was hot and hasty, i know." "so you always used to be at times," said his sister. "ah! but that passion was the worst of all," he went on, speaking slowly. "i told her if she married young raleigh, she should never darken my doors again--never again. and she took me at my word, though she might have known it was nothing but father's hot temper. darken my doors! why, the brightest sunshine i could have 'ud be to see her come smiling into my shop, like she used to do at home." "well, i think susan ought to have humbled herself," said charlotte. "it's going on for six years now, and she's had time enough to see her folly. do you know where she is?" "i know nothing about her," he answered, shaking his head sorrowfully. "young raleigh was wild, very wild, and that was my objection to him; but i didn't mean susan to take me at my word. i shouldn't speak so hasty and hot now." "and to think i'd helped to bring her up so genteel, and with such pretty manners!" cried the old woman, indignantly. "she might have done so much better with her cleverness too. such a milliner as she might have turned out! well good-bye, brother james, and don't go having any more of those visions; they're not wholesome for you." "i should be very lonesome without them," answered oliver. "good-bye, charlotte, good-bye, and god bless you. come again as soon as you can." he went with her to the door, and stayed to watch her along the quiet alley, till she turned into the street. then, with a last nod to the back of her bonnet, as she passed out of his sight, he returned slowly into his dark shop, put up the flap of the counter, and retreated to the darker room within. hot as it was, he fancied it was growing a little chilly with the coming of the night, and he drew on his old coat, and threw a handkerchief over his white head, and then sat down in the dusk, looking out into his shop and the alley beyond it. he must have fallen into a doze after a while, being overcome with the heat, and lulled by the constant hum of the streets, which reached his dull ear in a softened murmur; for at length he started up almost in a fright, and found that complete darkness had fallen upon him suddenly, as it seemed to him. a church clock was striking nine, and his shop was not closed yet. he went out hurriedly to put the shutters up. chapter ii. waifs and strays. in the shop it was not yet so dark but that old oliver could see his way out with the shutters, which during the day occupied a place behind the door. he lifted the flap of the counter, and was about to go on with his usual business, when a small voice, trembling a little, and speaking from the floor at his very feet, caused him to pause suddenly. "please, rere's a little girl here," said the voice. oliver stooped down to bring his eyes nearer to the ground, until he could make out the indistinct outline of the figure of a child, seated on his shop floor, and closely hugging a dog in her arms. her face looked small to him; it was pale, as if she had been crying quietly, and though he could not see them, a large tear stood on each of her cheeks. "what little girl are you?" he asked, almost timidly. "rey called me dolly," answered the child. "haven't you any other name?" inquired old oliver. "nosing else but poppet," she said; "rey call me dolly sometimes, and poppet sometimes. ris is my little dog, beppo." she introduced the dog by pushing its nose into his hand, and beppo complacently wagged his tail and licked the old man's withered fingers. "what brings you here in my shop, my little woman?" asked oliver. "mammy brought me," she said, with a stifled sob; "she told me run in rere, dolly, and stay till mammy comes back, and be a good girl always. am i a good girl?" "yes, yes," he answered, soothingly; "you're a very good little girl, i'm sure; and mother 'ill come back soon, very soon. let us go to the door, and look for her." he took her little hand in his own; such a little hand it felt, that he could not help tightening his fingers fondly over it; and then they stood for a few minutes on the door-sill, while old oliver looked anxiously up and down the alley. at the green-grocer's next door there flared a bright jet of gas, and the light shone well into the deepening darkness. but there was no woman in sight, and the only person about was a ragged boy, barefoot and bareheaded, with no clothing but a torn pair of trousers, very jagged about the ankles, and a jacket through which his thin shoulders displayed themselves. he was lolling in the lowest window-sill of the house opposite, and watched oliver and the little girl looking about them with sundry signs of interest and amusement. "she ain't nowhere in sight," he called across to them after a while, "nor won't be, neither, i'll bet you. you're looking out for the little un's mother, ain't you, old master?" "yes," answered oliver; "do you know anything about her, my boy?" "nothink," he said, with a laugh; "only she looked as if she were up to some move, and as i'd nothink particular on hand, i just followed her. she was somethink like my mother, as is dead, not fat or rosy, you know, with a bit of a bruise about her eye, as if somebody had been fighting with her. i thought there'd be a lark when she left the little 'un in your shop, so i just stopped to see. she bolted as if the bobbies were after her." "how long ago?" asked oliver, anxiously. "the clocks had just gone eight," he answered; "i've been watching for you ever since." "why! that's a full hour ago," said the old man, looking wistfully down the alley; "it's time she was come back again for her little girl." [illustration: the little stranger.] but there was no symptom of anybody coming to claim the little girl, who stood very quietly at his side, one hand holding the dog fast by his ear, and the other still lying in oliver's grasp. the boy hopped on one foot across the narrow alley, and looked up with bright, eager eyes into the old man's face. "i say," he said, earnestly, "don't you go to give her up to the p'lice. they'd take her to the house, and that's worse than the jail. bless yer! they'd never take up a little thing like that to jail for a wagrant. you just give her to me, and i'll take care of her. it 'ud be easy enough to find victuals for such a pretty little thing as her. you give her up to me, i say." "what's your name?" asked oliver, clasping the little hand tighter, "and where do you come from?" "from nowhere particular," answered the boy; "and my name's antony; tony, for short. i used to have another name; mother told it me afore she died, but it's gone clean out o' my head. tony i am, anyhow, and you can call me by it, if you choose." "how old are you, tony?" inquired oliver, still lingering on the threshold, and looking up and down with his dim eyes. "bless yer! i don't know," replied tony; "i weren't much bigger nor her when mother died, and i've found myself ever since. i never had any father." "found yourself!" repeated the old man, absently. "ah, it's not bad in the summer," said tony, more earnestly than before: "and i could find for the little 'un easy enough. i sleep anywhere, in covent garden sometimes, and the parks--anywhere as the p'lice 'ill let me alone. you won't go to give her up to them p'lice, will you now, and she so pretty?" he spoke in a beseeching tone, and old oliver looked down upon him through his spectacles, with a closer survey than he had given to him before. the boy's face was pale and meagre, with an unboyish sharpness about it, though he did not seem more than nine or ten years old. his glittering eyes were filled with tears, and his colourless lips quivered. he wiped away the tears roughly upon the ragged sleeve of his jacket. "i never were such a baby before," said tony, "only she is such a nice little thing, and such a tiny little 'un. you'll keep her, master, won't you? or give her up to me?" "ay, ay! i'll take care of her," answered oliver, "till her mother comes back for her. she'll come pretty soon, i know. but she wants her supper now, doesn't she?" he stooped down to bring his face nearer to the child's, and she raised her hand to it, and stroked his cheek with her warm, soft fingers. "beppo wants his supper, too," she said, in a clear, shrill, little voice, which penetrated easily through old oliver's deafened hearing. "and beppo shall have some supper as well as the little woman," he answered. "i'll put the shutters up now, and leave the door ajar, and the gas lit for mother to see when she comes back; and if mother shouldn't come back to night, the little woman will sleep in my bed, won't she?" "dolly's to be a good girl till mammy comes back," said the child, plaintively, and holding harder by beppo's ear. "let me put the shutters up, master," cried tony, eagerly; "i won't charge you nothink, and i'll just look round in the morning to see how you're getting along. she is such a very little thing." the shutters were put up briskly, and then tony took a long, farewell gaze of the old man and the little child, but he could not offer to touch either of them. he glanced at his hands, and oliver did the same; but they both shook their heads. "i'll have a wash in the morning afore i come," he said, nodding resolutely; "good-bye, guv'ner; good-bye, little 'un." old oliver went in, leaving his door ajar, and his gas lit, as he had said. he fed the hungry child with bread and butter, and used up his half-pennyworth of milk, which he bought for himself every evening. then he lifted her on to his knee, with beppo in her arms, and sat for a long while waiting. the little head nodded, and dolly sat up, unsteadily striving hard to keep awake; but at last she let beppo drop to the floor, while she herself fell upon the old man's breast, and lay there without moving. it chimed eleven o'clock at last, and oliver knew it was of no use to watch any longer. he managed to undress his little charge with gentle, though trembling hands, and then he laid her down on his bed, putting his only pillow against the wall to make a soft nest for the tender and sleepy child. she roused herself for a minute, and stared about her, gazing steadily, with large, tearful eyes, into his face. then as he sat down on the bedstead beside her, to comfort her as well as he could, she lifted herself up, and knelt down, with her folded hands laid against his shoulder. "dolly vewy seepy," she lisped, "but must say her prayers always." "what are your prayers, my dear?" he asked. "on'y god bless ganpa, and father, and mammy, and poor beppo, and make me a good girl," murmured the drowsy voice, as dolly closed her eyes again, and fell off into a deep sleep the next moment. chapter iii a little peacemaker. it was a very strange event which had befallen old oliver. he went back to his own chair, where he smoked his broseley pipe every night, and sank down in it, rubbing his legs softly; for it was a long time since he had nursed any child, and even dolly's small weight was a burden to him. her tiny clothes were scattered up and down, and there was no one beside himself to gather them together, and fold them straight. in shaking out her frock a letter fell from it, and oliver picked it up, wondering whoever it could be for. it was directed to himself, "mr. james oliver, news-agent," and he broke the seal with eager expectation. the contents were these, written in a handwriting which he knew at first sight to be his daughter's:-- "dear father, "i am very very sorry i ever did anything to make you angry with me. this is your poor susan's little girl, as is come to be a little peacemaker betwixt you and me. i'm certain sure you'll never turn her away from your door. i'm going down to portsmouth for three days, because he listed five months ago, and his regiment's ordered out to india, and he sails on friday. so i thought i wouldn't take my little girl to be in the way, and i said i'll leave her with father till i come back, and her pretty little ways will soften him towards me, and we'll live all together in peace and plenty till his regiment comes home again, poor fellow. for he's very good to me when he's not in liquor, which is seldom for a man. please do forgive me for pity's sake, and for christ's sake, if i'm worthy to use his name, and do take care of my little girl till i come home to you both on friday. from your now dutiful daughter, "poor susan." the tears rolled fast down old oliver's cheeks as he read this letter through twice, speaking the words half aloud to himself. why! this was his own little grandchild, then--his very own! and no doubt susan had christened her dorothy, after her own mother, his dear wife, who had died so many years ago. dolly was the short for dorothy, and in early times he had often called his wife by that name. he had turned his gas off and lighted a candle, and now he took it up and went to the bedside to look at his new treasure. the tiny face lying upon his pillow was rosy with sleep, and the fair curly hair was tossed about in pretty disorder. his spectacles grew very dim indeed, and he was obliged to polish them carefully on his cotton handkerchief before he could see his grand-daughter plainly enough. then he touched her dimpled cheek tremblingly with the end of his finger, and sobbed out, "bless her! bless her!" he returned to his chair, his head shaking a good deal before he could regain his composure; and it was not until he had kindled his pipe, and was smoking it, with his face turned towards the sleeping child, that he felt at all like himself again. "dear lord!" he said, half aloud, between the whiffs of his pipe, "dear lord! how very good thou art to me! didst thee not say, 'i'll not leave thee comfortless, i'll come to thee?' i know what that means, bless thy name; and the good spirit has many a time brought me comfort, and cheered my heart. i know thou didst not leave me alone before. no, no! that was far from thee, lord. alone!--why, thou'rt always here; and now there's the little lass as well. lonesome!--they don't know thee, lord, and they don't know me. thou'rt here, with the little lass and me. yes, yes,--yes." he murmured the word "yes" in a tone of contentment over and over again, until, the pipe being finished, he prepared for sleep also. but no sleep came to the old man. he was too full of thought, and too fearful of the child waking in the night and wanting something. the air was close and hot, and now and then a peal of thunder broke overhead; but a profound peace and tranquillity, slightly troubled by his new joy, held possession of him. his grandchild was there, and his daughter was coming back to him in three days. oh, how he would welcome her! he would not let her speak one word of her wilfulness and disobedience, and the long, cruel neglect which had left him in ignorance of where she lived, and what had become of her. it was partly his fault, for having been too hard upon her, and too hasty and hot-tempered. he had learnt better since then. chapter iv. old oliver's master. very early in the morning, before the tardy daylight could creep into the darkened room, old oliver was up and busy. he had been in the habit of doing for himself, as he called it, ever since his daughter had forsaken him, and he was by nature fastidiously clean and neat. but now there would be additional duties for him during the next three days; for there would be dolly to wash, and dress, and provide breakfast for. every few minutes he stole a look at her lying still asleep; and as soon as he discovered symptoms of awaking, he hastily lifted beppo on to the bed, that her opening eyes should be greeted by some familiar sight. she stretched out her wonderful little hands, and caught hold of the dog's rough head before venturing to lift her eyelids, while oliver looked on in speechless delight. at length she ventured to peep slyly at him, and then addressed herself to beppo. "what am i to call ris funny old man, beppo?" she asked. "i am your grandpa, my darling," said oliver, in his softest voice. "are you god-bless-ganpa?" inquired dolly, sitting up on her pillow, and staring very hard with her blue eyes into his wrinkled face. "yes, i am," he answered, looking at her anxiously. "dolly knows," she said, counting upon her little fingers; "rere's father, and mammy, and beppo; and now rere's gan-pa. dolly 'll get up now." she flung her arms suddenly about his neck and kissed him, while old oliver trembled with intense joy. it was quite a marvel to him how she helped him to dress her, laughing merrily at the strange mistakes he made in putting on her clothes the wrong side before; and when he assured her that her mother would come back very soon, she seemed satisfied to put up with any passing inconvenience. the shop, with its duties, and the necessity of getting in his daily stock of newspapers, entirely slipped his memory; and he was only recalled to it by a very loud rapping at the door as he was pouring out dolly's breakfast. to his great surprise he discovered that he had forgotten to take down his shutters, though it was past the hour when his best customers passed by. [illustration: tony] the person knocking proved to be none other than tony, who greeted the old man's appearance with a prolonged whistle, and a grave and reproachful stare. "come," he said, in a tone of remonstrance, "this'll never do, you know. business is business, and must be minded. you pretty nearly frightened me into fits; anybody could have knocked me down with a straw when i see the shutters up. how is she?" "she's very well, thank you, my boy," answered oliver, meekly. "mother not turned up, i guess?" said tony. "no; she comes on friday," he replied. tony winked, and put his tongue into his cheek; but he gave utterance to no remark until after the shutters were in their place. then he surveyed himself as well as he could, with an air of satisfaction. his face and hands were clean, and his skin looked very white through the holes in his tattered clothes; even his feet, except for an unavoidable under surface of dust, were unsoiled. his jacket and trousers appeared somewhat more torn than the evening before; but they bore every mark of having been washed also. "washed myself early in the morning, afore the bobbies were much about," remarked tony, "in the fountains at charing cross; but i hadn't time to get my rags done, so i did 'em down under the bridge, when the tide were going down; but i could only give 'em a bit of a swill and a ring out. anyhow, i'm a bit cleaner this morning than last night, master." "to be sure, to be sure," answered oliver. "come in, my boy, and i'll give you a bit of breakfast with her and me." "you haven't got sich a thing as a daily paper, have you?" asked tony, in a patronizing tone. "not to-day's paper, i'm afraid," he said. "i'm afraid not," continued tony; "overslept yourself, eh? not as i can read myself; but there are folks going by as can, and might p'raps buy one here as well as anywhere else. shall i run and get 'em for you, now i'm on my legs?" oliver looked questioningly at the boy, who returned a frank, honest gaze, and said, "honour bright!" as he held out his hand for the money. there was some doubt in the old man's mind after tony had disappeared as to whether he had not done a very foolish thing; but he soon forgot it when he returned to the breakfast-table; and long before he himself could have reached the place and returned, tony was back again with his right number of papers. before many minutes tony was sitting upon an old box at a little distance from the table, where oliver sat with his grandchild. a basin of coffee and a large hunch of bread rested upon his knees, and beppo was sniffing round him with a doubtful air. dolly was shy in this strange company, and ate her breakfast with a sedate gravity which filled both her companions with astonishment and admiration. when the meal was finished, old oliver took his daughter's letter from his waistcoat pocket and read it aloud to tony, who listened with undivided interest. "then she's your own little 'un," he said, with a sigh of disappointment. "you'll never give her up to me, if you get tired of her,--nor to the p'lice neither," he added, with a brightening face. "no, no, no!" answered oliver, emphatically. "besides, her mother's coming on friday. i wouldn't give her up for all the world, bless her!" "and he's 'listed!" said tony, in a tone of envy "they wouldn't take me yet a while, if i offered to go. but who's that she speaks of?--'for christ's sake, if i am worthy to use his name.' who is he?" "don't you know?" asked oliver. "no, never heard tell of him before," he answered, "is he any friend o' yours?"[*] [*] it may be necessary to assure some readers that this ignorance is not exaggerated. the city mission reports, and similar records, show that such cases are too frequent. "ay!" said oliver; "he's my only friend, my best friend. and he's my master, besides." "and she thinks he'd be angry if you turned the little girl away?" pursued tony. "yes, yes; he'd be very angry," said old oliver, thoughtfully; "it 'ud grieve him to his heart. why, he's always loved little children, and never had them turned away from himself, whatever he was doing. if she hadn't been my own little girl, i daren't have turned her out of my doors. no, no, dear lord, thee knows as i'd have taken care of her, for thy sake." he spoke absently, in a low voice, as though talking to some person whom tony could not see, and the boy was silent a minute or two, thinking busily. "how long have you worked for that master o' yours?" he asked, at last. "not very long," replied oliver, regretfully. "i used to fancy i was working for him years and years ago; but, dear me! it was poor sort o' work; and now i can't do very much. only he knows how old i am, and he doesn't care so that i love him, which i do, tony." "i should think so!" said the boy, falling again into busy thought, from which he aroused himself by getting up from his box, and rubbing his fingers through his wet and tangled hair. "he takes to children and little 'uns?" he said, in a questioning tone. "ay, dearly!" answered old oliver. "i reckon he'd scarcely take me for a man yet," said tony, at the same time drawing himself up to his full height; "though i don't know as i should care to work for him. i'd rather have a crossing, and be my own master. but if i get hard up, do you think he'd take to me, if you spoke a word for me?" "are you sure you don't know anything about him?" asked oliver. "not i; how should i?" answered tony. "why, you don't s'pose as i know all the great folks in london, though i've seen sights and sights of 'em riding about in their carriages. i told you i weren't much bigger nor her there when mother died, and i've picked up my living up and down the streets anyhow, and other lads have helped me on, till i can help 'em on now. it don't cost much to keep a boy on the streets. there's nothink to pay for coals, or rent, or beds, or furniture, or anythink; only your victuals, and a rag now and then. all i want's a broom and a crossing, and then shouldn't i get along just? but i don't know how to get 'em." "perhaps the lord jesus would give them to you, if you'd ask him," said oliver, earnestly. "who's he?" inquired tony, with an eager face. "him--christ. it's his other name," answered the old man. "ah! i see," he said, nodding. "well, if i can't get 'em myself, i'll think about it. he'll want me to work for him, you know. where does he live?" "i'll tell you all about him, if you'll come to see me," replied oliver. "well," said the boy, "i'll just look in after friday, and see if the little 'un's mother's come back. good-bye,--good-bye, little miss." he could take dolly's hand into his own this morning, and he looked down curiously at it,--a small, rosy, dimpled hand, such as he had never seen before so closely. a lump rose in his throat, and his eyelids smarted with tears again. it was such a little thing, such a pretty little thing, he said to himself, covering it fondly with his other hand. there was no fear that tony would forget to come back to old oliver's house. "thank you for my breakfast," he said, with a choking voice; "only if i do come to see you, it'll be to see her again--not for anythink as i can get." chapter v. forsaken again. the next three days were a season of unmixed happiness to old oliver. the little child was so merry, yet withal so gentle and sweet-tempered, that she kept him in a state of unwearied delight, without any alloy of anxiety or trouble. she trotted at his side with short, running footsteps, when he went out early in the morning to fetch his daily stock of newspapers. she watched him set his room tidy, and made believe to help him by dusting the lees and seats of his two chairs. she stood with folded hands and serious face, looking on as he was busy with his cooking. when she was not thus engaged she played contentedly with beppo, prattling to him in such a manner, that oliver often forgot what he was about while listening to her. she played with him, too, frolicsome little games of hide-and-seek, in which he grew as eager as herself; and sometimes she stole his spectacles, or handkerchief, or anything she could lay her mischievous fingers upon to hide away in some unthought-of spot; while her shrewd, cunning little face put on an expression of profound gravity as old oliver sought everywhere for them. as friday evening drew near, the old man's gladness took a shade of anxiety. his daughter was coming home to him, and his heart was full of unutterable joy and gratitude; but he did not know exactly how they should go on in the future. he was averse to change; yet this little house, with its single room, to which he had moved when she forsook him, was too scanty in its accommodation. he had made up a rude sort of bed for himself under the counter in the shop, and was quite ready to give up his own to susan and his little love, as he called dolly; but would susan let him have his own way in this, and many other things? he provided a sumptuous tea, and added a fresh salad to it from the greengrocer's next door; but though he and dolly waited and watched till long after the child's bed-time, taking occasional snatches of bread and butter, still susan did not arrive. at length a postman entered the little shop with a noise which made oliver's heart beat violently, and tossed a letter down upon the counter. he carried it to the door, where there was still light enough to read it, and saw that it was in susan's handwriting. "my dear and dearest father, "my heart is almost broke, betwixt one thing and another. his regiment is to set sail immediate, and the colonel's lady has offered me very handsome wages to go out with her as lady's maid, her own having disappointed her at the last moment; which i could do very well, knowing the dressmaking. he said, 'do come, susan, and i'll never get drunk again, so help me god; and if you don't, i shall go to the bad altogether; for i do love you, susan.' i said, 'oh my child!' and the colonel's lady said, 'she's safe with her grandfather; and if he's a good man, as you say he is, he'll take the best of care of her. i'll give you three pounds to send him from here, and we'll send more from calcutta.' so they overpersuaded me, and there isn't even time to come back to london, for we are going in a few hours. you'll take care of my little dear, i know, you and aunt charlotte. i've sent a little box of clothes for her by the railway, and what more she wants aunt charlotte will see to, i'm sure, and do her mending, and see to her manners till i come home. oh! if i could only hear you say 'susan, my dear, i forgive you, and love you almost as much as ever,' i'd go with a lighter heart, and be almost glad to leave dolly to be a comfort to you, she will be a comfort to you, though she is so little, i'm sure. tell her mammy says she must be a good girl always till mammy comes back. a hundred thousand kisses for my dear father and my little girl. we shall come home as soon as ever we can; but i don't rightly know where india is. i think it's my bounden duty to go with him, as things have turned out. pray god take care of us all. "your loving, sorrowful daughter, "susan raleigh." chapter vi. the grasshopper a burden. it was some time before the full meaning of susan's letter penetrated to her father's brain; but when it did, he was not at first altogether pained by it. true, it was both a grief and disappointment to think that his daughter, instead of returning to him, was already on her way across the sea to a very distant land. but as this came slowly to his mind, there came also the thought that there would now be no one to divide with him the treasure committed to his charge. the little child would belong to him alone. they might go on still, living as they had done these last three days, and being all in all to one another. if he could have chosen, his will would certainly have been for susan to return to them; but, since he could not have his choice, he felt that there were some things which would be all the happier for him because of her absence. he put dolly to bed, and then went out to shut up the shop for the night. as he carried in his feeble arms a single shutter at a time, he heard himself hailed by a boy's voice, which was lowered to a low and mysterious whisper, and which belonged to tony, who took the shutter out of his hands. "s'pose the mother turned up all right?" he said pointing with his thumb through the half open door. "no," answered oliver. "i've had another letter from her, and she's gone out to india with her husband, and left the little love to live alone with me." "but whatever'll the master say to that?" inquired tony. "what master?" asked old oliver. "him--lord jesus christ. what'll he say to her leaving you and the little 'un again?" said tony, with an eager face. "oh! he says a woman ought to leave her father, and keep to her husband," he answered, somewhat sadly. "it's all right, that is." "i s'pose he'll help you to take care of the little girl," said tony. "ay will he; him and me," replied old oliver; "there's no fear of that. you never read the testament, of course, my boy?" "can't read, i told you," he answered. "but what's that?" "a book all about him, the lord jesus," said oliver, "what he's done, and what he's willing to do for people. if you'll come of an evening, i'll read it aloud to you and my little love. she'll listen as quiet and good as any angel." "i'll come to-morrow," answered tony, readily; and he lingered about the doorway until he heard the old man inside fasten the bolts and locks, and saw the light go out in the pane of glass over the door. then he scampered noiselessly with his naked feet along the alley in the direction of covent garden, where he purposed to spend the night, if left undisturbed. old oliver went back into his room, where the tea-table was still set out for his susan's welcome; but he had no heart to clear the things away. a chill came over his spirit as his eye fell upon the preparations he had made to give her such a cordial greeting, that she would know at once he had forgiven her fully. he lit his pipe, and sat pondering sorrowfully over all the changes that had happened to him since those old, far-away days when he was a boy, in the pleasant, fresh, healthy homestead at the foot of the wrekin. he felt all of a sudden how very old he was; a poor, infirm, hoary old man. his sight was growing dim even, and his hearing duller every day; he was sure of it. his limbs ached oftener, and he was earlier wearied in the evening; yet he could not sleep soundly at nights, as he had been used to do. but, worst of all, his memory was not half as good as it had been. sometimes, of late, he had caught himself reading a newspaper quite a fortnight old, and he had not found it out till he happened to see the date at the top. he could not recollect the names of people as he did once; for many of his customers to whom he supplied the monthly magazines were obliged to tell him their names and the book they wanted every time, before he could remember them. and now there was this young child cast upon him to be thought of, and cared and worked for. it was very thoughtless and reckless of susan! suppose he should forget or neglect any of her tender wants! suppose his dull ear should grow too deaf to catch the pretty words she said when she asked for something! suppose he should not see when the tears were rolling down her cheeks, and nobody would comfort her! it might very easily be so. he was not the hale man he was when susan was just such another little darling, and he could toss her up to the ceiling in his strong hands. it was as much as he could do to lift dolly on to his feeble knee, and nurse her quietly, not even giving her a ride to market upon it; and how stiff he felt if she sat there long! old oliver laid aside his pipe, and rested his worn face upon his hands, while the heavy tears came slowly and painfully to his eyes, and trickled down his withered cheeks. his joy had fled, and his unmingled gladness had faded quite away. he was a very poor, very old man; and the little child was very, very young. what would become of them both, alone in london? he did not know whether it was a voice speaking within himself in his own heart, or words whispered very softly into his ear; but he heard a low, quiet, still small voice, which said, "even to your old age i am he, and even to hoar hairs i will carry you: i have made, and i will bear; even i will carry, and will deliver you." and old oliver answered, with a sob, "yes, lord, yes!" chapter vii. the prince of life. in the new life which had now fairly begun for oliver, it was partly as he had foreseen; he was apt to forget many things, and he had a fretting consciousness of this forgetfulness. when he was in the house playing with dolly, or reading to her, the shop altogether slipped away from his memory, and he was only recalled to it by the loud knocking or shouting of some customer in it. on the other hand, when he was sitting behind the counter looking for news from india in the papers, news in which he was already profoundly concerned, though it was impossible that susan could yet have reached it, he grew so absorbed, that he did not know how the time was passing by, and both he and his little grand-daughter were hungry before he had thought of getting ready any meal. he tried all kinds of devices for strengthening his failing memory; but in vain. he even forgot that he did forget; and when dolly was laughing and frolicking about him he grew a child again, and felt himself the happiest man in london. the person who took upon himself the heaviest weight of anxiety and responsibility about dolly was tony, who began to make it his daily custom to pass by the house at the hour when old oliver ought to be going for his morning papers; and if he found no symptom of life about the place, he did not leave off kicking and butting at the shop-door until the owner appeared. it was very much the same thing at night, when the time for shutting up came; though it generally happened now that the boy was paying his friends an evening visit, and was therefore at hand to put up the shutters for oliver. tony could not keep away from the place. though he felt a boy's contemptuous pity for the poor old man's declining faculties as regarded business, he had a very high veneration for his learning. nothing pleased him better than to sit upon the old box near the door, his elbows on his knees, and his chin upon his hands, while oliver read aloud, with dolly upon his knee, her curly hair and small pretty features making a strange contrast to his white head and withered, hollow face. tony, who had never had anything to love except a stray cur or two, which he had always lost after a few days' friendship, felt as if he could have suffered himself to be put to death for either of these two; while beppo came in for a large share of his unclaimed affections. the chief subject of their reading was the life of the master, who was so intimately dear to the heart of old oliver. tony was very eager to learn all he could of this great friend who did so much for the old man, and who might perhaps be persuaded some day or other to take a little notice of him, if he should fail to get a crossing for himself. oliver, in his long, unbroken solitude of six years, had fallen into a notion, amounting to a firm belief, that his lord was not dead and far off, as most of the world believed, but was a very present, living friend, always ready to listen to the meanest of his words. he had a vague suspicion that his faith had got into a different course from that of most other people; and he bore meekly the rebukes of his sister charlotte for the unwholesomeness of his visions. but none the less, when he was alone, he talked and prayed to, and spoke to tony of this master, as one who was always very near at hand. [illustration: dolly on oliver's knee] "i s'pose he takes a bit o' notice o' the little un," said tony, "when he comes in now and then of an evening." "ay, does he!" answered oliver, earnestly. "my boy, he loves every child as if it was his very own, and it is his own in one sense. didn't i read you last night how he said, 'suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not.' why, he'd love all the young children in the world, if they weren't hindered from coming to him." "i should very much like to see him some day," pursued tony, reflectively, "and the rest of them,--peter, and john, and them. i s'pose they are getting pretty old by now, aren't they?" "they are dead," said oliver. "all of 'em?" asked tony. "all of them," he repeated. "dear, dear!" cried tony, his eyes glistening. "whatever did the master do when they all died? i'm very sorry for him now. he's had a many troubles, hasn't he?" "yes, yes," replied old oliver, with a faltering voice. "he was called a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief. nobody ever bore so many troubles as him." "how long is it ago since they all died?" asked tony. "i can't rightly say," he answered. "i heard once, but it is gone out of my head. i only know it was the same when i was a boy. it must have been a long, long time ago." "the same when you was a boy!" repeated tony, in a tone of disappointment. "it must ha' been a long while ago. i thought all along as the master was alive now. "so he is, so he is!" exclaimed old oliver, eagerly. "i'll read to you all about it. they put him to death on the cross, and buried him in a rocky grave; but he is the prince of life, and he came to life again three days after, and now he can die no more. his own words to john were, 'i am he that liveth, and was dead; and behold, i am alive for evermore.' what else can it mean but that he is living now, and will never die again?" tony made no answer. he sat with his sharp, unboyish face gazing intently into the fire; for by this time autumn had set in, and the old man was chilly of an evening. a very uncertain, dim idea was dawning upon him that this master and friend of old oliver's was a being very different from an ordinary man, however great and rich he might be. he had grown to love the thought of him, and to listen attentively to the book which told the manner of life he led; but it was a chill to find out that he could not look into his face, and hear his voice, as he could oliver's. his heart was heavy, and very sad. "i s'pose i can't see him, then," he murmured to himself, at last. "not exactly like other folks," said oliver. "i think sometimes that perhaps there's a little darkness of the grave where he was buried about him still. but he sees us, and hears us. he himself says, 'behold, i am with you always.' i don't know whatever i should do, even with my little love here, if i wasn't sure jesus was with me as well." "i'll tell you what i'll do," said tony, after another pause. "i'm going to ask him to give me somethink, and then if he does, i shall know he hears me.--i should very much like to have a broom and a crossing, and get my living a bit more easy, if you please." he had turned his face away from oliver, and looked across into the darkest corner of the room, where he could see nothing but shadow. the old man felt puzzled, and somewhat troubled, but he only sighed softly to himself; and opening the testament, he read aloud in it till he was calmed again, and tony was listening in rapt attention. "my boy," he said, as the hour came for tony to go, "where are you sleeping now?" "anywhere as i can get out o' the wind," he answered. "it's cold now, nights--wery cold, master. but i must get along a bit farder on. lodgings is wery dear." "i've been thinking," said oliver, "that you'd find it better to have some sort of a shake-down under my counter. i've heard say that newspapers stitched together make a coverlid pretty near as warm as a blanket; and we could do no harm by trying them, tony. look here, and see how you'd like it." it looked very much like a long box, and was not much larger. two or three beetles crawled sluggishly away as the light fell upon them, and dusty cobwebs festooned all the corners; but to tony it seemed so magnificent an accommodation for sleeping, that he could scarcely believe he heard old oliver aright. he looked up into his face with a sharp, incredulous gaze, ready to wink and thrust his tongue into his cheek, if there was the least sign of making game of him. but the old man was simply in earnest, and without a word tony slipped down upon a heap of paper shavings strewed within, drew his ragged jacket up about his ears, and turned his face away, lest his tears should be seen. he felt, a minute or two after, that a piece of an old rug was laid over him, but he could say nothing; and old oliver could not hear the sob which broke from his lips. [illustration: chapter viii headpiece] chapter viii. no pipe for old oliver. as some weeks went by, and no crossing and broom had been given to tony, he began to suspect that oliver was imposing upon him. now that he slept under the counter, he could often hear the old man talking aloud to his invisible friend as he smoked his pipe; and once or twice tony crept noiselessly to the door and watched him, after he had finished smoking, kneel down and hide his face in his hands for some minutes together. but the boy could see nothing, and his wish had not been granted; even though, as he grew more instructed, he followed oliver's example, and, kneeling down behind the counter, whispered out a prayer for it. to be sure his life was easier, especially the nights of it; for he never now went hungry and starved to bed upon some cold, hard door-step. but it was old oliver who did that for him, not old oliver's master. so far as he knew, the lord jesus had taken no notice whatever of him; and the feeling, at first angry, softened down into a kind of patient grief, which was quickly dying away into indifference. oliver had done himself no bad turn by offering a shelter to the solitary lad. tony always woke early in the morning, and if it rained he would run for the papers, before turning out to "find for himself" in the streets. he generally took care to be out of the way at meal-times; for it was as much as the old man could do to provide for himself and dolly. sometimes tony saw him at the till, counting over his pence with rather a troubled face. once, after receiving a silver four-penny piece, an extraordinary and undreamed of event, tony dropped it, almost with a feeling of guilt, through the slit in the counter which communicated with the till. but oliver was so bewildered by its presence among the coppers, that he was compelled to confess what he had done, saying it would have cost him more than that for lodgings these cold nights. "no, no, tony," said oliver; "you're very useful, fetching my papers, and taking my little love out a-walking when the weather's fine. i ought to pay you something, instead of taking it of you." "keep it for dolly," said tony, bashfully, and pushing the coin into her little hand. "sank 'oo," answered dolly, accepting it promptly; "me'll give 'oo twenty kisses for it." it seemed ample payment to tony, who went down on his knees to have the kisses pressed upon his face, which had never felt a kiss since his mother died. but oliver was not satisfied with the bargain, though he drew dolly to him fondly, and left the money in her hand. "it 'ud buy you a broom, tony," he said. "oh, i've give up asking for a crossing," he answered dejectedly; "for he never heard, or if he heard, he never cared; so it were no use going on teazing either him or me." "but this money 'ud buy the broom," said oliver; "and if you looked about you, you'd find the crossing. you never got such a bit of money before, did you?" "no, never," replied tony. "a tall, thin gentleman, with a dark face and very sharp eyes, gave it me for holding his horse, near temple bar. he says, 'mind you spend that well, my lad.' i'd know him again anywhere." "you ought to have bought a broom," said oliver, looking down at dolly's tightly-closed hand. "don't you go to take it of her," cried tony. "bless you! i'll get another some way. i never thought that were the way he'd give me a broom and a crossing. i thought it 'ud be sure to come direct." "well," said oliver, after a little pause, "i'll save the fourpence for you. it'll only be going without my pipe for a few nights, that's all. that's nothing, tony." it did not seem much to tony, who had no idea as yet of the pleasures of smoking; yet he roused up just before falling into his deep sleep at night to step softly to the door, and look in upon oliver. he was sitting in his arm-chair, with his pipe between his lips, but there was no tobacco in it; and he was holding more eager converse than ever with his unseen companion. "dear lord!" he said, "i'd do ten times more than this for thee. thou hast said, 'inasmuch as ye did it to one of the least of these, ye did it unto me.' tony's one of thy little ones. dear lord, do thee give him a crossing, if it be thy blessed will. do thee now, lord." tony could hear no more, and he stole back to bed, his mind full of new and vague hopes. he dreamed of the fourpenny piece, and the gentleman who had given it, and of dolly, who bought a wondrous broom with it, in his dream, which swept a beautiful crossing of itself. but old oliver sat still a long time, talking half aloud; for his usual drowsiness did not come to him. it was nearly five months now since dolly was left to him, and he felt his deafness and blindness growing upon him slowly. his infirmities were not yet so burdensome as to make him dependent upon others; but he felt himself gradually drawing near to such a state. dolly's clothes were getting sadly in want of mending; there was scarcely a fastening left upon them, and neither he nor tony could sew on a button or tape. it was a long time--a very long time--since his sister had been to see him; and, with the reluctancy of old age to any active exertion, he had put off from week to week the task of writing to her, to tell her of susan's departure, and the charge he had in his little grandchild. he made up his mind that he would do it to-morrow. chapter ix. a new broom and a crossing. the morning was a fine soft, sunny december day, such as comes sometimes after a long season of rain and fog, and tony proposed taking dolly out for a walk through the streets, to which oliver gladly consented, as it would give to him exactly the undisturbed leisure he needed for writing his letter to charlotte. but dolly was not in her usual spirits; on the contrary, she was grave and sober, and at length tony, thinking she was tired, sat down on a door-step, and took her upon his knee, to tell her his dream of the wonderful broom which swept beautifully all by itself. dolly grew more and more pensive after hearing this, and sat silent for a long time, with her small head resting thoughtfully upon her hand, as she looked up and down the street. "dolly 'ud like to buy a boom," she said, at last, "a great, big boom; and granpa 'ill smoke his pipe again to-night. dolly's growing a big girl; and me must be a good girl till mammy comes back. let us go and buy a big boom, tony." for a few minutes tony tried to shake her resolution, and persuade her to change her mind. he even tempted her with the sight of a doll in a shop-window; but she remained stedfast, and he was not sorry to give in at last. since the idea had entered his head that the money had been given to him for the purpose of buying a broom, he had rather regretted parting with it, and he felt some anxiety lest he should not be allowed a second chance. dolly's light-heartedness had returned, and she trotted cheerfully by his side as they walked on in search of a shop where they could make their purchase. it was some time before they found one, and they had already left behind them the busier thoroughfares, and had reached a knot of quieter streets where there were more foot-passengers, for the fine morning had tempted many people out for pleasure as well as business. tony was particular in his choice of a broom, but once bought, he carried it over his shoulder, and went on his way with dolly in triumph. they were passing along chattering busily, when tony's eyes fell upon a child about as old as dolly, standing on the kerb-stone with a lady, who looked anxiously across to the other side of the broad and very dirty road, for the day before had been rainy. they were both finely dressed, and the little girl had on new boots of shining leather, which it was evident she was very much afraid of soiling. for a minute tony only looked on at their perplexity, but then he went up to them, holding dolly by the hand. [illustration: a new broom and a crossing.] "if you'll take care of my little girl," he said, "i'll carry your little girl across the road. i'm wery clean for a street-boy, all but my feet, 'cos i've got this little girl to take care of; and i'll do it wery gentle." both the lady and the child looked very searchingly into tony's face. it was pale and meagre; but there was a pleasant smile upon it, and his eyes shone down upon the two children with a very loving light in them. the lady took dolly's hand in hers, nodding permission for him to carry her little child over to the other side, and she waited for him to come back to his own charge. then she took out her purse, and put two-pence into his hand. "thank ye, my lady," said tony; "but i didn't do it for that. i'm only looking out for a crossing. me and dolly have bought this broom, and i'm looking out for a place to make a good crossing in." "why not make one here?" asked the lady. it seemed a good place to try one in; there were four roads meeting, and a cab-stand close by. plenty of people were passing to and fro, and the middle of the road was very muddy. tony begged a wisp of straw from a cabman, to make a seat for dolly in the sunshine under a blank bit of wall, while he set to work with a will, feeling rather pleased than not that the broom would not sweep of itself. a crossing was speedily made, and for two or three hours tony kept it well swept. by that time it was twelve o'clock, and dolly's dinner would be ready for her before they could reach home, if old oliver had not forgotten it. it seemed a great pity to leave his new post so early. most passers-by, certainly, had appeared not to see him at all; but he had already received fivepence halfpenny, chiefly in halfpence, from ladies who were out for their morning's walk; and dolly was enjoying herself very much in the sunshine, receiving all the attention which he could spare from his crossing. however a beginning was made. the broom and the crossing were his property; and tony's heart beat fast with pride and gladness as he carried the weary little dolly all the way home again. he resolved to put by half of his morning's earnings towards replacing the fourpenny-piece she had given back to him; or perhaps he would buy her a beautiful doll, dressed like a real lady. chapter x. highly respectable. as old oliver was stooping over his desk on the counter, and bringing his dim eyes as close as he could to the letter he was writing, his shop-door was darkened by the unexpected entrance of his sister charlotte herself. she was dressed with her usual extreme neatness, bordering upon gentility, and she carried upon her arm a small fancy reticule, which contained some fresh eggs, and a few russet apples, brought up expressly from the country. oliver welcomed her with more than ordinary pleasure, and led her at once into his room behind. charlotte's quick eyes detected in an instant the traces of a child's dwelling there; and before oliver could utter a word, she picked up a little frock, and was holding it out at arm's length, with an air of utter surprise and misgiving. "brother james!" she exclaimed, and her questioning voice, with its tone of amazement, rang very clearly into his ears. "it's my little dolly's," he answered, in haste; "poor susan's little girl, who's gone out with her husband, young raleigh, to india, because he's 'listed, and left her little girl with me, her grandfather. she came on the very last day you were here." "well, to be sure!" cried his sister, sinking down on a chair, but still keeping the torn little frock in her hand. "i've had two letters from poor susan," he continued, in a tremulous voice, "and i'll read them to you. the child's such a precious treasure to me, charlotte--such a little love, a hundred times better than any gold; and now you're come to mend up her clothes a bit, and see what she wants for me, there's nothing else that i desire. i was writing about her to you when you came in." "i thought you'd gone and picked up a lost child out of the streets," said charlotte, with a sigh of relief. "no, no; she's my own," he answered. "you hearken while i read poor susan's letters, and then you'll understand all about it. i couldn't give her up for a hundred gold guineas--not for a deal more than that." he knew susan's letters off by heart, and did not need his spectacles, nor a good light to read them by. charlotte listened with emphatic nods, and many exclamations of astonishment. "that's very pretty of susan," she remarked, "saying as aunt charlotte 'll do her sewing, and see to her manners. ay, that i will! for who should know manners better than me, who used to work for the staniers, and dine at the housekeeper's table, with the butler and all the head servants? to be sure i'll take care that she does not grow up ungenteel. where is the dear child, brother james?" "she's gone out for a walk this fine morning," he answered. "not alone?" cried charlotte. "who's gone out with her? a child under five years old could never go out all alone in london: at least i should think not. she might get run over and killed a score of times." "oh! there's a person with her i've every confidence in," replied oliver. "what sort of person; man or woman; male or female?" inquired charlotte. "a boy," he answered, in some confusion. "a boy!" repeated his sister, as if he had said a monster. "what boy?" "his name's tony," he replied. "but where does he come from? is he respectable?" she pursued, fixing him with her glittering eyes in a manner which did not tend to restore his composure. "i don't know, sister," he said in a feeble tone. "don't know, brother james!" she exclaimed. "don't you know where he lives?" "he lives here," stammered old oliver; "at least he sleeps here under the counter; but he finds his own food about the streets." charlotte's consternation was past all powers of speech. here was her brother, a respectable man, who had seen better days, and whose sister had been a dressmaker in good families, harbouring in his own house a common boy off the streets, who, no doubt, was a thief and pickpocket, with all sorts of low ways and bad language. at the same time there was poor susan's little girl dwelling under the same roof; the child whose pretty manners she was to attend to, living in constant companionship with a vulgar and vicious boy! what she might have said upon recovering her speech, neither she nor oliver ever knew; for at this crisis tony himself appeared, carrying dolly and his new broom in his arms, and looking very haggard and tattered himself, his bare feet black with mud, and his bare head in a hopeless condition of confusion, and tangle. "we've bought a geat big boom, ganpa," shouted dolly, as she came through the shop, and before she perceived the presence of a stranger; "and tony and dolly made a great big crossing, and dot ever so much money----" she was suddenly silent as soon as her eye fell upon the stranger; but aunt charlotte had heard enough. she rose with great dignity from her chair, and was about to address herself vehemently to tony, when old oliver interrupted her. [illustration: charlotte speaking to tony and dolly] "charlotte," he said, "the boy's a good boy, and he's a help to me. i couldn't send him away. he's one of the lord's poor little ones as are scattered up and down in this great city, without father or mother, and i must do all i can for him. it isn't much; it's only a bed under the counter, and a crust now and then, and he more than pays for it. you musn't come betwixt me and tony." old oliver spoke so emphatically, that his sister was impressed and silenced for a minute. she took the little girl away from tony, and glared at him with a sternness which made him feel very uncomfortable; but her eye softened a little, and her face grew less harsh. "you can't read or write?" she said, in a sharp voice. "no," he answered. "and you've not got any manners, or boots, or a cap on your head. you are ragged and ignorant, and not fit to live with this little girl," she continued, with energy. "if this little girl's mother saw her going about with a boy in bare feet and a bare head, it 'ud break her heart i know. so if you wish to stay here with my brother, mr. oliver, and this little girl, miss dorothy raleigh, as i suppose her name is, you must get all these things. you must begin to learn to read and write, and talk properly. i shall come here again in a month's time--i shall come every month now--and if you haven't got some shoes for your feet, and a cap for your head, before i see you again, i shall just take the little girl away down into the country, where i live, and you'll never see her again. do you understand?" "yes," answered tony, nodding his head. "then you may take yourself away now," said the sharp old woman, "i don't want to be too hard upon you; but i've got this little girl to look after for her mother, and you must do as i say, or i shall carry her right off to be out of your way. take your broom and go; and never you think of such a thing as taking this little girl to sweep a crossing again. i never heard of such a thing. there, go!" tony slunk away sadly, with a sudden downheartedness. he returned so joyous and triumphant, in spite of his weariness, that this unexpected and unpleasant greeting had been a very severe shock to him. with his broom over his shoulder, and with his listless, slouching steps, he sauntered slowly back to his crossing; but he had no heart for it now. chapter xi. among thieves. the night fell early, for a thick fog came on in the afternoon. tony cowered down upon his broom under the wall where dolly had sat in the sunshine all the morning to watch him sweep his crossing. it was all over now. she was lost to him; for he should never dare to go back to old oliver's house, and face that terrible old woman again. there was nothing for him but to return to his old life and his old haunts; and a chill ran through him, body and spirit, as he thought of it. his heap of paper shavings under the counter, where the biting winds could not reach him, came to his mind, and the tears rushed to his eyes. but to-night, at least, there would be no need to sleep out of doors, for he had some money in the safest corner of his ragged pocket, tied up in it securely with a bit of string. he could afford to pay for a night's lodging, and he knew very well where he could get one. about nine o'clock tony turned his weary feet towards a slum he knew of in westminster, where there was a cellar open to everybody who could pay two-pence for a night's shelter. his heart was very full and heavy with resentment against his enemy; and a great longing to see dolly. he loitered about the door of the cellar, reluctant and almost afraid to venture in; for it was so long since he had been driven to any of these places that he felt nearly like a stranger among them. besides, in former times he had been kicked, and beaten, and driven from the fire, and fought with by the bigger boys; and he had become unaccustomed to such treatment of late. how different this lodging-house was to the quiet peaceful home where dolly knelt down every evening at her grandfather's knee, and prayed for him; for now she always put tony's name into her childish prayers! he should never, never hear her again, nor see old oliver seated in his arm-chair, smoking his long pipe, while he talked with that strange friend and master of his. ah! he would never hear or know any more of that unseen christ, who was so willing to be his master and friend, for the lord jesus christ could never come into such a wicked place as this, which was the only home he had. he had given him the crossing and the broom, and that was the end of it. he must take care of himself now, and keep out of gaol if he could, and if not, why then he had better make a business of thieving, and become as good a pickpocket as "clever dog tom," who had once stolen a watch from a policeman himself. clever dog tom was the first to greet tony when he slipped in at last, and he seemed inclined to make much of him; but tony was too troubled for receiving any consolation from tom's friendly advances. he crept away into the darkest corner, and stretched himself on the thin straw which covered the damp and dirty floor, but he could not fall asleep. there was a good deal of quarrelling among the boys, and the men who wished to sleep swore long and loudly at them. then there followed a fight, which grew so exciting at last that every person in the place, except tony, gathered about the boys in a ring, encouraging and cheering them. it was long after midnight before silence and rest came, and then he fell into a broken slumber, dreaming of dolly and old oliver, until he awoke and found his face wet with tears. he got up before any of his bed-fellows were aroused, and made his way out into the fresh keen air of a december morning. day after day went by, and night after night. tony was growing more indifferent again to the swearing and fighting of his old comrades. he began to listen with delight to the tales of clever dog tom, who told him that hands like his would work well in his line, and his innocent-looking face would go a long way towards softening any judge and jury, or would bring him favour with the chaplain, and easy times in gaol. he kept his crossing still, and did tolerably well, earning enough to keep himself in food, and to pay for his night's shelter; but he was beginning to hanker after something more. if he could not be good, and be on the same side as old oliver and dolly, he thought it would be better to be altogether on the other side, like tom, who dressed well, and lived well, and was looked up to by other boys. it was a week after he had left old oliver's house, and he was about to leave his crossing for the night, when a gentleman stopped him suddenly, and looked keenly into his face. "hollo, my lad!" he said, "you're the boy i gave fourpence to a week ago for holding my horse, i told you to lay it out well. what did you do with it?" "me and dolly bought this broom," he answered, "and i've kept this crossing ever since." "well done!" said the gentleman. "and who is dolly?" "it's a little girl as i was very fond of," replied tony, with a deep sigh. it seemed so long ago that he spoke of his love for her as if it was a thing altogether passed away and dead, yet his heart still ached at the memory of it. "well, here's another fourpenny-bit for you," said his friend, "quite a new one. see how bright it is; no one has ever bought anything with it yet. dolly will like to see it." tony held it in the palm of his hand long after the gentleman was out of sight, gazing at it in the lamplight. it was very beautiful and shining; and oh! how dolly's eyes would shine and sparkle if she could only see it! and she ought to see it. by right it belonged to her; for had he not given her his first fourpenny-piece freely, and had twenty kisses for it, and then had she not given it him back to buy a broom with? she had never had a single farthing of all his earnings. how he would like to show her this beautiful piece of silver, and feel her soft little arms round his neck, when he said it was to be her very own! he felt that he dare not pass the night in the cellar with such a treasure about him, for tom, who was so clever, would be sure to find out that his pocket was worth the picking, and tony had not found that there was much honour among thieves. what was he to do? where was he to go? chapter xii. tony's welcome. almost without knowing where his feet were carrying him, tony sauntered through the streets until he found himself at the turn into the alley within a few yards of oliver's home, and his beloved dolly. at any rate he could pass down it, and, if the shop-door was not shut, he would wrap his beautiful silver coin in a rag, and throw it into the inside; they would be sure to guess who had done it, and what it was for. it was dark down the alley, only one lamp and the greengrocer's gas lighting it up, and tony stole along quietly in the shadow. it was nearly time for dolly to be going to bed, he thought, and old oliver was sure to be with her in the inner room; but just as he came into the revealing glare of the greengrocer's stall, his ears rang and his heart throbbed violently at the sound of a shrill little scream of gladness, and the next moment he felt himself caught by dolly's arms, and dragged into the house by them. "tony's come home, tony's come home, gan-pa!" she shouted with all her might. "dolly's found tony at last!" dolly's voice quivered, and broke down into quick, childish sobs, while she held tony very fast, lest he should escape from her once again; and old oliver came quickly from the room beyond, and laid his hand fondly upon the boy's shoulder. "why have you kept away from us so long, tony?" he asked. "oh, master!" he cried, "i've been a wicked boy, and a miserable boy. do forgive me, and i'll never do so no more. i s'pose you'll never let me sleep under the counter again?" "come in, come in!" answered oliver, pushing him gently before him into the house. "we've been waiting and watching for you every night, me and my little love. you ought not to have served us so, my lad; but we're too glad to be angry with you. charlotte's sharp, and she's very much afraid of low ways and manners; but she isn't a hard woman, and she didn't know anything about you. when i told her as you'd been left no bigger than my little love here to take care of yourself, alone, in london,--mother dead, and no father,--she shed tears about you, she did. and she left you the biggest of her eggs to be kept for your supper, with her kind love; and we've put it by for you. you shall have it this very night. dolly, my love, bring me the little saucepan." "i'm not so clean as i could wish," said tony, mournfully; for he had neglected himself during the last week, and looked very much like what he had done when he had first seen old oliver and his little grand-daughter. "take a bowl full of water into the shop, then," answered oliver, "and wash yourself, while i boil the egg. dolly'll find you a bit of soap and a towel; she's learning to be grand-pa's little housekeeper, she is." when tony returned to the kitchen he looked a different being; the gloom was gone as well as the grime. he felt as if he had come to himself after a long and very miserable dream. here was old oliver again, looking at him with a kindly light in his dim eyes, and dolly dancing about, with her pretty, merry little ways; and beppo wagging his tail in joyous welcome, as he sniffed round and round him. even the egg was a token of forgiveness and friendliness. that terrible old woman was not his enemy, after all. he recollected what she had said he must do, and he resolved to do it for dolly's sake, and old oliver's. he would learn to read and write, and he would pinch himself hard to buy some better clothing, lest he should continue to be a disgrace to them; shoes he must have first of all, as those were what the sharp but friendly old woman had particularly mentioned. at any rate, he could never run away again from this home, where he was so loved and cared for. oliver told him how sadly dolly had fretted after him, and watched for him at the door, hour after hour, to see him come home again. he said that in the same way, only with a far greater longing and love, his master, the lord jesus christ, was waiting for tony to go to him. he could not half understand it, but a vague feeling of a love passing all understanding sank deeply into his heart. he fell asleep that night under the counter with the tranquil peacefulness of one who has been tossed about in a great storm and tempest, and has been brought safely to the desired haven. chapter xiii. new boots. it was several weeks before tony could scrape together enough money for his new boots, though he pinched and starved himself with heroic courage and endurance. he did not mean to buy them at a shop; for he knew a place in whitechapel where boots quite good enough for him were to be had for two or three shillings. he was neither ambitious nor fastidious; old boots patched up would do very well to start with, if he could only manage to get them before aunt charlotte came up to town again. she had sent word she was coming the last saturday in january; and early in the afternoon of that day, before the train could come in from stratford, tony started off to the place where he intended to make his purchase. it was a small open space in one of the streets of whitechapel, where there was an area of flags, lying off the pavement. several traders held possession of this square, sitting on low stools, or cross-legged on the ground, with their stock in trade around them. one dealer bought and sold all kinds of old and rusty pieces of iron; another, a woman, ill clad and with red eyes, displayed before her a dingy assortment of ragged clothes, which were cheapened by other spare and red-eyed women, who held almost naked children by the hand. it was cold, and a bitter, keen east wind was searching every corner of london streets. the salesman tony was come to deal with had a tolerable selection of old boots, very few of them pairs, some with pretty good upper-leathers, but with no soles worth speaking of; and others thickly cobbled and patched, but good enough to keep the feet dry, without presenting a very creditable appearance. for the first time in his life tony found out the perplexity of having a choice to make. there were none which exactly fitted him; but a good fit is a luxury for richer folks than tony, and he was not troubled about it. his chief anxiety was to look well in the eyes of dolly's aunt, who might possibly let him see her on her way back to the station, if she approved of him; and who would not now be obliged to carry dolly off with her, to be out of the way of his naked feet. he fixed upon a pair at last, urged and coaxed to them by the dealer. they were a good deal too large, and his feet slipped about in them uncomfortably; but the man assured him that was how everybody, even gentlefolks, bought them, to leave room for growing. there was an awkward, uneven patch under one of the soles, and the other heel was worn down at the side; but at least they covered his feet well. he shambled away in them slowly and toilsomely, hardly knowing how to lift one foot after another, yet full of pride in his new possessions. it was a long way home to old oliver's alley, between holborn and the strand; but he was in no hurry to arrive there before they had finished and cleared away their tea; so he travelled painfully in that direction, stopping now and then to regale himself at the attractive windows of tripe and cow-heel shops. he watched the lamplighters kindling the lamps, and the shopkeepers lighting up their gas; and then he heard the great solemn clock of st. paul's strike six. tea would be quite over now, and tony turned down a narrow back street, which would prove a nearer way home than the thronged thoroughfares, and set off to run as fast as he could in his awkward and unaccustomed boots. it was not long before he came to a sudden and sharp fall off the kerb-stone, as he trod upon a bit of orange-peel, and slipped upon it. he felt stunned for a few seconds, and sat still rubbing his forehead. these back streets were very quiet, for the buildings were mostly offices and warehouses, and most of them were already closed for the night. he lifted himself up at length, and set his foot upon the flags; but a shrill cry of pain broke from his lips, and rang loudly through the quiet street. he fell back upon the pavement, quivering and trembling, with a chilly moisture breaking out upon his skin. what hurt had been done to him? how was it that he could not bear to walk? he took off his new boots, and tried once more, but with no better success. he could not endure the agony of standing or moving. yet he must move; he must get up and walk. if he did not go home, they would think he had run away again, for fear of meeting dolly's aunt. at that thought he set off to crawl homewards upon his hands and knees, with suppressed groans, as his foot trailed uselessly along the ground. yet he knew he could not advance very far in this manner. what if he should have to lie all night upon the hard paving-stones! for he could not remember ever having seen a policeman in these back streets: and there did not seem to be anybody else likely to pass that way. it was freezing fast, now the sun was gone down, and his hands scraped up the frosty mud as he dragged himself along. if he stayed out all night, he must die of cold and pain before morning. but if that was true which old oliver said so often, that the lord jesus christ loved him, and that he was always with those whom he loved, then he was not alone and helpless even here, in the deserted street, with the ice and darkness of a winter's night about him. oh! if he could but feel the hand of christ touching him, or hear the lowest whisper of his voice, or catch the dimmest sight of his face! perhaps it was he who was helping him to crawl towards the stir and light of a more frequented street, which he could see afar off, though the pain he felt made him giddy and sick. it became too much for him at last, however, and he drew himself into the shelter of a warehouse door, and crouched down in a corner, crying, with clasped hands, and sobbing voice, "oh! lord jesus christ! lord jesus christ!" after uttering this cry tony lay there for some minutes, his eyes growing glazed and his ears dull, when a footstep came briskly up the street, and some one, whom he could not now see for the strange dimness of his sight, stopped opposite to him, and then stooped to touch him on the arm. "why," said a voice he seemed to know, "you're my young friend of the crossing,--my little fourpenny-bit, i call you. what brings you sitting here this cold night?" "i've fell down and hurt myself," answered tony, faintly. "where?" asked the stranger. "my leg," he answered. the gentleman stooped down yet lower, and passed his hand gently along tony's leg till he came to the place where his touch gave him the most acute pain. "broken!" he said to himself. "my boy, where's your home?" "i haven't got any right home," answered tony, more faintly than before. he felt a strange numbness creeping over him, and his lips were too parched and his tongue too heavy for speaking. the gentleman took off his own great-coat and wrapped it well about him, placing him at the same time in a more comfortable position. then he ran quickly to the nearest street, hailed the first cab, and drove back to where tony was lying. [illustration: tony's accident.] chapter xiv. in hospital. the pain tony was suffering kept him partially conscious of what was happening to him. he knew that he was carried gently into a large hall, and that two or three persons came to look at him, to whom his new friend spoke in eager and rapid tones. "i know you do not take in accidents," he said; "but what could i do with the little fellow? he told me he had no home, and that was all he could say. you have two or three cots empty; and i'll double my subscription if it's necessary, rather than take him away. come, doctor, you'll admit my patient?" "i don't think i could send him away, mr. ross," answered another hearty voice. "we must get him into bed as soon as possible." tony felt himself carried up stairs into a large room, where there were a number of small beds, with a pale little face lying on every pillow. there was a vacant cot at the end, and he was laid upon it, after having his tattered clothes taken off him. his new boots were gone altogether, having been left behind on the steps of the warehouse. his hands and knees, bruised with crawling along the frosty stones, were gently bathed with a soft sponge and warm water. he was surrounded by kind faces, looking pitifully down upon him, and the gentleman who had brought him there spoke to him in a very pleasant and cheering voice. "my boy," he said, "you have broken your leg in your fall; but the doctor here, who is a great friend of mine, is going to mend it for you. it will give you a good deal of pain for a few minutes; but you'll bear it like a man, i know." "yes," murmured tony; "but will you let me go as soon as it's done?" "you could not do that," answered mr. ross, smiling. "it will be some weeks before you will be well enough to go; but you will be very happy here, i promise you." "oh! but i must go!" cried tony, starting up, but falling back again with a groan. "there's dolly and mr. oliver,--they'll think i've run away again, and i were trying all i could to get back to 'em. she'll be watching for me, and she'll fret ever so. oh! dolly, dolly!" he spoke in a tone of so much grief, that the smile quite passed away from the face of mr. ross, and he laid his hand upon his, and answered him very earnestly: "if you will tell me where they live," he said, "i will go at once and let them know all about your accident; and they shall come to see you to-morrow, if you are well enough to see them." tony gave him very minute and urgent directions where to find old oliver's shop; and then he resigned himself, with the patience and fortitude of most of the little sufferers in that hospital, to the necessary pain he had to bear. it was sunday afternoon when old oliver and dolly entered the hall of the children's hospital and inquired for tony. there was something about the old man's look of age and the little child's sweet face which found them favour, even in a place where everybody was received with kindness. a nurse, who met them slowly climbing the broad staircase, turned back with them, taking dolly's hand in hers, and led them up to the room where they would find tony. there were many windows in it, and the sunshine, which never shone into their own home, was lighting it up gaily. the cots were all covered with white counterpanes, and most of the little patients, who had been asleep the night before, were now awake, and sitting up in bed, with little tables before them, which they could slide up and down as they wished along the sides of their cots. there was no sign of medicine, and nothing painful to see, except the wan faces of the children themselves. but oliver and dolly had no eyes but for tony, and they hurried on to the corner where he was lying. his face was very white, and his eyelids were closed, and his lips drawn in as if he were still in pain. but at the very gentle and almost frightened touch of dolly's fingers his eyes opened quickly, and then how his face changed! it looked as if all the sunshine in the room had centred upon it, and his voice shook with gladness. "dolly hasn't had to fret for tony this time," he said. "but dolly will fret till tony gets well again," she answered, clasping both her small hands round his. "no, no!" said old oliver; "dolly's going to be a very good girl, and help grand-pa to mind shop till tony comes home again." this promise of promotion partly satisfied dolly, and she sat still upon oliver's knee beside tony's cot, where his eyes could rest with contentment and pleasure upon them both, though the nurse would not let them talk much. when they went away she took them through the girls' wards in the story below; for the girls were more sumptuously lodged than the boys. these rooms were very lofty, with windows reaching to the cornice of the ceiling, and with grand marble chimney-pieces about the fireplaces; for in former times, the nurse told them, this had been a gentleman's mansion, where gay parties and assemblies had been held; but never had there been such a party and assembly as the one now in it. old oliver walked down between the rows of cots, with his little love clinging shyly to his hand, smiling tenderly upon each poor little face turned to look at them. some of the children smiled back to him, and nodded cheerfully to dolly, lifting up their dolls for her to see, and calling to her to listen to the pretty tunes their musical boxes were playing. but others lay quietly upon their pillows half asleep, with beautiful pictures hanging over their feeble heads,--pictures of christ tarrying a lamb in his arms; and again, of christ with a little child upon his knee; and again, of christ holding the hand of the young girl who seemed dead, but whose ear heard his voice saying "arise!" and she came to life again in her father's and mother's house. the tears stood in old oliver's eyes, and his white head trembled a great deal before he had seen all, and given one of his tender glances to each child. "i wonder whatever the lord 'ud have said," he exclaimed, "if there'd been such a place as this in his days! he'd have come here very often. he does come, i know, and walks to and fro here of nights when the little ones are asleep, or may be awake through pain, and he blesses every one of them. ah, bless them! bless the little children, and the good folks who keep a place like this. bless them everyone!" he felt reluctant to go away; but his time was gone, and the nurse was needed elsewhere. she kissed dolly before she went, putting a biscuit in her hand, and told oliver the house was open every sunday afternoon for the friends of the children, if he chose to come again; and then they walked home with slow, short footsteps, and all the sunday evening they talked together of the beautiful place they had seen, and how happy tony would be in the children's hospital. chapter xv. tony's future prospects. old oliver and dolly made several visits to tony while he was in the hospital. every sunday afternoon they went back to it, until its great door, and wide staircase, and sunny ward, became almost as familiar to them as their own dull little house. tony recovered quickly, yet he was there some weeks before the doctor pronounced him strong enough to turn out again to rough it in the world. as he grew better he learned a number of things which were making him a wiser, as well as a stronger boy, before the time came for him to leave. the day before he was to go out of hospital, his friend, mr. ross, who had been often to see him, called for the last time, and found him in the room where the little patients who were nearly well were at play together. some of them were making believe to have a feast, with a small dinner-service of wooden plates and dishes, and a few bits of orange-peel, and biscuits; but tony was sitting quietly and gravely on one side, looking on from a distance. he had never learned to play. "antony," said mr. ross--he was the only person who ever called him antony, and it seemed to make more of a man of him--"what are you thinking to do when you leave here to-morrow?" "i s'pose i must go back to my crossing," answered tony, looking very grave. "no, i think i can do better for you than that," said his friend, "i have a sister living out in the country, about fifty miles from london; and she wants a boy to help the gardener, and run on errands for the house. she has promised to provide you with a home, and clothing, and to send you to school for two years, till you are about twelve, for we think you must be about ten years old now; and after that you shall have settled wages." tony listened with a quick throbbing of his heart and a contraction in his throat, which hindered him from speaking all at once when mr. ross had finished. what a grand thing it would be for himself! but then there were old oliver and dolly to be remembered. "it 'ud do first-rate for me," he said at last, "and i'd try my best to help in the garden: but i couldn't never leave mr. oliver and the little girl. she'd fret ever so; and he's gone so forgetful he'd lose his own head, if he could anyhow. why! of a morning they sell him any papers as they've too many of. sometimes it's all the 'star,' and sometimes it's all the 'standard;' and them as buys one won't have the other. i don't know why, i'm sure. but you see when i go for 'em i say twenty-five this, and thirteen that, and i count 'em over pretty sharp, i can tell you; though i couldn't read at all afore i came here, but i could tell which was which easy enough. then he'd never think to open his shop some mornings; and other mornings he'd open at four or five o'clock, just when he woke of hisself. no. i must stay and take care of 'em a bit; but thank you, sir, all the same." he had spoken so gravely and thoughtfully that his reasons went directly to the heart of mr. ross; but he asked him one more question, before he could let his good plan for the boy drop. "what has he done for you, antony? is he any relation of yours?" "no, no!" cried tony, his eyes growing bright, "i haven't got any relation in all the world; but he took me in out of love, and let me sleep comfortable under the counter, instead of in the streets. i love him, and dolly, i do. i'll stay by 'em as long as ever i live, if i have to sweep a crossing till i'm an old man like him. besides, i hear him speak a good word for me often and often to his master; and i s'pose nobody else 'ud do that." "what master?" inquired mr. ross.. "him," answered tony, pointing to a picture of the saviour blessing young children, "he's always talking to him as if he could see him, and he tells him everythink. no, it 'ud be better for me to stay with him and dolly, and keep hard by my crossing, than go away from 'em, and have clothes, and lodging, and schooling for nothink." "i think it would," said mr. ross, "so you must go on as you are, antony, till i can find you something better than a crossing. you are looking very well, my boy; that's a nice, warm suit of clothes you have on, better than the rags you came in by a long way." it was a sailor's suit, sent to the hospital by some mother, whose boy had perhaps outgrown it; or, it may be, whose boy had been taken away from all her tender care for him. it was of good, rough, thick blue cloth, and fitted tony well. he had grown a good deal during his illness, and his face had become whiter and more refined; his hair, too, was cut to a proper length, and parted down the side, no longer lying about his head in a tangled mass. he coloured up with pleasure as mr. ross looked approvingly at him. "they've lent it me till i go out," he said, with a tone slightly regretful in his voice, "i only wish dolly could have seen me in it, and her aunt charlotte. my own things were too ragged for me to wear 'em in a place like this." "they've given it to you, antony," replied mr. ross, "those are the clothes you will go home in to-morrow." it seemed too much for tony to believe, though a nurse who was sitting by and sewing away busily, told him it was quite true. he was intensely happy all the rest of the day, often standing up, and almost straining his neck to get a satisfactory view of his own back, and stroking the nap of his blue trousers with a fondling touch. they would all see him in it; old oliver, dolly, and aunt charlotte. there would be no question now as to his fitness for taking dolly out for a walk; he would be dressed well enough to attend upon a princess. this made famous amends for the pair of old boots he had lost the night he broke his leg; a loss he had often silently lamented over in his own mind. the nurse told him she was patching up his old clothes, and making him a cap, to wear when he was at work on his crossing, for the new ones were much too good for that; and tony felt as rich as if a large fortune had been left to him. it was a very joyful thing to go home again. dolly was a little shy at first of this new tony, so different from the poor, ragged, wild-looking old tony; but a very short time was enough to make her familiar with his nice blue suit, and the anchor-buttons upon it. he found his place under the counter all nicely papered to keep the draughts out; and a little chaff mattress, made by aunt charlotte, laid down instead of the shavings upon the floor. it was even pleasanter to be here than in the hospital. but tony found it hard work to go back to his crossing in the morning; and he could not make out what was the matter with himself, he felt so cross and idle. his old clothes seemed really such horrid rags that he could scarcely bear to feel them about him; and if any passer-by looked closely at him, he went red and hot all over. he was not so successful as he thought he had been before his accident, or as he thought he ought to be; for the roads were getting cleaner with the drier weather, and few persons considered it necessary to give him a copper for his almost needless labour. worst of all,--clever dog tom found him out, and would come often to see him; sometimes jeering him for his poor spirit in being content with such low work, and sometimes boasting of the fine things he could do, and displaying the fine clothes he could wear. it was truly very hard work for tony, after his long holiday at the hospital, where he had had as much luxury and attention as a rich man's son. but at home in the evening tony felt all right again. old oliver set him to learn to read and write, and he was making rapid progress, more rapid than dolly, who began at the same time, but who was apt to look upon it all as only another kind of game, of which she grew more quickly tired than of hide-and-seek. there was no one to check her, or to make her understand it was real, serious work: neither old oliver nor tony could find any fault with their darling. now and then there came letters from her mother, full of anxious questions about her, and loving messages to her, telling her to be a good girl till she came back, but never saying a word as to when there was any chance of her returning to england. in one of these letters she sent word that a little sister was come for her out in india, who was just like what dolly herself had been when she was a baby; but neither oliver nor tony could quite believe that. there never had been such a child as dolly; there never would be again. chapter xvi. a bud fading. a second summer went by with its long, hot days, when the sun seemed to stand still in the sky, and to dart down its most sultry beams into the dustiest and closest streets. out in the parks, and in the broad thoroughfares where the fresh breeze could sweep along early in the morning, and in the evening as soon as the air grew cooler, it was very pleasant weather; and the people who could put on light summer dresses enjoyed it very much. but away among the thickly-built and crowded houses, where there were thousands of persons breathing over and over again the same hot and stagnant atmosphere, it seemed as if the most delicate and weakly among them must be suffocated by the breathless heat. old oliver suffered very greatly, but he said nothing about it; indeed he generally forgot the cause of his languor and feebleness. he never knew now the day of the week, nor the month of the year. if any one had told him in the dog-days of july that it was still april, he would only have answered gently that it was bright, warm weather for the time of year. but about old times his memory was good enough; he could tell long stories of his boyhood, and describe the hills of his native place in such a manner as to set tony full of longings after the country, with its corn-fields, and meadows, and hedge-rows, which he had never seen. he remembered his bible, too, and could repeat chapter after chapter describing his master's life, as they sat together in the perpetual twilight of their room; for now that it was summer-time it did not seem right to keep the gas burning. tony's crossing had failed him altogether, for in dry weather nobody wanted it; but in this extremity mr. ross came to his aid, and procured him a place as errand-boy, where he was wanted from eight o'clock in the morning till seven at night; so that he could still open old oliver's shop, and fetch him his right papers before he went out, and put the shutters up when he came back. to become an errand-boy was a good step forwards, and tony was more than content. he never ran about bare-headed and bare-footed now as he had done twelve months before; and he had made such good progress in reading and writing that he could already make out the directions upon the parcels he had to deliver, after they had been once read over to him. he did not object to the dry weather and clean streets as he had done when his living depended upon his crossing; on the contrary, he enjoyed the sunshine, and the crowds of gaily-dressed people, for he could hold up his head amongst them, and no longer went prowling about in the gutters searching after bits of orange-peel. he kicked them into the gutters instead, mindful of that accident which had befallen him, but which turned out so full of good for him. [illustration: dolly's monthly register.] but, if there had been any eye to see it, a very slow, and very sad change was creeping over dolly; so slowly indeed, that perhaps none but her mother's eye could have seen it at first. on the first of every month, which old oliver knew by the magazines coming in, he marked how much his little love had grown by placing her against the side-post of the door, and making a thick pencil line where her curly head reached to. he looked at this record often, smiling at the rate his little woman was growing taller; but it was really no wonder that his dim eyes, loving as they were, never saw how the rosy colour was dying away out of her cheeks, as gradually as the red glow fades away in the west after the sun has set, nor how the light grew fainter and fainter in her blue eyes, until they looked at him very heavily from under her drooping eyelids. the house was too dark for any sight to see very clearly; the full, strong, healthy light of the sun, could not find its way into it, and day after day dolly became more like one of those plants growing in shady places, which live and shoot up, but only put out pale and sickly leaves, and feeble buds. one by one, and by little and little, with degrees as small as her own tiny footsteps, she lost all her merry ways, dropping them, here one and there another, upon the path she was silently treading; as little children let fall the flowers they have gathered in the meadows, along their road homewards. yet all the time old oliver was loving and cherishing her as the dearest of all treasures, second only to the master whom he loved so fully; but he never discovered that there was any change in her. dolly fell into very quiet ways, and would sit still for hours together, her arm around beppo, and her sweet, patient little face, which was growing thin and hollow, turned towards the flickering light of the fire, while oliver pottered toilsomely about his house, forgetting many things, but always ready with a smile and a fond word for his grand-daughter. just as oliver was too old to feel any anxiety about dolly, so tony was too young, and knew too little of sickness and death. moreover, when he came home in the evening, full of the business of the day, with a number of stories to tell of what had happened to him, and what he had seen, dolly was always more lively, and had a feverish colour on her face, and a brilliant light in her eyes. he seemed to bring life and strength with him, and she liked him to nurse her on his knee, which did not grow tired and stiff like her grandfather's. how should tony detect anything amiss with her? she never complained of feeling any pain, and he was glad for her to be very quiet and still while he was busy with his lessons. but when the summer was ended, and after the damp warm fogs of november were over, and a keen, black frost set in sharply before christmas--a frost which had none of the beauty of white rime and clear blue skies, but which hung over the city like a pall, and penetrated to every fireside with an icy breath; when only the strong and the healthy, who were well clothed and well fed, could meet it bravely, while the delicate, and sickly, and poverty-stricken, shrank before it, and were chilled through and through, then dolly drooped and failed altogether. even old oliver's dull ears began to hear a little cough, which seemed to echo from some grave not very far away; and when he drew his little love between his knees, and put on his spectacles to gaze into her face, the dearest face in all the world to him, even his eyes saw something of its wanness, and the hollow lines which had come upon it since the summer had passed away. the old man felt troubled about her, yet he scarcely knew what to do. he bought sweetmeats to soothe her cough, and thought sometimes that he must ask somebody or other about a doctor for her; but his treacherous memory always let the thought slip out of his mind. he intended to take counsel with his sister when she came to see him; but aunt charlotte was herself very ill with an attack of rheumatism, and could not get up to old oliver's house. chapter xvii. a very dark shadow. the christmas week passed by, and the new year came in, cold and bleak, but tony was well secured against the weather, and liked the frosty air, which made it pleasant to run as fast as he could from place to place as he delivered his parcels. when boxing day came, which was half-holiday for him, he returned to the house at mid-day, carrying with him three mince-pies, which he had felt himself rich enough to buy in honour of the holiday. he had for a long time been reckoning upon shutting up shop for the whole afternoon, and upon going out for a long stroll through the streets with old oliver and dolly; and now that the hour was positively come he felt very light-hearted and full of spirits, defying the wind which wrestled with him at every turn. dolly must be wrapped up well, he said to himself, and old oliver must put on his drab great coat, with mother o' pearl buttons, which he had brought up from the country forty years ago, and which was still good for keeping out the cold. he ran down the alley, and passed through the shop whistling cheerily, and disdaining to lift the flap of the counter, he took a running vault over it, and landed at once inside the open kitchen-door. but there was old oliver sitting close to the fire, with dolly on his knee, and her little head lying upon his breast, while the tears trickled slowly down his furrowed cheeks on to her pretty curls. beppo was standing between his legs, licking dolly's small hand, which hung languidly by her side. her eyelids were closed, and her face was deadly white; but when tony uttered a great cry of trouble, and fell on his knees before her, she opened her heavy eyes, and stretched out her cold thin hand to stroke his cheeks. "dolly's so very ill, tony," she murmured, "poor dolly's very ill indeed." "i don't know whatever is the matter with my little love," said the old man, in a low and trembling voice; "she fell down all of a sudden, and i thought she was dead, tony; but she's coming round again now. isn't my little love better now?" "yes, gan-pa, yes; dolly's better," she answered faintly. "let me hold her, master," said tony, his heart beating fast; "i can hold her stronger and more comfortable, maybe, than you. you're tired ever so, and you'd better get yourself a bit of dinner. shall tony nurse you now, dolly?" the little girl raised her arms to him, and tony took her gently into his own, sitting down upon the old box in the chimney-corner, and putting her to nestle comfortably against him. dolly closed her eyes again, and by-and-bye he knew that she had fallen into a light sleep, while old oliver moved noiselessly to and fro, only now and then saying half aloud, in a tone of strange earnestness and entreaty, "lord! dear lord!" after awhile the old man came and bent over them both, taking dolly's arm softly between his withered fingers, and looking down at it with a shaking head. "she's very thin, tony; look at this little arm," he said, "wasting away! wasting away! i've watched all my little ones waste away except my poor susan. couldn't there anything be done to save her?" "ay!" answered tony, in an energetic whisper, while he clasped dolly a little tighter in his arms; "ay! they could cure her easily at the hospital. bless yer! there were little 'uns ten times worse than her as they sent home cured. let us take her there as soon as ever she wakes up, and she'll be quite well directly, i promise you. the doctor knows me, and i'll speak to mr. ross for her. do you get a bit of dinner, and hearten yourself up for it; and we'll set off as soon as she's awake." old oliver turned away comforted, and prepared his own and tony's dinner, and put a mince-pie into the oven to be ready to tempt dolly's appetite when she awoke. but she slept heavily all the afternoon till it was almost dark outside, and the lamps were being lit, when she awoke, restless and feverish. "would dolly like to go to that nice place, where the little girls had the dolls and the music?" asked tony, in a quavering voice which he could scarcely keep from sobs; "the good place where tony got well again, and they gave him his new clothes? everybody 'ud be so wery kind to poor little dolly, and she'd come home again, quite cured and strong, like tony was." "yes, yes!" cried, dolly, eagerly, raising herself up in his arms; "it's a nice place, and the sun shines, and dolly 'ud like to go. only she'll be sure to come back to gan-pa." it was some time yet before they were quite ready to start, though dolly could not be coaxed to eat the hot mince-pie, or anything else. old oliver had to get himself into his drab overcoat, and the ailing child had to be protected in the best way they could against the searching wind. after they had put on all her own warmest clothing, tony wrapped his own thick blue jacket about her, and lifting her very tenderly in his arms, they turned out into the streets, closely followed by beppo. it was now quite night, but the streets were well lighted from the shop windows, and throngs of people were hurrying hither and thither; for it was boxing-night, and all the lower classes of the inhabitants were taking holiday. but old oliver saw and heard nothing of the crowd. he walked on by tony's side; with feeble and tottering steps, deaf and blind, but whispering all the while, with trembling lips, to one whom no one else could see or hear. once or twice tony saw a solemn smile flit across his face, and he nodded his head and raised his hand, as one who gives his assent to what is said to him. so they passed on through the noisy streets till they reached quieter ones, were there were neither shops nor many passers-by, and there they found the home where they were going to leave their treasure for a time. chapter xviii. no room for dolly. old oliver rang the house-bell very quietly, for dolly seemed to be asleep again, and lay quite still in tony's arms, which were growing stiff, and benumbed by the cold. the door was opened by a porter, whose face was strange to them both, for he had only come in for the day while the usual one took holiday. old oliver presented himself in front, and pointed at his little grandchild as tony held her in his arms while he spoke to the porter in a voice which trembled greatly. "we've brought you our little girl, who is very ill," he said, "but she'll soon get well in here, i know. i'd like to see the doctor, and tell him all about her." "we're quite full," answered the porter, filling up the doorway. "full?" repeated old oliver, in a tone of questioning. "ay! all our cots are full," he replied, "chockfull. there ain't no more room. we've turned two or three away this morning, when they came at the right time. this isn't the right time to bring any child here." "but my little love is very ill," continued old oliver; "this is the right place, isn't it? the place where they nurse little children who are ill?" "it's all right," said the porter, "it's the right place enough, only it's brimful, and running over, as you may say. we couldn't take in one more, if it was ever so. but you may come in and sit down in the hall for a minute or two, while i fetch one of the ladies." old oliver and tony entered, and sat down upon a bench inside. there was the broad staircase, with its shallow steps, which dolly's tiny feet had climbed so easily, and it led up to the warm, pleasant nurseries, where little children were already falling asleep, almost painlessly, in their cosy cots. tony could not believe that there was not room for their darling, who had been so willing to come to the place she knew so well, yet a sob broke from his lips, which disturbed dolly in her sleep, for she moaned once or twice, and stirred uneasily in his arms. the old man leaned his hands upon the top of his stick, and rested his white head upon them, until they heard light footsteps, and the rustling of a dress, and they saw a lady coming down stairs to them. "i think there's some mistake here, ma'am," said oliver, his eye wandering absently about the large entrance-hall; "this is the hospital for sick children, i think, and i've brought my little grandchild here, who is very ill indeed, yet the man at the door says there's no room for her. i think it must be a mistake." "no," said the lady; "i am sorry to say it is no mistake. we are quite full; there is not room for even one more. indeed, we have been obliged to send cases away before to-day. who is your recommendation from?" "i didn't know you'd want any recommendation," answered old oliver, very mournfully; "she's very ill, and you could cure her here, and take better care of her than tony and me, and i thought that was enough. i never thought of getting any recommendation, and i don't know where i could get one." "mr. ross 'ud give us one," said tony, eagerly. "yet even then," answered the lady, "we could not take her in until some of the cots are empty." "you don't know me," interrupted tony, eagerly; "but mr. ross brought me here, a year ago now, and they cured me, and set me up stronger than ever. they was so wery kind to me, that i couldn't think of anythink else save bringing our little girl to 'em. i'm sure they'd take her in, if they only knew it was her. you jest say as it's tony and dolly, as everybody took such notice of, and they'll never turn her away, i'm sure." "i wish we could take her," said the lady, with tears in her eyes; "but it is impossible. we should be obliged to turn some other child out, and that could not be done to-night. you had better bring her again in the morning, and we'll see if there is any one well enough to make room for her. let me look at the poor child for a minute." she lifted up the collar of tony's bluejacket, which covered dolly's face, and looked down at it pitifully. it was quite white now, and was pinched and hollow, with large blue eyes shining too brightly. she stretched out her arms to the lady, and made a great effort to smile. "put dolly into a pretty bed," she murmured, "where the sun shines, and she'll soon get well and go home again to gan-pa." "what can i do?" cried the lady, the tears now running down her face. "the place is quite full; we cannot take in one more, not one. bring her here again in the morning, and we will see what can be done." "how many children have you got here?" asked old oliver. "we have only seventy-five cots," she answered, sobbing; "and in a winter like this they're always full." "only seventy-five!" repeated the old man, very sorrowfully. "only seventy-five, and there are hundreds and hundreds of little children ill in london! they are ill in houses like mine, where the sun never shines. is there no other place like this we could take our little love to?" "there are two or three other hospitals," she answered, "but they are a long way off, and none of them as large as ours. they are sure to be full just now. i think there are not more than a hundred and fifty cots in all london for sick children." "then there's no room for my dolly?" he said. the lady shook her head without speaking, for she had her handkerchief up to her face. "eh!" cried old oliver in a wailing voice, "i don't know whatever the dear lord 'ill say to that." he made a sign to tony that they must be going home again; and the boy raised himself up with a strange weight and burden upon his heart. old oliver put his stick down, and took dolly into his own arms, and laid her head down on his breast. [illustration: no room for dolly.] "let me carry her a little way, tony," he said. "she's as light as a feather, even to poor old grandpa. i'd like to carry my little love a bit of the way home." "i'll tell you what i can do," said the lady, wrapping dolly up and kissing her before she covered her pale face, "if you will tell me where you live i will speak to the doctor as soon as he comes in--for he is out just now--and perhaps he will come to see her. he knows a great deal about children, and is fond of them." "thank you, thank you kindly, ma'am," answered old oliver, feeling a little comforted. but when they stood outside, and the bleak wind blew about them, and he could see the soft glimmer of the light in the windows, within which other children were safely sheltered and carefully tended, his spirit sank again. he tottered now and then under his light burden; but he could not be persuaded to give up his little child to tony again. these streets were quiet, with handsome houses on each side, and from one and another there came bursts of music and laughter as they passed by; yet tony could catch most of the words which the old man was speaking. "dear lord," he said, "there's only room for seventy-five of thy little lambs that are pining and wasting away in every dark street and alley like mine. whatever can thy people be thinking about? they've got their own dear little children, who are ill sometimes, spite of all their care; and they can send for the doctor, and do all that's possible, never looking at the money it costs; but when they are well again they never think of the poor little ones who are sick and dying, with nobody to help them or care for them as i care for this little one. oh, lord, lord! let my little love live! yet thou knows what is best, and thou'lt do what is best. thou loves her more than i do; and see, lord, she is very ill indeed." they reached home at last, after a weary and heartbroken journey, and carried dolly in and laid her upon old oliver's bed. she was wide awake now, and looked very peaceful, smiling quietly into both their faces as they bent over her. tony gazed deep down into her eyes, and met a glance from them which sent a strange tremor through him. he crept silently away, and stole into his dark bed under the counter, where he stretched himself upon his face, and buried his mouth in the chaff pillow to choke his sobs. what was going to happen to dolly? what could it be that made him afraid of looking again into her patient and tranquil little face? chapter xix. the golden city. tony lay there in the dark, overwhelmed by his unusual terror and sorrow, until he heard the voice of old oliver calling his name feebly. he hurried to him, and found him still beside the bed where dolly was lying. he had taken off most of her clothes, and put her white nightgown over the rest, that she might sleep warmly in them all the night, for her little hands and feet felt very chilly to his touch. the fire had gone out while they were away, and the grate looked very black and cheerless, the room was in great disorder, just as they had left it, and the gas, which was burning high, cast a cruel glare upon it all. but tony saw nothing except the clear face of dolly, resting on one cheek upon the pillow, with her curly hair tossed about it in confusion, and her open eyes gathering a strange film. beppo had made his way to her side, and pushed his head under her lifeless little hand, which tried to pat it now and then. old oliver was sitting on the bedstead, his eyes fastened upon her, and his whole body trembled violently. tony sank down upon his knees, and flung his arm over dolly, as if to save he? from the unseen power which threatened to take her away from them. "don't ky, gan-pa," she said, softly; "don't ky more than a minute. nor tony. are i going to die, gan-pa?" "yes, my little love," cried old oliver, moaning as he said it. "where are i going to?" asked dolly, very faintly. "you're going to see my lord and master," he said; "him as loves little children so, and carries them in his arms, and never lets them be sorrowful or ill or die again." "does he live in a bootiful place?" she asked, again. "it's a more beautiful place than i can tell," answered old oliver. "the lord jesus gives them light brighter than the sun; and the streets are all of gold, and there are many little children there, who always see the face of their father." "dolly's going rere," said the little child, solemnly. she smiled for a minute or two, holding beppo's ear between her failing fingers, and playing with it. tony's eyes were dim with tears, yet he could see her dear face clearly through them. what could he do? was there no one to help? "master, master!" he cried. "if the lord jesus is here he can save her. ask him, master." but old oliver paid no heed to him. for the child who was passing away from him he was all eye and ear, watching and listening as keenly as in his best and strongest days; but he was blind and deaf to everything else around him. tony's voice could not reach his brain. "will gan-pa come rere?" whispered the failing and faltering voice of dolly. "very soon," he answered; a radiant smile coming to his face, which made her smile as her eyes caught the glory of it. "very, very soon, my little love. you'll be there to meet me when i come." "dolly 'll watch for gan-pa," she murmured, with long pauses between the words, which seemed to drop one by one upon tony's ear; "and dolly 'll watch at the door for tony to come home; and she'll fret ever so if he never comes." tony felt her stir restlessly under his arm, and stretch her tiny limbs upon the bed as if she were very tired, and the languid eyelids drooped slowly till they quite hid her blue eyes, and she sighed softly as children sigh when they fall asleep, weary of their play. old oliver laid his shaking hand tenderly upon her head. "dear lord!" he said, "take my little love to thyself. i give her up to thee." it seemed to tony as if a thick mist of darkness fell all about him, and as if he were sinking down, down, very low into some horrible pit where he would never see the light of day again. but by-and-bye he came to himself, and found old oliver sobbing in short, heavy sobs, and swaying himself to and fro, while beppo was licking dolly's hand, and barking with a sharp, quiet bark, as he had been wont to do when he wanted her to play with him. the child's small features were quite still, but there was an awful smile upon them such as there had never been before, and tony could not bear to look upon it. he crossed her tiny hands lightly over one another upon her breast, and then he lifted beppo away gently, and drew the bed-clothes about her, so as to hide her smiling face. "master," he cried, "master, is she gone?" old oliver only answered by a deep moan; and tony put his arm about him, and raised him up. "come to your own chair, master," he said. he yielded to tony like a child, and seated himself in the chair, where he had so often sat and watched dolly while he smoked his pipe. the boy put his pipe between his fingers; but he only let it fall to the ground, where it broke into many pieces. tony did not know what to do, nor where to go for any help. "lord," he said, "if you really love the old master, do something for him; for i don't know whatever to do, now little dolly's gone." he sat down on his old box, staring at oliver and the motionless form on the bed, with a feeling of despair tugging at his heart. he could scarcely believe it was all true; for it was not very long since--only it seemed like long years--since he had leaped over the counter in his light-heartedness. but he had not sat there many minutes before he heard a distinct, rather loud knock at the shop-door, and he ran hastily to ask who was there. "antony," said a voice he knew very well, "i have come with the doctor, to see what we can do for your little girl." in an instant tony opened the door, and as mr. ross entered the boy flung his arms round him, and hid his face against him, sobbing bitterly. "oh! you've come too late," he cried, "you've come too late! dolly's dead, and i'm afraid the master's going away from me as well. they couldn't take her in, and she died after we had brought her home." the doctor and mr. ross went on into the inner room, and tony pointed silently to the bed where dolly lay. old oliver roused himself at the sound of strange voices, and, leaning upon tony's shoulder, he staggered to the bedside, and drew the clothes away from her dear, smiling face. "i don't murmur," he said. "my dear lord can't do anything unkind. he'll come and speak to me presently, and comfort me; but just now i'm deaf and blind, even to him. i've not forgot him, and he hasn't forgot me; but there's a many things ought to be done, and i cannot think what." "leave it all to us," said mr. ross, leading him back to his chair. "but have you no neighbour you can go and stay with for to-night? you are an old man, and you must not lose your night's sleep." "no," he answered, shaking his head; "i'd rather stay here in my own place, if i'd a hundred other places to go to. i'm not afraid of my little love,--no, no! when everything is done as ought to be done, i'll lie in my own bed and watch her. it won't be lonesome, as long as she's here." in an hour's time all was settled for that night. a little resting-place had been made for the dead child in a corner of the room, where she lay covered with a coarse white sheet, which was the last one left of those which old oliver's wife had spun in her girlhood. the old man had given his promise to go to bed when mr. ross and the doctor were gone; and he slept lightly, his face turned towards the place where his little love was sleeping. a faint light burnt all night in the room, and tony, who could not fall asleep, sat in the chimney-corner, with beppo upon his knees. there was an unutterable, quiet sorrow within him, mingled with a strange awe. that little child, who had played with him, and kissed him only a day since, was already gone into the unseen world, which was so very near to him now, though it had seemed so very far away and so empty before. it must be very near, since she had gone to it so quickly; and it was no longer empty, for dolly was there; and she had said she would watch at the door till he came home. chapter xx. a fresh day dawns. old oliver and tony saw their darling buried in a little grave in a cemetery miles away from their own home, and then they returned, desolate and bereaved, to the deserted city, which seemed empty indeed to them. the house had never looked so very dark and dreary before. yet from time to time old oliver forgot that dolly was gone altogether, and could never come back; for he would call her in his eager, quavering tones, or search for her in some of the hiding-places, where she had often played at hide-and-seek with him. when meal-times came round he would put out dolly's plate and cup, which had been bought on purpose for her, with gay flowers painted upon them; and in the evening, over his pipe, when he had been used to talk to his lord, he now very often said nothing but repeat again and again dolly's little prayer, which he had himself taught her, "gentle jesus, meek and mild." it was quite plain to tony that it would never do to leave him alone in his house and shop. "i've give up my place as errand-boy," he said to mr. ross, "'cause the old master grows worse and worse for forgetting, and i must mind shop for him now as well as i can. he's not off his head, as you may say; he's sharp enough sometimes; but there's no trusting to him being sharp always. he talks to dolly as if she was here, and could hear him, till i can't hardly bear it. but i'm very fond of him,--fonder of him than anythink else, 'cept my little dolly; and i've made up my mind as his master shall be my master, and he's always ready to tell me all he knows about him. i'm no ways afeared of not getting along." tony found that they got along very well. mr. ross made a point of going in to visit them every week, and of seeing how the business prospered in the boy's hands; and he put as much as he could in his way. sad and sorrowful as the days were, they passed over, one after another, bringing with them at least the habit of living without dolly. every sunday afternoon, however, old oliver and tony walked slowly through the streets, for the old man could only creep along with tony's help, till they reached the children's hospital; but they never passed the door, nor entered in through it. old oliver would stand for a few minutes leaning heavily on tony's shoulder, and trembling from head to foot, as his eyes wandered over all the front of the building; and then a low, wailing cry would break from his lips, "dear lord! there was no room for my little love, but thou hast found room for her!" it was a reopening of tony's sorrow when aunt charlotte came up from the country to find that the little child had gone away altogether, leaving only her tiny frocks and clothes, which were neatly folded up in a drawer, where old oliver treasured up a keepsake or two of his wife's. she discovered, too, that old oliver had forgotten to write to susan,--indeed, his hand had become too trembling to hold a pen,--and she wrote herself; but her letter did not reach calcutta before susan and her husband had left it, being homeward bound. it was as nearly two years as it could well be since the summer evening when susan raleigh had sent her little girl into old oliver's shop, bidding her be a good girl till she came home, and thinking it would be only three days before she saw her again. it was nearly two years, and an evening something like it, when the door was darkened by the entrance of a tall, fine-looking man, dressed as a soldier, but with one empty sleeve looped up across his chest. tony was busy behind the counter wrapping up magazines, which he was going to take out the next morning, and the soldier looked very inquisitively at him. "hallo! my lad, who are you?" he asked, in a tone of surprise. "i'm antony oliver," he said; for of late he had taken to call himself by his old master's name. "antony oliver!" repeated the stranger; "i never heard of you before." "well, i'm only tony," he answered; "but i live with old mr. oliver now, and call him grandfather. he likes it, and it does me good. it's like somebody belonging to me." "why! how long have you called him grandfather?" asked the soldier again. "ever since our little dolly died," said tony, in a faltering voice. "dolly dead!" exclaimed the man, looking ready to fall down; for his face went very white, and he leaned upon the counter with his one hand. "oh! my poor susan!--my poor, dear girl!--however can i tell her this bad news?" "who are you?" cried tony. "are you dolly's father? oh, she's dead! she died last january, and we are more lonesome without her than you can think." "let me see poor susan's father," he said, after a minute or two, and with a very troubled face. "ay, come in," said tony, lifting up the flap of the counter, under which dolly had so often played at hide-and-seek. "he's more hisself again; but his memory's bad yet. i know everythink about her, though; because she was so fond of me, and me of her. come in." raleigh entered the room, and saw old oliver sitting in his arm-chair, with a pipe in his hand, and a very tranquil look upon his wrinkled face. the gas-light shone upon the glittering epaulettes and white sash of the soldier, and the old man fastened upon him a very keen, yet doubtful gaze of inquiry. "don't you know me, father?" cried raleigh, almost unable to utter a word. "it's your poor susan's husband, and dolly's father." "dolly's father!" repeated old oliver, rising from his chair, and resting his hand upon raleigh's shoulder. "do you know that the dear lord has taken her to be where he is in glory?" "yes, i know it," he said, with a sob. he put the old man back in his seat, and drew a chair close up to him. they sat thus together in sorrowful silence for some minutes, until old oliver laid his hand upon the empty sleeve on raleigh's breast. "you've lost your arm," he said, pityingly. "ay!" answered raleigh; "our colonel was set upon by a tiger in the jungle, and i saved him; but the brute tore my arm, and craunched the bone between his teeth till it had to come off. it's spoiled me for a soldier." "yes, yes, poor fellow," answered old oliver, "but the lord knew all about it." "that he did," answered raleigh; "and he's taught me a bit more about himself than i used to know. i'm not spoiled to be his soldier. but i don't know much about the service yet, and i shall want you to teach me, father. you'll let me call you father, for poor susan's sake, won't you?" "to be sure--to be sure," said old oliver, keeping his hand still upon the empty sleeve on raleigh's breast. "well, father," he continued, "as i am not fit for a soldier, and as the colonel was hurt too, we're all come home together. only susan's gone straight on with her lady and our little girl, and sent me through london to see after you and dolly." "your little girl?" said oliver questioningly. "yes, the one born in india. her name's mary, but we call her polly. susan said it made her think of our little dolly at home. dear! dear! i don't know however i shall let her know." another fit of silence fell upon them, and tony left them together, for it was time to put up the shop shutters. it seemed just like the night when he had followed susan and the little girl, and loitered outside in the doorway opposite, to see what would happen after she had left her in the shop. he fancied he was a ragged, shoeless boy again, nobody loving him, or caring for him, and that he saw old oliver and dolly standing on the step, looking out for the mother, who had gone away, never, never to see her darling again. tony's heart was very full; and when he tried to whistle, he was obliged to give it up, lest he should break out into sobs and crying. when he went back into the house raleigh was talking again. "so susan and me are to have one of the lodges of the colonel's park," he said, "and i'm to be a sort of bailiff to look after the other outdoor servants about the garden and premises. it's a house with three bedrooms, and a very pleasant sort of little parlour, as well as a kitchen and scullery place downstairs. you can see the wrekin from the parlour window, and the moon over it; and it's not so far away but what we could get a spring-cart sometimes, and drive over to your old home under the wrekin. as soon as ever the colonel's lady told susan where it was, she cried out, 'that's the very place for father!' you'd like to come and live with your own susan again, in your own country; wouldn't you now?" "yes, yes; for a little while," answered old oliver, with a smile upon his face. tony felt a strange and very painful shrinking at his heart. if the old man went away to live with his daughter in the country, his home would be lost to him, and he would have to go out into the great city again alone, with nobody to love. he could get his living now in a respectable manner, and there was no fear of his being driven to sleep in covent garden, or under the bridges. but he would be alone, and all the links which bound him to dolly and old oliver would be snapped asunder. he wondered if the lord jesus would let such a thing be. "but i couldn't leave tony," cried old oliver, suddenly; and putting on his spectacles to look for him. "come here, tony. he's like my own son to me, bless him! he calls me grandfather, and kept my heart up when i should have sunk very low without him. my master gave him to me the very same night he gave me my little love. no, no; dolly loved tony, and susan must come here to see me, but i could never leave my boy." old oliver had put his arm round tony, drawing him closer and closer to him as he spoke, until his withered cheek pressed fondly against his face. since dolly died neither of them had felt such a thrill of happiness as now. "the colonel and his lady must be told about this," said raleigh, after he had heard all that tony had been and done for old oliver; and when he was obliged to go away for the night, the soldier gave him such a cordial grasp of the hand, as set all his fingers tingling, and his heart throbbing with exultation. chapter xxi. polly. the lodge stood in a very lovely place, upon a slope of ground, which rose still higher to where the colonel's grand house was situated. there was a porch before the door, built of rough logs of pines, covered with ivy and honeysuckle, and with seats in it, where you could sit and look out over a wide, rich plain, with little hills and dales in it, stretching far away towards the sky-line, where some distant mountains lay, so like to clouds, that you could scarcely tell which were soft and misty vapours, and which were solid and everlasting hills. the severn ran through the beautiful plain with so many windings, sometimes lying in shadow under deep banks, and sometimes glistening and sparkling in the sunlight, that it looked more like many little pools scattered about the meadows than one long, continuous river. not very far away, as raleigh had said, stood the wrekin, purple in the evening haze, but by day so plain, that one could see the great rock on its summit, which in olden times served as an altar to the god of fire. susan was very busy, and had been very busy all day over two things--preparing the house for the reception of her father, whom she had not seen for so many years, and in teaching her little girl, who was now eighteen months old, to say grand-pa. the one work was quite finished; everything was ready for old oliver, and now she was waiting and watching to see the colonel's spring cart arrive from the station with her husband, who was gone to meet old oliver and tony. for tony was not on any account to be parted from the old man--so said the colonel and his lady--but was to be employed about the garden, and as general errand boy for the house, and to live at the lodge with old oliver. susan's eyes were red, for as she had been busy about her work, she had several times cried bitterly over her lost little girl; but she had resolved within herself not to shed a single tear after her father was come, lest she should spoil the gladness of his coming home to her. at last the cart came in sight, and stopped, and raleigh and tony sprang out to help oliver to get down, while susan put down polly in the porch, and ran to throw her arms round her dear old father's neck. he was very quiet, poor old oliver. he had not spoken a word since he left the station, but had gazed about him as they drove along the pleasant lane with almost a troubled look upon his tranquil face. when his dim eyes caught the first glimpse of the wrekin he lifted his hat from his white and trembling head, as if to greet it like some great and dear friend, after so many years of absence. now he stood still at the wicket, leaning upon susan's arm, and looking round him again with a gentle yet sad smile. the air was so fresh, after the close streets of london, that to him it seemed even full of scents of numberless flowers; and the sun was shining everywhere, upon the blossoms in the garden, and the fine old elm-trees in the park. and the far-off hills. he grasped tony's hand in his, and bade him look well about him. [illustration: oliver, leaning on susan's arm] "if only my little love had had a bit of sunshine!" he said, with a mournful and tender patience in his feeble voice. but just then--scarcely had he finished speaking--there came a shrill, merry little scream behind them, so like dolly's, that both old oliver and tony turned round quickly. it could not be the same, for this little child was even smaller than dolly; but as she came pattering and tottering down the garden-walk towards them, they saw that she had the same fair curly hair, and blue eyes, and rosy cheeks that dolly had had two years before. she ran and hid her face in her mother's gown; but susan lifted her into her arms, and held her towards old oliver. "say grand-pa, and kiss him, polly," she said, coaxingly. the little child held back shyly for a minute, for old oliver's head was shaking much more than usual now; but at length she put her two soft little hands to his face, and held it between them, while she kissed him. "gan-pa!" she cried, crowing and chuckling with delight. they went indoors to the pleasant parlour, where old oliver's arm-chair was set ready for him by the side of the fire, for susan had kindled a fire, saying that he would feel the fresh air blowing from the wrekin; and polly sat first on his knee, and then upon tony's, who could not keep his eyes from following all her movements. but still it was not their own dolly who had made the old house in the close alley in london so happy and so merry for them. she was gone home to the father's house, and was watching for them there. tony might be a long time before he joined her, but for old oliver the parting would be but short. as he sat in the evening dusk, very peacefully and contentedly, while susan sang polly to sleep in the kitchen, tony heard him say half aloud, as his custom was, "yet a little, and i will come again, and receive you unto myself, that where i am ye may be also. even so, come, lord jesus!" printed by w. clowes and sons, stamford street and charing cross.